GOL?

by Umapagan Ampikaipakan

Some of my earliest memories are of airports. I can still remember those black textured floors, like so many flattened Lego bricks. I can remember the brown tinted glass and bright yellow signs. I remember being able to swing underneath those stainless steel railings. I remember the smells; that sickly sweet redolence from the sweat of hundreds of thousands of people in motion. I remember being bathed in incandescent light. It was a fulvous glow that implied adventure. That we were about to be on our way.

It is only a week until the finals and this South African World Cup has been nothing if not unexpected. Because the prevalent sense over the last three weeks or so is that nothing is a given, that everything can change, just like that.

Which is why it is only fitting that I watch this last quarterfinal encounter between Spain and Paraguay at an airport.

Because airports are transient by nature. It is their natural state. Inherent. Intrinsic. And it is a quality that is incredibly reassuring. For there is some comfort in the notion that almost everyone there is in an eternal state of flux; neither here nor there. They are in the midst. They are on the verge. There is an impermanence, a sense of passage, of ceaseless movement. They are a reminder of that constant need to drift.

There is barely a soul at KLIA this morning. Only the cleaners, the janitors, and the night watchmen remain. There are no Mona Lisas or Mad Hatters. No sons of bankers. No sons of lawyers. Only all those left waiting, delayed, left behind, forgotten. In deep sleep. Stretched out across benches.

The airplanes are now just docked at their respective gates. The runways are silent. There is a sense of calm. Even if only for a little while, between these wee hours of the morning. When, for the briefest of moments, there is no ambient anxiety, there is no prevailing post-9/11 perturbation. For just a little while, these monuments of glass and steel, these fortresses of flight, are once again able to invoke that bygone sense of romance.

Or maybe it’s just the night.

At the far end of the departure lounge, just past the check-in desks, as marked by a large glowing football that is dangling from the ceiling, is a small setup of screens. It is a viewing area. It is a kind of consolation for all those still stuck here. Never miss a match. Never miss a moment. No matter where you are or what you’re doing.

There are all sorts strewn across the benches in front of these high definition Sony Bravias. The single mother with her three children. The construction worker on his way back to Bangladesh. The two backpackers, leaning on one another, propping themselves up as they try to sleep. There are only really about thirty people actually watching this game. The rest of them, it seems, just sleep better with the television running in the background.

The people still watching, however, are doing so with great intent. They are muttering to themselves. Chanting. Gently rocking. They are absolutely shattered after witnessing Germany play Argentina. Physically. Emotionally. They need a win.

They, like me, need Spain to come out victorious at the end of these 90 or so minutes. They, like me, seem to have similar expectations.

Because I do not have a favourite team. I am not, for example, moved by the underdog. I am not emotionally compromised in that way. I do not identify with other neighbouring countries. They do not suddenly become my brothers.

When I watch football, I do so to be enthralled. Like those in the Roman Republic waiting to be entertained by violent confrontations between gladiators. I want flair. I want to witness the artistry of the game. I want drama. Because when I watch football, I am, above all else, a consumer.

And so, there is a need for Spain to win this game. Because with Brazil out, with Argentina out, and between the Germans and the Dutch, there is a risk that the final of this beautiful game will end up being entirely functional.

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