Humberto Bedolla

It’s been a week since the World Cup in Mexico, Canada, and the U.S. began, and my eyes already hurt from watching.

Yesterday I gave up on watching Algeria vs. Jordan. “Good night and good luck,” I wrote in the private chat I have with football fans from all over the world. No one replied.

At work, they set up a huge screen right when England vs. Ghana started. I lean toward Ghana —I like them, despite Rebecca Lowe, whom I also like. She says on her podcast that she wants England to win, and that there’s no reason not to say it. She means there’s no logic —the World Cup is pure passion. And I remember Ricky Martin and The Cup of Life: “Life is pure passion… you’ve got to dream of being a champion.” Well, yes, damn it!

I ran out of the office to catch the end of the match. Today, England —not so much. At least not this time. They tied 0–0 with Ghana.

I rub my eyes and switch to Panama vs. Croatia. Croatia, old but still great, with Modrić. Then I remember Mexico plays tomorrow: the third match, with two wins so far. The second was meaningful against fast South Korea, whom we feared terribly. They defended well, and a guy nicknamed “Piojo” Alvarado surprised me—he pushed forward and, above all, tracked back constantly. And yes, damn it, we’ll win the third match —and secure the fourth.

From the other room, Arancha calls me: “Look how beautiful the sky is. A gorgeous red.”

I turn away from the TV to look at the sky, and the red suddenly makes me think of Tim Payne and New Zealand. Then I think of the blue sharks of Cape Verde, and Curaçao versus Ecuador, which we watched in Trinity Square in New Haven. All of it feels like football. We had reasons to root for Curaçao: a friend visiting us in New Haven had been there. More than once! The only one in that square, maybe in that whole city.

That square is where I also watched Mexico vs. Korea. And there, while watching Spain vs. Saudi Arabia, a Korean man approached me. I haven’t taken off my Mexico shirt since some June in ’77 —that’s why he recognized me.

“Mexico?”
“Yes,” I said, pointing at my shirt.
“Korea,” he replied, pointing at his eyes.
“I’m sorry,” I told him. “You’re a good team. We were all afraid of your speed.”
“No, no, no,” he said, the way only Asians say no, with their head and hand waving together. “All good. We really like Mexico. In fact, do you know what we call Mexico?”
“Nope,” I said, the way we say it in Mexico.
“Mexi-ko-rea! Brothers!”

The South Korean hugged me and kissed me. Then he went off to a corner to watch Spain.

Ah, I remembered the broken leg of that Canadian player. Then Haaland. Mbappé scored braces again in the second match. Finally, Cristiano Ronaldo too. And Kane —a brace in the first match, not the second. No, Rebecca, no. Not today. No England today.

To my surprise, my niece is a Cristiano Ronaldo fan. She runs, drops to her knees, and shouts, “Siiiuuuu!” I can’t help but smile. Then I think: the same thing happens to me with Messi. I’m not from Argentina —though I like them— but from Messi. I came to the Barcelona football team because of Rafa Márquez, and I stayed for La Pulga.

What will become of Argentina after Messi? It will be that team with grit but without magic. He has five goals. All of his team’s goals —each one better than the last.

I keep looking at the sky, red. “Beautiful,” I think. Paraguay played terribly in the first match; Ecuador was so unlucky and was already on its way home. Like Julen Lopetegui’s Qatar. I told Arancha that he had been fired for signing with Real Madrid just two days before the start of the 2018 tournament. And then they handed that team over to someone called Hierro, with Isco around, while Iniesta was right there.

And I see Carlos Queiroz in Ghana and Cannavaro in Uzbekistan—what? And I go over the managers: Bielsa in Uruguay, Pochettino in the U.S., Tuchel in England, Nagelsmann with Germany, Deschamps in France, Ancelotti in Brazil, Scaloni in Argentina, Roberto Martínez with Portugal… and the firefighter, el bombero,  Vasco Aguirre, for the third time with Mexico.

I smile —what luck. Being a firefighter, he’s managed to steer the team through three World Cups. Guardiola must envy him; he wants a national team and a World Cup of his own.

Will Mexico win the third match by fielding substitutes against Czechia? Ah, the Czech Republic and its pilsners —what a delight— and what a shame to have to run them over. And they’ll win the fourth match, and the fifth, probably against England—and that’s coming from someone from Bristol, or maybe because of it, because I’m only from Bristol, not English.

The sky is red, of course. “Red sky,” I think, and I begin to hum. Sorry, Rebecca —but no, England will not win the World Cup. The fifth match will go to Mexico.

I stop looking at the sky and tell Arancha: “You don’t say the sky is beautiful. You say: “México lindo, cielo rojo.”