Now is the time for balance sheets. Everyone takes stock. Scholz and Habeck and Merz anyway and always. Lowest common denominator: Terrible year with Putin and war and a turning point and inflation and high prices and probably forever Corona. A year to forget. And finally a strange World Cup in the desert. In the winter.
The strange World Cup in Qatar is coming to an end on Sunday. With a very worthy finale. Argentina versus France, the top two teams of the tournament.
And because it's time to take stock, let me admit it: I enjoyed this World Cup. Not Qatar. Insanity for all known reasons. Regardless of the venue, I could very well get used to a World Cup in winter. She easily took four dark weeks of this dark year off the clock. November is the worst month. The prefix No says it all. November. Even. It should be canceled without replacement or at least moved to the summer.
But in this November of the turning point year, football was played at eight in the evening. Reliable. Every evening and earlier. A gift not only for the many coronary and otherwise infected people who fell on the bunk and had to pass the time. This was mostly good, at times gorgeous, football. Not the drained and emaciated World Cup football of the summer world championships, when many professionals crawl across the lawn after a long season or are unable to play at all. This time all the teams were in full swing, with the exception of the Germans, whose little bit of juice seeped into the pads debates. Apart from the Germans, nobody missed the Germans.
Why, another advantage, the stupid "Schlaand" bawling was canceled in this country and in general: no fan miles, no make-up, no stupid little flags on cars and no parades after victories. There was only one useless one. So none of this fake World Cup nonsense for those who slip up every two years in time for the big tournaments, chirping inappropriately loudly and then, "How's offside again?" murmuring, like cicada disappear until the next event. This time? Nothing. Wintry silence and pure soccer for soccer purists. True Advent. Pleasantly stripped down to the essentials. Wonderful Moroccans, wonderful Brazilians, wild English, ripped off Croats, even more ripped off French and above all: Messi.
In the other hemisphere, it's usually always winter when the World Cup is on. This time we were freezing, and in Cordoba a choir of 200,000 voices sang just two syllables: "Mes-si". They danced around the obelisk in Buenos Aires in shirts and shorts, and they all forgot, or at least for a few weeks, pushed aside hyper-inflation and recession. Hopefully they will sing and dance again on Sunday.
Then it's Christmas. And then winter sports. People throw themselves off mountains and jump off ramparts or ski through forests and in between shoot at small black discs. Others throw darts at larger discs in beer halls. People do such funny things when there is no football, and many, very many even watch them doing it. Everyone in their own way. My best friend once answered "indoor soccer" when asked about his favorite winter sport. For that eternal thanks.
On Sunday, the first Winter World Cup comes to an end with a nominally great final. I wouldn't mind more in NO-Vember and December. Somewhere. Except in Qatar and other swine states.
That would be a real turning point.
