Why I'm Going
I'm sitting here, having bowed out of any plans, watching the highlights of the 98 World Cup final, between France and Brazil. I have more than a pang of wishing I was there, who doesn't really. My crush Djorkaeff...Barthez...Aimee Jacquet (why did you leave...)...the balding Zizou...Karembeu, the link to my second home at the time...Roberto Carlos...the dramas with Ronaldo leading up to it...oh, what a time, what a tournament. What a final.
In New Caledonia that summer the streets with 30km speed limits had a dash added between the 3 and 0, France over the 3, Brazil over the 0, and it was gold.
I cried every night for three nights after it ended, withdrawl symptoms of a month of very early rises, sitting in the cold gym watching as many games as we could, falling deeper in love with a game I instinctively loved, and for a tournament that I vowed one day I would attend.