Four dead. Not from a terrorist attack, not from a natural disaster, but from the very thing that was meant to unite them: football. The World Cup, that great modern festival of tribal belonging, has once again proven that the line between ecstasy and savagery is perilously thin.
In Mexico City, jubilation curdled into violence as fans, drunk on victory and cheap beer, turned on each other with a ferocity that would make a Roman gladiator blanch. We have seen this before. The Nika riots of Constantinople, the football hooliganism of the Thatcher era, the stampedes in African stadiums.
But this time, it's different. This time, it's not just a sporting event; it's a symptom of a deeper decay. We have outsourced our communal identity to a ball and a whistle, and when the ball fails to satisfy, the mask of civilisation slips.
The authorities will wring their hands, promise inquiries, and blame alcohol. But the rot goes deeper. When a society has lost its sense of shared purpose, when the only collective joy comes from a televised game, is it any wonder that passion turns to poison?
Four dead. A hollow echo of the Roman circus, where bloodletting was the main event. We are not so different after all.
