This one’s unrelated, but I wanna tell you a story.
A little less than four years ago, I lost my wallet. I had gone to an office party the day before I had to catch my flight to Qatar. A few things happened that night and I showed up at my home... well I would spare you the details. I want you to see me in a good light, for now and the rest of the posts that are to follow.
I was angry. Angry at what I’ve done and what had happened to me. I should’ve known that I cannot quench my thirst by drinking a cocktail instead of water (oops). I should’ve also known that I, to the best of my ability, couldn’t get Neymar and rest of the Brazil squad through the final stages of the World Cup. No matter how deserving of a title they felt this time around. Or that Marquinhos couldn’t have pulled his knee towards himself to prevent the ball from getting deflected towards the goal. No amount of resentment could’ve changed all that.
for some reason this hurt much more than 7-1 :(
But once I was able to get my wallet and my IDs back, I quickly packed my bags and took my first international flight, to witness what would be one of the greatest stories the history of sports has ever had to tell.
I landed at the Hamad International Airport on the noon of 18th December, carrying the sleep debt (and the hangover) of a regrettable night into a place which was totally alien to me.
For me, as much as I hate to say this now, Messi wasn’t as much on my mind. In fact I didn’t see Argentina being anywhere in the World Cup since their first loss to a team like Saudi Arabia. I watched the Netherlands quarter-final but in passing glances between my laptop screen and TV at my home, enjoying all the “perks” that remote work offers. It was true that I was surprised that they landed at the World Cup final but more than that I was bummed that Brazil didn’t make it.
I came into my hotel with my bag, took a shower and went in a swanky Uber towards Lusail in a calm acceptance. Purposefully distracting myself from the thoughts of the what this match could’ve been had the Canarinhos got into the final, I stopped 800 metres away from the stadium entrance until I was finally taken out of my slumber.
Stripes of sky blue and white consumed the entire entry path – on jerseys and balloons and stuffed toys. Shaikhs in robes of white and red were barely visible in their own land, the world had infested the streets of Doha. But the Qataris were merely invisible, not absent – their hospitality was unbelievably smooth. It never occured to us that more than 80,000 people were making their way into a shimmering golden frame that once could look at and wonder, “how on earth was this possible?”
The magnificent Lusail stadium. Hospitality in the Middle East >>>
This was no ordinary building. It was a living beast with a halo around it. The stadium drummed and roared from the inside. The tremors on the ground travelled their way up my heart. I placed a hand on my chest and felt something unusual. My breath seemed to agree.
I climbed into the seating area away from the madding crowd of the queues. The tunnel opened into the infinity of chants and drums. All of these were already audible and tangible, but suddenly that was literally everything we could hear or feel.
I had never felt an energy like this before. The closest I’ve felt like was when I looked up at an open night sky on the outskirts of Dharamshala under a blanket of stars and felt that I was so insignificant and yet so inseparable from everyone and everything around me.
this is what I mean to say :)
The music from the Argentine chants still rings loud and clear in my head. The real deal was much louder though — the shouts of Vamos Argentina were energizing-yet-deafening. A small cluster of people on our opposite side were in red/blue colours of the French, perhaps no more than 1/8th of the stadium at the first glance. Even though it was 11 and 11 on each side on the field, off it the French look cornered. The representation was so brutal that the French side looked no more than a lock of hair stuck in the shower drain: they’re barely noticable but you still couldn’t ignore them.
Before getting seated we realized that some kind-hearts had placed a flag on the seats that could be draped around the body to show support to a certain team. Missing in my suitcase was a blue-and-white jersey (I was a fan of the yellow ones) so I didn’t hesitate in choosing a side. If we lost supporting Argentina, we at least lose together. If we win supporting France, we might lose some bones too…
One of the many fights that broke out that night
I took comfort in the fact that one of the finalists is one of the greatest players to have ever graced the pitch. That the player had already lost the plot in his “peak” (as if there ever was one, it was a “plateau”) some 8 years ago. And yet, after a controversial retirement from international football, he came back when his nation needed him again. That it may or may not be his last dance (bless him and his longevity) but surely one of his most promising ones. That there was a sense of leadership and finality in his eyes when he commanded respect in one of the most fought-over fixtures that come to mind in recent memory. He didn’t have much to prove the world now, except for that one coveted trophy.
With the closing ceremony through, and Deepika Padukone and Iker Casillas (who could’ve guessed this combination) brought with themselves the FIFA World Cup trophy, did we understand that we’re not kidding anymore. This is no longer a dream — it was unfolding in front of our very eyes!
We joked that she followed us all the way from India. I still believe that’s partly true.
“Pinch me!” I told my friend. “We’re starting off with the World Cup final!”
The Argentinians warmed up and so did the person everyone came to see. It didn’t matter if you were French or an Argentine, an Indian or a German, a Madridista or one of his billion devotees, you were silently rooting for him.
To my surprise, he look pretty normal, not warming up even all that much beyond a few nice drills which everyone was supposed to do. He shot the ball well away from the goal a couple of times. Maybe he was just experimenting with the excesses of his bluntness — because we didn’t see him this way throughout the rest of the match.
Messi, De Paul and Enzo Fernandes warming up before the big game
The French looked mighty throughout the tournament, even during warm-ups!
After a lot of build up, the details for which I would spare you, the match started. And it started with me just forgetting about everything that happened in the tournament and remembering every reason why this match was important.
Kylian Mbappe was on a generational run. He had already scored in a World Cup final as a teenager and was now appearing for his second as a 23-year old. When he ran, his legs didn’t seem to hit the ground; the closest real-life resemblance to the Looney Tunes’ Road Runner.
Mbappé on his way to score a goal (let’s hope he’s not caught offside)
He had the support of his accomplished countrymen: players of the calibre of Giroud, Dembele, Griezmann as the forwards. However, the Argentine support was probably too much for the Les Miserables and two of the senior players were swapped out in the first half itself. Argentina was on a generational run and had netted two goals in the span of the first 36 minutes.
Reforming after the second goal. The triumphant goalscorer looks on as the opposition shudders in panic and despair.
Messi didn’t seem to work much beyond what he had to. He always does that. When you see him moving on the pitch you know some highlight reel is on its way of being made. That the magician is ready to pull out a rabbit out of his hat and you better stay still and just watch. Whenever the ball came to him, even for a lazy back pass, the crowd roared like he’s gonna sweep away the entire French defense like he once did against Getafe, or that time against Malaga, or that time against Real Madrid or that time against Athletic Bilbao... you get the point.
But he didn’t. The role he played throughout the World Cup campaign was much more silent and important. He stood up whenever he was asked to — for his team during the match against Netherlands. For the playmaking positions that almost always put his team at a higher ground on the level pitch. For the very fact that he was present on the pitch and the entire stadium and perhaps half the world’s population wanted to win it for him. That was the edge he brought to the team.
makes it look so easy
Both of the goals were on the side further from us, but the energy of humans around the stadium was the superconducting material that allowed to take in Di Maria’s clinical strike into the net in full glory, as though we were the ones who assisted him and not De Paul. As he was tearing up while celebrating, the fans around me were sharing the same emotion as him. At some point, it stopped feeling like an 11 v 11 game. Which is when I realized how important home advantage was in a game like this. The only problem was that Argentina had made the world their home, and the French couldn’t run away from it.
Being defending champions is a crown too heavy at times. The players had broad chests and long, strong legs to defend it. Coman, Thuram, Dembele, Lloris, Rabiot — they were already established giants in their own leagues and had proven the world how dangerous can they be when they come together under their manager Didier Deschamps.
The first half was all joy and laughter and a relief that Messi will now finally be crowned the champion. But the match was far from over. We went into the game thinking that we overpaid for the ticket. But boy, were we wrong...
Deschamps substituted in Kolo Muani and Coman for Giroud and Griezmann before the first half, giving signals that they were either ready to accept defeat or be ready to take up risky manoeuvres. But I’ve never been more wrong - the French side slowly seemed to gain momentum. The game went all the way back and forth, unusually aggressive and high stakes. It wasn’t full of fouls as the quarter-finals that Argentina had, but the speed at which the ball went box-to-box had the Argentinians stood up and glued to their seats.
Some 75 minutes in, and it felt like Argentina had the game in their control. Sighs of reliefs and lively chants started humming in the background again. But that’s when Mbappe decided to take the matter in his own hands.
you don’t rule this guy out of the picture, ever
He got fouled in the box, went in with a confident penalty and scored. Just as we thought that Argentina will be able to defend the one-goal lead, Coman managed to steal the ball from none other than Messi (very atypical), tossed it towards the left flank, where Mbappe managed to cut into the box, perform a pirouette out of nowhere into the ground and sending it right past Emilio Martinez. 2-2. The whole stadium went dead silent. Seemed like no one on the French side except Mbappe saw it coming.
It didn’t take long for the jacked referee (yeah for some reason everyone in the stadium was jacked except us both) to blow the final whistle, pushing the game towards extra time. The whole stadium, perplexed, wondered what went wrong. In my eyes, the Argentinian defence was doing alright, I was a little too overstimulated at the stadium to carefully assess tactics. Mbappe had been a big game player since teenage, so didn’t come off as too big of a surprise, just the very fact that the man alone had the guts to shake off a strong Argentinian side away from World Cup glory.
The extra time started, and we had no idea how tired were the players. But their adrenaline took the better of them and the game went on with pretty much the same consistency as before. The crowd went wilder than ever, the shirts came off, the kids were tearful and a random Argentinian woman held my tight by the shoulder (not that I’m complaining).
All the while, people were trying their best to push their energy into the field, which showed results soon. Within minutes, Argentina scored something which I still couldn’t believe after watching hundreds of replays. The telepathic passing making me suddenly go back to the Tiki Taka days of Barcelona in the early 2010s suddenly emerged. Messi attempted tapping the ball into the net after a succession of passes but the ball was kicked out by the French defence. The stadium emitted confused noises and we checked with each other, only to be told in the next 30 seconds that it was indeed a goal. Couldn’t be happier!
Then Mbappe went full steam and won yet another penalty while others looked up in disbelief. The score was 3-3 and it was the Final and Mbappe scored a hattrick. Martinez pulled off a crucial save from Mbappe in the very last minutes which led our hearts right into our throats, but the scoreline remained intact. We were looking at the clock for a penalty shootout.
all-time proudest click :’)
Lucky for us, the shootout happened at our side because Messi won the penalty toss (God had made up his mind). The kicks went on, one after another. Martinez was able to save two of them. Then Montiel stepped in, and I have the rest on video.
Screams and wails all around. Your heart had to be of stone if you didn’t cry as the greatest of all time went on and finally “shaken hands with paradise”. The whole stadium erupted, all 88,000 of them were on their feet. I don’t think even the French had much to say about that.
The Argentinian chants still ring loud in my ear:
Vamos Argentina Sabes que yo te quiero Hoy hay que ganar y ser primero Esta hinchada loca, dejó todo por la copa La que tiene a Messi y Maradona Ponga huevo, vaya al frente, Argentina Ponga huevo, vaya al frente, jugadores Este año tenemos que dar la vuelta No’ vinimo’ todo’ a Doha a ser campeones
(Let’s go, Argentina You know that I love you Today we have to win and be first This crazy crowd gave everything for the cup The one [the crowd/country] that has Messi and Maradona Put some balls into it, go forward, Argentina Put some balls into it, go forward, players This year we have to do the lap [the victory lap with the trophy] We all came to Doha to be champions)
Chants that filled the stadium before the match started only grew louder. Guess they knew they were the winners all along.
The trophy ceremony came up, and Messi got what was truly his.
Thanks for reading this all the way to the end. This is not a typical post on this newsletter, but I’ve been meaning to write this ever since the last World Cup ended and before this one started. Been putting it off for so long but I’m happy that I managed to push it out, even if I was a little late!
On a sidenote: major announcements on the way. For now I’ll just say that you’ll see a lot more getting posted here than usual. If you’d like to follow along for hot takes on tech, culture and India, do consider subscribing!
I might make the occasional detour at times if you’re interested, but making no promises!
Felt like I was there for sometime!