My First Time.

Everyone remembers their first time. Where you were, what it was like. How your heart raced right up to the minute it started, hoping it was going to be everything everyone had said it would be. You have been waiting for this all your life. All those long, long seven years. The boys jump up and down at the center circle, the ref blows the whistle and your off. Mexico '70. That was my first time. My first World Cup.
With the onslaught of the 2010 World Cup media attention, the images of my first have been feverishly replaying in my mind of late. It was the year the greatest international football team of all time, Brazil, came together and meshed perfectly like the scab on a healthy child's knee. Tostao, Jairzhino, Gerson, Carlos Alberto. The revelation of the tournament, he of the 70's detective tache, Rivelino. Kieran Healy in Cork still wears one proudly today in tribute to the great Corinthian. And of course, #10 Pele. The Black Pearl, he was that precious. It was the tournament of the Adidas Telstar football, that of the black and white diamonds, so you could see it better on TV. Every kid had to have Adidas boots and ball after that. It was the year I watched my idol, Bobby Charlton, look like the old man he was becoming under the sweltering Leon sun, and holding back the tears after England were knocked out by West Germany. "There will be no cryin for England in this house" someone muttered loudly enough for me to hear. I ran out into the street looking for consolation, found Timmy McCarthy who was jumping for joy. "The English were beaten" he screamed. "But we support Manchester United" I said, "and Bobby Charlton is one of ours", "So Whaaat" he sneared. I was absolutely lost. And actually this a very good synopsis of 100 years of Irish-English relations.
It was also that summer, for the first time, my father left me stay late up to watch something on TV. I didn't even know the match was being televised but my father woke me at 11:00pm, our grainy black & white box brought up to our bedroom, rabbit ears searching for the signal. My two brothers, my father and I all sat on the bed watching the worlds greatest sporting event. Tea and cream crackers for everyone. It came to light in a roar of fuzz, a hazy mish mash of movement. There was something there alright, yeah a football, is that the crowd? - that's Clodoaldho!!!! And the names, could they be more exotic? I don't think so. Then, clear as day it appeared on the screen, the two South American giants pushing the ball around as if we were all playing five-a-side up in Cassidy's Avenue. Cool as cucumbers. Could it even be real. Brazil vs Uruguay, Semi-Finals, watching football, in bed, at night, Live!!!!! This is the life isn't it?. Even though it wasn't in color I still remember the harshness of the afternoon light on the players, and the sweat. Real man sweat. Summer in Ireland never saw a sun like that day in Guadalajara. Couldn't we do this every summer? Why was it four years apart, no wonder Bobby only played two tournaments, and why was this my first time to glimpse the artistry of Edison Arantes do Naciemento, Pele. But in the end the Gods made it right, its the intervals between the tourny that make the event so much sweeter and special. The expectations for ones country to do well, or even qualify. Having those years to smolder, waiting for the first whistle to blow, to sound a new generation of Football Gods. Nobody remembers every single summer, or every game of every World Series, but everyone remembers their first like it was yesterday. Their first World Cup. The 19th World Cup kicks off in South Africa today. We will all be at Slane pub NYC tomorrow for England vs USA.