by RAF KATIGBAK

Sweet relief! I am now thanking my non-denominational higher power that I’m no longer sick. The panic attacks, the upset stomachs, the horn-like ringing in my ear, the hoarse voice and the raised blood pressure levels have finally subsided. I’ve just checked my white blood cell count and my reflexes, and my oral thermometer reads at the proper average 98.2 degrees.

The most worrying symptom of my illness, the urge to kick small round objects through doorways and past roommates (especially problematic if it’s one of said roommate’s free-roaming guinea pigs), has also disappeared. Besides perhaps a slight case of acid reflux, I can now officially declare myself happy, healthy and free of the disease that has been plaguing me for the last few weeks: I no longer have World Cup Fever. Finally, I can resume my normal Canadian life of working, exercising, eating well and not giving a shit about soccer.

To say that Canada is a long way from a World Cup is probably an understatement. Our first and last shot at the cup was over two decades ago when a ragtag team hit the pitch in Mexico’s 1986 tournament. Despite the daunting 1,000:1 odds, and a lacklustre pre-Cup parade where the paraders, including cheerleaders borrowed from B.C. Lions and a marching band (also on loan), outnumbered the crowd, Team Hopeful gave it their best.

Which sounds like the makings of a great Disney film except for the fact that, after losing three straight games and not scoring a single goal throughout, Team Hopeful became Team In Way Over Their Feathered Mullets, and bowed out, their only highlight was not having their asses handed to them by France (1-0 final).

Right now FIFA ranks our national team one below #82 Oman. Um, excuse me... did you say Oman? That’s not even a country, that’s an exclamation.

But is it really a surprise that our national program is seemingly nonexistent? This is hockey country. To wit: After Italy’s victory on Sunday, a Tracker-load of Canadiens fans took to the streets of Mile-End and confused revelers by waving Habs flags and hockey sticks. Were they patriots worried that soccer was getting too much attention, just really drunk, or a combination of both? You be the judge.

Sustaining a viable domestic professional soccer league is an uphill battle, made especially hard considering the geographic difficulty of arranging regular international competition. Add the difficulty of convincing a multicultural population to root for a team in a sport where old-country ties are hard to sever, and it’s a miracle that we even have a national team.

But we do, and soccer, at least in Montreal, seems to be making progress. Perhaps because people are realizing it’s less expensive, safer, and better exercise than hockey, or merely because of our unusually high surplus of super-hot soccer moms, youth participation is on the rise. Weekend picnickers on Mount Royal are witnessing an increasing number of balls landing in their potato salad, and the medievalists are finding they have to quickly improvise when a corner kick strays into the battle. “Forsooth! A fireball from yonder pitch hath squareth me right in the nards! Quickly, to the portcullis! Protect the family jewels!”

Perhaps if they could create some hybrid post-apocalyptic Rollerball-esque game that combines medievalism, unicycles and soccer, things would really take off in this town.

But following the recent announcement that our professional soccer team, the Impact, is getting a new $15-million stadium in the Olympic Park, things do seem to be looking up. This fall, after a record season averaging 11,000 fans per home game, and with the support of Olympic Installations Board, construction should begin on the new East End stadium.

Will Montreal ever reach the soccer fanaticism of somewhere like Beijing, where, during the World Cup, a man was reported to have rescued his television from his burning home—before his family—then immediately sought out a place to plug it in and continue watching his match? Or Guangzhou, where police were forced to release a man arrested for stealing a mobile phone when the victim, afraid he would miss the start of a game, refused to press charges? Not likely, but one thing’s for sure: if it ever does, you know I’ll be jumping on that bandwagon faster than you can headbutt a guy in the chest and scream GOOOOOAAAAALLLLLL!!!!!!

Riff-Raff@sympatico.ca

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