The Dreams of our Fathers

I am not even a little ashamed to admit that I was wrong about the third-place decider.

It was not some consolation fixture for heartbroken teams. The boys from Morocco and Croatia came to play, and play hard. This meant something to them. 

And while there was no celebratory dancing between mothers and sons from the Maghreb, we were treated to the lovely sight of Luka Modric hugging his father, perhaps for the last time in his national colors.

Seems like the Atlas Lions don't have sole proprietorship of filial jubilee. It's beautiful, nonetheless.

I have also been wrong in the past about World Cup frenzy (in case you haven't noticed, being wrong is a self-repeating pattern for me). 

Being a club football fan who spends the lion's share of my time being made whole -- but mostly broken to pieces -- by a team in red half-way across the world, I used to deride those who turn their attention to football once every four years during the world's biggest show. 

Plastic fans, I called them. They don't understand football, only Brazil and Argentina, I accused. They probably think that Maradona and Pele are still playing, I scoffed. 

What a self-important rotten sod I was! 

Time, it seems, is the best healer of self-possessed idiocy. I have grown not only to abide Bangladeshi "World Cup" fans, I've grown to adore them. The passion, bordering on manic frenzy, is appreciable for the spectacle value alone. But there is more. 

As I had written before, the World Cup experience in Bangladesh is not just about Messi, Ronaldo, or whoever is the latest star playing for the favourite nation. It is about shared memories and shared passions. We watched the World Cup with our parents, we watch them with our friends, and will continue to watch them with our children. Other than the religious holidays, it is one of the few cultural experiences that bind us together as a society.

When Messi scores a goal, we are not just celebrating what is happening now, we are also revelling in what happened before. One part an adult today, another a child being thrown into the air by a guardian when Maradona danced past five Englishmen in 86.  

I miss "teaching" my father about all the players on show with knowledge I gleaned from my obsessive engagement with club football. I miss being happy for him when Brazil won, and consoling him when the Selecao lost.

Even though my tired old Liverpool supporting heart cannot be brought to fully root for another team on the international stage, every time I see a Brazil and Argentina fan go crazy, I am reminded of what I don't have anymore. Not in a sad way but a sweet way. Not in melancholy but in rejoice. Not in morose remembrance but joyful celebration of memories made and loved ones lost.

And that is why, to me, the World Cup in Bangladesh is one the best things ever.