FIFA

Heyo, this might genuinely be my favourite one to write.

If you're not already aware, the FIFA World Cup began on the 11th of June, well, the 12th for us, because of IST — and my entire body already feels different. That specific kind of different.

It's my 4th World Cup to watch. I saw my first in 2014, and I barely have any recollection except that some match was going on, the commentary suddenly changed tone, and my dad came sprinting out of the kitchen with a plate full of food in his hand, yelling, because some man out of 22 people who all looked exactly the same to me had scored a goal.

It wasn't the goal. It was Pops' reaction to that goal that hit me somewhere deep, deep enough that I knew I had to watch this tournament again. That year, Germany v Argentina played the final, and Argentina lost.

I kept thinking about it, kept asking Papa what this whole thing even was, and he told me it'll be back in 4 years, and then I could sit and watch every match I wanted with him. So I said okay, not knowing that one little "okay" would end up shaping a whole chunk of who I am. Then, at school, the soft board had this entire fixture listing, which match was playing, where, at what hour. To be fair, I understood barely any of it. The other side had the names of the coaches, players, substitutes, like some sacred scroll I couldn't read yet but desperately wanted to.

I'd get to class and all my guy friends would sit around aage piche talking about what insane goals Ronaldo would score. I'd just listen, quietly, and run home to tell Dad: is there some Ronaldo dude? And he'd answer so nonchalantly that I genuinely thought my friends were stupid. (which they kind of were, ngl)

So one night, Portugal was playing — I don't remember who — and he popped up on screen, and Dad just went, "Yeh lo aagaya tumhara Ronaldo." I looked, and the only thing I remember asking is "is he good?" and Dad went, "eh, accha hai, but there are better players than him." I paid very little attention to whatever he said next, because I was a kid and unimpressed by most things adults found important. That year, France and Croatia played the final, and France won. I got into football because of Dad. Obviously. If that wasn't already painfully clear by now. He'd sit with me and pull up replays on YouTube: Messi, Iniesta, Zidane, Beckham, Ronaldinho, Maradona, Pele, Xavi, the list going on and on and on like some never-ending love letter he was writing me without even realising it.

Naturally, I was hooked, completely and helplessly. Then came the league matches. La Liga, Premier League, UEFA, and I was awestruck, properly awestruck. I watched games at hours I'm usually dead asleep. I am, and always will be, a Barca girly. I don't keep up with the league matches religiously, just because there's too many and the timings are brutal. I'll catch highlights, keep half an eye on a score, but I'm not in it full-blown the way I am for the World Cup. I think it's because I don't really have people to watch it with. Dad doesn't follow league football at all, so somewhere along the way, I stopped chasing it too.

And listen, I have to say this somewhere, because it's so deeply part of the whole experience: my mum is COMPLETELY fed up with us. Every single day it's just football, football, football. Highlights playing on the TV, or some match Dad and I are glued to like our lives depend on it. She gets annoyed because if I stay up late watching a match, I wake up late the next day, and she'll try to stand in front of the TV doing her own thing, and then both of us get irritated at each other in this very specific, very recurring way. Every time she goes "bas ho gaya football talks," Dad and I, in perfect unison, tell her it comes once every 4 years, for what, maximum 2 months, let us BE. She thinks we've genuinely lost it. She'll look at me, dead serious, and say "beta kuch toh girly dekh le." Meanwhile I'm over here into cars, rock music, and football, and somehow it's always Dad's fault in her eyes, like he personally engineered me to not watch Dubai Bling (ew, by the way, just. ew).

Over 2014 to 2022, I was so in love with Messi it almost embarrasses me to say out loud. I watched both, Ronaldo and Messi, but for me, it was always, always going to be Messi. There is something about him I can't fully put into words, though God knows I keep trying. As a person, he exudes this energy of: I have it, but I don't need to flaunt it. There's humility there, love for his nation, for the game, for the turf, for every single person who got him to where he stands. He hasn't had the easiest childhood, and somehow it shows when he plays, like every touch of the ball carries that history with it. He is MAGIC. When he's on that field, in that stadium, you just know he's somewhere else entirely, somewhere only he can access. You can see, so clearly, that nothing matters more to him than his team and making sure they get the credit they deserve. I don't know how to say this without sounding dramatic, but it's like he wants to win, wants to score, but more than that he wants to hand that win to his entire team, wants to set them up for the recognition that's owed to them. And somewhere in all of it, it's obvious he knows there will never be another him, that for as long as he's alive, and probably long after, he'll loom over this game in a way that almost feels unfair to newer talent, and the most beautiful part is that he sees that, he understands it, and he carries it gently anyway. After every single match, there he is, calling his wife and his kids, because if you don't have a family to go home to and share it with, what was even the point of any of it.

Now I know Ronaldo fans would pounce the second they read this. I'm not saying he plays badly. I'm not saying he's a bad person. It's only that Messi's personality radiates these particular qualities, the ones I have genuinely never seen the same way in Ronaldo. Again, not trying to start a fight or a debate. To each his own, always.

Now, we come to 2022. I don't think I will ever, in this lifetime, forget that World Cup. I got my first jersey for Argentina, personalised and everything, my name stitched on like it meant something (it did). Every single match they played, I wore that jersey, no exceptions. They fumbled the first match against Saudi so badly I genuinely lost all hope. I remember Dad was at work, and I must've sent him a million unhinged messages about how the game had gone sideways at lightning speed.

The tournament rolled on, and then there we were, the day of the final. France versus Argentina. 18th December 2022, Sunday, 8:30 pm. Jersey on, two flags painted on each cheek. I was ready. I was SO ready. The match began and oh my god. I sat on the edge of my seat for the entire ninety minutes and beyond. Two goals for Argentina by Messi, one by Di Maria. A hat-trick for France by Mbappé. It was the kind of match that could've tipped into anyone's hands at any second. Then the penalty shootouts began, and I was running a 103 fever, properly burning up. Mum kept doing a cold compress on my head, and I'd yank it off every second just to see the match, and then, 4-2. Argentina. Champions of the world. A little boy from Rosario, Argentina, who carried an entire country on his back and didn't drop it.

It had been maybe 2 to 3 years since I'd even started to truly understand this game, and I cried, properly sobbed, my eyes out. I still don't fully know how, or when, or why it hit me that hard. I rewatch those clips to this day and tear up every single time, no exceptions. I must've liked and stalked Leo's 2022 photos a million times over, like if I looked hard enough I could climb back into that exact moment.

After this, my room got redone, with plenty of space carved out just for him. I have newspaper cuttings in my memory box that say "Messi-ah," like Messiah, because honestly, what else would you call him. I have posters of him young, old, every age in between. I have a frame with caricatures of Beckham, R9, Ronaldo, Messi, Ronaldinho, Maradona, and Pelé, all together like some football pantheon. I have a frame with his jersey from FCB, Argentina, and Inter Miami. My room screams Messi. Hell, even my phone case is Messi. There is no subtlety left in me about this, none at all.

In 2023, I went on a trip to Switzerland. I had absolutely no idea that Mum, Dad, and Masi had found something called the FIFA Museum. To this day, I cannot put into words how happy that place made me: real jerseys, actual signed footballs, a movie theatre playing the entirety of FIFA history, the real, actual trophy, for heaven's sake, right there. You had to leave your jackets and bags in lockers, each one named after a player, and I, by sheer luck, got to keep mine in Pelé's and Beckham's lockers. It's truly one of those places I could return to a hundred times and still feel that same thrill. It's this happiness that Dad and I both felt and couldn't contain, this giddy, overflowing thing. Oh man.

And now, here we are, six or seven days into this World Cup, and what a ride it's already been. The timings absolutely suck, but it's the kind of suck you wake up looking forward to, every single time. I've stayed up almost every night this past week watching matches, grabbing maybe an hour of sleep in between, waking up bleary-eyed and thrilled to do it all again, much to Mum's despair, I should add.

If you haven't already, watch the highlights for Argentina v Algeria. Messi is magic, plain and simple. How he finds those gaps, how he just knows where to be, I genuinely do not know. I had goosebumps. I had tears, actual tears, watching a highlight reel like some lovesick teenager, because that's exactly what I am about this.

It's his last World Cup, and it is genuinely crazy to me that in 2030 I won't see him playing anymore. It's a last for nearly every legend I grew up watching, and god, it is sad in a way that's hard to explain to people who don't get it.

I consider myself lucky, though, endlessly lucky, because I was born in an era where I actually got to watch Messi play live, in real time, with my own eyes.

This is what makes football a game like no other. 90 minutes, tops, 100 or 120. It's unpredictable, completely and wonderfully unpredictable. Anybody could score in any single minute, and if you miss it, well, you miss it, gone forever. It's gripping. It's the largest sporting event on this entire planet. IT. IS. BEAUTIFUL.

I think about it sometimes; if I hadn't had curiosity about Ronaldo, I wouldn't have gotten here. If my dad didn't play or watch, I would've never gotten here. AND I AM BEYOND GLAD THAT I DID! Agh!

To this World Cup. To Messi. Cheers. 

As ever, 

Ambika