2018. I was keeping an eye on the final. And I didn't have "ball knowledge" back then: not that I have much of it now. I knew some basics, like Barca and RMA hate each other, Brazil is where football was born, Messi is the greatest, and no matter what, you can piss people off by saying "it's never coming home!" I couldn't name many players: all I knew was that my cousins and I harbored a collectively understood but secret crush on Neuer and it was a big deal that Ozil didn't play for Germany after* that year (I would, later, learn the real reasons why he retired from international football, and I still flinch when someone says that quote of his.)
What I do remember quite clearly was Luka Modric. Because I couldn't take my eyes off him. I didn't quite understand what his job was because to me, who could only explain this sport in simple terms, to play and win at a football game, one team must score more goals than the other. But I knew running back and forth must be exhausting. That drawing a foul must be painful. That even with the scoreboard showing 4-2, Croatia's captain gave everything and more that day.
I've never been lucky enough to say I grew up with football. For so many reasons, it was always an arm's length away, and I found myself reading about it more than watching it. This changed, for even more reasons, and over the last two/three years, as I fell more deeply into watching (club) football, I could now more coherently read how a match would progress. How when a team doesn't have a proper midfield, or what I love to call a maestro, it suffers. How that player needs to be the conduit among all others. Call it the the drug of watching a Spanish midfield dance their way to a world cup through fuzzy videos while I was younger or simply being enamored by a bunch of teenagers speed running the Olympics and then the Euro, but I gravitated towards La Liga. Luka Modric playing there was simply the icing on the cake. In his late thirties, I could seldom see much of a difference from the YouTube clips and that 2018 World Cup I watched on a very slow laptop screen. But when you see class, you simply have to concede: this Croatian guy is a baller.
Last season, I found myself irrationally sad at Modric's departure from RMA. I knew he had to leave because of "his age," but, despite being a fan of Athletic, I liked watching him. I liked his style of play. I liked his confidence. I liked the way he teased younger players. I liked his facial expressions. I hated whenever his team won, but I could never be that mad if he scored or bagged an assist. I laughed at one of the clasicos where he shot water at Frenkie de Jong (if I'm not mistaken). While his team was just barely holding itself together. I liked that. Irrationality, after all.
I'm a little more well versed in "ball" now. And yet, I doubted him. Nah, he's at AC Milan. He won't get the call up. Oh, he got the call up. Well, he probably won't play more than- oh, he's playing almost full time. Oh. Oh my god, he's still there. Just a bit slower, but smarter. Just a little less precise but braver, probably braver than most. He's still their captain. And he's still a fucking baller.
Years later, at 40, Luka Modric did it again. And what a joy it's been, to watch him shape football, one perfect pass at a time.
I came into this world cup knowing I'd be saying goodbye to several names I've etched into my head and heart. The obvious ones will stay obvious, bleeding for a little while after this year's final comes and goes. But I'll keep you, Luka Modric, very close indeed. You will be so very missed.
*Edited with correction/nuance after posting.
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