Considering what a big deal a World Cup Final is to the sporting world and to all the, er, the ball watchers of Earth, it is amazing that today is only the 22nd one of these to ever happen.
22! In almost a hundred years!
I guess that scarcity is why this game is such a big deal, so big a deal that
OH MY GOD, I CAN'T BEAR TO WATCH!
I mean, except I will watch, though perhaps the pleasure of it is getting edged out by something like dread, or terror.
Oh well, que sera sera.
Most of my readers are unlikely to encounter this post before The World Cup Final is played, and some may be like, politely, "Oh, who won?" Without much caring about the answer. But some readers are sweating blood during the game, or in agony in its aftermath, or unbridled joy. People are different, which is one of the tritest observations I have ever made in the history of this blog, and yet somehow continues to confuse me with an astonishing regularity.
So who will win?
The devout superstition of this blog's discussion of this World Cup prescribes me to say:
France.
France is going to win.
Not that I'm happy about that.
Oh, no, not at all.
Anyway, we are on then now to the final, with our dread and hope and indifference and superstition all crammed together. After all that wild stuff happened, through 63 matches, it is, one last time, all to play for. I leave us all on the brink of a precipice, as we always are, everyday, the mundane and terrible, wild and wonderful future obscured from every human being who ever breathed.
And that, for good or ill, is true of us all, no matter how different any of us might be.
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