The sound that will define the 2010 World Cup in South Africa is as unmistakable as it is unavoidable. One day in and already the Vuvuzela, the plastic horn said to be a part of South African soccer culture, has become the gripe du jour of fans around the globe.
But this sound, often compared to swarming bees or the sound of high performance race car engines in full throat, is not something to revile, but something to love. It is the pure expression of soccer passion, passed directly from the lungs of enthusiastic South Africans as they celebrate the glory of hosting the first World Cup on the African continent. Like a rich aural backdrop, the horns blowing en masse give the games a unique texture that only South Africa can provide. One hundred years from now, when footage of the 2010 World Cup is shown on whatever entertainment device has replaced the television, there will be no mistake which World Cup it is.
This World Cup. South Africa's World Cup. The Vuvuzela's World Cup.
Vuvuzela, you calm my wayward footy soul. With no conscience of forethought you beckon me in, give me shelter in your lovely tone, fill my heart with the concentrated joy of thousands, give the images I consume context and meaning. I can't help but feel the rawness of you, the buzzing of your voice ringing softly in my ears.
You lift me.
You never waver, you never fail. You are always there, constant and unending. The rich tapestry of soccer on a global stage is undoubtedly the main course, savory as it is, but you are the sweetness giving it an unexpected depth of flavor. I hold in my heart dear memories of you, the pictures of a year gone by framed with vuvuzelan song. You were there when Jozy Altidore scored against the mighty Spanish. You blared triumphantly when Clint Dempsey made it two. You roared in delight when Landon Donovan shocked the Samba Kings on the break in the final.
You remind me.
Now you are here again, imposing yourself on my life for just one month. I already know the day that you'll fall silent, the energy of your task sucked away by the departure of the world. I even now feel the dread of that day. But I won't let it keep me from reveling in your return, soaking up every spectacular day that you deign to play for me. Today you teased me, two matches bathed in your goodness, a palette-awakening taste of what you'll bring for the next thirty days. Tomorrow brings more. I find myself anxious, hardly able to stand the painful passage of time.
You tempt me.
I'll fall again tomorrow into your humming brilliance, and it will give my life new hope. Your call announces the arrival of new games, new stories, new drama. Like a tuneless Reveille, you order me awake, imploring me to give myself over to the wonderful game you complement. You are both beauty and utility, two purposes in one, each equally worthy of my praise.
You inspire me.
Till we meet again magnificent vuvuzela. For the next thirty days, let your song be the soundtrack of the world.
