CW: talk of death and cancer
On July 11th, 2018 I arrived at the pub a little past noon. The place was packed. There was a mix of both teams jerseys. My best friend could only manage us a seat at the bar.
I’d had the match on my computer at work before I made it to the pub. So did most of the other people I worked with. It was World Cup. Our office was filled with a United Nations of fans. The office pool would pay out $600 to the winner. I made sure almost everyone ante upped for such an event. We decorated. Bought bunting. We were having fun.
As soon as I settled up at the pub, ordered a cider and took in the state of play, I felt sick. Horribly ill, all over.
England versus Croatia was the premier match out of the final four. There was really no disputing that. Cup finals rarely lived up to the hype and plus this was as good as England had been in any recent memory.
I watched for a few minutes. Ordered something to eat and turned to my lunch mate; “this is over, they’re going to lose.” Ah, you might think, Kristina, you’re a defeatist. Not at all, but I can read a room. Or in this case the play on the pitch. They were going to get out-worked. It had all the earmarks of a doing and I so wanted to be wrong.
It was so hot in the pub. I lost the ability to really focus. You see, my dad was dying. He was in a bed at the hospital, waiting for a hospice space. Cancer squirrelling away his brain. Robbing me of my football buddy. I was in this joyful place with cheering and booing and all I wanted to do was be with my dad.
I’m not sure I finished any of my meal. I was on the verge of tears most of the match. I tried to articulate to my lunch date this wasn’t just some other game. It was all wrapped up with endings and I had been putting off the ending part of this tourney, the ending part of my dad’s life, the ending part of what I’d always had for another time. It was too much.
I left the pub before the match was even over. The weight on my chest was too stifling. The pub became too loud and overwhelming. I apologized and sat on a bench round the corner until I could compose myself enough to go back to the office. I felt hollow.
I was upset. Anxious. Sad. Mostly that this one time England couldn’t just make it happen for my dad. He never ever asked them to do it anyway, he only ever wanted to see good teams show up and play. Didn’t really matter who. He liked the fairness of football. He always found something to like in the movies we watched (I get that from him). He always liked to try new foods. He always liked to talk to people, from porters to men who thought they were too good for the rest of us. Didn’t matter.
Football made the world even.
England lost to mighty Croatia 2-1.
After work, I did what was my routine. I had the evening shifts. So, I commuted home, wolfed down something to eat, checked in with kiddo and went to see dad.
I brought him ice cream. I read him the paper. He showed me the lotto scratchers he’d won on. We held hands and watched tv. I tucked him in and said goodnight, I’d see him the next day.
We never once talked about the football.
We didn’t have to.
Some things transcend words.
**
I miss the football. Oh, it’s still on, I still cry at it and lament it’s inner workings. But. I miss that football. Football with my person.
It’s not the same.
I’m a little uneven.
K/x
Gingerly 