At any moment, we look upon the cultural objects not only as a reflection of our times but as a platform for expression. The musician yearns through her melodies and counter melodies; the novelist writes drunk, edits sober and broods regardless; the designer draws upon prevailing interests and toes the various lines of high, middle and low brow before settling in a space of his own. Always, it is a manifestation of the present moment, the beholder not bothering to look for beauty so much as to shoulder ugliness and make it something you can stand for more than a few seconds at a time.
In the twenty years since the 1998 FIFA World Cup, soccer, like this planet, has undergone monumental, identity-shifting changes that have placated the bored masses while at turns enthralling, inspiring and enraging the truly devout, left searching for hope amidst seas of anger and ultimately meaningless Arsenal Champions League berths. Both have inspired roughly the same number of divisive, cynical thoughts for the digital age, compressed and condensed for your basura attention span.
And yet, when the chickens come to roost, we know – or, at least, think we know – the name of the game, and whatever means we utilize to achieve our ends end up being enough to justify those ends. On Sunday, in plain sight of corrupt world dignitaries, oligarchs and protesters, as well as many millions of people who actually wanted to see the game play out for its own sake, France defeated Croatia 4-2 in the World Cup Final.
There’s this world that exists, I bet you know it. It looks like lush vegetation and smells like fresh air. Birds sing, flowers bloom, the sun shines and the ozone can handle it the way it has for centuries, eons, maybe forever – no one can put a number to it, exactly. We don’t bicker over it, really. It’s splitting hairs to guess when the origin of the universe was, and who can say what was back there, where we came from, why we’re here; all we know is that we’re here now, in this world that exists, and we have to make the best of it with each other because we aren’t solitary animals. We’re not spiders or foxes or praying mantises or ocelots or owls; we need each other, and we’re smart enough to know it. We may die alone, but we don’t fail that way.
We’re smart enough to know all of this because we’re taught that, because education is a pillar of society, as much as it was during the Enlightenment, and to survive effectively in this world, smarts are essential. Diplomas are valued. Schools get funded. Kids get brains. Parents get pride. Everyone gets paid. Scholarships, stable employment straight out of school, a place in the world to call our own. It’s all there for us, collectively.
I found myself in a rather unfamiliar position on Monday night, one with which eggs the world over are, or at least affect being, familiar. I was laughing at the absurdity of something I’d read on the internet and should’ve been upset about, not my preferred state by any means but a go-to coping mechanism for the daily nuisances-cum-societal atrocities which inhabit most of our lives. All this during a mostly delightful World Cup, no less.
After a whirlwind first two days of NBA free agency, the dust seemed to have settled for the night when, like a child inadvertently popping your balloon, Yahoo Sports’ Shams Charania, the next-gen Adrian Wojnarowski, broke the news that broke the camel’s back: free agent center DeMarcus Cousins, a four-time All-Star and two-time All-NBA player late of the New Orleans Pelicans and currently undergoing rehab for a torn Achilles tendon, had signed with the Golden State Warriors for one year at the taxpayer mid-level exception of $5.3 million. All hell hasn’t broken loose; it’s ripped the door off and is eating it out of amusement.