It’s no secret that Colombia’s James Rodriguez won my heart, arguably the biggest prize. I was moved enough by his spirit, talent and face to actually draw him.
And he technically won the Golden Boot for most goals scored during the tournament. But Colombia failed to advance past Brazil, regardless of my support. It was a pretty controversial game where James was heavily targeted and both teams grew increasingly reckless without any interference from the ref. It’s really not just my opinion.
Brazil went on to get destroyed by Germany and Germany won the whole thing, including chilling with Rihanna—ok, this is the biggest prize.
Honestly, I cried several times during the tournament. As did millions. I began reading Eduardo Galeano’s Soccer in Sun and Shadow to try to make sense of the feelings that arose from the past few weeks.
He describes the game as “a pleasure that hurts” and takes us through history ever so poetically and dramatically, just as the game deserves.
I’m fascinated by these moments of complete joy. Here’s Argentina after advancing to the finals.
Here’s Argentina after losing the cup to Germany.
There’s so much heartbreak. Watching bb James cry was the worst.
Even nature loved him.
No more tears though; she’s right:
So it ends. The decorations around town will come down.
I never did complete my sticker book. I mean, I spent way too much money and time but it was pretty impossible. The only full team I managed was France and their cute uniforms.
So it’s back to life with a lot less soccer. I have to say that I do feel compelled to watch the European leagues and even attend some local games. But there’s nothing like the World Cup and the fans. I think Galeano captures the ending so well so I will leave it with this and hopes I see you in four years.
And then the sun goes down and so does the fan. Shadows fall over the emptying stadium. On the concrete terracing, a few fleeting bonfires burn, while the lights and voices fade. The stadium is left alone and the fan too returns to his solitude: to the I who had been we. The fan goes off, the crowd breaks up and melts away, and Sunday becomes as melancholy as Ash Wednesday after the death of Carnival.