Ah, football

I always try to get a good night’s sleep, but lately, the World Cup has been hard to resist. The games are broadcast live from Brazil from 12 midnight until morning, and I have spent many a night watching the games on TV. And there’s been hell to pay. I am one of those working stiffs who come to work bleary-eyed, with football still on my mind.

I find that if I have the TV remote anywhere near my bed, I end up staying up to watch at least one game before going to sleep. And if I go to bed early because I didn’t get enough sleep the night before, I am up until the wee hours catching whatever game is on live from the other side of the globe. 

I love watching football. It is truly a beautiful game — a testosterone-powered sport that is as rough as it is graceful. I like watching the god-like hunks wearing the most colorful shoes weave nimbly in and out of each other’s way, guiding a soccer ball with their strong legs and agile feet. They run, they prance, they shuffle, they dribble, they trip each other up, and they fall. Sometimes, they get hurt and have to be carried out of the field on stretchers. But often, they just lie there writhing in apparent pain, waiting to be noticed by the referee and hoping that a foul is called. But often, that is pure theater that referees know to ignore and the players do get up to run again, none the worse for the tumble.  

These days, as the World Cup enters the quarter-finals, the games have become more intense. The players are much more aggressive, using undisguised force that sends bodies flailing and falling hard on the grass. The matches are starting to look like the Hunger Games, as each remaining team fights to eliminate its rivals for the coveted World Cup. Still, it’s a beautiful game.

I don’t cheer for any one team, and I watch whatever game I come across. I don’t really understand it enough to discuss the merits of one team over another. But I do enjoy watching players work together, knowing exactly where they should be as they spread out on a vast field, passing the ball to one another, moving consciously, relentlessly, their eyes out for an opening in the other team’s tight defense until they find a gap in what looks like an impenetrable shield and kick the ball right past the goal-keeper. And the stadium erupts in catharsis.

In soccer, every goal is hard-fought, the result of classic teamwork. And the one who kicks the ball past the goalie gets a hero’s run, right into the arms of his appreciative teammates. There is much hugging and clasping as they celebrate every hard-earned point. I like the emotion of the game and the euphoric camaraderie among the celebrating players.

Unlike basketball where scoring is expected every 24 to 30 seconds, in soccer every goal is hard-fought, which, to me, provides the attraction of this game. There is no easy way to win. First, you can’t touch the ball with your hands; second, you have to bring it all the way to the end of a minefield where opposing players can – and will – run you over roughshod and try to steal the ball from under your feet. Then you have to get the ball past a goalie who is tasked with guarding the net with his boy, if not his life.

I got my first taste of football in high school, when I tagged along with my older sister and cousins to catch Saturday-afternoon games at the Rizal Memorial Stadium to watch the guys they knew play for the La Salle and San Beda football teams. In my teens, all I knew about the game were the handsome mestizo players and the sparse but passionate audience, who filled the air with cusswords in Spanish, the language that the football players and aficionados spoke.

I now have a better appreciation for the game. The soccer field can be said to be a metaphor for life itself. It’s an obstacle course; there are many stumbling blocks along the way, and not many openings to score points. Just to make it to the other end of the field for an opportunity to score is an intense struggle. Courage, discipline, determination, and team spirit are needed to make it to the top of the heap.

While the country has long been crazy about basketball, a small but passionate band of believers kept soccer alive through clubs that played on weekends in various venues, and the junior football teams we sent to compete abroad. But football didn’t quite capture the nation’s attention, even if the Filipino physique is tailor-made for the game, which does not require the height needed in basketball, just speed and brawn. It is a shame because it is a sport we could really excel in, as shown in the success of the Philippine Azkals in the regional leagues.

The Azkals – Filipino soccer players of mixed parentage – wowed the crowd with their combination of skill, good looks, and success. With their success in Asian football, there is a surge in the popularity of soccer in the land. Football clinics have sprouted. I have been so enamored, I helped ship a box of used soccer shoes and balls donated by kids in my grandson’s school in Sydney to share with underprivileged kids in the Philippines who have the potential for football. Finally, football has the nation’s attention.

Football has not quite replaced basketball as the national mania, but it definitely has a foothold. The nightly extravaganza of beautiful games by professional teams in the World Cup is likely to increase its popularity even more.

Ah, football. Ten more sleepless nights to go in the World Cup, after which I and many others I know will suffer withdrawal symptoms. May the best team win.