How Being a Writer Ruined the World Cup

Being a writer, as you must know by now, is a dream.

By that, I mean it’s a nightmare, something that technically falls under the umbrella term of dream.

But you may want to ask ChatGPT, as I’m not much for terminology.

In any event, back in 2021, I started planning for the day, five years later, when being a writer would pay dividends.

The day would be July 7, 2026, and it would go something like this:

Argentina would be playing Egypt in the World Cup—let’s say at noon.

I would wake up late, smiling at how in my pre-2021 life, I would have been at work for several hours already.

I would revel in the genius of having outsmarted the system, trading the dialysis unit for creative work, living off passive income—the American way.

And then I would meet my British friend at the bar, finally being the person whose income stream no one could understand, nor could anyone deny.

I’d start with something light—like a double IPA (DIPA). I’d tilt my neck upward, take a sip, and focus on the big-screen.

The game would feature some studs, guys like Mohamed Salah and Lionel Messi.

And just for kicks, the underdog Egyptians would net the first goal. Heck, midway through the second half, the African squad would notch another, putting the defending champions on the ropes down 2-0.

But in the 79th minute, Messi would assist on Argentina’s first goal, breathing life into the stretch run.

Then, in the 83rd minute, he would take matters into his own hands (feet), scoring the equalizer and giving the stadium the literal shakes.

Expecting extra time, I would order another DIPA, sipping slowly while waiting for the inevitable.

In stoppage time, however, the inevitable would be avoided, putting Argentina ahead 3-2 and cementing the comeback victory as the best of the tournament.

I would text all my friends, partly from frank bewilderment and partly just to show off my enviable life.

Finally, I would head home, and my wife and children would shower me with compliments regarding the fabulous existence I had gifted them.

That was the dream.

But being a writer, as I mentioned, is not that type of dream.

It’s the kind with visions, ones that come with night sweats.

It’s the kind that makes you see your reflection in the face of the beggar.

In other words, it’s the kind that on July 7, 2026, had me up at 6 am, showered, dressed, and on the way to the dialysis unit.*

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*Note: I watched highlights of the Argentina-Egypt match at night.