My name is Oliver Wood, and I was seven years old when I fell in love with Quidditch. Scotland was to play England in their first game of the 1982 World Cup, and nobody was expecting much of a contest. England had put together their best squad since the 1964 team that won the cup on home soil. This 1982 team had been named, "The Unbeatables". They had the punishing beater pair of Terry Carver and Bertrand Jewell who played together at Falmouth. They had Darnell Dawson, the British and Irish Quidditch league's MVP; the first keeper to win that award in over a decade. Their chaser line was completely overpowered, and even their reserves had enough talent to beat any of the other teams in the cup. Their seeker was a woman by the name of Nola Travis who was so insane that it was rumored she flew against a Hungarian Horntail for practice. I always thought that part was a load of bollocks, but years later when I heard about Harry in the Triwizard Tournament I conceded that it might have been truth.
I remember sitting in the stadium with my Dad before the game started. There were thousands of Scotland fans all around us, and the atmosphere was exhilarating. The crowd's chanting drowned out all of the others noises around me. My gaze was fixed on the two teams warming up across the pitch. They were sweeping and circling back and forth across the sky like sharks tracking their prey. I could barely sit still. The anticipation of the start of the match made me feel like pixies were trying to break out of my stomach. I inhaled deeply trying to calm myself, and captured the stench of body odor, beer, and sweat. I gagged rather violently, and my father laughed and patted me on the back.
"Steady there Oliver," he yelled over the roar of the crowd.
"Da, does Scotland have a chance to win it?" I asked.
He laughed again and wrapped his arm around me. "We'll see son, there's always a chance."
I knew then and there that Scotland was going to win that match. I could just feel it. It didn't matter that England had a far superior team, or that every expert in the business expected Scotland to get slaughtered. There was no way these screaming, passionate fans around me could be wrong, and when the whistle blew to start the game my tiny voice joined them.
Scotland got decimated though. To this day it remains one of the most brutally one-sided games of Quidditch I can remember. Each time England scored the crowd around me got quieter and quieter. Scotland was fortunate enough to score twice, but it didn't even feel like a cheap consolation as England was ahead by 220 by the time Travis caught the snitch an hour in. When the game ended the English fans sang a mocking version of "God Save the Queen", and their players flew off the pitch without so much as giving the Scots a handshake. I felt like I had been stabbed in the gut. Like my entire world had been shattered. Even my Dad's promise of ice cream didn't cheer me up as we began to head out of the stadium. That's when I saw the Scottish Quidditch team start to fly over to the supporter's section. As they got closer I saw that they had their hands raised up and clapping. They were applauding the fans. When they got close enough to see clearly the people around me regained some of the fervor, and returned the applause. Soon they started up the chants and songs I had heard at the beginning of the game. I felt shivers race up and down my body, and joined my father and the others in the clapping and singing. I blinked my eyes several times to avoid letting tears escape.
I fell in love with Quidditch that day not because of how the game was played, but because of the passion I saw and felt. I wanted to become a Quidditch player, and I didn't even care if I lost every game I played. I learned that day that there was passion even in losing, and it was important I learned that because I've lost a lot of Quidditch games.