I know that after what I’m about to write, many will extend a hand to pull me out of the past century and into this era of hyper-digitalization. The comments will be that I am old-fashioned, a prisoner of memory, with quotes about nostalgia being nothing more than a colorful illusion that makes the past seem far more beautiful than it truly was. Some will probably dig up an abacus with multicolored wooden beads from an attic or a dusty basement – supposedly to teach me basic math, but really to get me to “recount” things in my head.
The reason for this outcry, or rather plea, is Quick Response. You place your phone with a QR code against a scanner, and stadium gates open into a world that is capricious, unpredictable, unstable – but irresistibly alluring. Once upon a time, those printed tickets from football matches, upon our return home, were carefully placed into philatelic albums, as a cherished record of a moment in time, as a family treasure. And those scraps of cheap perforated paper didn’t carry much text. Usually just the competition, the rivals with their club crests, the stadium, match date, and price. True, not much was written – but the ticket itself could tell a whole novel. A story titled something like Me and My Family, or perhaps My Street, My Crew, in an Era of Football.
People love winners, they love to identify with them, but the true charm of football isn’t on the scoreboard. The magical glow of the game doesn’t radiate from the result. The primal value of this sport lies in memories, recollections, and in sharing them with those who’ve had similar experiences. What happens today? We return home from the stadium, open our phones, scroll, and find a QR code from the match tucked in among those for a paid parking fine or a receipt from an abdominal ultrasound at the doctor’s office!?
Football has become a great global story, one that, according to FIFA’s latest research, gathers around four billion people. Its worldwide popularity owes much to the signs along the way – among them the match ticket, alongside fan scarves, caps, flags, and trinkets from local shops. These are reminders of moments around which stories are spun and fond memories are woven.
I simply had to say this, and I have nearly four billion reasons why – to remind us all to stay gathered around the same fire that warms us. Yes, the masses are what keep this game on the pedestal of the most beloved, most widespread, and most profitable. Financial mass – billions in euros, dollars, pounds, or other currencies – is not the kerosene for football’s flight. The mass of people, with hearts beating in rhythm with the bouncing of the ball, is the true fuel of its survival.
Football itself is not an easy story to explain. The UEFA landscape doesn’t change much. Or rather, it changes only in the sense that the mountain peaks of European football are linking together into chains and growing ever higher. Since 1991, when Red Star Belgrade conquered the “Mont Blanc” in Bari, only two clubs outside the “Big Five” leagues – Ajax in 1995 and Porto in 2004 – have managed to repeat that feat. This year, 82 clubs will take part in the UEFA Champions League. And although it is almost certain (and how I wish I were wrong) that by the time the final match is played at the end of May at the Puskás Aréna in Budapest, a member of the billionaire’s club will be there, let us look at the qualifying rounds: stadiums are packed, fights last until the very last minute of extra time, with “nets” that the rich may dismiss as the fluttering of butterfly wings – yet wings that, with each tremor, hope to cause a quake in the football massif of money and power. And the wings of hope never tire.
