Tomaso sat down to watch the day’s action. He had missed several crucial games from the 1990 tournament because, like most men, the extraordinary physics and logistics involved in setting the timer on his VCR utterly confounded him. His New Year’s resolution for 1991, ’92, ’93 and ’94 had been to figure out how to make the godforsaken machine record while he was not actually there. Still unsuccessful at this endeavor, he simply turned on his TV and started the six-hour tape when he left his house, rushing home in the middle of the day to put in a new tape while trying desperately not to watch any real-time action or catch a score. So far his routine, though stressful, had been effective.
This was to be the year for Italy. Every year, of course, was the year for Italy, God’s team. More so than ever, this team had the wherewithal, the stamina, the skills, the surgical precision, the wonderful arrogance to make the world take notice, once again. Simply put, it had to be, and Tomaso felt with all his heart that this was to be the year for Italy.
Two players gave him pause, and kept his confidence miserably in check. The first, a minor concern, like a hornet that is not capable of killing you, but can inflict pain to remind you that it is around was Stoitchkov. Tomaso regarded the miserable but brilliant forward with a grudging admiration that, he feared, might make him weep humbled tears. Stoitchkov was making Tomaso nervous. How dare Bulgaria advance past the first round? Who did they think they were? This was as almost as awful—and inconceivable—as France winning. But one thing Tomaso was certain about, something he would stake significant, even exorbitant sums of money on, as well as his good name, was that France would never, ever win the cup. Not in 94. Not ever.
The second player, a major concern that literally kept him up nights, was Italy’s own Roberto Baggio, Il Divino Codino (the Divine Ponytail), loved and reviled as much for his controversial religious beliefs as for his unparalleled athletic ability. Every Italian understood the gravity of this matter: through Italy’s play, God would speak, the Catholic God whose sacrosanct breath filled the Vatican with life. Why Baggio? Why Buddhism? Why anger the very God who chose you above all others to perform His art, to be His instrument on earth? 1986, the dark year Argentina and that insufferable monkey Diego Maradona (hand of God? The blasphemy!) took the cup, and Roberto Baggio renounced Catholicism, his country, and his creator all with one word: Buddhism.
And yet. God is gracious, God is magnanimous, God is, always, omnipotent. How else to explain what was otherwise an irredeemable tragedy? Baggio’s genius against Nigeria: two goals in the waning moments. Another miracle from this pony-tailed prodigy. Here, in this man’s ostensibly unremarkable body was God’s greatest gift: he was Italy; he was soccer (Tomaso would say football).
Tomaso was forced to watch the games alone, because there was no one whose presence he could tolerate, plus the fact that no one seemed particularly interested in watching the games with him. He knew Jackson watched soccer, and understood the game, but his friend shocked him by admitting he was not paying attention to the tournament.
“Come watch a game with me John,” he had offered.
Jackson, perhaps not understanding the supreme magnanimity being extended, demurred.
“How can you say this? Your own country is still playing!”
“Escobar,” Jackson said, by way of explanation.
“Yes, it is sick what that man’s own people did.”
“It’s an abomination,” Jackson hissed, with genuine disgust.
“Thugs. Gangsters, that’s all.”
“No, sports always seems to bring out the worst in people.”
“What about when Pele caused two nations to call a cease fire in order to watch him play?”
“That’s right. A credit to Pele and the power of soccer. But when the game was over, these people went back to killing each other. That part tends to get overlooked.”
“Just because one man is murdered is no reason to ignore the World Cup John.”
“They should stop playing. They should cancel the entire tournament.”
“You cannot be serious.”
“I couldn’t be more serious. How could they keep playing? How can they?”
“John, you cannot stop the game because of a few bad apples, this is not fair to the rest of the world…”
“To hell with the rest of the world.”
“You do not understand.”
“No, I don’t.”
“No, you do not understand. If they stopped playing the games, more people would die. Escobar was killed because of an own-goal; if the tournament was canceled, many people would die for no reason.”
And so:
Tomaso was forced to watch the games alone.
Tomaso sat down to watch the day’s games.
This was to be the year for Italy.
***
They were really going to do it. It actually looked like the USA—the good-old, godamn U.S. of fuckin’ A. was going to tie, or maybe even beat the powerhouse of the world, Brazil, in America, on the 4th of July.
That’s South America, Jackson thought, looking around the room at his hosts: Horacio, and a handful of his friends, all staring tenaciously at the TV as if the most important thing in the world was going down, which of course, it was. This was good stuff; something even Sherman could appreciate, despite his insistence that he had no intention of sitting around watching the most boring game on the planet with a bunch of illegal immigrants. Fuck him, and to hell with anyone else who could possibly fail to appreciate this glory, this genius. Jogo Bonito, the beautiful game.
He had told Tomaso he would watch no more World Cup soccer after the Colombia fiasco, and he meant it. And yet. How could you not get excited about this, how could you not get behind the home team, playing at home?
He was an American, in America, watching America play on America’s birthday. And he was in a room filled almost entirely with strangers who spoke only Spanish. And he loved it.
“Jogo Bonito!” he said, hoping to inspire some solidarity, to lift the air of intensity that seemed to hang over the room like a flag flown at half-mast.
The room of unfamiliar faces looked at him indifferently.
The longer the game remained scoreless, the longer the room remained silent.
Jackson’s heart soared like an (American) eagle: there was no way Brazil could actually be shut out! Was there any chance?
“Goooooooaaal! Goooooooaaal! Goooooooaaal!”
The commentator on TV (who only spoke Spanish) was going nuts.
“Goooooooaaal! Goooooooaaal! Goooooooaaal!”
The room filled almost entirely with strangers (who spoke only Spanish) was going nuts.
Jackson sat silently, sulking. Brazil had done the unthinkable.
Horacio, sensing Jackson’s distress, clapped him softly on his back.
“Jogo Bonito?” he said, offering a half-smile.
Jackson looked at him indifferently.
Once victory was secured, the room filled almost entirely with strangers became increasingly happy, aided by the bottles of Budweiser that started making the rounds. Jackson, who wasn’t as upset by the loss (a heroic effort, a near miss, a spectacular showing—at home) as he was trying to let on, happily joined the delayed festivities.
They didn’t even drink during the game, he thought.
Now that’s impressive.
And now they were drinking like there’s no tomorrow.
Budweiser long necks.
That’s old school.
That’s America.
Jogo Bonito indeed.
***
“Goooooooaaal! Goooooooaaal! Goooooooaaal!”
“Oh my God,” Tomaso thought.
“Goooooooaaal! Goooooooaaal! Goooooooaaal!”
“Oh my God,” Tomaso thought.
Italy. Spain. Unbearably close. Almost eliminated. Eighty-eighth minute. Baggio. Goal.
“Goooooooaaal! Goooooooaaal! Goooooooaaal!”
Italy advances.
(That bastard Stoitchkov, how dare Bulgaria—Bulgaria!—advance! But they’ve defeated Germany! The Krauts are done for! It’s all clear for us! Bulgaria! We’ll deal with them soon enough.)
Italy advances.
Baggio.
Il Divino Codino.
God has spoken.
Keep speaking, please God.
Please Baggio.
“Goooooooaaal! Goooooooaaal! Goooooooaaal!”
***
First off: penalty kicks are a disgrace to the game.
How appropriate then, that a World Cup final played in America, in California where they make all the stupid American movies, could such an American conclusion (cheap, quick, easy thrills, an artless and utterly anticlimactic resolution) occur: penalty kicks to settle a scoreless game. Only in America could this occur. One hundred and five. That was the temperature on the field. How can they even consider allowing the game to continue in these circumstances? Those godamn Brazilian bastards are used to these conditions, but soccer, real soccer (in his head Tomaso said football) is not to be overshadowed by the weather. Forty-five minutes (first half): scoreless. Another forty-five minutes (second half): scoreless. Thirty minutes (overtime): still scoreless. So be it. Keep playing! How can they disgrace the game like this? Penalty kicks are a disgrace to the game.
Tomaso thought the same thoughts as he watched the same sights, over and over (unable to believe his eyes, astonished anew, each time, over a month now!) as the final moments unfolded on that Godless field. Baggio, injured leg and all, strode to the designated spot, needing to score (of course he would score) to keep his team—the hopes of his squad and his country—alive. Baggio, Il Divino Codino, did not miss his shot. He did not even kick the soccer ball that soared high—impossibly high and hard—over the net, into oblivion, shattering one’s sense of all that was appropriate and just. Baggio’s boot did not strike the ball, that much was clear. It was God, waiting for the ultimate occasion—his prodigal son on the world’s stage, before the eyes of all the sinners and saints—to censure him for his conceit and faithless betrayal, his treason against the country and it’s humble, unswerving citizens—the citizens who must now suffer for his trespasses, his treachery.
It happened, it really happened.
How dare Baggio turn his back on God! On his people!
It was God’s will, plain and simple, and this catastrophe was a challenge for all the decent, dutiful Catholic citizens, to respect (even if they did not understand) the cryptic ways Christ calls each of us to bear witness, and walk with Him through the darkness, into the light, away and apart from the vanity of those who would put themselves before their God. If we must all suffer for those inexcusable sins, so be it. God and Italy, and the great game of soccer (in his head Tomaso said football) would not be denied.
And you’ll never walk alone…
A month, maybe more, and he still could not stop watching. Over and over, that last shot, sailing in slow motion to nowhere, crashing lamely like a wounded bird onto the boulders below, sinking softly into the sea, carried away on the waves, weak and worthless, an already forgotten fancy, a dream that should never have been believed. A shadow, easy to ignore, natural to disregard, to walk away from, with a renewed faith, an immutable assurance.
And yet.
Tomaso sat, not yet ready to stand, not quite capable of being convinced, not entirely at ease with the things he could not control or comprehend, the impossible things that comprised God’s will. Away and apart from the thoughts that he sought to reconcile, he secretly wondered if he’d ever get over it, if he’d ever get up from that couch, if he’d ever do anything in this life. Again.
*Excerpted from the novel The American Dream of Don Giovanni.
