(David Villa, you’re a champion!)
The only time that I’ve ever been interested in the World Cup before this year was in 1994, when it was held in New York. My father got free tickets to most of the matches, and he frequently took my family to games.
Before Ireland vs. Italy, he allowed my sister and I to bet his co-workers that Ireland would win. Everyone in the office thought that this was fucking adorable, even when my sister started running around biting everyone on the shoulder. The odds tipped very heavily in Italy’s favor, so no one took us very seriously. Fools. “We bet you $2,000 Ireland will win,” we ran around shouting. “Deal,” some of them responded, shaking our ice-cream sticky hands. By some stroke of a miracle, Ireland did win the game, and my dad collected almost $10,000 from the guys in his office for us. He had been keeping track of the bets. I’m still waiting for that money, Daddy.
Anyway, the game yesterday was an anti-climatic end to my second bout of World Cup fever. It was a snoozefest, especially since I was watching it with a bunch of business school dudes from America. “This is my favorite part!” I squealed when they showed close-ups of the Spanish players faces during the national anthem. “David Villa is so hot!” And no one responded.