It is a chilly December 2022 night and I am in an Irish bar in Rome on Via del Plebiscito, right in the city’s center. That night, the crowd is more excited than usual and quite distinguishable. One group in particular, more than the rest. More than half of the people in the bar are either wearing blue jersey shirts with white and red stripes or have painted those colors on their faces. They feel it is going to be a historic night. The defending champions, France, are facing off against the tournament’s black horse, Morocco, to secure a consecutive spot in the FIFA World Cup final.
I, too, can smell history up close–but for a different reason. For the first time, a team from Africa can make it to the final. As I enter the bar, knowing that my friends are still on their way, I look for an opposite corner from the fans in blue, where I hope to create a crowd of Morocco’s supporters. But of course, we are in Italy and there cannot be many.
Still, I am hopeful and I can already imagine a tiny group of a dozen people taking over the massive bar at the full-time whistle. I order a drink, my friends arrive, and the game starts.
Five minutes into the match, the noise in the bar is loud. France has scored. But I remain undeterred. After all, the Atlas Lions have overcome worse odds in the tournament already. Under the euphoria of expectations, I applaud, scream, and whistle at every Morocco offensive action in the game. At half-time we are still one goal down, so we can still come back. Yes, we. I was Moroccan that night–for the first time in my life. My Larynx needs rest though. I order another pint of Guinness.
Morocco team celebrating a goal at the 2022 World Cup in Qatar (source: DW)
The second half starts. Morocco’s big names are visibly trying. Amrabat is bossing the midfield, while Hakimi and Mazroui are attacking the flanks. But the threat of Mbappe and France persists. Morocco gets its moments but France is pretty much in control. In the 79th minute, they score their second goal. The game is slipping out of Morocco’s hands. By this time, celebrations in the other corner have started. Victory tonight is theirs; they know it, I know it. The game ends, and the bar’s DJ blasts Vagedream’s hit.
It’s time to go home. I bid my friends good night and I leave. But surprisingly, I am not disappointed in the loss. Instead, I am suddenly conflicted with other emotions. I am happy for a memorable football moment; I am proud of Morocco’s fight throughout the tournament; I am envious of French fans; I am very reflective on what football means to so many of us across the world–all at the same time.
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