For the first time in my life

Posted .

There have been ten FIFA World Cup Finals since I was born.

  1. When I was three years old, Brazil defeated Italy. At that age I had no idea I would later be called on a mission to Italy, and I was too young to really root for either side — and I don’t recall watching the game.
  2. When I was seven, West Germany defeated the Netherlands. I don’t recall watching the game, and had no incentive to root for either side.
  3. But when I was eleven, I knew who to root for: Argentina. Argentina is where my first memories of watching professional soccer come from. My dad even took me to a River Plate game. And with Argentina hosting the World Cup that year and making it to the final against the Netherlands, there can be no doubt about which team I would have rooted for while watching the game . . . if I had been able to watch the game. But I was at a Boy Scout camp, with no access to a TV, so I merely heard about Argentina’s win after the fact. (That Scout camp was the same one responsible for my not finding out my brother Jonathan had been born until a couple of days after his birth.)
  4. When I was fifteen, Italy defeated West Germany. I don’t recall watching the match, and I had no reason to root for Italy because my mission call was still four years off.
  5. When I was nineteen, I again had a team in the final to root for: Argentina was back, and they defeated West Germany. But I was unable to watch the game because my mission call had come and I was in the Missionary Training Center, with no access to a TV.
  6. When I was twenty-three, I was able to watch Argentina and West Germany in a rematch of the previous final. But this time Argentina lost.
  7. When I was twenty-seven, I got my first chance to root for Italy while watching the final. But they lost to Brazil on penalty kicks — which probably explains my dislike of penalty kicks as a way to settle World Cup games.
  8. When I was thirty-one, I didn’t bother to watch the French beat the Brazilians in the final.
  9. When I was thirty-five, I didn’t bother to watch the Brazilians beat the Germans in the final.

So today, at age thirty-nine, for the first time in my life, I was able to watch a team I was rooting for win the World Cup.

Italy won the game on penalty kicks, and there was much rejoicing.

(It’s still a lousy way to decide a game, though.)