I am in Mexico, which is one of the countries that mobilizes more people to the World Cup venues. The selection does not finish working, but the enthusiasm of the people to travel to Qatar does not wane. Talking with a friend about the long trip and the high cost, an episode came to mind that still worries me. It was the 82nd World Cup and the story stuck in my heart. Define the fan, that guy who can be a perfect idiot, but for love. His name was Mario, he was about fifty years old and he was wrapped in an Argentine flag. Not by a long shot could it be confused with a barra brava. He was a lone wolf with a calm walk and a peaceful and pure passion for football. The fan is always disinterested, but Mario went further. He was a Huracán fan and a blind admirer of the team’s coach, César Luis Menotti.
He discreetly followed us from Alicante to Barcelona without interfering with our work. As the days went by, his presence became familiar and he gained our trust. He only asked us to sign the flag that, in the midst of the Malvinas war, had a meaning that made football small. Little is said about boredom at the World Cups. The long concentrations, with their unbearable dead hours, are a martyrdom. I think there should be more talk because boredom undermines dreams of glory, which should be the first motivating factor for an extraordinary event. Precisely because we had plenty of time everywhere, I went over to talk to Mario. The conversation covered several topics: the moment of the team, the chances of qualifying, Spain as the scene of the World Cup, a country that he had just met and in which I lived… He was such a warm guy that it was not difficult for us to move on to more personal issues. . And this is where the story begins to nail me.
As spending a month in Spain is not within the reach of any economy, I asked him what he was doing. I do not remember the answer, but I knew that the job did not meet the price of that football adventure. “Did you save up to come?” I asked. And the answer began to complicate the conversation: “What am I going to save if I don’t have a mango,” she answered. There was a mystery to unravel and since Mario was transparent, I didn’t hesitate to ask him: “So how did you do it?” Stupor doesn’t need many words: “I sold my house,” he told me. Since I am one of those who is always measuring the consequences, I started to get scared.
“And when do you come back?” -I asked for.
The answer unsettled me until today.
“I have no idea,” he replied calmly, tapping his head with his index finger, “but what I’m living, no one can take away from me here.”
Although one already knows that fans do fan things, there are decisions and reactions that are never easy to interpret because reason does not reach passionate impulses. But this time the disproportion broke my schemes. Curious, because when I privately rested the story I didn’t feel sorry for him. “A house in exchange for a memory”, I thought, and he felt sorry for myself for not understanding it. For not even being able to conceive that one can risk one’s whole life for a passion. And I, who thought I loved football… Many decades have passed since then and I never heard from Mario again, but I often remember that conversation. Because people don’t change, I always start off worrying about him and end up worrying about myself.
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