By José Gandue @Gandour
Editor's note: As we fire up our writing engines at Zonagirante.com, we've unearthed a text originally published in 2014 that, due to a platform change some time ago, was no longer in our digital archives. 2018 is here, and it's a World Cup year. We're getting ahead of the hype and celebrating the tournament's atmosphere, believing this article is still relevant and reflects the excitement we feel as fans.
Guillermo Parra Bernal, a football fanatic
I was never a good footballer. There was a time in school when I thought I was a decent stopper and I scored a goal or two for my class team, and I was pretty good around the neighborhood, but that was about it, to be honest. That said, From a young age, he was the most obsessive fan of all the great tournaments broadcast on television.
I remember that during the 1978 World Cup, I postponed everything important a 12-year-old could do to watch the entire tournament, and I even watched the highlights with all the goals. regardless of the fact that my friends were already riding around on their bikes and had calmly closed the chapter. The 1982 World Cup caught me on a beach vacation, and during the hottest hours I'd find myself glued to the screen, lamenting Maradona's expulsion against Brazil. In that World Cup, I saw one of the best matches of my life., The one that made me cry with rage when an admirably multi-ethnic France lost against Germany. In '86, how could it not be, Diego came back in full force and, while I was finishing my second year of Political Science in Madrid, he made me shout the second goal against the English in the face of a few racist Spaniards from the university residences, those same ones who repeated in the crowded television room that the "South Americans" could do nothing against the European power.
The 1990 World Cup caught me almost as I was saying goodbye to Spain, living in a tiny apartment in the Malasaña neighborhood., screaming wildly after Rincón's goal against Germany And then dancing with some Argentinian neighbors to celebrate the victory against Italy, while the whole neighborhood tried to shush us. 1994 was the saddest of all (and it just had to happen in a country that isn't very football-oriented). A Colombian team that we all thought was going to be champions, and instead received the worst of unfortunate rewards in the death of Andrés Escobar, a great man, a great guy. Apart from that, it was the World Cup where Diego “had his legs cut off”, right on his big comeback.
Every four years I remember watching a TV series called Lou Grant, where the story of a newspaper editor was told, one who once said that if the misfortune of the planet could be reflected on the front page of newspapers, Every morning, the sports pages revealed the capacity for glory of humankind. That phrase has comforted me my whole life. I admire great athletes, those who know their chances of winning are slim and yet persevere. Those, as we often see on this side of the world, who rise from the most privileged backgrounds, often deprived of comfort or wealth. And they manage, with their terrible stories on their shoulders, to reach the podium. I have never believed in military heroes, I have definitely always believed in sports heroes.
For that same reason, because they have reasons that stir the sincere emotions of the people, I believe that great songs have been written about immense legends who deserve it. I don't consider the words that... to be trivial at all. Rodrigo, the Argentine cuarteto singer, when, in his song The hand of God, says:
«"Maradona, Marado.".
Joy came to the village,
He showered this land with glory…
Or when the Uruguayan Alfredo Zitarroza says of Garrincha:
He wears it attached to his foot, like a tightrope walker going to his death with it attached.,
He hides it -it can't be seen-, he infuses it with magic and life, and then he returns it.,
and she runs away, she deceives him, she leaves him, she loves him,
And the ball pursues him, hounds him, wounds him,
And they gather together and dance and the people shout,
and they hug and roll through the nets,
And the people tremble, and the people cheer him!
Every time the World Cup comes around, I think there aren't enough good compositions to pay tribute to great footballers. Yes, of course, someone will say, and quite rightly, that it's difficult to sing about some of today's leading figures, who are more known for selling shampoo on television than for their achievements on the field. But don't be fooled by the traps of modern times: Despite FIFA, its mafiosos and its entanglements, There are still heroes who are forged during the 90 minutes of a match, There's still the capacity to laugh and cry over a match. Thankfully, we can still ignore the advertising boards and continue experiencing what's happening on the pitch.