Football was a huge part of my life when I was younger. I followed the EPL religiously, knew the names of Man Utd's first team by memory, scorned Liverpool supporters and woke up at 2.30 am to see England lose on penalties (and Beckham being sent off) in the match against Argentina during the 1998 World Cup second round. I loved football because to me at least, it was a metaphor for life itself. We celebrate our team's triumphs and joys; we mourn their disappointments and sorrows. Similar to the battles and struggles in life and the varied emotions that you and I must experience daily.
However, 12 years later, and I barely know who Kaka, Messi and Mueller are. What happened in those 12 years that I completely lost interest in the game that I was once so passionate about? I guess I developed other "passions" instead, namely real boys that surprisingly do not resemble professional footballers and harmless crushes that later on developed into senseless, meaningless, quasi relationships. Looking back, I should not have diverted my attentions elsewhere. But what does a 18 year old foolish female teenager who is craving for affection from the opposite sex know? All she understands is to search for Love in all the wrong places thinking Love, for all intents and purposes will define her as a person.
So, when I watched the quarter final matches on Friday and Saturday nights, I remember once again how it feels to be a football supporter - undying loyalty and unwavering faith until the very end even when your team is losing. We wish and we hope and we pray for our heroes to come back and fight with every fibre in their beings for gold and glory. Like in life, no matter how many curveballs we are thrown against, we must and we will go on.
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