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pashapaaha
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When the World Cup ended, my son did not ask who won.
He asked why I was quiet. On the screen, the players were crying, falling to the grass like boys who had finally run out of summer.
I looked at him and remembered my own father, asleep on the sofa after late matches, one hand still holding the remote.
I used to think football was about goals.
Now I know it is about time.
It is about a child sitting beside a father, not knowing that one day he will remember the small things: the bowl of snacks, the tired laugh, the way his father explained the offside rule like it was a secret of the world.
The trophy will travel on. The score will become history.
But somewhere, a boy will grow older and miss the night his father stayed awake just to watch a game with him.