A couple of hours from now, 22 handsome men of various shapes and hues will peel off their sweat-drenched jerseys and exchange them, amid hugs and kisses and mussing of hair, before a crowd of tens of thousands and a television audience of billions. And just like that, the World Cup will be over.

As the sporting winner emerges from the final pairing of France and Italy, so shall the competitionÂ’s winning narrative, the storyline of storylines that best succeeds in taking events on the field and giving them interpretive power to tell us something about the world we live in.

It is interesting that we are having discussions right now at the Mutiny about nationalism, jingoism, patriotism, anti-nationalism, and matters of that sort, at the same time that the worldÂ’s quadriennial celebration of national identities wraps up. The World Cup is a curious beast, it is a time when national loyalties are expressed, loudly and even virulently, yet in a choreographed manner and by universally recognized rules of engagement and fair play, for a limited duration and all at the same time.

It’s as much a celebration of the porousness of national barriers as it is of their continued relevance. It’s an event that inherently applauds globalization – the demographic flows, the internationalization of the business of sports, the diffusion of popular culture, the technological advances that permit billions of people to watch the same high-quality image feeds, the ease of travel that permits delegations of supporters to travel from the far corners of the planet. And it’s also an opportunity to wrap oneself in one’s flag – or that of another country to which one feels loyalty, or kinship, or just a whimsical fancy.The resurgence of the France team, which no one (including myself, a longtime France supporter who grew up in Paris) had given any shot of getting past the quarter-finals, has pushed back into the limelight the narratives of nationhood and cultural and demographic integration. By far the most “multicultural” team in the field this year – I mean that at the primitive, united-colors-of-Benetton level – Les Bleus offer a fantasy portrait of diversity in action, thrilling sporting action at that.

But since the team’s famous triumph in 1998, much of the luster has been taken off the easy “black-blanc-beur” sentiment. Culpable squabbling within the centre-left in the 2002 election resulted in the overtly racist right-wing politician Jean-Marie Le Pen qualifying for the second round of the presidential election, forcing a national rallying around the mediocre and fatigued Jacques Chirac.

Last year, severe riots and disturbances in the squalid working-class suburbs of Paris and other cities reminded France and the world that the daily lives of people of color in France are fraught with obstacles and discrimination; not that the complacent political class and intellectual elite seem much interested in doing anything about it.

With impeccable timing, Le Pen inveighed a couple of weeks ago that France’s poor showing in the tournament’s first round was due to the presence of too many players of color, suggesting that the coach had gone for political correctness over actual footballing skill. (Sound familiar?) Then the team started winning games against tough opponents in fine fashion, Zidane-mania began its second coming, and Le Pen as usual looked like the fool that he is. Best yet, it was revealed that the great white hope of French football, Franck Ribéry, a scruffy working class kid from the depressed port city Boulogne, on paper just the kind of type to support Le Pen, is… a proud convert to Islam.

Whether France wins or loses the match about to begin, the team’s run has put the question of making diversity work back under the spotlight – a healthy improvement over the spirit of 1998, which was all celebration and self-congratulation. That was before the clash of civilizations, the horrific events that we know, the emergence of the new flavors of bigotry, chauvinism and know-nothingness that feel today like the norm. Today, the problems are more sharply posed, the stakes – in Europe, America, South Asia, the world – immeasurably higher.

A football tournament wonÂ’t solve the worldÂ’s problems, far from it. But the narrative harvest of this yearÂ’s World Cup has only just begun. Four years from now, the next World Cup will be held in South Africa, which virtually guarantees good material from now til then. IÂ’ll be following intently, and so will many of you. Thanks to the futbolistic caucus within the Mutiny for adding to the World Cup experience this year — from Bong Breaker to Sahej, Flygirl to Football Fan, AfroDesiAc to Kobayashi, and all the regulars and lurkers in between.

I’ll be rooting for France. I think Italy is actually the better side, futbolisticamente hablando, but the spiritual edge is with the multi-hued crew. So long as the féticheurs have been paid their fee and the chickens buried in the proper spots, this one is for Zizou and the boys.

Much respect to all. Next stop, Johannesburg!