By Scott Graber
I’ve learned four things since I began watching the World Cup.
The first of these revelations was the fact that our national anthem, “The Star Spangled Banner,” is not all that bad when compared with other national anthems.
Listening to Mexico’s young players sing — admittedly I don’t speak Spanish and didn’t understand the words — was painful and yet the underlying tune seemed to be the best of the lot.
I have, on occasion, wondered why “Oh say can you see” was chosen in the first place; and why we haven’t changed to something more tuneful, energetic, like, “Please Mr. Postman.”
Almost every time I swim, I encounter a water aerobics class at our own Wardle YMCA where at least 40 people are bending, bumping and bouncing their ancient anatomy to the lyrics of the Marvelettes.
Please Mr. Postman, look and see (Whoa, yeah);
Is there a letter in your bag for me? (Please, please Mr. Po-o-ostman);
’Cause its been a mighty long time for me (Whoa, yeah);
Since I heard from this boyfriend of mine.
Yes, of course, we would change the Marvelette-made lyrics to something majestic — “I’m proud to be an American, where at least I know I’m free” — but surely we can come up with a tune with more energy and electricity and get more excited about accompanying the mumbling teenager who wins the 200-meter freestyle in Los Angeles.
There is a second lesson I’ve learned since watching the World Cup.
When one is tripped — intentionally or not — one should fall onto the ground and assume the fetal position; one’s right hand clutching one’s left knee. At the same time the left hand should be planted on one’s contorted face leaving room for the injured player to grimace and scream in pain.
As far as I can deduce, this on-the-ground, after-injury protocol is required if one wants to earn a penalty kick or see a colored card awarded to the transgressor.
The third lesson learned involves commercials.
Specifically how much foreign football can one watch without a commercial break informing one about chicken wings; beer-drinking; and the opportunity (at $70,000 a pop) to own a pick-up truck large enough to move that pesky, 2,000-pound safe that is currently cluttering-up one’s office?
These games prove one can watch at least 45 minutes of action — with one hydration break — without any medical consequences like stroke, vomiting or gum disease.
The fourth item is more of a mystery than a lesson learned — How, on God’s green earth, can the Cape Verde Islands be competitive on the same pitch with Argentina?
How does an indistinct speck in the Atlantic Ocean — home to 527,326 souls — compete with the Argentinian behemoth of 46 million people?
How does the disease- and war-ravaged Democratic Republic of the Congo compete with a well-adjusted, well-nourished United Kingdom?
How is Curacao Island allowed to be on the same field as Ecuador?
Years ago when I traveled in Africa — Congo, Senegal, the Kingdom of Biffeche — one would often see a dozen shoeless, shirtless boys running around a patch of hard-packed dirt; the “pitch” often littered with hundreds of black plastic bags and, perhaps, a burnt-out APC (Armored Personnel Carrier) that had fallen victim to a long-ago RPG (Rocket Propelled Grenade) in a long-gone effort at regime change.
Sometimes there was a battered soccer ball in play; otherwise there was a rag and duct tape-made substitute with little bounce. But these dusty fields of dreams were everywhere in Sub-Saharan Africa.
Senegal, Cote d’Ivoire and Morocco have recently turned-out some great players who have migrated to Europe and now play in the Premier League. I suppose these young men are proof-positive that one can grow up kicking a goat’s bladder in Bamako or N’Djamena; and then kick their way out of the Sahel on onto field of actual grass in Manchester.
Notwithstanding the World Cup cost of late-stage tickets ($7,600-$20,000); and the arrival of Donald Trump as an appeals court referee; there is reason to believe that soccer will (one day) compete with the NFL for viewers. But how, we must ask, do Coca-Cola, Qatar Airlines and Aramco get to sell their products without more commercials during the game?
Will those folks be content with the electronic advertising that constantly races around the wall surrounding the pitch itself? Or will FIFA stop the game every five minutes or so for some reason — hydration or urinalysis check — giving us more time to contemplate wings, burritos and pick-up trucks?
Scott Graber is a lawyer, novelist, veteran columnist and longtime resident of Port Royal. He can be reached at cscottgraber@gmail.com.