Just a Game?
As we sit together for the first time with our friends in Vietnam, over Bún Cha and Bánh Mì, the TV plays what, at first, seemed like a very innocuous World Cup game—Egypt versus Iran. Among all the talking and eating, I nearly missed it. A 96th-minute winner. A scrambling effort that sent Iranian fans and players alike to their knees, bursting into tears. Perhaps tears of joy. Perhaps pride. Perhaps overwhelm, too.
On the biggest stage in the world, they had done it. In the dying moments of the game. Beaten Egypt to advance to the second round of the globe’s greatest tournament for the first time ever.
Slowly, all eyes around our room became glued to the TV. The cashier, the waiters, family and friends eating in the restaurant. Kids, adult, and all of us. Whether we loved the game or didn’t know the second thing about football, it was emotionally captivating. Of course, this goal was bigger than football.
Alas, after an agonising five minutes of VAR scrutiny, the goal was narrowly disallowed. Visibly, expressions around the stadium sunk. For the final two minutes of the match, the Iranian players kept a stoic resolve. They came within an inch of scoring again—twice. Yet, with the final whistle, and a tied scoreline of 1-1, the emotional bled through. It did for me watching, too. I have no stake in the game, but it’s difficult to not feel something.
As the Iranian players lay back on the grass, heads in hands, starting skyward, I wonder what must’ve been going through their heads. They did their country proud but, now, with the group stage complete, they may have to return to a nation torn by war.
Months earlier, in the Australian-hosted AFC Women’s Asian Cup, the Iranian women’s football team sparked intense controversy by refusing to sing their national anthem in solidarity with anti-government protests back home. Facing severe threats of treason from Tehran upon their exit from the tournament, several players and staff members defected to seek asylum in Australia rather than return to Iran, and possibly face death penalties.
Here in North America, the men’s team are yet to step foot outside of their bubble. They fly to the game, enter the stadium, return to the hotel, and then fly back out. Coach Ghalenoei said that they’re yet to step foot on a single street in North America, even near their protected training location—where they were forced to arrive later than all other teams—in Tijuana, Mexico, since the US would not provide team members with a visa.
Truthfully, I’m out of the loop with the war, global politics, the World Cup, and the complicated web of narratives associated. But I do know that this was more than just a game for these players. The Spanish, Australian, and Vietnamese among us in that room all watched in awe, too, despite having zero vested interest.
Football is beautiful. War is not.
