Pretentiousness Alert: Very High, apologies to Biran
Hair Length: The neighbors have threatened to make me start wearing the hijab
World Cup: Although the the US' 3-0 thumping at the hands of the Czech Republic has deflated my world cup enthusiasm*, I should mention a few of the stellar headlines brought to us by this event: 'Training to begin for S&M' and 'The Netherlands prepares for S&M.' Sadly, the proud Montenegrin nation has recently voted for independence from Serbia, and thus, the nation of 'Serbia and Montenegro' will no longer exist, depriving future generations of such blissfully snigger-worthy headlines. If only S&M had a chance to make it to the BBC politics pages...
*: Or am I just lonely? I had been looking forward to and expecting to watch the US-CR game. A friend of mine called me; her parents are visiting and she invited me to join them for the day. She said it'd be from one to sunset, right over the game, and I agreed, just said I might have to leave early, to catch the match at 7. I thought about it for another second, and made sure to add, "To meet with my friend Omar." You know, because what kind of punk doesn't have time for people because of some stupid game. I had my eye on Important Things.
We went to a Nile-side cafe at around 4, and after a while I flipped off my give-a-shit switch and scrapped the game and agreed to go to Al-Azhar Park to watch the sunset over Cairo, which seems to have become the last hurrah of choice for departees. Of course, and my friend had figured the sun to set at precisely 7. I've been there at least half a dozen times in such circumstances, but the pollution that can make the sunset sublime more often buries it. On Saturday, at least, it set.
I began to wonder I went. I'd seen the same thing so many times, after the first, always remembering to point out what stunning patch of green Al-Azhar Park was in Cairo--as it is--to perhaps underappreciating guests. I wonder at myself, after having made such an uncharcteristic commotion about the World Cup, after having actually expressed a desire to do something, do anything. I began to consider that I had abandoned my team at its time of greatest need, in the place where I'd agreed to make among the biggest of sacrifices in my demure center-of-left-of-center-but-we-should-always-be-open-to-new-ideas circles: to give a shit, a sporting shit, for my country, no less. Some waste.
The line of thought--my usual line of thought, that is--runs something like, "Oh, yea heartless, mindless cretins, in thou insouciant hurry to get to the D section of thine newspaper, thou hath forgotten the blood, tears, and sin of the front page! Hath you no perspective? See ye not the Important Things in life? Hath you only balls but not brains? Cojones but not caring?"
After the sun set, we ambled around the park, waiting for the Marine van to come pick us up (one of our friends is a US marine at the embassy). Opportunity allowed, and I turned on my give-a-shitter up, just flickered it, really. We walked by a cafe and I peeked over to the TV to check the score. Two - nothing. Embarassing. I hoped they wouldn't embarass themselves too bad. I felt mildly responsible. Those boys are probably missing my caring, I allowed.
Those silly boys. I've heard people say that you shouldn't put all your eggs in one basket, that the body decays with age, and all that you worked so hard for will age away. Maybe so. But I can't help but think that weight training builds more than muscles and practice more than quickness and skill, that the obsessive determination of the world's greatest football players is no less beautiful and fraught than that of the world's greatest artists. If anything, it seems that vaunted mind that some put so much stock in just saddles with arrogance for life, instead of just youth. As for heart? Sadness and joy should come just as well from football than the results of some social justice project.
In a godless world, I cannot see the difference between a singular obsession with social justice or football. It's overcoming naysayers and telling the man to shove it, toughness and resilience and singular determination, buidling a team, deep sadness, and radiant joy. And if one man rises and falls with the fortunes of his team, and another with that of his politics, I should say that the first man is simply a bit more to the point. When it seems giving a shit for anything is so costly, I should say both have taken an admirable first step.
The marine van took us to my apartment, where my friend had been stashing her stuff while she and her parents toured Upper Egypt. We got the bags and rushed back to the van because I didn't want to keep the Marine's newish-looking Ford 15-seater waiting on my narrow, easily-piqued, 1970 Fiat street. Her father put her bags in the car, and perhaps my impending doom slipped her mind, because she held the door open expecting me to get in. But that was my stop, it was the end of the night, the end of the journey.
My goodbye's never go as I want them to, awkward and what-the-fuck?ish, and this one was no exception, quick hugs and handshakes and mutterings about safe travels. I pulled out and quickly slammed the door to let an impatient cab past, and like that it was over. The last of my travel buddies had left.
A bit dejected and unsure of what to do with myself, I rushed to check the score. Three - zero. An utter embarassment. More embarassing than playing football with udders. Udders with little cleats on them. I felt justified that I hadn't wasted time or face watching the match, but I went to bed utterly sad, unsure if it was the players on the field or the playa inside of me I was dissapointed with. The next day, it got worse, as I didn't want to watch the World Cup and my friend flew out. I grabbed the yoke from the pilot, ready to crash the whole mess into the sea. At the last minute, I allowed that I might have been truly, acutely, [heroically?!], lonely.
After a few days I was able to watch again, and, with my return count in single digits, I set out again to give a shit. For tonight, I planned for myself to watch the USA-Italy match at a snooty cafe next to the student dorms on Zamalek, because in that hopelessly hopeful human way, I thought we could win. And besides, I had learned my lesson last time.
I spent most of the day at AUC, where it was World Refugee Day. Mostly, I avoided the festivities. One step at a time.
I went to another cafe (Fortress America travels with your dollars) where I called my sister and wrote a long, crumbly entry in my journal, the first in awhile. I dropped by the campus to visit Omar and his mother, who was selling East African food (think Ethiopian). We chatted for an hour or so, and I scarfed down his mother's food, but when he asked if I was going to go, I didn't hesitate. I was going to watch the match. I didn't tell him, but my team needed me.
We were supposed to get throttled, Italy being such a strong footballing nation, and the US putting in such a fantastically anemic performance against the Czechs. It had been a long time since I cared so much about any sports match, a good while I'd been so tense about anything really, but the US came out with guns blazing (as we are wont to do), and it looked as if we might stand a chance against the Italians. They scored first, and I was ready to flip the switch off and go home, but we scored four minutes later. The match went back and forth, and to make a long story short, we finished the game playing nine against ten and tied anyway against one of the best teams in the world.
It was terrible, I don't know why people do that, I mean, sit through ninety minutes of gut-wrenching meaninglessness, well meaningless in so far as there is no one with a gun to their head saying, "Watch the match or die." But I mean, I was nervous, I was angry, I was dissapointed, incredulous. All these things that happen when you care, all of a sudden, all these things in the match that I had skipped for a drink and a sandwich for my apartment were huge, mid-field free throws and goal kicks and unremarkable touches. All these people, they just choose to care, to get up for it, to get down, to imitate the very first and maybe the only step of love.
For all its supposed meaninglessness and jockery, I walked out of the cafe a little stirred, a little angry, a little proud, and happy. I passed walked passed a man sleeping on a bridge on the way home, and then a dirty, shoeless kid, with these invariable eyes. No, Team Social Justice still has a match on its hands. But the lovers and heroes on the US soccer team had been so obsessed with a result, so obsessed all their lives, with their meaningless little game, that any fan who should chose to flick the switch could trace the face of love on the pitch with his own heart and mind.
So I felt a little proud, a little vindicated, a little angry? Oh, Solomon, everything is meaningless. What a great, good God.
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