When the World Cup Falls Silent

For a month, the world's calendar has been running on a different schedule. Night means football. Sleep means compromise. Morning means discussion about the previous night's goals. It's the same story in the office, in the tea shop, in the university corridor, in the village market, in the city cafe. The World Cup.

One day, the final night comes. The light that has kept the world awake for a month is about to fade. Fireworks will rise in the sky of the stadium for the last time. The World Cup anthem will play for the last time. Then it's all over.

One country will smile. The rest will go back in silence. Two dressing rooms before the final. Two kinds of silence. In the eyes of one team, the last step of a dream. In the eyes of the other team, waiting to touch history. The coach is saying the last words. Some are listening with their heads bowed. Some have their eyes closed. Some are singing the first line of the national anthem in their hearts, with their hands on their chests.

Then the door opens. The dreams of millions of people are waiting outside. Ninety minutes later, the fate of that dream will be written. In the gallery, a father has his son on his shoulders. The child doesn't understand anything. He only knows that he has to win. A mother, a thousand miles away, is sitting in front of the television. Her son is playing in the field wearing the national jersey. Her chest trembles with every tackle. An old man may be watching the last World Cup of his life. An expatriate is standing with a small flag in his hand. In a hospital, the final is being broadcast on a mobile phone next to a patient.

The World Cup is never just played on the field. It is also played in millions of homes. The value of a goal on the last night is different. A moment of a few seconds changes the history of a country. It is also a burden for a footballer's entire life. There are only a few minutes left until the final whistle. Time moves slowly in the stadium. Some are praying in the gallery. Some have closed their eyes. Some can no longer watch the game. The longest few minutes in the world begin then.

Then…the referee blows his whistle. One team runs. The other team stands still.

The world sees this scene every four years. It never gets old.

Those who win cannot believe they have really won. Some fall to their knees. Some look up at the sky. Some hug their teammates while crying. Some cover their faces with both hands. There are no words for joy. Those who lose, their tears are silent.

No one wants to go and collect the medal. No one can even look at the trophy. The cup that was their dream just a few moments ago is now the most distant object. Football is so cruel. In the space of two hours, one becomes a hero. Another becomes a symbol of imperfection.

The moment arrives, for which four years of waiting have passed. The World Cup trophy. A small trophy sparkling in golden light. The most coveted prize in the world. A captain holds it up with both hands. In an instant, the sky fills with confetti. Tears disappear in the light of fireworks. Millions of people from a country take to the streets. Strangers hug each other. Some carry the national flag on their shoulders. Some climb onto the roof of their cars and sing.

Some just cry. Such tears are not of sadness. Such tears are of waiting. Of fulfilling a country's long-standing dream.

It's a different story in the losing team's dressing room. There's not much noise there. The jerseys are soaked with sweat. The boots are off. Some are sitting in a corner. Some are crying with their heads down. Some are staring at the floor with empty eyes. Some may never play in the World Cup.

A dream ends there. Football stories never end.

The stadium lights slowly start to go out. The spectators return home. The flags are folded. The journalists write their final reports. The cameras are turned off. Silence descends on the field where the world's biggest celebration took place a moment ago. This is how the World Cup ends. It never completely goes away. A newly bought jersey remains in a child's closet. A story of a goal remains on a father's lips. A prayer for his son remains in a mother's eyes. Another final night remains in the memory of an old man.

Four years is a long time. Almost half of childhood for a child. A new life for a young man. A farewell for a legend. A beginning for a teenager. When the next World Cup comes, the world will change. New faces will come. Old heroes will leave. New jerseys will be made. New songs will be played. New tears will be born. Yet the feelings of the last night will not change. The end of the World Cup means a farewell to a month of love. A farewell to countless nights of staying awake. A farewell to countless stories.

The world will return to its rhythm. Somewhere, before going to sleep, a child will hug the ball to his chest and whisper, 'One day I too will play in the World Cup final.' From there, the first story of the next World Cup will begin.

SKS