The Various People Responsible for My Shifting World Cup Allegiances in the Wake of the USA and England’s Respective Losses
by Ian F. King
Like countless people across the planet, I’ve been trying to readjust to regular life after spending the past month wholly obsessed with the daily excitement and drama of the World Cup. Before I present myself as a knowledgeable soccer enthusiast, it’s important that I admit to unintentional bandwagon jumping. The thing is, I didn’t want to be obsessed, but a few minutes into the USA vs. England match, I became irreversibly so. A soccer fanatic had lain dormant in my heart since 2004, when I was living in a cramped mouse-infested flat in London 
and my Anglo-Zimbabwean roommate Kieran taught me how to appreciate the game during the Euro tournament that year. During this recent USA vs. England game, I reverted to that manic fan from six years ago, only ten times more so.
The problem was, after the first round of the finals, I was left with no one to cheer for. Being a USA fan first, and England fan second (England being the country in which I learned to love the sport, after all), the weekend of June 26th and 27th was not an easy one to bear. I was almost inconsolable when Germany got their fourth goal against England, and was still mildly despondent at work the next day. Orphaned, my allegiances began to shift wildly. I begrudged Germany their win (though couldn’t muster the same hard feelings toward Ghana), so decided I would cheer for their upcoming opponents Argentina, who also wore stylish jerseys and had Lionel Messi on their roster, a player of extraordinary talent who on at least one occasion has been referred to as “the Little Magician”.
On the other side of the bracket, I decided I’d also clap for Brazil in their game against the Netherlands. However, on the day of the game, at ten o’clock in the morning sitting at the bar of a crowded neighborhood pub, it only took one Brazil fan sitting next to me to sway me over to the “Clockwork Orange” team from Netherlands. “Bra-zil, Bra-zil!” he kept chanting in my ear, spontaneously breaking into an entire song refrain when they scored their first goal, which he then repeated a couple times more when nothing special even happened. A change of heart fueled by grumpiness for sure, but it couldn’t be helped. I flip-flopped, and was rewarded by Brazil’s loss for doing so.
The next day, I went to meet my friend, again at ten o’clock in the morning, to watch Germany play Argentina. I was all ready to cheer Messi and company, until I got to the bar, Café Steinhoff, and saw a stout burly man dressed in white and black sitting crossly in the hot morning sun next to his girlfriend waving a small German flag. By the time the bar finally opened their doors as the match began, I was figuring out where best to sit in case I accidentally cheered for Argentina and had to beat a path out the door. Again though, it didn’t take much for me to abandon my chosen team for the very men who routed my lackluster English team. When Argentina pursued a goal after blatantly having no less than four players off-sides, I decided the team had no scruples, as they were coached by the legendarily shameless Diego Maradona, and that each one of Germany’s boring and hard-won goals from that 4-0 blowout was beautifully scored.
Of course, after Germany’s predictable loss to Spain, I was left with the Netherlands, who I had never mustered much enthusiasm for in the first place, having been more anti-Brazil, or anti-one-single-Brazil-fan, as it were. In that final against Spain, it became harder and harder to support the Orangemen as they continually assaulted Spanish players, culminating in Nigel De Jong’s leaping kick directly to the chest of Xabi Alonso, which was far more kung fu than football. The match itself, a 1-0 victory in the 116th minute, was by turns draining, tiring, exasperating, frustrating, and drawn-out. I held my weak allegiance despite De Jong, and was left with tepid disappointment, tempered by knowing the right team won. Maybe it was the afternoon beers (a staple of my World Cup month), but all that was left was a slightly numb feeling. Next time, in 2014, I’m putting money on it.
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