I remember they
used to show the 1986 Brazil-France game a few times a year. The commentator would repeatedly say like "و
اینجاست که فوتبال به بسکتبال تبدیل میشود"
My memory of the game when it happened was like this: One morning I was
on Pasdaran Street on my way to Samar Institute waiting for a taxi. As
various cars zoomed by a man approached and passed me. After he had
gotten behind me, almost as an afterthought he called out to me and
said, “Brazil got eliminated.” I wasn’t sure how he figured I was a
Brazil supporter (but then again a large portion of Iran was) and it
didn’t matter that he was a total stranger. I grilled him for more
information.
“Yeah they’re out. They lost to France. Zico missed a penalty during the game. They ended up losing on penalty kicks.”
Once I got to school I shared the information with my fellow students
although some of them had already heard the news. Ardi approached me
with a suggestion.
“Now that Brazil is out I think we should probably route for Argentina.”
I wasn’t sure whether I was in denial or simply not familiar with the
format of the World Cup. “It’s just one loss. They can still make up for
it and win the whole thing.”
"My parents, brother, and I left Iran in 1980, shortly after the revolution. After a brief stay in Italy, we packed all our belongings once again and headed west to the exotic and the unknown: Vancouver. We had recently been accepted as landed immigrants, meaning Canada graciously opened its doors and we gratefully accepted; we arrived at Vancouver International Airport on my 10th birthday, three suitcases and one sewing machine in tow. After respectful but intense questioning at immigration, we were dropped off at a hotel on Robson Street, which was then still a couple years shy of becoming the fashionable tourist hub it is today. We were jetlagged, culture shocked, and hungry, so that first night, my father and brother courageously ventured out into the wild in search of provisions. I fell asleep before they returned. The next morning, I woke up at 5 a.m. and ravenously feasted on a cold Quarter Pounder with cheese and limp French fries that had been left by my beds...

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