During the France vs Belgium match, my mom, still petty over Spain not making it through, said “stop being so dramatic, it’s only football”. I know it’s pettiness because a Spanish person would never EVER think it’s ‘oNlY foOtBalL’.
And yes, if France had lost and Belgium had been qualified instead, nothing would’ve happened. No one would have died, no war would have broken out, no significant change would’ve happened. The world would have still kept on turning if Belgium had gone to the finals, if Uruguay or Brazil had, or if there was no World Cup to begin with. Yes, from the outside, the world is pulled into a hysterical craze whenever the world cup begins. And all that just for eleven men kicking a ball around?
But that’s just the thing. It’s not just eleven men kicking a ball around.
(As clarification, I am a French and Spanish girl who has heard every possible tale about ‘98 without actually experiencing it, and has lived the 2010 victory in Spain, surrounding by Spanish yelling in Spanish. This comes from my personal experience with the country I live in, but it applies to any other country playing football.)
Paris is freaking wild right now. My Instagram is blowing up with stories of my friends on the Champs Élysées or stuck in traffic under the Haussmanian buildings. Millions of people across the country are in the streets celebrating one man throwing a ball into a net. Parisians, especially, have this reputation of being insufferable, pretentious and grumpy brats, and yet here we are dancing on buses with strangers, lighting up flares and yelling the Marseillaise under the Arc de Triomphe as if we had won the world cup. I live in a town in the Parisian suburbs with no more than 20’000 inhabitants and yet I’m still hearing fireworks, shouts and klaxons; it’s 1:53 a.m.
That’s definitely my favorite thing about sports – about team sports. The power it has to bring people together, to make them forget about their differences, their social backgrounds, their political views, their hatred and their prejudice. Let’s be real, tomorrow morning Parisians are going to ignore each other on the subway and be their grumpy selves as usual, but right now, France is going to the World Cup final and 67 million people are celebrating.
And it’s so incredibly beautiful and enthralling for every French person out here to go to the final because it’s been twenty years since ‘98. ’98 is not the only year in history France won the world cup. It’s more than that. It’s a real legend here. The only year in history France won the World Cup, scoring 3-0 against the best nation in the world and home. Many people claim that the day of the final against Brazil should be a day off – for real I’ve heard it lmao, it’s not gonna happen though don’t worry. I can’t even begin to describe how impactful ’98 was for every single French person. From the posh rich Parisian kid from the 16th arrondissement to the 8 year-old from Marseille who spends his days playing football under the sun, between the fresh air of the vieux port and the drug-dealing at night. Zidane… Zidane is a legend here for what he did that night, and after. He’s had his fair share of BOPS based on his career (COUP DE BOULE COUP DE BOULE). Didier Deschamps is a ’98 winner and is now training Les Bleus. Laurent Blanc used to, too. These victories, France in a World Cup final, the streets bursting with excitement, they all remind us of what happened twenty years ago. The new generation, like me, like MBappé, like a lot of players and supporters, wants to get a taste of ’98. The older generation misses that summer, wants to revive it and show it to the kids.
I’m taking the example of France because I support them, and the symbolism of it – 20 years after ’98, with Deschamps as their coach and the year Johnny Hallyday died, ON EST CHAMPIONS ON EST TOUS ENSEMBLE -, and the actual quality of their play, would make their potential victory beautiful and deserved. But this applies to any single country that plays team sports. Because even if they aren’t the best nation in the world, even if football isn’t their tradition nor their culture, the vast majority of its people will still stand by them and want them to win. That’s because of patriotism.
As someone who has two nationalities, two countries, that she loves tenderly and equally, I have a special relationship with patriotism. The dreaded question “who would you support in a war?” often comes up, and I have never answered that. Patriotism is a strong, but tricky feeling. Too much blinds your judgement; too little leaves you jaded. The right amount makes you proud. Proud, but tolerant. Proud, but acceptant. Proud, but open-minded. Proud of who you are, of where you come from. Proud of who raised you, of what city you roamed as a teenager. And for most people, that pride never really goes. It may be replaced by homesickness, or disgust, or incomprehension, but deep down, you stand united with the people that roamed the same city as you as a teenager, the people who were raised by the same as you, the people like you. That pride is the reason why all kids know their national anthem by heart. And as someone who’s literally a product of immigration, whose family has traveled around a lot, whose origins are completely tortuous… being proud of who you are and where you’re from, and especially feeling accepted by this huge family that raised and shaped you, even subconsciously, is one of the best feelings in the world.
It’s the feeling that allows you to embrace as a joke those stereotypes that stick on your big family. It’s the feeling that makes French people climb on lamposts on the Champs Élysées with bérêts and tricolor flags. It’s the feeling that makes Scottish people eat haggis for breakfast for real I don’t see any other explanation. It’s the feeling that causes you to be ashamedly sadder than for the rest of the world when a terrorist attack or a disaster happens in your country (everyone does to some extent. It’s normal). It’s the feeling that leads you to search for the Chinatown district in a city you just moved in if you’re from China, hoping to meet people, find help.
And it’s a feeling we all know, to different extents, some almost not at all, some terrifyingly strong. A feeling we all want to get behind. A feeling of pride that is followed by strength, hope, and joy. The joy of being part of something so big you can’t even begin to describe it.
And when you see all these people you’ve never seen and will never see again in the streets of your capital, wearing your national shirt and waving your flag, singing your anthem and jumping around like children, you know the place that raised you, even if it is no longer the place you love nor the place you belong in, will always be the place that raised you, and you’ll always carry it somewhere in your heart.
So, no. It goes much deeper than ‘eleven guys kicking a ball’.
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