I woke up feeling bad today. The bitter taste of yesterday’s defeat was still in my mouth.
Then, I realised it was the first time in my life that I cried after a football match.
I don’t know if it’s my age, or missing my homeland, the booze or what was it, but this World Cup was the first time I ever cheered for real.
I watched every game with my heart in my mouth. I cheered with passion, cursed referees, screamed to the players, hurt myself while punching the coffee table after a missed kick, celebrated from the top of my lungs, almost had a heart attack during those penalties, was dead worried about Neymar’s back.
On the other World Cups, I also painted my face and decorated the house in green and yellow. I also watched the matches. But for the first time, I lived the experience of cheering with passion at a football championship. We had friends over at our place, every game was a party, every victory was amazing.
But when we put our heart out there and dive head first into a new passion, there’s always the risk of getting hurt. And that’s what happened last night. That seven-one broke my heart. It hurt bad. I came back home crying in the bus, devastated. I got mad at those downers celebrating the disaster at social medias, and also at those trying to console everyone by saying it was only a game. I woke up bitter the next morning and I still can’t laugh at the jokes and memes.
So, for the first time I understood what passion for football is. These people that go to stadiums, set off fireworks, drive around honking when their team wins. I always found it all a little exaggerated, and today, I finally get them.
And, amongst this moral hangover I find myself in right now, part of me is happy to have lived it all… In a way, I won something new. I can’t tell if it’s something that came to stay of if I won’t have the emotional health to live it all again, but I feel grateful for the experience.
Now, let me get back to that chocolate over there and see if I manage to get through today.
Photo: Sad Brazilians tumblr.