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Perhaps you have spent the last month glued to the TV watching the World Cup.
Perhaps you had to come up with some justifiable way to put your entire life on pause and watch approximately 300 hours of soccer.
For me, that excuse came in the form of a baby blanket. I began a quilt for my niece before she was born. Unfortunately, she was born three World Cups ago, when Germany and Argentina battled it out in the final in 2014.
Argentina lost that one, and I wish I could say that I lost the quilt, and that’s why my niece never received it. Instead, for reasons that I can’t even remember, I set the quilt aside. I was so close to finishing, just like Argentina was so close to winning, but life moved on.
A lot can happen in 12 years. Argentina would come back to win the 2022 title in a nail-biter penalty shootout. In the meantime, my darling niece would grow, and the quilt, my well-intentioned project, would move with me, across the country, from house to house, getting shuttled from my sewing box to my desk, where it would guilt me with its unfinishedness, until I hid it, out of sight, in the cellar.
But our sins have a way of coming to light. Somehow my quilt emerged from hiding just about the time the United States played Australia and looked like it might be a real contender.
Well, the timing couldn’t have been better. I plopped myself onto the couch, yellow thread in hand and began to sew. The dulcet tones of Norway’s Viking chant played in the background.
Twelve years is long enough that the straight pins used to hold the quilt together have rusted in place. Also, it appears that I have forgotten how to hand sew. But I don’t really care at this point. Erling Haaland has just knocked the ball into the goal with his battering ram of a head, and that is all that matters.
There is a hierarchy of desire for whom I wanted to win this thing. The United States would have been great, but if not them, England, because we spent a year in Oxford. If not England, then Norway, because Haaland is a wonder. And if not Norway, then it must be Argentina.
A few years back, we saw Lionel Messi play for Inter Miami. The greatest of all time, in the flesh. Every time he got near the ball, the entire stadium of temporary aluminum bleachers swayed dangerously as we rose to our feet. When he scored, we celebrated with fireworks for 10 minutes straight.
I check on my quilt. During the better matches, not much sewing happens. But I am making progress. I will finish before the final, of that I am determined.
My husband, Seth, and I decide that we would be excellent soccer commentators. Neither of us have any experience playing soccer, but every time we make a remark, the on-air announcers parrot the exact same thing.
Me: “Why isn’t Mexico attacking more? They’re playing way too defensive.”
On air commentator: “Mexico has taken the defensive, and it is costing them.”
Me: “Where is Pulisic? He needs to be out in front when the ball is in the box.”
On air commentator: “Pulisic has been hanging back and missed several important attempts at goal.”
It’s like our TV room has been bugged. We are so good at this! Except no matter how much Seth explains offside, I still don’t understand. I can never spot the problem until they circle the tiny players on the field and show me the line.
Unlike most of the world, I am a big fan of slow-motion replays. What I can’t get behind are the shots of crying children from the losing team. Brazilian children, their cherub cheeks painted yellow and green, weeping in their parents’ arms. My mother heart can’t take it. I would sew a consolation quilt for each one, if I could.
But first, I must finish the one quilt that is before me. My niece will have children of her own if I don’t hurry.
The United States is knocked out by Belgium. The game is a beater. I finish the quilt about the time that Argentina and England advance to the semifinals, tying off the threads on the last corner. The sewing doesn’t look half bad, if you hold it half a soccer field away.
I give the quilt to my niece. She takes it as any mature 12-year-old would who is handed a baby blanket that covers exactly one quarter of her body. It will be just the right size for her American Girl doll.
England will go on to break our hearts and so it is Messi, with his quick-step action and the insatiable offense of Argentina, who will make it to the final. It is always Messi, as it should be, reminding us that no matter how old you are, or how many years have passed, you are never too late to finish what you started.
