Brasil, with an ‘s’.

I have never been much into football. As much as one can not be, of course, being born in a country where football is the only sport worth mentioning.

There’s no Cricket World Cup. No Rugby World Cup. Definitely no Snooker World Cup.

In Brasil, World Cup means football.

And football means everything.

Things work differently over there. Yes, it’s true, I was born with a football team I would support already assigned to me, and so were my children. It’s the way things are. My sister, however, deserted my father’s ambitions to support the rival team, in what I now see as an even more rebelious act than the ones I on my account over troubled teenage years.

And yes, my dad would occasionally take me to the stadium to watch such football team play, and so he did with my children. My youngest said the other day that he loved going to the stadium with grandpa, because he could play on his phone and eat pastel and ice cream. Ah, the fond memories.

But I was never that bothered. When Brasil hosted the World Cup, in 2014, and a few games were held in the stadium close to my flat, I traveled abroad on holiday. Couldn’t care less.

I didn’t follow any current players, didn’t even know when or where games and championships were being held. In all honesty, I didn’t even know that David Beckham had retired from football, until I heard about it on my graduation speech.

But now…

I’ve seen every World Cup Game for 2 weeks! I rose to sing the anthem along with (some of) the players. I cried singing it too. I spent an unbelievable £25 for some guaraná and pão de queijo. I have the Nike Brasil t-shirt already added to my cart.

This time, I am utterly and irrevocably all in.

Why the change of heart? Well, I am far from home now.

And I miss my home.

I miss the optimistic athmosphere that overtakes every inch of the land. I miss the obviousness that the country will stop to watch the game. I miss the annoying chants echoing in my head. I miss being bothered by all of it. I might even miss Galvão Bueno.

I miss seeing my brother cry when Brasil loses. I miss my dad’s barbecue before the match starts. I miss my mom’s enthusiasm with having all the family together to watch the game. I miss my nephew in his oversized Brasil shirt. I miss my best friend asking me to watch the game in some dubious bar. I miss having people over at my place and sorting only the yellow and green jelly beans for snacks.

Maybe watching the games so avidly, even if thousands of miles away, makes me feel closer to all of that. To all of them. To home.

So go, Brasil. The Hexa is coming.