Bruno Huber

Worldcup

Over the past month I have lived the life an isolated, slightly unhinged sociopath within my own family. I spent most days perched in front of a TV screen either at home or at the nearest pub. I’ve been accused by Klare, my loving wife: of not listening, of tuning out in the middle of a conversation, of poor eating habits and of drinking beer in the morning ! “What the hell is going on here,” she wanted to know. I know I should have just spent a fortune and headed over to Germany, Should have evoked the wrath of Klare, in the worst case outright divorce, at best a cancellation of privileges like sex or financial support. Alas, I opted for suffering defeats and dramas, undeserved penalty shots and theatrical dives worthy of future employment as stunt actors at home here on the Westcoast. I refused all calls to work and became intimately involved with teams and players in the worlds greatest event, the tournament of the best players of a game that inspires kids and grandpa’s woman and men alike all over the globe. Of the 130 goals or there abouts, of which I’ve witnessed 95% live, some as early as 5:30AM, I remember mostly Beckham’s free kick from the 20 yard line, Ronaldo’s dribble goal against Ghana and Zenedine’s goal against Spain. Ribary’s blistering kick into the Spanish goal and Del Piero’s last minute goal against Germany also stand out. Having been born and raised in Switzerland I really wanted the Swiss to advance and only a small window of sanity as well as Klare’s call to get a grip on myself prevented me from diving off the deck, head first, when none of the young Swiss players could convert their penalty kicks. I felt marginally better when the English failed equally miserable with their penalty kicks. To see grown millionaires like Steve Gerrard, crying after he missed his kick, had a sobering effect on me and kind of jolted me back into reality. After the English defeat against Portugal I was actually able to mow the lawn, much to Klare’s satisfaction. “There is hope that the feeble minded will break through to become manageable grown ups,” she laconically observed. Three nasties stand out as well. Rooney’s stomp on Ricardo Carvallo’s private parts, Figo’s head butt behind the referee’s back in the contentious Portugal vs. Netherlands game and lastly Zenedine’s ram -butt into the chest of Marco Materazzi, certainly a bizarre act of lunacy. To end such a stellar career with a red card and the boos of millions behind his retreating back defies understanding but remains one of the dramatic memories of this world cup. I’m sad it’s over and I feel like a great holiday has ended and I have to say good-bye to my pals and friends. I feel somewhat lost and forlorn, a bit confused about reality which is about to descend on me in the form of work, responsibilities and neglected chores. Listlessly I tried to tune into the Tour de France, but without Lance it’s just not the same. Either way, Klare stepped between me and the most gruelling race in the world and resolutely demanded that I hand over the remote control, not just of the TV but of my immediate future.

 

All rights belong to its author. It was published on e-Stories.org by demand of Bruno Huber.
Published on e-Stories.org on 11.07.2006.

 

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