The dream was vivid, with Diego Simeone sprinting towards and over the perimeter board that demarcated the spectators stand and the pitch, hugging quite vigorously enthusiastic fans who were majorly clad in white and red striped jersies, and literally over themselves in euphoria that could only be compared to that of a group of miners, whom in search of ore, dug gold instead. Faces turned red from excitement, jubilation and wide grins. Contours of vein could be traced on everybody's forehead as they chanted songs of victory echoingly all over Praça do Comércio stadium. Confetti of white and red paper and sparks of bright red light floated endlessly over their heads.
Iker Casillas nodded in despair as he successively pulled out his gloves with his teeth and made to hug Simeone. Di Maria squatted and wept inconsolably. Benzema stood akimbo with looks of belief written all over his face. Cristiano Ronaldo stuck out his tongue, nodding in shock as well as the unpleasant reality that the game is over and they lost. Pepe and Ramos stood side by side, Pepe appearing to be mumbling something to Ramos.
Athletic Madrid had won the Champions League.
It was the sweetest dream I wished would last forever, but the header from Ramos that sent the ball wild into the goal net brought me to a rude awakening, leaving a bitter taste in my mouth.
In subsequent days, I discovered I had become phobic to soccer related matters as a result. I turned deaf ears to post match, side street analysis of how Athletico Madrid would have been better winners. I retreated from Facebook and Twitter because I feared stumbling across one of those Goal.com's articles on what Coutois failed to do or Football Funnys' caricature of Diego Costa's injury and how it cost his team. In fact, I didn't want to hear about Mascherano's contract renewal or Balotelli's engagement rumours. I was that heartbroken and the only consolation was Nigeria or Argentina winning the world cup, but then the implausibility of that happening stared me in the face. That admittance prolonged my bad mood till I saw the second half of Saturday's friendly between Argentina and Slovian, and realized yet again....football is beautiful.
I came alive, cheered Argentina, relished every second, screamed, jumped up and down the stool I was sitting on when Messi scored. With Barcelona's poor run last season, I had forgotten the joy of winning, and there was this game and my zeal was re-ignited.
Now, I can't wait for the first 2014 World Cup in Brazil, quite with regrets though. Regrets over my botched plan to be there live due to an unfortunate incident. I had made all these "stuffs to do in Brazil" list, stuffs like paint my face and each of my nails green, white, green, have the Caipirinha cocktail, watch the Super Eagles train at their Team Base Camp in Campinas, take long walks in Curitiba's popular theme parks and Cuiaba's as well, dash over the perimeter board for a Lionel Messi hug when Argentina and Nigeria play, just before national anthems go off. I was pretty ready to bear the consequence, even if a deportation. At least, I would have achieved one of the world's greatest things. Regardless, I'm thankful that with most of the nightly match schedules, work won't interfere with my noisy palour moments behind what has become my favourite gadget, the telly.
I hope Nigeria, any of the featuring African countries, Argentina, Spain or Brazil wins, otherwise I might recede to my phobic state. Well, only if Portugal or England wins. :D
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