DOHA: “Mohammad?” The lady volunteer handing out accreditations tentatively asked, holding up a card and looking at the sparse bunch of journalists in the waiting area. Directed at nobody but since one was straight in her line of vision, it would have been impolite not to reply. So, “No, Mountain.”
It was lost on her, or not, but it got you thinking. Who exactly was coming to whom at this World Cup? Was it the rulers of world football who pushed every button, turned every dial, bent every self-set rule to ensure that this mammoth money-spinning four-yearly global festival came to this tiny desert nation, essentially a one-city country (smaller than football-mad Goa by some estimates)? Or were the overtures from the other side, the initial prodding to engage, all of it finally meeting midway in highly lucrative convenience.
