Letter Seventeen | 12/6 | Zach

Grants Pass

Dear RLs,

This is my second draft at a guest spot on your fine blog. The first one talked about guilt and joy and mainly who should feel guilty at this World Cup and who shouldn’t, but ultimately the conclusions were obvious and the prose was overwrought and I’d much rather say this:

As you both know, I didn’t watch a single game of the first two matchdays. I had a lot going on in my life: lots of work to do, the social engagements, and I tend to wake up later in the morning anyway. Further, I tend to avoid things that feel like a bummer, and the circumstances of this WC certainly felt (feel?) like a bummer to me. My engagement with the Cup was purely through reading these letters, conversations with the Lads at our own games, and texts from my dad as he watched the matches from his home in Portugal.

But then, Monday night, I received an unexpected and unpleasant text message, and the next morning I found myself pulling up a stream of the US/Iran match on my laptop as I sat next to my grandma’s hospital bed.

As you may have noticed from the location italicized above the greeting, I’m still here in Grants Pass, and I probably will be for at least another week, maybe more. All of a sudden, a soccer tournament taking place halfway around the world (by which we always mean as far away as possible, even though it never really is) became my strongest link to the world outside of this house. It became my strongest distraction from an unpleasant circumstance. Something to watch, something to think about, something to predict, and, most importantly, something to talk about. 

(By the way, Lack, your perfect 4/4 on day one of the knockouts was truly impressive. I hope you maintain your streak just as much as I hope Russ somehow binks twenty thousand points and comes back to win it all.)

[Lack here, editing: I very much have not kept my streak, and you sit now with a comfortable lead in our little wager pool—excellent work.]

So while there’s been a lot said (eloquently and with gusto) in these letters about passion and beauty and joy in sports, I want to contribute that sometimes it’s just something to fucking hold on to.

With love and care,

Zach