I’m thinking about watching The World Cup. I know what you’re thinking: “Jonathan, how could you take part in such grotesque nationalism and barbaric barbarism? Have you seen those people waving their flags in the air with their faces painted like they’re in battle? Is this any different than tribes sacrificing their first child to the gods and murdering each other over a patch of forest where otherwise “uncivilized” species live in complete harmony with nature?” Or maybe, “You know what, this is all perpetuating our institutionalized hatred for one another, not bringing us closer together. I mean, have you seen the mohawks on these men?” I know, I know, nationalism is disgusting. It’s the reason why we’re building fences between countries, saying, “What’s mine is mine,” etc, but you know something? These soccer guys didn’t do that. Those ten or fifteen or maybe twenty guys out there on the field were just kids growing up in small towns like mine. They built forts in the woods and had a little creek off to the side where they tried to catch minnows with a stick. They played Ding-Dong-Ditch and crank-called old ladies in the middle of the night. But they also set something else aside, and that was a dream. A dream that screamed out that though they didn’t come from much, they could still do something great. Their dreams have nothing to do with Putin or Bush, The Jong Il’s, or Sunni/Shia. They’re jocks. They probably don’t even know who those people are.
The truth is, I don’t know why they give out yellow or red cards like it’s a game of Monopoly, or why some people get to kick the ball right into the net sometimes for free, what offsides means, or what the hell they’re talking about with Chelsea this, or Real Madrid, or Munich. But that’s okay, I don’t mind being confused. I hear those words and just move on like they weren’t even said, which is a part of me letting go and living in the moment. I don’t always need to be in control of a situation. It doesn’t need to always be about me. I’ve learned that throughout my years and so should you.
Because sometimes it’s about the greater experience which you share with others. That’s what The World Cup is about for me. For instance, a friend of mine took a Snapchat photo of himself covered in beer after a bunch of guys who looked like white supremacists drenched him after the US team scored against some other country. I envied him in that moment. I wanted to be covered in a possibly racist’s beer. I wanted a sloppy wet hug with a stranger.
So I say, let’s turn off those judge-o-meters and just take part in something bigger than ourselves. If your team loses, it’s a time to reflect on your own smallness, the fact that you won’t always get your way, and that’s fine because the world is all ebb and flow, flotsam and jetsam. There’s a greater love than all of us can understand, and it’s seen when a player reaches out and gives his hand to another while he’s on the ground. Sometimes after breaking his nose from kicking him in the face with his cleat.
Turn off those judge-o-meters, and sure, I’ll say it: root for your countries. Not because your country is better than another, which is absurd and grounded in a fundamental ignorance, but for your soil. Think of your soil in Sacramento, in San Diego, in the San Fernando Valley, the soil that dirtied your knees, that held the swingset into the ground which made you throw up that one time. Think of your soil damn it, and be that dry heaving child again, at least for the next month.