Eduardo Galeano - Soccer in Sun and Shadow

* * *

Uruguay, which entered the World Cup behind everyone else after a painful qualifying round, played the entire championship without ever giving an inch and was the only Latin American country to reach the semifinals. In the Uruguayan press, several cardiologists warned that “excessive joy can damage the heart.” Many of us Uruguayans embraced the chance to die of something other than boredom, and the country’s streets became a fiesta. After all, the right to celebrate one’s own merits is always preferable to the pleasure some derive from the misfortune of others.

Uruguay ended up in fourth place, not bad for the only country that kept this World Cup from becoming a European championship.

Diego Forlán, our striker, was chosen as best player of the tournament.

* * *

Spain won. A country that had never held the trophy won it cleanly thanks to the marvels of its soccer of solidarity, all for one and one for all, and to the astonishing abilities of a tiny magician named Andrés Iniesta.

The Netherlands came in second, after a final match that gave its finest traditions a swift kick in the pants.

* * *

The first- and second-place finishers of the previous World Cup returned home without even opening their suitcases. In 2006 Italy and France met in the final match. This time they met in the airport departure lounge. In Italy, more and more voices clamored against a soccer played to keep the other side from playing. In France, the disaster provoked a political crisis and set off racist outrage, since nearly all the players who sang “La Marseillaise” in South Africa’s stadiums were black.

Other favorites, like England, did not last long either.

Brazil and Argentina suffered cruel humiliations. Brazil was unrecognizable, except for the few moments when the team slipped free of the cage of its own defensive plan. What was the illness that required such a dubious remedy?

Germany rained goals on Argentina in their final match. Half a century before, other Argentine players were pummeled by coins when they returned from a disastrous performance, but this time they were welcomed by an adoring crowd. There are still people who believe in things more important than winning or losing.

* * *

This World Cup confirmed the remarkable frequency with which players get injured, crushed by the exhausting pace professional soccer imposes with impunity. One could say some stars have grown rich, even fantastically rich, but that is only true for a select few who, besides playing two or more matches a week and besides training night and day, must sacrifice their scant free time to the demands of consumer society, selling underwear, cars, perfume, and shavers, or posing for the covers of glossy magazines. In the end, it only proves this world is so absurd we even have slaves who are millionaires.

* * *

The two most highly publicized and anticipated superstars missed their appointments. Lionel Messi wanted to be there, did what he could, and something shone through. They say Cristiano Ronaldo was there, but no one saw him; perhaps he was too busy looking at himself.

But a new star emerged from the depths of the sea and rose unexpectedly to the topmost heights of the soccer firmament. He’s an octopus and he lives in an aquarium in Germany. His name is Paul, though he deserves to be called Octodamus.

Before each match, he made his prophecies. They gave him a choice of two mussels bearing the flags of the two opponents. He ate the mussels of the winners and was never wrong.

The octo-oracle, who had a decisive influence on the betting, was listened to with religious reverence in the soccer world, and was loved and hated and even slandered by certain resentful souls like me. When he announced that Uruguay would lose to Germany, I accused: “This octopus has been bought off.”

* * *

On the first day of the World Cup, I hung a sign on the door of my house that said: “Closed for soccer.”

When I took it down a month later, I had played sixty-four matches, beer in hand, without budging from my favorite chair.

The exploit left me drained, muscles stiff, throat raw, but already I feel nostalgic. I miss the insufferable litany of the vuvuzelas, the emotion of those goals injurious to bad hearts, the beauty of the best plays repeated in slow motion. I miss the celebration and the mourning too, because sometimes soccer is a pleasure that hurts, and the music of a victory that sets the dead to dancing sounds a lot like the clamorous silence of an empty stadium, where one of the defeated, unable to move, still sits in the middle of the immense stands, alone.

This book owes much to the enthusiasm and patience of “El Pepe” Barrientos, “Manolo” Epelbaum, Ezequiel Fernández-Moores, Karl Hubener, Franklin Morales, Ángel Ruocco, and Klaus Schuster, all of whom read the drafts, caught mistakes and came up with valuable ideas and information.

Also of great assistance were the critical eye of my wife, Helena Villagra, and the soccer memory of my father, “El Baby” Hughes. My son Claudio and a few friends, or friends of my friends, did their part bringing me books and newspapers or answering queries: Hugo Alfaro, “Zé” Fernando Balbi, Chico Buarque, Nicolás Buenaventura Vidal, Manuel Cabieses, Jorge Consuegra, Pierre Charasse, Julián García-Candau, José González Ortega, “Pancho” Graells, Jens Lohmann, Daniel López D’Alessandro, Sixto Martínez, Juan Manuel Martín Medem, Gianni Minà, Dámaso Murúa, Felipe Nepomuceno, “El Migue” Nieto-Solís, Luis Niño, Luis Ocampos Alonso, Carlos Ossa, Norberto Pérez, Silvia Peyrou, Miguel Ángel Ramírez, Alastair Reid, Affonso Romano de Sant’Anna, Pilar Royo, Rosa Salgado, Giuseppe Smorto, and Jorge Valdano. Osvaldo Soriano collaborated at my invitation.

I ought to say that all of them are innocent of the result, but the truth is I think they are rather guilty for having gotten themselves into this mess.

Aguirre, José Fernando, Ricardo Zamora (Barcelona: Clíper, 1958).

Alcântara, Eurípides, “A eficiencia da retranca,” and other articles by Marcos Sá Corrêa, Maurício Cardoso, and Roberto Pompeu de Toledo, special edition of Veja (São Paulo), July 18, 1994.

Altafini, José, I magnifici 50 del calcio mondiale (Milan: Sterling & Kupfer, 1985).

Anuario mundial de football professional (Buenos Aires), vol. 1, no. 1, June 1934.

Archetti, Eduardo P., “Estilo y virtudes masculinas,” in El Gráfico: La creación del imaginario del fútbol argentino (Oslo: University of Oslo, Department of Social Anthropology).

Arias, Eduardo, et al., Colombia gol: De Pedernera a Maturana: Grandes momentos del fútbol (Bogotá: Cerec, 1991).

Arucci, Daniel, “Mágicos templos del fútbol,” El Gráfico (Buenos Aires), March 20, 1991.

Asociación del Fútbol Argentino, Cien años con el fútbol (Buenos Aires: Zago, 1993).

Associazione Italiana Arbitri, 75 anni di storia (Milan: Vallardi, 1987).

Barba, Alejandro, Foot Ball, Base Ball y Lawn Tennis (Barcelona: Soler, n.d.).

Bartissol, Charles and Christophe, Les racines du foot-ball français (Paris: Pac, 1983).

Bayer, Osvaldo, Fútbol argentino (Buenos Aires: Sudamericana, 1990).

Benedetti, Mario, “Puntero izquierdo,” in Hinchas y goles: El fútbol como personaje (Buenos Aires: Desde la Gente, 1994).

Blanco, Eduardo, “El negocio del fútbol,” La Maga (Buenos Aires), December 7, 1994.

Boix, Jaume, and Arcadio Espada, El deporte del poder (Madrid: Temas de Hoy, 1991).

Boli, Basile, Black Boli (Paris: Grasset, 1994).