It was nearly 9pm in the Puskas Arena. Gabriel sunk to his haunches. Red flares went up in unison in the PSG end opposite. Freed from Desire. Bedlam. The wrong kind of limbs. Arsenal fans around me collapsed against the metal railings, spent, vacant. Before leaving I made sure to gather myself, clap the players as they drifted over to thank the support. They didn’t know I was there of course, but I still applauded them in an official manner like I was a retiring Premier League veteran, taking in the adulation one last time. Knackered. If that was how I felt, I can only imagine what it must feel to have crested the wave of a 63-game season, and somehow find it within you to go again for six weeks on the biggest stage of all.
Football is increasingly a hysterical mix of romance and logistics
That was almost three weeks ago. Since then, football has been played. The Arsenal players have pieced themselves back together, boarded private jets to the States, muted social media, and alongside 1,248 colleagues, prepared themselves to be heartbroken all over again.
I don’t think there’s ever been a World Cup that has felt more exhausting. That’s before you enter nonsense cuckoo land of England coverage where every decision is wrong. We must debate the integrity of a German man being in charge of our national team. We must decide on Morgan Rogers or Jude Bellingham. Phil Foden (until recently) is the second coming of Christ, and every single player of colour in the team braces for impact for the inevitable tidal wave of racial abuse that will crash over them if they do something wrong.
I am not too proud to support England, this isn’t a political statement. An early experience of the unfairness of life was watching Wayne Rooney get baited into a red card against Portugal, Cristiano Ronaldo’s wink to the cameras. The inevitability of failure crystallised in Jamie Carragher’s rushed penalty. Gareth Southgate did something special in 2018; that was a wonderful summer.
But this England, this time, are distinctly charmless, neither favoured nor outsiders. I should love them, there are so many Arsenal players in this squad, but I don’t. If they win, will it quell some of the negativity towards my team? Perhaps momentarily.
Add to that that there are 48 teams going to this expanded World Cup, so there will be a round of 32 in the knockout stages – there is a reason why the Europa League is rubbish! Omar Artan, the Somalian referee, was turned away at the border this week despite holding a diplomatic passport and a single-entry US visa. Fifa initially banned water bottles in stadiums, only to reverse the decision after concerns people might die.
Tickets for the opening game between Mexico and South Africa went unsold, probably because they cost as much as $2,273 (£2,000). Shuttle bus tickets to the Met Life stadium in New Jersey (inaccessible by foot) were initially $80 (£60). Eight out of the sixteen pitches have turf laid over an artificial surface, leading to injury concerns.
The question I find myself asking along with a lot of other football fans is: What are we doing? What are we doing to these players? But most importantly, what are we doing to Bukayo Saka, who is “managing” achilles tendinitis at the World Cup? What if he plays badly and everyone is horrible to him (a tale as old as time)? Or he plays well, at what future cost to his career?
Football is increasingly a hysterical mix of romance and logistics. Uefa’s “Champions Festival” in Budapest featured Robert Pires and Cafu playing five a side with YouTubers next to a gigantic replica of the Champions League trophy. Portaloos, random Barcelona shirts. Everything sponsored by Heineken and/or Pepsi, Uefa insulted by the very possibility fans might want to buy beer. Oh and €8 (£7) pretzels. But it’s still Cafu. It’s still Robert Pires. This is still a World Cup and I’ll still be watching.
Perhaps not for the hope that England win it, though there will be some. I’ll be watching this tournament for the Azteca Stadium: 87,000 capacity 2,200 metres above sea level, replete with the ghosts of the ‘Hand of God’ goal and the ‘Goal of the century’. For the opening rendition of Flower of Scotland (at 2am). For Curacao’s first World Cup at the expense of Steve McClaren’s Reggae Boyz, “One love to you all”, he said before resigning. For the Brazilian team jet being baptised by giant hoses before take off. For Mark Pougatch, lulling us to sleep in the boring international breaks, now flanked in the ITV studio by Wrighty and Roy Keane against a Hudson river backdrop. For Bellingham. For Lamine Yamal. And for Harry Kane not being on the opposition team.
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