World Cup

It’s the beginning of the World Cup 2022 in Qatar. I’ve known about this tournament (specifically being held in Qatar) for ten years now. In all that time— I never thought about where I’d be while I was watching it. Part of that is due to not believing it was going to happen— that the bid would be reversed due to obvious corruption— and partly because outside of vague ideas and nebulous dreams— I had no idea what twenty-eight years old was going to look like. I can tell you it was not sitting on a tatami floor writing this while having tried to parse out Japanese bank wire instructions earlier in the day.

In truth, I had no real expectations for either the tournament or myself in 2022. But now I sit as a man on a mesa— looking around and accepting that I’m both at what amounts to base camp— and a peak. This past Saturday I walked through a quiet forest to the cairn tomb of a long-dead emperor. I stood before it and thought— this is a creepy fucking patch of woods. I’m sure I would have felt reverential for the babbling brook to the sloped edge of the trail, but as the sun set on an increasingly pinched patch of trees, I felt more mundane emotions than spiritual ones.

I think life works that way as we switch between the present and our memories of the past or thoughts of the future. We can build up grand emotions— and experience them in the moment— but often, we’re thinking relatable, everyday things as if life should somehow be more special than it already is.

In ways, I’ve measured my life in World Cups. I remember the heartbreak of 2002 clearly. An electric Ronaldo tearing apart the German defense and making my favorite goalie, Oliver Kahn, look foolish. 2006 inspired long, sweeping shots as the Jabulani was brought into play. The eight-paneled ball was a nightmare for goalies as it knuckled and bent without warning. 2010 was hazy due to the onset of my stomach maladies that lasted for the next seven years. It was also a turning point in my belief about my ability as a player. Before then, I had watched the great players and tried to emulate them— but around that time, I knew that higher levels weren’t within reach. By 2018 I had finished college after a long, winding road— and the hopes of playing had firmly shifted to coaching.

2022— I sit and think about how fully I’ve stepped into my desire to coach soccer and the enjoyment I get out of it. There’s a fulfillment in coaching that wasn’t there in playing. I still love to get on the pitch— but I don’t need to prove myself as a player or harbor secret beliefs that I have a larger potential than I fulfilled. Coaching for me is more about letting players build confidence and discipline in themselves so that they can translate it to other areas of their life. There are few players I’ve coached that will be star college athletes, let alone professional players. That’s okay—I think it’s more important to have places where you can feel comfortable and have fun than stand out for praise. Even if the desire for exceptionalism is pushed by all available media.

So, as I sit here and gear up to watch a complicated mess— I appreciate the small moments of peace I have during the day. I appreciate the absurdity of life and the surprises of it. Tomorrow I will wake up and eat an apple danish before checking the scores of the USA game— knowing that the team might have gotten smashed by Wales. All before heading off to the south of the island to teach English and play futsal at lunch. Not a bad way to start the 2022 World Cup.