The first time I became aware that the World Cup was a thing and watched all around the world was in 1994 when the U.S. hosted, the year the Northridge Earthquake upended our lives and destruction became more than something I saw on the news, the year that Tonya Harding’s escapades before and during the Winter Olympics kept me glued to the television. The size of the event is in the name, but I didn’t make the connection between “world” and “World” then.
For months after the quake our families practically lived together, sleeping outdoors at each other’s homes in the aftermath, wondering whether it was actually safe to use our gas stoves and hot water. Once the aftershocks stopped and getting back to our lives was the only option, we returned to our own homes but started getting together practically every weekend, no longer waiting for a birthday or some special occasion to grill. The uncles congregated around the television, beers in hand, the aunts in the kitchen milling about the food, while us cousins played outside until we heard excited cheers from the living room, our curiosity bringing us in to sit with our dads as they watched Las Chivas. I had no choice but to watch the cup along with my dad and the rest of the cousins and uncles when that summer came along.
My dad wasn’t just a bookworm who studied his way into higher education, but an athlete too. It’s not surprising that a farm boy would be athletic, but the stories he shared about his days playing basketball, baseball, and soccer in high school and college didn’t match up with the professorial man I grew up with – the thick glasses, newspaper always in hand, crossword puzzles done in ink. In old pictures of him that his sisters and nieces shared with me he was always very slim, the ever-present glasses, no smile in sight, but it never crossed my mind that this serious man could also enjoy such brutish interests. He would say that’s why his knees were so bad, with the not-quite varicose veins protruding from his shins and the clicking of his knees when he stood, the banged-up feet and misshapen toes of a serious player.
I was never a fan of sports when I was growing up, but when I was in college I would tell my friends and fraternity brothers that while I didn’t enjoy watching or playing sports, I did like playing softball. This came in handy during softball season in the intra-fraternity league. I don’t think I actually enjoyed playing the game itself, but I was confident when going up to bat or when I was in the outfield catching flyballs, and hanging out with them during games, and maybe have a beer at The Getaway Café or the fraternity house afterward.
Yet in the back (or front?) of my mind I always dreaded the moment I knew I’d have to throw that ball I caught. Did I look dumb while throwing the ball, or did I fear my aim was so bad that it would never go where I threw it? I could cover the distance needed to make it to my teammate’s glove but usually landed to the left or right, sometimes a foot or two, often times like I was throwing it at someone else. Put me in deep left field so I didn’t need to worry about having to do anything out there, maybe chase after foul balls and wait till it was our turn at bat.
Perhaps it wasn’t that I was bad at sports, but that I never bothered to try and see if I was good at all or could be good at some point. Elementary was for handball, foursquare, and kickball, which was fine because I wasn’t scared that I couldn’t kick a ball and didn’t need to be that athletic – all I needed was to have my foot connect with the ball and make it to first base, both of which I knew I could manage. I preferred to sit on the long bench under the shade of the trees, but if I didn’t have a choice, I at least could manage to avoid ridicule from the other boys.
In middle school I was getting my clothes in the husky section at JCPenney and Sears, so I dreaded the days in P.E. where we had flag football, soccer, and the mile run on Monday mornings. The fit kids took P.E seriously, and I only tried to jog when our teacher offered to count one lap as two if we made the first loop in less than three minutes; the locker room was especially pungent these days, since not all the boys had discovered deodorant yet. Even though I saw soccer as just running with a ball, I’d already shown I did not have the skill to run, and doubted I could accomplish the feat of running with a ball.
For better and worse, I got a reprieve from football after someone threw the ball at me and I choked, running towards the wrong side of the field and throwing the ball forward, which apparently was wrong. I got crap from the other guys for messing up the play, but after the string of insults wore off, I was glad they ignored me on the field the rest of the game and everyone after that.
When my dad watched baseball on weekends, the drone of the announcer’s voice was like white noise, and even the occasional crack of a ball on a bat breaking up the monotony didn’t make much of an impact with the spectators at home or in the stadium. Soccer was a little spicier, with the Latino announcer infusing urgency into his narration of the action on field, from the ball going back and forth to the numerous almost-goals. No play was too unimportant to not make it sound exciting, for both the fans in the stands to my dad.. Maybe the baseball games weren’t as important as the soccer ones, or he just found the experience relaxing either way since he worked hard all week, so excitement in the stands or no, he would watch whenever he had a chance to sit.
I paid less attention to soccer than baseball since there was a period when I collected player cards along with my Fleer X-Men cards, and pretended the Blue Jays were my favorite team (really, I chose them because I liked the bird, and felt I had to have a favorite team in case the boys at school asked or the subject somehow came up). Either way that was his time, so I’d just go off to another room or grab my books or toys and play while he enjoyed his sports
After the World Cup in 1994 I only really understood that my dad and uncles loved Mexico’s Las Chivas and naturally supported El Tri. I didn’t know there was a difference between the teams during this tournament and assumed that they were the same team. Knowing about private clubs and national teams would come way after and trying to understand different leagues and championships even later than that.
I did start paying attention to the World Cup like I did with the Olympics and World Championships, solely because they were events of the moment and everyone was watching almost simultaneously, discussing games and results with each other – a conversation starter of sorts for me. I didn’t enjoy it like I did with gymnastics, figure skating, and eventually swimming and track and field, but I would follow along online while at work to see which countries were medaling, who had been eliminated, and if there was a specific highlight from a certain game.
I collected these moments so I could talk with my dad about them when I got home in the evenings, like the infamous moment from 2014 that I watched at work while he watched at home. As I walked through the door and put down my things, he was sitting on his armchair as usual, newspaper in hand, and I asked what he thought about the stunt from The Netherlands, him replying with surprise that I’d seen the game at all, and going on that the flop derailed Mexico’s chance to move to the next round. Maybe feel like we had this as a shared interest, or at the least so he knew that I cared about his love of sport.
When the 2022 world cup came around I chose not to pay much attention; it still hurt to see his empty armchair with the game on the screen. We were adjusting to life without him and to life after the pandemic upended so many lives the two years before. I followed along as usual, checking stats and updates online, but I had no one who I wanted to talk about it with.
With the cup being hosted in Mexico, the US, and Canada this year, my mom and I are able to watch matches in real time. I’m home taking care of her, and she has it on all day – though with pre-empted programming she has little choice but to watch. I sit down next to her and it makes me wonder if I’d be doing the same thing if my dad were here. I imagine comments he would make when a player dramatically falls on the pitch after being pushed (or tapped, more likely), almost-goals that would excite him, and matches and teams he would love watching play, us discussing who has a chance to move forward and who surprised us at being in the advanced rounds at all. I would have sat next to him, I think, watching him enjoy himself, his crossword and pen still in hand, my mom asking us if that’s what we would be doing all day.
The Only Child 
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