To Everyone Who Thinks Football Is Boring…

Yesterday, someone I know told me, “Football is such a slow sport. I don’t know how people even watch it. It’s boring. It drains my energy.“

I smiled. But I couldn’t stop thinking about how differently we experience sports.

Because if all you see is twenty-two people chasing a ball, maybe it does seem slow. But if you really watch, if you allow yourself to notice the little things, football becomes a story. Every match becomes a lesson in resilience, heartbreak, teamwork, patience, courage, and hope.

And honestly, isn’t that true for every sport? Cricket teaches patience. Formula 1 teaches precision. Football teaches trust. No sport is just about winning.

This World Cup has been one of the most fulfilling sporting experiences I’ve ever had.

I watched legends walk towards their final chapters. Cristiano Ronaldo. Lionel Messi. Mohamed Salah. Luka Modrić. Players who shaped generations, reminding us that even greatness eventually takes its final bow. There was something strangely beautiful about witnessing their last dance.

Then there were the underdogs.

Who expected Norway to make the world sit up and notice? Every Viking row after their victories felt like an entire nation believing together. And Cape Verde… what a story. Their goalkeeper became one of my favourite players of the tournament. Save after save after save, he proved that passion doesn’t care about your age. Dreams don’t come with an expiry date.

Then came the moments that statistics will never capture.

Players collapsing after defeats. Opponents walking over to hug them. Consoling them. Reminding them that once the whistle blows, humanity comes before rivalry.

France versus England felt less like a charity match and more like football refusing to slow down for even a second. The pace, the intensity, the entertainment—it was impossible to look away.

Of course, not every memory was beautiful.

Some matches left a bitter taste. Argentina’s discipline completely fell apart at one point. The fouls, the cards, the unnecessary aggression… those images are still difficult to forget. Football can bring out the best in people, but sometimes it also exposes the worst.

And then…

Spain.

I’ve supported Spain for twenty years. Through the highs, the lows, the transitions, the rebuilding years.

People wrote them off after the draw against Cape Verde. Then came Portugal and people predicted their early exit.

They persisted.

Then Belgium.

Then France.

One opponent after another.

Quietly. Calmly. Without arrogance. Without behaving like favourites.

That’s what I admired the most.

Humility.

Everyone talks about stars. Spain reminded me to look at systems instead.

Their tiki-taka wasn’t just about pretty passing. It was about trust. Every player knew exactly where the other would be. The midfield shielded the defence. The defence protected Unai Simón. The wingers stretched the game. The forwards pressed relentlessly. Every cog mattered.

And that’s probably why there wasn’t one superhero carrying the team. No player topping every chart for goals, assists, dribbles or passes. Because Spain never relied on one star.

They relied on each other.

Watching Pau Cubarsí defend with the composure of a seasoned veteran is still difficult to process. Nineteen years old, yet reading the game like someone who has spent a decade at the highest level. Every tackle felt measured. Every interception felt inevitable.

And then there was Lamine Yamal.

I finally understood why people refuse to call him an overhyped kid.

He isn’t hype.

He’s the real deal.

For almost every minute he was on the pitch, he demanded the ball, protected it, carried it forward, and almost never surrendered possession cheaply. There is a calmness about him that simply doesn’t belong to someone his age. Most teenagers, understandably, would be thinking about the spotlight, the headlines, the endorsements. Yamal seemed interested in only one thing—making Spain better every single time he touched the ball.

But even he wasn’t trying to be the hero.

That was the beauty of this team.

Pedri. Pedro Porro. Pau Cubarsí. Marc Cucurella. Merino. Rodri. Aymeric Laporte. Baena. Dani Olmo. Mikel Oyarzabal. Lamine Yamal.

No egos.

No race to become the headline.

Just eleven players fighting for the same badge.

And as a fan, watching that camaraderie was every bit as satisfying as lifting the trophy itself.

Luis de la Fuente deserves enormous credit for building that belief. More importantly, he stood by Ferran Torres when almost everyone else had given up on him. After the Saudi Arabia game, Ferran was mocked relentlessly. Every missed chance became a meme. Every touch invited criticism.

It would’ve been easy for the coach to lose faith.

He didn’t.

And in the biggest match of them all, Ferran Torres scored the goal that sealed Spain’s World Cup triumph.

What a full-circle moment.

Sometimes faith is louder than criticism. Sometimes patience outlasts public opinion. Sometimes the coach sees something the rest of us don’t.

So no, football isn’t slow.

Not when every ninety minutes contains stories of dreams beginning, legends ending, underdogs rising, friendships surviving, heartbreak healing, redemption finding its moment, and an entire team proving that individual brilliance wins applause—but collective brilliance wins history.

Now, the only question that remains is: what do I do with my life until 2030?