sport
Interpretation and opinions
Heartbreaking: Paolo Rossi brought back all memories of the 1982 World Cup
Paulo Rossi is dead, and everything is floating again: the child whose heart is broken, the father who goes out of his way, the young fan who understands that it is possible to cry with pride and sadness together, and one celebration that will never be restored.
Memories of the 1982 World Cup, with fat TV, soft sofas and an Italian finisher
Tags
Paulo Rossi
Paz Hasdai
Saturday, December 12, 2020, 8:30 p.m.
Share on Facebook
Share on WhatsApp
Share on general
Share on general
Share on Twitter
Share on Email
0 comments
Summary: M.S.
Ashdod - Maccabi Tel Aviv 2: 3
Damba Ba shouts, Bashakshir's game against Paris Saint-Germain
Andre Zizic Maccabi Tel Aviv
Summary: Hapoel Beer Sheva - Nice 0: 1
Summary: Liverpool - Wolves 0: 4
Summary: Maccabi Tel Aviv - Sibaspur 0: 1
Summary: Burgos - Real Madrid 74:60
Summary: Bayern Munich - R.B.
Leipzig 3: 3
Summary: Hapoel Tel Aviv - Maccabi Netanya 0: 0
Summary: Hapoel Haifa - Hapoel Tel Aviv 0: 2
Summary: The best performance of Diego Armando Maradona (Sport 1)
Paulo Rossi is dead, and everything is floating again.
Tardley's celebration, the victory over Brazil.
Broadcast from another world, my dad wakes me up for games.
An endless summer, Italy breaks our hearts.
Socrates' goal, years later in front of the goal I tried to recreate it and score a smart pass to the near corner.
Recently I explain to my wife that my memory has been knocked out, that I have symptoms of dementia, that I do not remember anything, that you will not get upset, because here, a fact - games from last week are erased from my head, and games from 30 years ago are etched there forever.
You just have to close your eyes for a moment and they come up.
Paolo Rossi is dead, and only the sound and melody of his name bring me back to my parents' house, the old apartment, the simple living room, the soft sofas, the fat, heavy TV that I loved so much to approach, cling to, touch, feel the static electricity when it comes on.
A summer afternoon in the 80s, a child watches a football game and does not imagine that he sees a historic event, which only years later he will be able to appreciate its importance.
We loved Brazil, but did not really know why.
In fact, we only got most of the explanations in the years that followed.
In detailed magazine articles, in retrospective analysis of football historians.
But then we just loved her, as a myth.
We knew without knowing anything.
We felt.
More on Walla!
NEWS
Mona Lisa of the World Cup: Farewell to Paolo Rossi, The Eternal Legend of the 1982 World Cup
To the full article
Children will remember the 2018 World Cup as we remember the 1982 World Cup?
Russian (Photo: Imagebank GettyImages)
The father wakes the child especially, sleeping is a waste of life.
Tardley wins the final (Photo: AP)
Go explain to these children of today that there were not many football broadcasts.
Certainly not "live".
Go explain that you use the phrase you explain and do not believe it is happening.
You have become a man who says "Once upon a time on Saturdays we would listen to the radio."
We went through the messages, imagining the events, how the years went by.
We did not play manager, we did not know names, we knew there were Italy and Brazil, Germany and Argentina, Zico and Maradona, but who saw them.
Could it be that there is too much football today?
Too many tournaments, too many games?
Do clutter and congestion hurt prestige?
Children will remember Russia 2018 as I remember the World Cup then?
Because when the 1982 World Cup begins, this is a rare opportunity to dedicate yourself to the game.
Actually watching it, "live."
And one day, a dad at work, a busy mom, a kid turns on a TV.
Opposite him are Zico, Socrates, Brazil and Greater Brazil, and then Paulo Rossi defeats them 2: 3, alone.
How does that make sense?
And what wonder it was enacted?
Paolo Rossi is actually my first football villain.
The man who crushed my lover, the Italian assassin, with three stab wounds in the heart, each hurting from his predecessor.
In my imagination, in my mind, Brazil dominated and juggled, her fans danced samba in the stands, everything was yellow and happy, but she did not have this evil striker, the deadly scorer, the ruthless punisher, who ambushed every mistake and fired effectively.
But that's how footballers are, you can't be mad at them.
Like scorpions, they just do their job.
It's my first ambivalence, my first encounter with the strange complexity that football produces, that you cry with the losers and cheer for the winners, and all at the same time.
Applauds, and wipes away a tear.
The 1982 World Cup final, and my dad wakes me up for the game.
I probably fell asleep early.
Boy.
I probably ran around all day.
I ran from place to place.
I sweated all day, not noticing that I was hot.
Maybe I did not get enough sleep at night, because in bed I read "Oak kick in the kick" until late.
Anyway, I asked.
He remembered.
He knew it was important to me.
It is rare for a father to wake his son and violate his sleep, but this is how values are imparted.
This is how you make it clear to the child what is important, when hours of sleep are a waste, a loss of life.
We sat side by side and watched Italy against Germany.
A few days earlier the damned Italians broke our hearts, and now we are in their favor.
Oh, football.
Come on Paulo.
Today the boy has become a father.
With my daughter I behave the same way.
She knows that late at night, it's her only chance to watch TV, if only she would stick to Dad watching football.
She recognizes that something is happening to him, to her father, that he is trying to revive some moment, to recreate a pure father-child moment, and puts a hand on her shoulder, explains things to her, warm and patient, just the opposite of the angry man who keeps her away from agreeing to a hopeless war.
So she comes, sneaks under my hand, and I explain to her.
38 years have passed since Marco Tardley's goal in the final, and yet this seems to me the most exciting goal celebration of them all.
38 years with thousands of games, tens of thousands of goals, endless players and unforgettable moments, but nothing will compare to Tardelli (maybe Grosso), who runs like an unbeliever, shouts "Goofy! Goofy!" He had the dream.
38 years have passed, and to this day I look at him, and feel that he is older than me.
Share on Facebook
Share on WhatsApp
Share on general
Share on general
Share on Twitter
Share on Email
0 comments
