Sitting in a Brazilian restaurant, wearing clothes with the colors of Argentina, on my bag a sticker that reveals my love to Colombia, around my table there's a couple from Holland, and I'm Israeli. Twenty-two players are on the field. At the end of the game, there will be only eleven, who wear different colors then mine.
At 3 Brazil will play, but before that there's a big game as well. Eight-number-T-shirt that I wear paint me in yellow, but the heart is red. After 120 minutes the red turns to black, England's out. '59, Henry score for the wrong net and by doing that, sends Brazil home. Brazil's out? Can't be. Our (the Brazilian) plan was different, my timing was perfect. I didn't even get to Salvador yet.
A third world war I thought to myself. Violence on the streets. What a shitty timing I have. I was wrong. The Whistle that marked the end of the game, was blended by the samba music that threat to tear the speakers. The Brazilian are happy, smiling and dancing.
In every place in the world, when a new baby is being borned, he first learns how to crawl, stand and walk. Not in Brazil. Here they learn first how to dance and then run (for the soccer, of course). Everybody's dancing, the mother and the son, the grandfather and the daughter, even the doll that wears the festival colors, joining the party.
In New Orleans people preparing for the next hurricane that hit last year at the same period, and destroyed houses, families, and belief. And I'm here, dancing. A pathetic try to get rid of my guilty feeling, I donate to the war against racism. Knowing I'm doing that to feel less guilty, made me feel more guilty.
?
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