The Team We Choose
Before every World Cup, my grandfather would call a family meeting.
It was not a formal meeting, as there were no chairs arranged and no written agenda. But sometime during the weeks before the tournament, the family would gather in the living room of his house in Cairo, the smell of cardamom tea filling the room. My grandfather would look around the room and say: “OK, who are we rooting for this year?”
It seems simple. But from the perspective of an Egyptian family in the era before Egypt regularly qualified for the World Cup, it was extremely important.
Our national team has been absent from the global stage for so long that entire generations have grown up without seeing the Egyptian flag flying in the World Cup.
So my grandfather came up with a workaround. We would adopt a team… study the fixtures, discuss who had the best players, and come to a collective decision. Not an individual’s team, but our team. Once chosen, individual loyalties dissolve. My cousin’s love for Brazil, my father’s loyalty to Italy – all of that had to be put aside. For one month every four years, we become one family under one flag.
In 2010, my grandfather chose Spain.
That year was fraught from the start. South Africa hosted the first World Cup on African soil, and Cairo was happy as if it were part of it. Flags of each country were hung on balconies and railings. “Waka Waka” was broadcast from every store, every minivan radio, and every window. It played non-stop, repeating itself through the heat of the Egyptian summer like a second heartbeat. You weren’t listening to it by choice; it was simply seeping into you.
We watched the final together, the whole family, crammed into my grandfather’s living room, Spain versus Holland.
The match extended into extra time.
Iniesta’s goal in the 116th minute turned the room into chaos: my uncle’s tea was tossed to the ceiling, my aunt covered her face with her hands, and my cousins hugged in the hallway. Spain won. We won too… the team we chose together.
I was watching my grandfather.
He was smiling sincerely and warmly, but his eyes were constantly directed towards the door. He wasn’t completely distracted. Rather, it was like a quiet census. Who was here, and who wasn’t. His grandchildren live in Alexandria. His son, who immigrated. Empty places on the sofa where people used to sit without thinking.
I didn’t understand it then. I was immersed in the celebration, in the flags and the noise and the waka waka music creeping in from somewhere out in the dark. But I’ve thought about that look many times since.
My grandfather established the tradition of selecting a team because Egypt was not available for selection. He turned absence into a ritual, and the ritual into a reason for the family to gather in one room and feel, for a few weeks, as if they were one entity. The vote wasn’t really about football.
He died before 2018, the year Egypt finally qualified. The year an entire generation of Egyptians saw their flag on that stage for the first time.
But we were together when our chosen team La Roja lifted the cup. The hall erupted with cheers. My grandfather smiled at the door, as if, in some way, counting the people who would not be there next time.
