Opinion Cup of nations

Both looking forward and looking back,the World Cup has a special edge. And that edge comes from the fact that no other tournament — actually,no other event of any sort — causes us to look outwards,at other countries,quite as much. And no other event causes us to stop and think about what “countries” mean today quite as much,either.

For example: how much do countries’ pasts matter,anyway? A question worth asking,especially after this final,in which the wars and oppressions and nationalisms of past centuries seemed forgotten. Those wearing orange in the stands,the Oranje on the pitch,both cared little that they wore that colour because of William the Silent,Prince of Orange,who rose in revolt four centuries ago — against the kings of Spain,decked out then as now in the red and gold,the rojigualda. And many remarked on the oddness of strong support for a dour Dutch team in a South Africa long ruled by dour white men with Dutch names. That couldn’t be due to fading memories of a dim past: Jacob Zuma,in the stands,could not but have noticed that the most dangerous footballer on the pitch shared a surname with the former prison island off Cape Town where the future president spent 10 years — some of those captaining a prisoners’ football team.

Robben Island may not have been forgotten. But the memory of it is not allowed to sting. Sport doesn’t just sublimate nationalist passions,redirects them. It modifies them,it smoothens their raw edges,it gives them an entirely new narrative to twist around. When England play Argentina,more than the Falklands War is being re-fought; it is the Hand of God quarter-final of 1986,Beckham’s red-card game of 1998. Tragedy and victimhood create national narratives. In the age of World Cup Nationalism,a good number of those national tragedies feature a referee who looked the other way.

Football,time and again,is how countries reinvent their national identities. Look at the Germans. Thirty years ago,they would roll down the pitch like Panzers across the steppe. Unstoppable,brutal,machine-like,if brilliant. Today,half the names on their roster are Polish,Turkish,or Tunisian. They play with the athleticism and sudden,startling speed that always marked German teams; but the defence-spanning passes,the delicacy,the exuberance are new. And,just as the team has reinvented itself,so has the country. Those Turkish names? Because the Germans finally changed their laws,and you no longer need to be of the Volk to be of the Reich. That exuberance? Because,finally,the Germans are outgrowing the guilt of the 20th century — something first visible in the last World Cup,when a million flags were put out in a country that had been allergic to them for generations,and,even more wonderfully,Europe smiled indulgently instead of feeling a twinge of foreboding.

It is difficult to believe that a team’s past,and how it plays today,are not intimately bound up with how the country views itself. Look now at Spain,finally world champions. Why did it take so long? Their domestic league is among the best in the world. They regularly produce the world’s finest footballers. Yet they never,till now,progressed beyond the quarter-finals. Some would say the country’s internal divisions have something to do with it. Catalonia was,in a way,the Netherlands of Spain: cosmopolitan,liberal,open. Yet the national side was for years almost the same as that of Real Madrid,the royal team,Generalissimo Franco’s team. Real Madrid dominated Europe’s clubs for decades; but the national side it fed lost,regularly. Now,even as a million people march through Barcelona for Catalonian nationhood,Spain’s team reflects how inter-regional power has shifted.

Its core is from FC Barcelona. It plays like Barcelona — or,in another odd resonance,like the Dutch team of Barcelona-based Johann Cruyff. And it has won,with one crucial header coming from Carles Puyol,the curly-headed embodiment of Catalan pride.

I don’t believe that national characters exist. But national sides play as if they have a character; and sometimes that leaches into what we believe a country is like,and sometimes what a country’s people are believed to be becomes how their team plays. The Brazilians,of course,are joyful samba dancers,people who play out of enthusiasm,not to impose their will on the opposition,a team beloved of all,even their opponents. And is that not what the people on the streets of Rio are like? Is that not what loveable Lula’s foreign policy is like? Perhaps there’s an overlap. Or perhaps we have only come to believe there’s one.

So team sports are like martial music. If played and orchestrated properly,both can reach into the hindbrains of even the most cosmopolitan of us and tug tribal instincts that were otherwise atrophying quietly away. As Bengal can tell you,you don’t even have to be from somewhere to feel a tribal affiliation with their football team. But doesn’t club competition do that too? Not quite. The best club football is better than any World Cup football. But it can never be as compelling. Why? Two differences,one emotional,and one actual. First of all,national sides can’t buy anyone they want,like the best clubs. So you can,fascinated,see their play adapting to constraints of the people they have.

But,second,clubs can no longer claim to share quirks of character with their fans. A sameness has crept across European club football. In international football,the differences in style and successes can be stark. Squinting into those gaps,we believe we can see enormous questions of identity,self-belief,national pride.

Listen,sagacious cephalopod I am not. But this I can predict of our future: international sport — and especially the World Cup — will remain our greatest celebration of our common humanity and its uncommon divisions. Look on these works,ye IPL-lovers,and despair.

mihir.sharma@expressindia.com