In a turn of events so predictably farcical it could only be real, the Islamic Republic of Iran’s football squad has touched down in Mexico City, forty-eight hours before their opening World Cup match. The team, a collection of men who can bend a ball around a wall of defenders, will now attempt to bend the will of a US visa system that seems to have been designed by a caffeinated Kafka. The US, in its infinite wisdom, has decided that Iranian footballers, who have already proven they can outrun a stadium full of opposition, pose a clear and present danger to the homeland.
Perhaps they suspect the ball contains a dirty bomb, or that the goalkeeper’s gloves are laced with enriched uranium. The real scandal, however, is not the visa row itself, but the sheer, glorious absurdity of treating a football match like a minor border skirmish. One can almost hear the State Department’s internal memo: ‘Deny all Iranians, except those who can score a penalty under pressure.
’ Meanwhile, the Mexican hosts, known for their love of tequila and a good fiesta, are reportedly stockpiling limes and sombreros. The Iranians, for their part, have brought their own pistachios and a burning sense of grievance. It is a diplomatic dance of the highest order: the US denies visas, the Iranians land in Mexico, and the world’s press goes into a feeding frenzy.
The only winners here are the conspiracy theorists, who can now point to this as proof that the US fears a well-taken free kick more than a nuclear deal. I, for one, am booking a flight to Mexico City immediately. If the Iranians can’t get into the US, I’ll interview them in a cantina.
My editor can bill it as ‘sports diplomacy’ or just ‘a bloody good excuse for a margarita.’ In the meantime, the World Cup is now officially a hostage drama, with the Iranian team as the unlikely protagonists. They will either dazzle the world with their skill or be forced to seek asylum in Guadalajara.
Either way, it’s better television than anything on Netflix.
