June 10, 1998. In the days and weeks leading up to the World Cup in France, I had been getting more and more excited. I had always had a passing interest in soccer but opportunities to follow it had been limited. I remember catching some of the 1986 tournament because I spent that summer in Chicago and got see some of the action on Spanish language television. For whatever reason, I passed on 1990 and 1994 (most likely other sports were hogging my attention at the time).
By 1998 though, I was out of school and working full-time as a sports copy editor at my local newspaper. The constant exposure to an (over) analysis of "traditional" American sports pretty much meant that I had had my fill of them by this point. Still though, I wanted some sport that I could follow passionately yet I needed it to be my own, something none of friends or co-workers was interested in. For whatever reason, I began to be drawn to soccer. I bought some magazines and starting digesting everything I could about that summer's World Cup. I absolutely could not wait--I was brimming with anticipation of playing my part (however small) in the world's greatest sporting event.
The first match day was June 10. And while Brazil kicked off the tournament with a 2-1 victory over Scotland, for whatever reason, the first match I actually sat down to watch was between Norway and Morocco, the other teams in Group A. (My work schedule meant that I had to record most of the matches and watch them in the wee hours after I got home). So there I was in my apartment likely in the dark (that's the way I liked it), likely on the floor propped up on one elbow or the other (because the only piece of furniture I owned was a slightly too-small and uncomfortable couch), watching two teams that I had no allegiance to battle it out in a game I already knew the outcome of (working in a sports department made it impossible to avoid).
So far so good. I've picked Morocco to root for and I am pretty captivated by their No. 7, Mustapha Hadji. Six months earlier, I wouldn't have known the man if he were standing in front of me but my pre-Cup research had brought me up to speed. I knew that he was a superstar in his country and the African Footballer of the Year to boot. Pretty cool. And on top of that, I really dug his look and the way he carried himself on the pitch, passing and running with considerable style and effort.
And then the fateful moment comes, the 38th minute of a scoreless game. Morocco's Tahar El-Khalej is in his own end and passes a long ball to the left. And here comes the great man himself to run onto it, long hair flying and arms pumping. This guy is moving--like a Japanese bullet train that's 10 minutes behind schedule. Hadji somehow gets to the ball after this lung-bursting sprint and controls it with a series of deft touches. Now he is bearing down on Norway's Dan Eggen. Still moving at top speed, my man a step over that gets the helpless Eggen (a fine defender on his day) leaning and then takes a touch to the right to open a fraction of space for the shot. And then "boom," it's in the net.
Pandemonium at the Stade de la Mosson in Montpellier--and in my dark living room. I am now a believer, in Hadji, in football and (not exaggerating) in the infinite possibilities of man. And then comes, for me, the most amazing part. Hadji promptly starts another full-speed sprint back across the pitch. He's heading for the Morocco bench to celebrate but he's not letting anyone else touch him until he gets to his destination. Why? It's a mystery now as it was then. He wants to celebrate with one guy--and only one--first and after he makes it chaos ensues.
And in a matter of a few manic seconds starring a seemingly possessed Moroccan footballer, I am smitten. The rest of the match plays out in a 2-2 tie and since then I've seen countless others. I also got to continue following Hadji's career, as he and teammate Youssef Chippo were signed by then-Coventry manager Gordon Strachan (thankfully, my cable system carried English Premier League games). The "Mous and Yous" era saw Coventry fans wear fezzes to the match but like most things in life, it ended up being a disappointment.
Football, though, never has.
Edit: My goodness, have 13 years gone by that fast ...
No comments:
Post a Comment