“I hope the next article I write is in New York, without knowing how a final between Spain and, for example, Argentina ends. Just thinking about it seems crazy to me.” That’s how my article ended last week. And here we are, living all this, caught in a story that has something of the American dream.
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I’m sentimental and these days I sometimes see poetry. Starting with the setting: New York, the city that Trumpism has not managed to bend – now Évole is also politicizing a World Cup final, something neither FIFA, nor Trump, nor Infantino have done, but damn Évole has. No more and no less than New York, with a mayor, Zohran Mamdani, whom Trump called a “lunatic communist.” Born in Uganda, of Indian origin, Muslim and socialist, he represents everything that Trump and supremacist America hate. Mamdani counters the racism advancing through the U.S. He represents diversity, integration, tolerance, solidarity, courage, and those values today labeled by the right as woke nonsense woke. And on top of that, he does it with an uninhibited, cheeky attitude and without losing the smile that the left so badly needs.
I experienced the South Africa World Cup from New York. That summer I spent here with two of the people I love most in my life. We followed Spain’s matches from different bars in the city, and we lived Iniesta’s goal in a house in the Bronx where most of those present had never seen a ball in their lives. Several times they asked me “who are the ones in orange?”
In these 16 years, like everyone, a lot has happened to us: good, bad, average. I return to New York, where according to Nacho Cano there was no nightlife, with more scars than a retired bullfighter. But we must have done something right for the three people who shared that 2010 World Cup to be together again these days. One of them, a kid who turned 4 that summer and will turn 20 this year, and who has already seen Spain in two finals.
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I turn 52 next week. I have lived many World Cups with skepticism and disappointment. No matter how much they sold us the hype beforehand, we knew it was going to be a no again. When Spain was eliminated, in the group stage, in the round of 16 or at most in the quarterfinals, I only had one consolation: well, now I’ll go with Argentina. First for Maradona, representative of the best and worst of the human being. He lived a life without curtains to cover him, and without fluff on his tongue. I would like to see him comment on hydration breaks or the half-hour rest because Madonna has to perform and I don’t know how many more. Then I followed it for Messi. I never understood the grudge they had against probably the person who has given me the most moments of instant happiness in life. Messi is the best of all time. And there will be no other like him.
Hardworking, supportive, generous with teammates, mixed-race and cheerful, the Lamine generation
I adore Argentina for the eccentric way they live this sport. But I also adore it for Calamaro, for Darín, for Cecilia Roth, for Campanella, for the Alterios, for Leila Guerriero, for Martín Caparrós, for Tequila, for Él Mató a un Policía Motorizado, for all the friends who came from there and gave us so much here. For Martín, for Mati, for Diego, for Natalia, for Juan, for Carlota, for Jorge. For the fat ones, for the thin ones, for the tall ones, for the short ones…
You will understand that tomorrow, for the first time in a final that Argentina plays, I will go with the rival, obviously. For how well this Spanish team represents Spain. For being hardworking, for being supportive, for being generous with teammates, for being mixed-race, for being cheerful. The Lamine generation. I hope they turn a World Cup final into their recess time. And enjoy it like kids. Life can be wonderful.
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