The recent, short-lived debacle of wealthy European soccer clubs attempting to create their own private league sent me in a time machine back to soccer’s consistent presence in my childhood. People don’t think of me as a sports geek, but I still remember the days when I quickly cajoled the kids I was babysitting to nap so I could watch a match, or when I created my own dream teams. I couldn’t play, but getting attached to cultural phenomenons I couldn’t fully participate in was younger me’s modus operandi.

My brothers and I bonded over our shared love for European club matches and world championships. I’m not sure how this passion started, but they suspect it was connected to Ghana’s first-ever appearance at the 2006 World Cup (although all I remember of that competition is the dramatic confusion in the finale when French star Zinedine Zidane headbutted an opposing player!). Religious restrictions kept us out of suburban youth teams, but we made up for that absence with encyclopedic knowledge of the sport.

In a family context with strict ideas behind what amusements were sacred (and thus allowed), watching soccer matches was one of the few guaranteed ways everyone could spend 90+ minutes in peace. Keep in mind, we didn’t have cable, but that didn’t stop my brothers and I from finding transmissions. Sometimes we ended up on international streams and I loved the announcers for their rolling Rs and breathless exclamation of “¡Goooooool!” The pitch that any team of good fellows from any country could achieve glory was too seductive to resist.

I didn’t realize it at the time, but soccer also served as my first introduction to ongoing life experiences. The first podcast I listened to in middle school was hosted by foul-mouthed middle-aged male soccer analysts. While I cleaned on Saturdays, I listened to their weekly summary of post-game analysis and upcoming loans and transfers, loudly sighing at predictions I disagreed with.

I saw how nationalism and racism mixed when “fans” threw bananas at African players. I got a first glimpse at endemic corruption as multiple officials were accused of bribes and favoritism. And I leaned into my dual identity as I wavered between who to support when Ghana and the U.S. played each other.

In high school, my attention to the sport expanded across Europe as I followed a dizzying array of teams from England, Germany, Italy, France, Spain, and Portugal. I faithfully supported Everton, a northwest British team that won me, a discerning consumer, over with its “we do the best with what we have” spirit. I was so proud of supporting them and not a money-soaked club, that I convinced a teacher to enter the fold with his young son. I even grew a scorching disdain for player Luis Suarez (whose handball kept Ghana from advancing in the 2010 World Cup and who, in his spare time, bit opposing players (who does that!?)). For all my passion, I still hadn’t played nor attended a match, but then again, I’ve always done the best with what I have. (I finally attended my first game, a D.C. United match, years later).

An older me increasingly saw how soccer was not just a game, but also an industry—one that catered to money. I questioned why national governing bodies and I hadn’t paid as much attention to women’s teams and vowed to improve. The delicious promise of “anything is possible,” as elsewhere in life, didn’t ring as true anymore.

In college, without other fans’ fervor to stoke my own, soccer faded from daily life. But when I heard the laughable Super League news, I revisited mementos from that era—highlight reels of top goals, the old podcast (going strong), and current rankings (Everton is still middling).

The field looked unfamiliar. My favorite scoring combos (Xavi, Iniesta, Messi) had mostly retired, the new stars were younger than me, and the amount of money exchanging hands was just as dizzying. Still, as I went through a box of old clothes and found a Ghana jersey, I felt the childlike pull of wonder.

Maybe I will wake up at 7 A.M. on a Saturday to catch a game.

Maybe I will finally pick up a ball myself.

Maybe the spell can be woven again.

Comfort Sampong

Comfort Sampong’s heart is sparked by fried plantains, tropical foliage and the stories of women thriving and creating a way out of no way. She graduated in 2018 with majors in economics and international development. Now she lives in Tegucigalpa, Honduras, where she works on English communications for the Association for a More Just Society, a Honduran non-profit fighting for justice and peace.