I remember my first football match. I was eight, and the year was 1998. It was the world cup final. France against Brazil. My dad was on the sofa, rooting for Brazil. I was sitting their dreary and sleepy — it was way past my bedtime — beside him.

Oblivious to the glorious setting (and perhaps, the father-son bonding time), I sat beside him. These are the images that have stuck with me through the following sixteen years of my life. Zidane’s header, Ronaldo crashing onto the “Goalie”, as my dad had called him (My eight year old self was having a difficult time trying to comprehend and pronounce the word ‘Fabian Barthez’, no matter how many times my dad repeated it).
I remember dad’s energy and enthusiasm waning over the course of the match. I remember, “the guys in blue” scoring right before the end of the game. Finally, after the whistle, he went inside the kitchen, drank a glass of water, switched off the TV, took me to my bed and patted me to sleep.

Neither did I see France lift the World Cup trophy, nor did I have a clue of what had happened. (Although, three years later, I would see a premier league game of Manchester United, and fall in love, instantly). The next day morning, my mom woke me up. Dad told her to leave me alone and that I needn’t go to school that day. Confused and bewildered, she asked for the reason. Dad, did not utter a word. After her incessant pestering, dad told her about the previous night. She went hysteric; screamed at my dad for being a careless father and all the other obvious things you shout at your spouse. He must have had apologized a thousand times, and she heeded, eventually.

That was the first and the last World Cup I had seen with my Dad. Years have rolled on, and yet every world cup reminds me of the stage of life I am in.

2002 reminds me of dad’s death and the subsequent problems I had to face from bullies in school. It reminds me of Senegal beating France in the opening game, and getting dumped in the group stages. (I consider that as retribution for the emotions dad felt in 98, and fittingly, Brazil lifted the World Cup).

Germany 2006 reminds me of my senior year — all the ego and the bitchiness that comes with it. South Africa 2010 reminds me of the glorious years I spend at college, finding real friends, studying engineering, smoking weed and drinking like a fish. And here I am, in 2014, about to be married to my girlfriend, getting myself ground in the corporate world. 2018 might be about my kids, of being a father and so on. 2022 will present me with my moment, to bond with my son or my daughter. The cycle repeats.