The game
Iran will surely win, he
promises
August 13, 2004
iranian.com
The taxi, even compared to the rather old looking ones around
it, is pretty archaic. So unlike the driver, who seems to be a
good natured man. Just over the hill maybe. I have left school
with a television set going on full blast in the main hallway and
about 3 dozen males... and not a single female... literally in
the screen.
The game should be over by now, and I can just ask
the result. Not that I have ever been a big soccer fan. The only
game I've ever watched from start to finish was Iran vs. Australia
and that was purely patriotic. But so is this. I could not give
the light of day to any soccer player or soccer team sprinting
that ball into the gargantuan field. But this is Iran playing.
And that's when things get personal.
Back in the lab, I've thought that I've kept good track of their
scores by the screams of the guys outside. But apparently, some
of their yelling has been without reasonable case. If I count based
on the number of screams,
I would have had Iran winning at least 2-0.
Asking the driver now about the score, he tells me that it's
run overtime and the two teams are tied at 1-1. The streets and
even the highway are rather
empty for this time of day. Is everyone crowded into their screen
like the guys I saw at school?
The radio is going on full blast,
and the analyst - in a boring style which is Iran's own -
goes on with his report. All the time I am excited, eager, and
even
a bit nervous. Throughout the drive, the analyst reports one
close goal for China after the other. He continues each statement
with
the fact that the Iranians are very much looking forward to penalty
shots. If so, Iran will surely win, he
promises.
I have no idea what he's talking about, but I silently pray for
the penatly
shots - yes, ignorance can be a dangerous thing.
 The first
half is over, and we wait for the next 15. I get out of the taxi,
just when the diver announces his next stop - Mirdamad. Exactly
where
I want to go. I sit back in, not looking forward to
hearing more of the game. I just want it to be over. I want Iran
to
win
and I want to hear the result. But alas ...
I listen to the entire second half.
And I guess the analyst's prayers
have been answerd because the game is to be decided by
penalty shots.
And my taxi has reached its stop. I get out to leave again,
when he annouches he will be going further up - towards my
home. I am
the only one who sits back, and nervously looks at the driver.
He has
not said a word. Usually, drivers like to talk. I guess
he is the exception.
Being the big soccer expert that I am, I've always said that
the penalty shots are an unfair, unsportsman way to win. If the
two teams have played for this long, without producing a winner,
doesn't that prove that they are, in fact, equal? That either there
should be another game another day, or that they sould both win
together? But alas ... the injustices in the world... of which
this is one.
The first shot goes to China. She makes it in, all the way. It's
just a matter of numbers now. Just going one unit above the other...
After Iran's, one more goal for china, and then her next does not
make it in. The driver yelps quietly. Then apolgoizes. I am ecstatic.
 We're almost there ... We'll come out the winners. We beat 'em.
We'll make it to the finals. All these people sitting at home
glued to their screens will yelp with joy... We will most probably
even win the finals. Iran will be the next victor of Asia...
my mind
goes on and on.
And I guess my story is Sobhi's story of the man who spent
months gathering his small jars of oil to save up for a huge
barrel. He
imagines in his head that he will take the barrel to the governor,
and once there, will manage to make his way into the governor's
heart. They will make good friends, and eventually he will be given
the right to win the governor's daughter's hand in marriage.
This
will put him next in line for the throne. When the governor dies,
he will become ruler of the kingdom. He will have all the fortunes
in the world, and no one will be permitted to look down at him.
If, even for a second, one of the servants looks at him with
disrespect, he will raise his hand and sharply place it on the
servant's head...
All of a sudden he hears the loud thud of his barrel breaking.
The hand he had raised to beat the imaginery servant, manages
to break the real pot of oil ... and his day dreams with
it.
And suddenly comes the announcer's voice. In what seems like
a split second, all my thoughts are scratched, broken, and in
compete disarray.
Am I hearing wrong? Or did he just say that Iran lost? Is there
some sort of mistake? But there are no mistakes. And I have almost
reached home.
 I pay the driver as he silently
shakes his head, and finally, after this long ride together, head
out the door. The announcer's voice sounds different.
Has he been crying, I wonder?
Just another defining moment where great dissapointments and
glorious victories don't seem that far apart.
.................... Say
goodbye to spam!
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