Father and Son Reunion

by Omid Fatemi

Last Sunday, I awoke with unusual optimism, as Iran opened their World Cup against México on a balmy afternoon in Nuremberg.

I sat in my equally balmy Brooklyn apartment, wearing my replica Ali Karimi jersey and savoring the the fact that it had been 8 years since I had been able to cheer for my beloved Team Melli in The World Cup, and nearly a year since I had seen my father and futbol enthusiast-in-arms. Like the team, he was also fresh from Tehran, the city of his youth and Iran's immensely overpopulated capital. On Sunday, I had them both together, and no talk of nuclear embargoes, the axis of evil, or immigration issues could ruin the moment.


Everything leading to the Cup for me had been so wrong. My father, thanks to the great state of US - Iran relations, had been held up in Tehran for an extra two months due to a paperwork mishap and the inefficiencies in the Iranian civil service machine. For reasons that have nothing to do with a round ball, U.S. politicians had tried to pressure FIFA to ban the Iranian team from a tournament that most Americans don't even care about. And, perhaps worst of all, my beloved Team Melli had drawn into a group with Portugal and México, and every announcer, analyst, journalist, and half-ass futbol fan had confidently written-off our chances of advancing to the second round.

But on that Sunday, the pundits could not stop the game from being played, and my father was no longer at mercy of bureaucratic paperwork. The air seemed suddenly full of possibility...



It lasts precisely until the 28th minute, when Pavel Pardo's free-kick, nodded on by Guillermo Franco, and poked through at the back post by Omar Bravo dashes all my fragile hopes.

My father, a much more seasoned and resilient fan, reassured me that it was early, and considering the way we had been knocking the ball around, he confidently states, "don't worry, our time is soon." This being the only thing positive I could grab on to, I collected my head and forced myself to believe.

... 12 minutes later, my father's soothing words become prophecy: Iranian defender Yahya Golmohammadi snuck in a goal after a sloppy Mexican clear of a corner kick. The match was knotted 1-1. My confidence and sense of national pride near an all-time high, as I jump around the room slapping sloppy high-fives with my pops, who calmly remains sunk into the couch sporting an "I told you so" grin.

All was seemingly well until 63 minutes into the match, when the Iranian side's entire focus and sense of purpose seemingly disappears, like grains of sand in the desert wind, when our main man, Midfielder Ali Karimi, re-aggravates an ankle injury and is taken off field. Karimi a.k.a. "The Wizard of Tehran", was the 2004 Asian footballer-of-the-year and is a regular first-teamer for Bundesliga power-house Bayern Munich. He is the Iranian team's offensive maestro and heart and soul, and at this moment even my unwavering father acknowledges that we are in trouble.



The midfield is Mexico's and Brazilian-turned-Mexican citizen Zinha turns the pitch into his personal playground, giving the Mexican team just the upper hand they needed. As he sneaks in to cut off a sloppy pass from Iranian goalkeeper Ebrahim Mirzapour and lays a beautiful through-ball for Bravo to easily finish, the taste of the pistachios my father had smuggled in from Iran lose the pleasant tanginess of saffron and lime, and suddenly tastes of defeat. 3 minutes later Zinha adds the nail in the coffin with a flying header. 3-1 is the final.

Despite our defeat, by the final whistle, I harbor no bitterness (ok, maybe slight bitterness), because a poignant World Cup moment dawned on me. My father and I were reunited, watching every pass, strike, and header with pure attention, like we had done every four years throughout my youth. And I realized that despite the ridiculousness of politics and socio-economics in the world today, the crisis in U.S. and Iranian relations, and a revolution that has failed, that there is something on a national level that people can embrace without reservations, despite our experience and allegiances. Only the great equalizer of futbol--governed by a uniform set of rules, but played with different styles around the world, can give a nation and it's diaspora an unfiltered and unlimited source of hope and unity.

And on that note.....

Here's to all the hopes and dreams of war torn countries and refugee communities who are provided 2 hours of reconciliation every time their national colors grace the pitch...

Here's to all the moments that bring fathers and sons together.

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As a writer for London based magazine Dazed and Confused and one-half of the New York-based creative writing agency The Leadbelly Group, Omid Fatemi's poisonous pen has taken him on assignment to Puerto Rico with Dizzee Rascal and The Great Wall of China with LeBron James. He is currently working with No Mas to develop a series of travel-based documentaries chronicling international sports culture.