The Summer I Was Planning to Have

The summer could have been so good. Ice cream by the Spree on a slow afternoon, rooftop dancing until the city went quiet, lying in the park with a Murakami or a Mian Mian while the sun dealt with my face at its own pace. That summer. The one that exists in theory.

Instead: the World Cup. Drunk office workers sprawled in front of badly positioned screens. Mechanics honking through the same streets for hours after a win, driving nowhere, celebrating nothing specific. Checkout clerks who couldn’t explain the offside rule if their job depended on it, but would give you a forensic breakdown of every corner kick, every foul, every theatrical dive. This, every evening, every week, until July felt less like summer and more like a sustained public performance of tribal excitement nobody asked me to attend.

I understand, intellectually, that football creates real community and discharges something primal. I understand this the way I understand the appeal of shots—it works, it’s real, it just doesn’t work for me. What I can’t forgive is the territorial occupation of public space. The assumption that everyone is celebrating. The low-grade aggression toward anyone who looks insufficiently festive. Football doesn’t just want you to watch. It wants you to perform.

Somewhere under all the noise the summer is still there, waiting. I’ll find it when this is over.