We are so immersed in the inconsequentiality of our routines that they no longer have any meaning or reason. Gone are the whys, whens and wheres. And the curious, at the risk of being persecuted, are in danger of extinction.
My goal today is to show that the important thing is to give meaning to the path and not to reach the destination and that, sometimes, the most everyday situations are the ones that bring us closer to falling in love with the journey.
I have always argued that soccer is full of romantics. It is a contact sport, I am aware, but that is not what I mean at all. I am one of those who believe that this sport is enveloped by a magic that we cannot see but that continually manages to amaze us when there is no longer room for surprise.
These days the ball is at a standstill around the world, except in England. Why is that? The well-known Boxing Day.
In no way do I intend to shy away from the fanciful legends attributed to its origin. However, its real starting point seems to me to be more novel. On December 26, 1860, the first ever match at club level took place, pitting Sheffield FC against Hallam FC. So, out of pure sentimentality, it is an important date in the sport’s histogram to which they pay tribute by kicking the ball around.
As Lineker once said: “Football was invented by the English…” but we are all allowed to dream about it.