Tuesday 30 / June / 2026
Every four years, something strange happens to me. I become a child again. The FIFA World Cup arrives, and suddenly I am no longer a lecturer, a writer, or a former banker. I am transported back to a simpler time when life was measured not by salaries, deadlines, or social status, but by football matches played under the scorching sun. Whenever the World Cup comes around, one particular memory always returns to me.
I still remember living in Wadi Bahis, Al Seeb, during my childhood. It was around 1990, if my memory serves me correctly. One afternoon, there was a loud knock on our door. Before anyone could answer, a familiar voice shouted from outside.
“Small Maradona! Come out! We have a match and we need you!”
The voice belonged to my friend Zakaria. To this day, I can still hear his voice echoing in my mind. Small Maradona. That was my nickname.
Not because I was as talented as Diego Maradona, of course, but because of my height, my style of playing, and perhaps my endless enthusiasm whenever a football appeared. In those days, Maradona was more than a footballer. He was a global phenomenon. Every child wanted to imitate him. Every football-loving boy dreamed of dribbling like him.
And since my friends believed I looked and played a little like him, the nickname stayed.
The moment Zakaria called, I rushed outside without hesitation. There was no need for lengthy planning, expensive equipment, or organized facilities. All we needed was a ball, a few friends, and enough space to create our own World Cup.
The football field was not really a football field. Sometimes it was an empty piece of land. Sometimes it was an open space between houses. The goalposts were often made from stones, sandals, or anything available. Yet to us, it was bigger than any stadium in the world.
As soon as the match started, we were no longer children from Oman. We became international football stars. One friend imagined himself to be Maradona. Another was Romário. Someone else wanted to be Lothar Matthäus or Roberto Baggio. For ninety minutes, imagination replaced reality.
Looking back today, I realize that those matches were about much more than football.
They were about friendship. They were about belonging. They were about dreams. The beautiful thing about football is that it gives ordinary people extraordinary moments. It allows a child in Oman to dream alongside children in Argentina, Brazil, Germany, France, or Spain.
Today, decades later, the world has changed dramatically. Technology dominates our lives. Children spend more time on screens than playgrounds. Conversations often revolve around business, politics, and social media.
Yet every four years, the FIFA World Cup performs its magic once again. In Oman, the atmosphere becomes impossible to ignore.
Coffee shops become crowded long before kick-off. Restaurants install giant screens. Shopping malls organize viewing areas. Friends create WhatsApp groups dedicated entirely to football discussions. Even people who rarely watch football suddenly become experts on formations, tactics, and refereeing decisions.
At workplaces, the World Cup becomes part of daily conversation. Employees discuss last night’s match before discussing office matters. Predictions are exchanged over coffee. Friendly rivalries emerge between supporters of different nations. Some support Brazil. Others support Argentina. Many admire Portugal because of Cristiano Ronaldo.
The younger generation often debates whether Lionel Messi is the greatest player of all time. Older football lovers still remember Pelé, the king of football, whose name continues to inspire generations.
What fascinates me is how football unites people who may otherwise have little in common. During the World Cup, nationality, profession, and social status become less important. For a few weeks, everyone becomes part of the same global conversation.
Whenever I watch Argentina play, however, my heart quietly returns to that childhood memory. I remember Zakaria standing outside my family’s house. I remember the excitement in his voice. I remember running outside without thinking twice. And I remember being called “Small Maradona.”
Perhaps that is why the FIFA World Cup means more to me than goals, trophies, or statistics. For me, it is a journey through time. It reminds me of friendships that shaped my childhood, dreams that filled my imagination, and a period of life when happiness was as simple as kicking a football with friends until sunset.
The World Cup may be the world’s biggest sporting event, but for many of us it is also something deeply personal. It reconnects us with forgotten memories and reminds us of who we once were.
And every four years, when the first whistle blows somewhere in the world, I smile quietly to myself.
Because for a brief moment, Small Maradona returns.
