More Than a Game: Loving Portugal Through Futebol

Now that Portugal is out of the World Cup, we can talk about it. This sucks.

Futebol isn't just a sport in Portugal. It's a shared heartbeat. I was born in Coimbra, but I've spent much of my life in the US. Even so, every time Portugal takes the field, I feel that same pull back home. It doesn't matter whether you're watching from Lisbon, Toronto, Paris, Newark, London, or California. For ninety minutes (plus some... or plus 18 I guess), we're all sitting in the same living room.

And since we're in the same room, please look away as I snottly wipe away the slow Hollywood tears running down my cheeks. This World Cup hurts. It always does when Portugal goes home. But THIS ONE wrecked my brain. Kind of like hydration breaks...

Because every Portuguese supporter knows what this team is capable of. That's what makes the disappointment so difficult. It's never just about losing. It's about the dream ending when you know that it could have been reality.

And despite what you think about Ronaldo's playing, or the fact that he looked like he was playing (and walking) injured and no one is talking about it, or the midfield's mid performance at best - CALM DOWN these are just hypotheticals in case you think that - eh hmm... we can be critical and still love this damn team. I sure am and do, but I'll call it the way I see it. How Portuguese of me... And maybe I'll be wrong about my analysis but the passion that I have for this country and this team is always right.

Regardless... it happened. So now it's time to brush it off, take the loss, and look ahead. Futebol doesn't stand still. Legends retire. Young players become veterans. And if there's one thing Portugal has always been good at, it's starting over. Lisbon earthquake, the Revolution... the pudim in the fridge that never quite set. And with starting over comes hope. And a new generation waiting for its turn.

Hell, maybe it's already here. Maybe it's the kid kicking a ball against a wall in Braga. Maybe it's the teenager dreaming of wearing the crest in Madeira. Maybe it's someone none of us have heard of yet. That's the beautiful thing about futebol. Hope is always wearing the next jersey.

Until then, we'll keep gathering around the table. We'll argue about lineups. We'll celebrate impossible goals. We'll question every substitution like we're secretly qualified to coach the national team. We'll cheer. We'll groan. We'll COMPLAIN. We'll sob uncontrollably. We'll believe.

And four years from now, when the anthem begins again, every one of us will stand just a little taller. And the process will repeat: We'll convince ourselves, once again, that this could be our year. And honestly? Maybe it will be. And I hope we never stop believing that.