My friend Jelena gave us a couple of tickets for the opening game in Toronto of the Soccer World Cup for players under 20. I absolutely loved to be there… the green field, the lights, the crowd.
It was Canada day, and it was a Canadian experience. It wasn’t the typical soccer crowd, yelling imaginative description of the sex life of the player’s mothers, throwing bottles filled with piss to the pit, and trying to beat the crap out of whoever sports a shirt of the visiting team. Nothing of that sort.
Instead, in the Canadian world cup, there are kids all over the place, seats are comfy and even have a cup folder for your beer. Parents explain to the kids that the Canadian team may loose “but that’s not what matters”. As the crowd chanted inanely: “go team”, “good job” and “wakey, wakey”, I started thinking about my other world cup experience.
It was 21 years, and 2 weeks ago. Brazil, the mighty, unreal and legendary Brazil was playing in Guadalajara and I was at home about to watch the transmission. I must have uttered something about the irony of having the stadium so close and having to watch the game on tv. On the spot, my mom offered to buy a ticket for me.
I froze. We weren’t too tight on money, but… But it was 1986, I was about to turn 14, I had already developed a deep urge for independence. Despise a bunch of odd jobs, my savings were meager to non-existent, and the idea of getting money from my mother for luxury items (anything except food, clothes and school) triggered strong feelings of guilt and embarrassment. Yet… it was Brazil playing!
“At least let’s go and find out if we still can get one” she insisted. So we took the bus to the stadium, instantly a scalper spotted us. I don’t recall the price, but I remember my mom opening her purse and buying a single ticket. I couldn’t feel guiltier if she would have been handing me the only piece of meat at Christmas dinner. At the game I had an amazing time. Brazil nailed the polish 4-0, there was a rooster running in the court and the whole security guards chased it as the crowd chanted “ole! ole!” more interested on the rooster’s dribbling than that of the players on the other side of the field.
I don’t remember the goals. My clearest recollection of that day is climbing up the long, long stairs to the top of the stadium (it was a nose bleeder seat), and just before getting through the gate, I looked down and out: my mom was still standing there, and she waved at me.
I waved back.
