Before you realise it, your family’s been hit by the Fifaria 2018 virus. Manic dancing eyeballs, dangerously high BP and cold sweats; and violent convulsions when you turn the TV low to call the doc.
Then your son begins to twitch, glassy-eyed, hoarsely shouting, “Elbow! Elbow!” Concerned, you try to check his elbow, but he pumps his arm up and down, nearly taking out your eye. “Sudden death!” he screams and a little later, “Check the VAR!”
You’ve heard of the SARS virus; this VAR must be a new strain, and fatal too. Surely, all that stagnant water at this time of the year.
Your otherwise shy daughter has been openly pointing out flanks and rears. And the husband – such hallucinations! At 1am, he yells advice to the Mexican defence — at decibel levels which surely must reach them 5476 km away in Russia.
Just last week, you heard the family complain bitterly of itches. Sotjkovic, Milvojevic, Ljajic, Zivkovic... they yelled, while you hastily Googled up these new rashes you’ve never heard of. It turned out to be the Serbian squad. If you can’t beat ‘em, join ‘em. So you settle in to add to the cheering, “Come on Sulphuric, pass it to Carbolic!” You smirk at the startled look on your kids’ faces. Impressed, aren’t they?!
You get completely drawn into the beautiful game. And you soon realise that your son’s call for ‘sick person’ has been for Sigporrson of Iceland. Everyone on the squad is a son, how touching! Halldorsson, Gislason, NowYouTellMeIt’sTheNeighbour’sSon and so forth... See, those grown men crying in the stands — must be the fathers, for sure.
So much is clear now! You’ve been cooking chicken dinners for days now because you thought the family was pleading for “Fouuwl!” Your son is not paralysed after all, your daughter is not manic depressive, your teen is not homicidal, your husband is not delusional (oh, that well, maybe!) It’s just fever pitch.
You run your own commentary. Surely that Torres will get spondylitis, carrying 6 kg of dreadlocked hair on his head. You yell out bicycle kicks and call out offsides that the dingbat referee couldn’t catch. You outshout your kids. You rattle off statistics of 89th minute penalty kicks from 56 years before they were born. You serve them red cards if they kick the table.
Suddenly, a whistle blows, and your family flies up like a Romelu Lukaku long shot. Half-time! But by now, you’ve been injected with the Fifaria virus yourself, eyes dilated and pulse racing, and when your starving family asks what they’re getting for dinner, you mutter, ‘Free kick!’
Where Jane De Suza, the author of Happily Never After, talks about the week’s quirks, quacks and hacks.