Penance shake. The well-intentioned moralists were going to boycott the World Cup in an attack of sudden dignity. I’m not going to watch a single game! Said the most resolute. The intention lasted the same as some Ducats in the fingers of Joaquín Sabina. And there we are, in front of the television, without missing a single confrontation (well, one yes, Spain-Japan to coincide with the centenary party of the rejuvenated Glacier Bar in Plaça Reial) of what is already guessed as the World Cup with the most story audience. Beers, friends and football. The Homer Simpson united, we will never be defeated!
The World Cup is a space for reconciliation with the true self that we carry within. Living on the sofa watching others run and making continuous summary judgments about the real possibilities of each team and the evolution of each player. It doesn’t work anywhere. The most sought-after addresses to watch the most substantial matches – sorry Joaquín Luna, for meddling in your specialty – are those of the separated and divorced. Although they are clean and designed with taste and possible, their rooms maintain the smell and the spirit of a student flat in which anyone is allowed to open the fridge, not worry about where to throw the empty beer containers and turn any bowl object in ashtray. Indulgence with the eructation of others is even maintained as long as it is not abused. That it is one thing to rejuvenate oneself and another very different to become brutalized. But yes, the World Cup fattens the belly and loosens habits. A parenthesis through which a healthier and more bearable routine slips through. At least for those who can afford it, stealing time from obligations.
During the World Cup, apathy for the other pleasures of life reigns. Courtships are suspended, for example. It is a sedentary activity, but one that requires concentration. You have to memorize the groups, the possible crosses, the pichichis table, the cards and other details that provide the status of expert. Ridicule is not allowed. You have to know who Otto Ado trains and what team Ritsu Doan comes from. This is a lot of work and many hours of television. A World Cup that wants to be followed comme il faut requires exclusive dedication. More or less like Joanjo Pallàs, although unlike him, without leaving home or dressing in the thoub that suits him so divinely.
And about Qatar and the Qataris, after thinking about it a lot, the best thing is for the one and only Homer Simpson to speak directly: “When am I going to learn? The solution to all of life’s problems…! It’s on TV!” So there we are, fixing them with a 56-inch. More effective than a boycott. Where are you going to stop?
