Football with My Father
The 2010 World Cup final between Spain and the Netherlands was destined to be a unique moment and called for a celebration worthy of the occasion. A childhood friend hosted a party on his terrace to watch the match on a giant screen, with a barbecue, snacks and plenty of beer to liven up the evening. We were so convinced our team would win that we even bought fireworks to celebrate every goal and the long-awaited final victory.
On my way to the party, I decided to pop round to say hello to my parents, who lived in the neighbourhood. After catching up on our lives, I asked my father if he was planning anything special for the final, and he replied with a ‘no’ that was both blunt and sad.
This brought back a few familiar memories: in 1986, when I was barely eight years old, I’d fallen asleep on his lap while watching Belgium knock us out on the penalty shoot-out, and in 1994 we’d rushed out of my aunt and uncle’s wedding to watch Italy kick us out of the tournament with a last-minute goal in the quarter-finals. Since then, my World Cup memories (the humiliating exit at the group stage in 1998, the disappointing defeat to South Korea in 2002 and the thrashing at the hands of Zidane’s France in 2006) had all been shared with my friends.
When my father then asked me who I was going to watch the match with, a sudden feeling of guilt came over me and I told him I had no plans and that, if he didn’t mind, I’d stay and watch it at his place.
My mum complained a bit at first, as she hadn’t planned on having guests, but she suggested making a potato omelette and serving some homemade gazpacho she had in the fridge. I told her not to worry, that the nerves of the final meant I wouldn’t be very hungry anyway and anything would do.
At club level, my father and I supported bitter rivals FC Barcelona and Real Madrid, so there had always been an intense football rivalry at home. It was a healthy rivalry, full of good humour, but a rivalry nonetheless, with the odd minor argument whenever El Clásico took place. Perhaps that’s why Spain’s matches were an exception: they were the only common ground for our family when it came to football, where we’d put our differences aside to support the same colours.
2010 wasn’t just the year Spain won the World Cup. It was also the year my first son was born. In a way, the prospect of fatherhood helped open my eyes and make me realise what really mattered in life. Although I’d long since left the family nest and had already paid off a quarter of the mortgage, true adulthood was about to begin.
Now that my son is 15 and is starting to swap my sofa for a friend’s to watch football, I’m beginning to realise what it must have meant to my father to share that very special moment with me. Seeing the sparkle in his eyes that night was almost more rewarding than Spain’s victory itself.
When Iniesta finally broke through the Dutch defence after 116 minutes of fruitless dominance, he sprinted towards the corner flag as fast as the wind, stripping off his jersey to reveal a message in honour of Dani Jarque, who had sadly passed away a year earlier. That legendary celebration, replayed relentlessly ever since, has been permanently etched into the collective memory as the symbol of the night when Spain reached the pinnacle of world football.
To me, however, it carries something more: my father would die of cancer shortly afterwards, before we could sit down together again in front of the television to share another great match of the Spanish national team.
I never told him I ditched my friends that day to watch the final with him. That small and almost impulsive gesture became priceless over time because it could never be repeated.
If that night holds such a special place in my memory today, it is not only because Spain won its first World Cup, but also because it was the last time I celebrated something like that with my father and because, without realising it, it was the moment I finally became an adult.
“Spain with cup 2010” by Danny is licensed under CC BY-SA 3.0.
