There was a time when my uncle Ricardo could have been considered a technological advance of the first order because, mainly on game days, my grandfather convinced him to stand next to the television to hold the antenna with his hand: that's how he They avoided inopportune signal cuts at home while guaranteeing greater sharpness in the image.
Later, a custom-made wooden stool would arrive and was given as a favor, another remarkable qualitative leap, since the poor devil could sit for the duration of the broadcast in exchange for not letting go of those horns for anything in the world, not even when Míchel crashed his historic right hand off the crossbar against Brazil.
"He bounced inside, from here it was very clear!" He yelled indignantly with his body tilted and an arm stretched over his back, almost like a dragonfly, remarkably benefited by that new arrangement that combined unknown angles and minimal comforts.
Things have changed a lot since then, so much so that the great deals on new televisions associated with the arrival of the World Cup have been replaced by advertisements for digital platforms where you can enjoy football wherever you want: all you need is a mobile phone and some kind of internet connection.
Along the way, the game has also been contaminated with all kinds of modern things and knick-knacks.
First there were the boots, recalibrated with the promise of straightening out any lopsided shot, and then it would be the turn of the jerseys, light, self-conscious and absorbent: it was a matter of time before the balls themselves became objects of joke designed to make life miserable. to the goalkeepers
However, none of these novelties was as definitive for the distortion of football as the possibility of re-arbitrating the matches, something in which the present World Cup in Qatar —fortunately or unfortunately— is taking the cake while waiting for the next one.
We all remember the blatant error of the semi-automatic offside in the first stage of the opening match, with half the world watching except for the Qataris, who were already beginning to leave the stadium.
And how its new generation graphics are capable of dissecting footballers almost to the millimeter, contravening the fundamental spirit of the standard and turning them into something similar to a ham leg.
Imagine the seriousness of the matter when Cristiano Ronaldo himself, almost a cyborg in himself, comes from snatching a goal —self-proclaimed, of course— the chip attached to the ball: Skynet telling on Terminator, live to see.
This being the case, it is not surprising that the only one happy with so much technological advancement is my uncle, finally freed from risking his life every four years in exchange for approval.
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