I have a confession to make.

At my age, respectable old women are expected to be watching gardening shows, discussing grandchildren, or comparing blood pressure medicines.

Instead, in the past weeks, I found myself waking up at three in the morning to watch football, and go to YouTube to watch the highlights again and again.

That was not just football. It was the FIFA World Cup.

Somewhere between the opening whistle and the final one, I became hopelessly enthralled by what I now call the gods of sports.

They run for 90 minutes as though lungs never tire. They twist their bodies into impossible angles. They send a football obeying geometry faithfully. With millions watching, they dare to attempt the impossible. No wonder it is called the beautiful game.

My heart, of course, belonged to Argentina.

I watched the team fight its way to the final, carrying not only a nation’s hopes but also the affection of those of us who have grown old watching Lionel Messi. Spain proved to be the better team in the championship match. Its defense was disciplined, patient and almost impenetrable.

When I finally turned off the television early Monday morning in Manila, I felt both grateful and heartbroken. Argentina had fought until the end, and I had witnessed another unforgettable chapter in World Cup history.

The semifinal against England reminded me why Messi is more than a football player. At times, he seemed almost uninterested in scoring himself. Instead, he searched for openings that no one else appeared to see. Defenders closed every passing lane, yet somehow he found one that existed only in his imagination.

Then came a moment I will not soon forget. Messi floated a perfectly weighted ball into the penalty area toward a teammate. The teammate simply met it with his forehead and redirected it into the net. The crowd celebrated the goal scorer. It was as though Messi had seen the goal one second before everyone else.

Messi is not my only football idol. There is Cristiano Ronaldo, whose discipline and longevity continue to inspire. There is Neymar, who makes the ball dance. There is Kylian Mbappé, whose breathtaking speed makes defenders appear to be running through water.

Then there is Erling Haaland. Strangely enough, he rekindled another interest of mine—not football this time, but Viking history. I will read more about his Norwegian roots. Great athletes sometimes do more than entertain us. They awaken curiosity.

For some of football’s greatest names, this tournament felt like a final bow. They leave behind trophies, heartbreaks and memories that will outlive statistics.

Then, almost on cue, the next generation arrives. One photograph says everything.

In 2007, during a charity calendar shoot, a young Lionel Messi was photographed gently holding a baby named Lamine Yamal. Nearly two decades later, that infant had become Spain’s brilliant young star—and found himself playing against Messi in a World Cup final.

No novelist could have imagined a more beautiful metaphor. The legend once held the future in his arms. Now the future carries the game forward. The show goes on.

Perhaps that is why the World Cup moves us so deeply. Every tournament is both an ending and a beginning. Legends take their final bows while young stars introduce themselves to the world.

As for me, I remain an old woman happily losing sleep to watch athletes young enough to be my grandchildren.

When I watch them play, I see beauty. I see discipline disguised as elegance. I see courage measured not only in spectacular goals but also in relentless running to the 89th minute, when exhausted bodies somehow find one last burst of strength.

Most of all, I see the comforting truth that excellence never grows old. It simply changes uniforms, faces and generations.

Congratulations, Spain.

Thank you, Argentina.

And thank you to Messi, Ronaldo, Neymar, Mbappé, Haaland, Lamine Yamal, and every player who reminded the world why football is called the beautiful game.

For several unforgettable weeks, many of us rearranged our lives around kickoff times. We woke before dawn, postponed appointments and measured our days not by meetings but by matches.

Now the stadium is silent. The crowds have gone home. The songs are on their way to fading into memory.

The gods of sports have left the stadium. And I am already missing them. (Email: [email protected])