I woke up early this morning to watch the Argentina vs. Germany game. The euphoria from our last win against Mexico was still in my system. But I was in for a real disappointment. I was in store for some serious shock and awe. Where was my undefeated team? Who were these guys wearing the blue and white jersey? Needless to say, it ruined my day . . . which seemed to drag because everyone I encountered reminded me how my team had lost.
Argentina is not my birth country; I've only been there once and have minimal contact with my family over there, unless you count random Facebook wall posts and Skype messages. But being first generation Argentine-American, I take pride in all things from my parents' and grandparents' country.
I prefer yerba mate to coffee, dulce de leche to caramel, and futbol to football. And although I have a small percentage of German in my genetic make-up, I was still saddened to see Diego Maradona's team get cut off from the finals this time around. Afterall, I've grown up watching him single-handedly win World Cups for Argentina.
World Cup soccer has always been a huge event in my family. We'd have people over, empanadas were made, coca-cola and beer were poured. My dad would barbecue some Italian sausages to serve on French bread with chimichurri and my mom would braid my hair with a ribbon that looked like the Argentine flag.
And although I've lost a few chins since then, I haven't lost my love for the game. Just like my dad always tells me: "I don't care what you do in your life just promise me that you'll never become a vegetarian or root against Argentina." Like that would ever happen.
Posted via email from cosipetit@posterous
(A cake from Whole Foods made of raspberries and blueberries . . . mmm.)
