Embodied Nostalgia

World Cup thoughts and a trip down memory lane

My poetry writing recently has really zeroed in on memories and embodied nostalgia (memories that carry with them actual tastes, scents, and textures that extend beyond feeling).

The World Cup is one of those embodied memories for me.

I grew up in Brazil. My parents were missionaries there on a team, and I lived there from ages one to eleven. Those were great years. I experienced so much in the short start to my life: really good food, friendship building, learning piano, and a self discovery. There’s a personality trait which I have, that only comes out in during the World Cup (though Andrew will tell you it is subtly always in the background of my life). I have no idea how it was formed, but I can pinpoint two early experiences of this deeply competitive spirit.

One was around third of fourth grade, when I, my piano school classmates and my music teachers learned, together, that I can play by ear. Once that discovery was made, when my teacher would play us a pretty song and the next day, I would be in the studio early, working out my own arrangement of it, the girls in my class started being mean to me.

I was out for revenge, but my mom told me that in the Bible, there’s a passage about not getting revenge, but instead being nice to your enemies because it would be like heaping burning coals on their head.

Genius! I thought. So, I ignored their passive aggressive meanness, but not without having a little fun of my own, stoking the fire of those burning coals, by continuing to “by ear” many of the songs our teachers would play for us, to motivate continued study so we could learn them one day.

The other, was one of the early matches of World Cup 1994, when I was sent to the corner (where I spent a significant amount of time in my childhood) on my BIRTHDAY of all things, because my mom had overheard me talking smack about the team who would be playing Brazil later that day. I was asked to think about being kind with my words, instead of using them to be unkind. “It’s ok to want to win,” my mom said, “but it’s not ok to say ‘I hope they are jet lagged and have a terrible match. You have to be kind.”

Moms, am I right?

I understood. Still, World Cup Sara when one of my teams is playing (Brazil, Mexico, US) is not an iteration of myself that I’m always proud of. Because I have a competitive spark that is ignited when I watch. And sometimes I wonder if it is all about winning, or if it is because my mind, my soul, is trying to hang onto something. I think so, and I think that something is embodied nostalgia.

World Cup ‘94 was the last majorly fun thing I remember from that year. The rest of it was spent preparing for a permanent move to the US.

I wrote in my Morning Pages today that “I remember World Cup 1994 so vividly, that I wonder sometimes what else, if anything, was happening around that time.” A big else was happening, actually. We moved away.

My birthday party that year was a World Cup party. When I was released from exile in the corner, I got to gather with my friends and watch the match, then we had birthday cake. It was a sheet cake decorated like the pitch, with figurines of the Brazilian team in formation.

We watched the games at home as a family, my sister and I painting our faces with water color paints to show our support. Our home TV was small, but the Rohr’s had a really big TV, so they had us over for a watch party for the Brazil v US game in the round of 16. The grown-ups got the big TV and cheered for the US. The kids were sent to another room to watch and cheer for Brazil, on a smaller screen TV.

The kids’ room was filled with joy when the Brazil team would score. The adults were probably in the living room planning their big speeches on good sportsmanship. No one got a speech, though, because a tragedy happened. After the match, we were all dispersed to our homes and our rooms, to process.

A US player had taken Leonardo by the arms, to prevent him from getting the ball and as he tried to wrench free by twisting back and forth, he inadvertently broke the US player’s nose with his elbow, in one of the twists to break free.

He was red carded immediately and benched for the rest of the tournament.

The next big watch party would be the Final. We watched with a big group at church. It was neck and neck through the whole game, and through the penalty shoot-out. The stress in the room was as thick as sorghum molasses, a sweet treat I had just learned about at Grandaddy’s house on our most recent visit to the US. Perfect with pancakes, cornbread, or on big, fluffy biscuits.

People were forgetting to breathe, whispering prayers, holding hands as each team made or missed their goals. Finally, it was time for the last player. Italy was out of shooters, and the match was tied. This.Was.It.

Branco was up. Not our best, but not our worst. He raised his foot to strike, and waved it to the right, not touching the ball. The goalie bought the fake-out and dove to the right. While he was down, Branco struck the ball into the net, to the left, and with that Brazil became a 4-time World Cup winner.

World Cup 1994 is one of the corest of my core memories. I reach for it often when I want to remember joy, community, togetherness, and a really good last bit of time in Brazil as a family before we moved away. Every Cup since then teaches me a little more about interconnectedness, and that, beyond core memories that sustain, is a gift that I hope will live on for years to come.