A few days remain until the curtain falls on a spectacle that has lasted forty-some days, with only a little left of its imprint. And we are on the threshold of the penultimate step, next Wednesday, just before we bid farewell to the (global) sports wedding, which is considered the most fortunate of all sports competitions ever.

Yes, it ends... only to set a subsequent date to return, God willing, after four years to come. During this period, the title holder remains the bridegroom until the next wedding arrives. He has the choice: either to repeat and seize the bride, or let another bridegroom beat him to it. Surely, he will become the more deserving of her; by her I mean the cup that declares the previous winner is the most deserving, regardless of names—because he gave all he had (in diligent pursuit) towards it, with no fatigue accompanying him, nor boredom, nor excuses that would keep him from the goal.

And here it goes, that dear occasion to all athletes; it is the (popular) sport without global rival... no matter how much people of other sports dispute this description.

And its extended period of about 40 days alone is enough to dominate the world's conversation. Even politicians have their share: (Some heads of state) are keen to break their schedules to attend one of their country's matches. Moreover, it is opened and closed by politicians (and usually the cup is handed over by the host country's president), and a festival is held for this that surpasses what is usual in other matches. Yes, it is less intense than the opening, but it has its own impact, especially since most attendees will leave the hospitable country. Is there any further acknowledgment of its status among peoples?

And there is no harm in describing it as a sports wedding. Anyone who has followed the world's media and masses of people eager to attend impactful matches, or those of their teams, or matches featuring renowned stars, or those with fame in some national teams, realizes how many singers this wedding has, and among them those who wave their country's chants as if saying, 'We are here,' in a gesture expressing through their article, 'My country is among the competitors.'

Yes, those nights of competition have followed one another, drawing near the end of the gathering, and days have passed in which the world almost exclusively spoke of football, because it is the mother of games, indeed the father... without exaggeration.

Then we, my generation, were taken by football into its world early. I recall that at the end of primary school, I was a goalkeeper for my school team against other schools. I did not stay long in this position; I became a striker. I don't remember ever completely leaving the ball until I reached the age of 44. May God have mercy on the situation, for age has its logic that no defiant person can deny. And isn't it said, 'Leave something before it leaves you'!

And enough about the occasion that we held dear as children... from the days of Zagallo, Ian Rush, Karl-Heinz Rummenigge, Johan Cruyff, the Kaiser Beckenbauer, Gerd Müller, and to him who eclipsed all of them: the late football wizard (Maradona).

And God have mercy on Akram Salih (that beautiful heart). May God have mercy on you, Abu Salih. I was greatly attached to the beauty of football, as when he commentated, he would take you on a journey where you felt no boredom. His knowledge and his way of bringing the game close, and his effort to maintain the football atmosphere while commentating... so time would quickly pass. Indeed, whoever masters his profession... you will never regret handing over the reins to him.

That (I mean the sum of what I have presented) is but a part, not all, of this occasion which returns like spring at the end of every year—rather at the end of every four years it returns for us to bask in its waters, God willing, and the warmth of those memories stuck in our minds of a sports history that witnessed the World Cup's steadfastness unlike any other occasion that, after its enthusiasts get excited, fades away. Indeed, it does not linger; once folded, it retreats into oblivion.