Melville Cooke
I CAN'T fake it any more. I have tried so hard since last Monday, but I can't keep it up any longer, certainly not for the expected next two weeks or so.
I have tried immersion (you can't get away from the damned thing anyway) and it has not worked. I have tried watching the girls in the stands and, apart from Mexico, that has not worked either.
I have even tried intellectualising the thing, figuring out the history and politics behind Poland playing Germany and Angola playing Portugal. I have tried race, trying to figure out why France's team looks more like Trinidad and Tobago's than Sweden's (and I know which country they are closer to).
THE TRUTH
And I finally faced the truth. I faced myself in the mirror and was honest with myself. It was a great feeling. Too great to be kept to myself. So now I feel the need to share it with the whole wide world (or at least the minuscule portion of it which reads this column in this newspaper on this day). Still, I do this with some trepidation, knowing I am setting myself apart from the overwhelming majority of, if not humanity, then certainly the people I know.
But I must do what I must. I know you have long figured what I am going to say, but the words need to be said anyway, so (deep breath) here goes.
Iamnotreallyinterestedintheworldcup. Hmm. That was not so bad. A little slower. Iamnot reallyinterestedin theworldcup. OK. Dead (don't take that as a hint) slow now.
I. Am. Not. Really. Interested. In. The. World. Cup.
There. It's out. I am out. There.
It's not that I have no interest at all, but I am certainly not about to lose sleep, miss work, forget to eat lunch, schedule my life around and waste cellphone credit on the current football World Cup (or any other sport, for that matter).
I was interested in Trinidad and Tobago's campaign because they are from the Caribbean, I am interested in the African teams because they are African (forget 'les bleus') and I am interested in the United States losing because it seems that's all the justice they will face for Iraq and Afghanistan.
But that's it.
I could not care less about Wayne Rooney's knee, Ronaldo's weight, Zidane's bald patch or Luis Figo's form. I know a few names and I have watched many games (or parts thereof), because it is hard to avoid the damned thing, but I care about the results as much as I do about how many degrees the tower in Pisa leans every century.
And I sure as hell do not get a glaze over my eyes, swallow spasmodically and stab my tongue at my lips as I think about who is in a 'Group of Death' (those are the Guantanamo Bay prisoners, actually) and spend hours working out who will top the zone, and meet who from a next zone if such and such beat such and such by such and such number of goals and the other such and such ends up losing to such and such by such and such and such ... You get what I mean.
CUP FEVER
Frankly, I do not see what is so interesting about football.
I must say, though, that this World Cup fever, which has afflicted many a man especially, has its uses. And you single men out there who are faking it (the football, the football. Tut, tut.) like I was should wake up and smell the opportunities. There must be many a lonely lass out there, under (or not under) the World Cup drought. And there must be many who are faking it, just to be 'in'.
If she is a Brazil vs. Argentina vs. Germany vs. Italy one-month widow ... need I say more? And if she is faking it, what else is she faking?
Need I say more? Gentlemen, put on your shooting boots. Don't forget your shin guards.
Melville Cooke is a freelance writer.
