Let us raise a trembling glass of cheap tequila to the four poor souls who perished in Mexico City's World Cup hysteria. Because nothing says ‘football is life’ quite like being trampled into the cobblestones by a stampede of polyester-clad patriots. The scene: the Zócalo, a vast concrete cauldron where 150,000 citzens gathered to watch El Tri’s triumph.
But the only hat trick was death. Excited crowds surged, barriers buckled, and four people became human confetti. The authorities, in their infinite bureaucratic wisdom, blamed ‘unforeseen overcrowding’ as if the notion of 150,000 drunk Mexicans celebrating a goal was a meteorological anomaly.
This is the universe’s cruel joke: we yearn for collective joy, but the moment we achieve it we squash each other like grapes in a winery. The president, Andrés Manuel López Obrador, will no doubt deliver a solemn address, full of hollow promises and teary-eyed nationalism. And the Football Association will issue a statement ‘deeply regretting’ the incident while planning the next match with exactly the same number of exits and the same inadequate crowd control.
Because in the theatre of sport, the audience is always expendable. The players, meanwhile, will perform their victory lap in a private jet while the bodies are zipped into bags. This is the grotesque ballet of modern life: four deaths, four empty chairs, four families torn apart, all so that a bunch of millionaires can kick a ball into a net.
But why should we care? You, dear reader, will forget this column by the time you finish your morning coffee. The news cycle has already moved on to the next catastrophe.
The tragedy is not that four people died. The tragedy is that we have become numb to it. That we accept this as the price of passion.
That we stampede for goals and then stampede for the exits, leaving only the dust of our indifference. So go ahead, celebrate the victory. But remember: every goal is scored on the graves of the forgotten.
