The world cup comes with triumphs over everything. Everything.
All men are created football-fanatic, with all their heart and soul. At first, I was confused, unbelieving. I couldn’t accept it, and even became furious about it. I made protest against such foolish, unreasonable, mad behavior in pursuing everything about the game. I hate that eagerness to watch a football match, which is no less than a man in love longing to meet his sweetheart. I can see that my husband’s mind is totally lost in a series of football matches, with great will and joy. What I can’t endure is that enjoying the world cup together with the guys now is seriously considered as the most important event in his life.
He was always busy. Every evening, if I didn’t need to go to work, he took a shower right after dinner, and threw a word to me, “I go there”—meaning the office, and left in a hurry. He was always building a network, which seemed would never complete. So I took care of the baby until she slept soundly. And I slept soundly, not knowing when my husband came back.
But the world cup comes. Suddenly, all work seems to be done. No more extra work in the evening. All free time. Call the friends and enjoy the world cup every night until midnight. Tomorrow will still go to work? It doesn’t matter! What really matters is you miss a goal! And still I care for the baby and not knowing when my husband comes back at night.
I envied. I felt jealous. I couldn’t compete with a game! I complained. I got angry and shouted at my husband, which only made me feel worse. He just paid no attention and went on watching his football games. I felt like a fool.
So just let him go. The world cup is a festival for men. A most delightful festival. I’ve never seen him so willing and content when accompanying me and our child out somewhere. It’s not a duty like that. It’s greatest fun. It’s pleasure. It’s utmost happiness in life.