Somewhere over the Atlantic, October 12th

Hi Jitse,

Football! I agree the term should be football.

So we’ve begun. I’ve copied your first entry onto my laptop notepad and have just reread it, after chewing on a stale rubbery pasta courtesy of Air Canada. I’m currently flying to Toronto for one week and sandwiched between two elderly ladies, one of which, I’m rather certain has impeded on my territory, arbitrary as that is. A complaint crosses my mind, but then I think of you on a plane and put my head down to continue. Only five more hours remain.

Before deploying any fancy literary techniques, I’m going to start at the beginning, that is, the beginning of my World Cup memories, which you asked me about. The concept of the World Cup first entered my head in between 1990 and 1993. My father is quite a football fanatic, so for sure he followed the 1986 and 1990 World Cups, but I have no recollection of watching any of those games, talking about them, nor the results having any impact on my father. During that time, he was freshly emigrated from Poland with his small family. I don’t know if he had the luxury to be vested in those tournaments. But somehow that must have impacted me, because in grade 7 or 8, aged 12 or thirteen, we were asked to make a drawing of what we wanted to be when we were older. In the basement of the Torontonian suburb where my parents live, there is a box containing this masterpiece, where the future me is wearing the iconic German jersey and I am hoisting the World Cup. Somehow the significance of the tournament was already imparted on me, because I had the foresight to nestle a massive blue tear on the corner of my eye. So, that is the beginning, followed shortly after with actually going to the 1994 World Cup in Detroit with my dad. That’s a special event I hold dear to my heart, and I will save those recollections for another post.

Fast forward now, nearly 30 years later. Those dreams were never realized, but on a beautiful sunny day, wearing rose tinted glasses I may say that some variation of it has been achieved. However since, I’m living in your home country, the Netherlands, more often than not, the sky takes on the hue of that Opel Kadett. Which is to say, not only have I not become a naturalized German citizen and scored the winning goal in the final, but now I find myself in a precarious position of not even having a profession.

Where did it all go wrong, you ask.

That brings me to your question; what do I want to get out of this? Let me boldly and openly state that the motives are largely selfish. First off, I want to write, and I need this push, this incentive, some concrete project to complete. Then there’s all the contemplation; I wish to discover a lot about myself, where I’m at, what I’ve failed to achieve, where I’m going. Readers, be warned. The football is really a pretense. As you know from my occasional book reviews, I’m inclined to start ranting on all aspects of life, to the detriment of readers of my reviews. I presume what I’ll write about here will largely be the same, except instead of a novel or story as some vague starting point, it’ll be a cynical foul or misplaced pass that gets me going. Also a warning to you, Jitse, I’m already anticipating a lot of my correspondence to take on the air of the Thomas Bernhardian. It’s not too late for you to back out, and I’d fully understand if you did.

I’m obligated to thank you for pushing me to write, or at least try to, and for taking on this project. You started by reading Knausgard’s Home & Away, and somewhere along the way, during our correspondence on Goodreads/Email/Whatsapp/Strava(?) you proposed we do something similar. So along with my selfishness, that is the second aspect of the posts. In Home & Away, I’d like to think that along with some decent writing, Knausgard & Elkgard further forged their friendship. That’s also what I hope we’ll do. I’m interested in your football stories, how it is to be watching in Seoul, which books you’re reading, and what you are feeling.

It rather shocked me to read that your interest in the game has waned. I always remember you being more than willing to play ‘Footy @ Lunch’, as the invitational email used to be titled. One day you showed up in a Bosnian jersey, and I thought, well, there’s someone who knows the game. Like others, I hope that you can momentarily turn a blind eye to the blood on the host countries hands, for that matter, the blood staining almost all facets of the game, and enjoy yourself, and consequently, the writing.

I’ll sign off with a football recollection. During 2002 I remember working a shitty summer job, and I would listen to the World Cup games on a walkman radio while squeegeeing the windows of an office. A far cry from the Adriatic, but such is life for the North American; American football, tailgate parties, fraternities, testosterone, shitty summer jobs that lead to shittier careers. Alright, enough of that, I’ll get into my fair share of it during the USA and Canada games. I am home, if I can call it that.

Jack