Written by Jonathan Peter on June 21, 2026.
The World Cup captivating our continent has made me think a lot about my late father recently.
I was never one who showed much interest in the sport, but still I would huddle around the TV to catch the Cup games with him. With limited interest, I often didn’t know what I was watching or who I should care about. My dad never seemed to have a country or player he cheered for; he simply loved the game. He relished his time watching the nations competing for their chance at glory.
I’ve been reflecting on his life and where his love for the game stemmed from. He would always retell stories from his childhood of him and his two brothers kicking around the ball with the boys who lived next to them. He proclaimed himself to be the best player among his crew, but I never took his word seriously until my uncles told me it was the truth.
Watching Iraq play this year reminded me of another one of his favorite stories to tell. He said that he played in pickup games with two guys who were on the 1986 Iraq World Cup qualifying team. I’ve resigned myself to accepting the truth of this anecdote because I know his first job after he finished technical school was in Iraq :).
I have found myself in a season of unemployment, but lucky for me I’ve been able to catch so many of these games and I have thoroughly enjoyed the viewing experience. But without my dad here, I feel a strange guilt that I never anticipated. I sometimes catch myself thinking, “Why couldn’t I have appreciated them this much when he was still around?”
If I had ever displayed an interest in soccer, I’m pretty confident he would’ve been willing to talk my ear off about it and that would have been gratifying for him. For myself, I could’ve learned more about his perspective and understood what inspired his passion for it. Those opportunities have vanished, and I’m left wondering what might have been.
These simple memories and missed occasions leave me feeling a peculiar pain radiating through my mind. I mourn a reality that doesn’t exist and it partially feels as if it is my fault, even though it wasn’t in my control. How weird is it to find joy in your dead parent’s favorite hobby? I know I would give almost anything to watch one of these games with him to hear what he would have to say.
Yet, maybe my newfound curiosity is all worth it in the end. Maybe it’s time for me to acknowledge that soccer is a better sport than I ever gave it credit for. Maybe it’s time to appreciate the endurance, the artistry, and the skill that soccer requires.
And because of this, maybe my dad appreciates that I now revere his favorite game.
I miss him so much, and that feeling only grows as time moves forward. Still, his words flow through my head daily, and I recognize that it was wisdom all along.
Happy Father’s Day, Dad. I love you.
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