The FIFA Virus: There Is No Cure

If you are wondering why I am emotionally unavailable, occasionally irrational, sometimes rather dramatic, and unable to discuss any subject unrelated to football, need I say more?

It’s the FIFA World Cup!

This is me every four years.

My life until the 19^th of July 2026 revolves around a ball, twenty-two players and a television remote.

I become a woman of routine. This is probably the only time when I have carefully planned my sleeping, eating and social life. The routine bears no resemblance to normal life. Sleep is negotiable. Unhealthy snacks at odd hours. My conversations only revolve around football. Laundry can wait. FIFA cannot.

For five weeks, I am possessed by fixture lists, group standings, injury updates, over-excited commentators, legendary goals, almost-convincing falls, fake injuries and the impossible drama of penalty shootouts. I also spend an unreasonable amount of time researching the strikingly good-looking players, coaches and referees online.

Nothing beats the moment when the commentator screams ‘GOOOAAALLL!’ so loudly that I have to lower the volume on my TV lest I wake up my neighbours. I am convinced people in other time zones heard him too.

I love everything about FIFA.

I was especially delighted to learn about the “Hydration Break,” one of the newer additions to the rulebook. Finally, a rule I can fully support.

There is another first for me this FIFA. Quite a few of my new favourite players have challenging names and, to show respect and demonstrate a sense of belonging, I consult my personal phonetics expert to get the pronunciations right. I cannot risk mispronouncing their names, especially when one or more of them could end up as my passwords until the next FIFA.

I will admit that the late-night kick-offs are brutal. The matches air late at night or in the early hours of the morning IST, and my body clock has gone for a toss. Not that I am complaining. I survive on caffeine, longer afternoon siestas and sheer determination. Toothpicks and matchsticks have been suggested as a way to keep my eyelids open, but after five weeks I would probably be left with permanent craters on my face.

I love watching the matches by myself. There is something wonderfully immersive about it. For those ninety minutes, it feels as though it is just me, the players and the unfolding drama on the screen.

I also love the ritual of preparing my snacks and drinks and puffing up the cushions in the most comfortable seat in the house before the match. My precious national asset, “the remote,” remains exactly where I left it. Nobody starts a deep conversation during penalties. I am rid of unnecessary commentary that is meaningless and distracting. And nobody asks why I need to watch a match involving two countries I have absolutely no connection to.

However, there is one drawback to being a single fan.

There is nobody to share the agony of a missed penalty, nobody who knows that I’d already predicted this team would make the semi-finals, and nobody to listen to my expert analysis of why the coach got the substitutions wrong. I become convinced I understand the game better than the coach, who is blissfully unaware of my existence.

My passion drives me to emotional extremes. The resulting outbursts can be quite alarming.

The symptoms appear in bouts, especially when I celebrate goals scored by players I’ve never met, representing countries I’ve never visited; when I am yelling tactical advice at the television; and when I mourn defeats as though my world is crashing down.

My superstitions are both a source of comfort and a coping mechanism. They contribute to the winning streaks in ways that I often do not fully understand.

I mutter a prayer before the game, open my arms up to the universe for good luck, and I clasp my hands tightly. If I am sitting upright and still and my team just happens to score a goal then, I don’t move until they score the next. By the end of the game, I am numb and barely able to feel my legs. This is serious business.

Watching the World Cup from the sidelines over the years, I have often smiled at the familiar picture of husbands glued to the television while long-suffering wives patiently endure football season.

This year, however, I noticed a few households where the roles were reversed.

As for me, I shall continue to arrange my life around kick-off times, celebrate impossible goals scored by strangers, become emotionally attached to players whose names I couldn’t pronounce a couple of weeks earlier, mourn defeats that have absolutely no bearing on my life, and convince myself that the coach should have listened to my advice.

Every four years, I willingly sacrifice sleep, emotional stability, healthy eating habits, and any semblance of a normal routine.

And when the final whistle blows and it is all over, I promise myself that life can finally return to normal.

Until four years later, when the symptoms mysteriously return.

Honestly, I wouldn’t have it any other way.