This, dear reader, is a . Martín Caparrós and Juan Villoro, friends and soccer fans, started a conversation – intimate and public at the same time – with the excuse of the celebration of the World Cup in Qatar, in 2022. Now, four years later, they resume that same series, titled ‘A round-trip World Cup’, to follow with the same passion the day-to-day life of this other World Cup hosted by the US, Mexico and Canada.
Do you remember, Granjuán, those times when someone said third world and we all knew what they meant? Of course, then you could pretend that there were three: the rich world of the West — the first —, the threatening so-called Soviet world — the second — and all the rest, poor, the poor, who were the third (In those days even Spain wondered if it was not the third world).
Then we stopped saying it. There were reasons: because there was no more second, because some of its parts—China, India—have become first and foremost, and, above all, because no one wants to talk about poor people; It is better to pretend they do not exist. That is why someone proposed, in a recent book, to rename the old Third World as the OtherWorld, an outer space, confused with snares.
In the midst of so much difference, football is one of the few spaces that offer the illusion of equality. The key word is illusion: after all, the only poor countries that have ever won a World Cup are. Therefore, when the supposed equality comes into play and on the field it is 11 against 11 and all those things, the surprise is a lightning bolt that burns.
Last night, two of the most prosperous and powerful countries fell, within a few hours of each other, under the penalties of a kingdom that expels its people and We insist that we like elegant football and those ticking touches and those clean dribbles and those deep passes and those raised heads; Yes, we like it, but it seems that nothing excites us as much as coming across David and his rubber band and his tremendous stone. So last night I fell asleep thinking about writing to you something in Guaraní and insisting that Paraguay is the only one of our countries where the entire population speaks another language; This morning, when I woke up, I remembered what you were saying about the World Cup celebrations and it seemed to me that we could stop being foolish and celebrate with them.
So much so that I’m going to tell you a secret: we Buenos Aires people, believed as we are, are Paraguayans. Thus, in one: we were not founded by Andalusian secondaries or Extremaduran swineherds or Castilian priests; Buenos Aires was the creation of a group of young boys from Asunción, Paraguay, who, bored with fun and sex, went on an adventure and ended up building that small town on the edge of the Mar Dulce, November 1580. That’s how it happened and, since then, you can’t even imagine the effort to try to hide it.
But everything is known, and it cannot be denied that the Paraguayan boys, in their drift down the river, passed in front of the place where Rosario would begin three centuries later. Yesterday you named the other Rosario. They are, among many, the two that went around the world the most. They have crosses: they were both born in that city and left it soon; The two became known in distant places and became standards, faces for the shirt; They were both brave. The two, now, are 39 years old; Lionel Andrés Messi fulfilled them a few days ago; Ernesto Guevara de la Serna fulfilled them more than half a century ago and he never fulfilled more, he stayed in them. I am impressed that La Pulga and El Che are the same age: what each one did with their years. Shapes of the third world.
Meanwhile, in the first, the World Cup continues and continues well. Do you remember those times—at least three weeks ago—when we all predicted without hesitation that this would be the emptiest World Cup in history due to the prices of seats and accommodation and the bad American reputation and the hassle of visas? Well that: it seems that there have never been so many full stands, so many spectators on the fields. But the apocalyptic temptation lurks everywhere and we allow ourselves to be stalked, we err and, of course, we do not chasten and continue predicting, predicting, as long as what is predicted sounds like a final drama. Why do we miss the possibility of a brutal ending so much? Why don’t we put up with this tedious, laborious flow we call life, where it’s never clear what the outcome is, who won?
We don’t know, but we know who’s playing tonight. The World Cup is also crossing its equator. Now that the parade of extras is over, I wanted to look at the map a little to tell what each region brought and took away. Those that best justified their presence were Africa and Southakia: of the ten Africans, nine qualified and only Tunisia fell; Europe brought 16 and three were left out: the proportion is good, the quantity is important and Italy does not even enter. Infantino is either too honest or too stupid, and either would be a surprise. Another clearly exaggerated region is yours, Central and North America: of its six, half were left out, folkloric football like Haiti, Panama and Curacao. But the worst is Asia: they buy t-shirts, but not balls. Of their nine, six fell: Qatar, Jordan, Iran, Uzbekistan, Arabia, South Korea.
And suddenly I think—you know how I suddenly think—that there is an American triumph that we did not see. Yesterday they won the war again: Germany and Japan fell together without further ado; The Axis continues to send bad vibes.
So nothing, the World Cup continues and you will receive, I hope, these lines while Mexico prepares to cross its Equator: all the luck!
Hugs,
M.
