It’s generally agreed that the worst World Cup match ever played was the Round of 16 match between Ukraine and Switzerland in 2006. The idea of a bad game might conjure up images of fluffed chances, dangerous tackles, passes drifting out of bounds, mishits, or even clean kicks at nothing. However, anyone who’s watched their kids play will know that mistakes and errors make sport fun. And few events are graced by more astounding errors than the World Cup. In its crucible, the absolute worst mistakes are made by the very best players of all time. But the tie between Ukraine and Switzerland was different. It was a match without mistakes, without error, and more crucially, without joy, hope, or beauty.

The winter before, I had moved from Iceland to Providence, Rhode Island. I was young, underemployed, couldn’t afford a television; even buying a single beer at a sports bar was an extravagance. Then I caught a lucky break. My landlady had a cat. No, that is not entirely correct. My landlady was the caretaker for a demon in feline form. No, let me rephrase that. An evil god had been cursed to live out his days as a tom, and my landlady had been appointed as his guardian. He was shut in her apartment at all times, because he would attack any living being he encountered, doing his very best to kill—or at least maim—anything that breathed in his presence. The cat hated the landlady as much as she loved him, perhaps because of how much she loved him. He would struggle and fight in vain as she bestowed on him her hugs, caresses, and kisses, oblivious to scratches and bites.

For whatever reason, her li’l Lucifer made an exception for me in his unending hatred for all living creatures. The first time I came into her apartment, he came bounding toward me, leapt toward my embrace, and started to purr. And so, when it was time for the landlady to leave for her yearly, month-long vacation in Florida, she asked me to feed him: The only human he wouldn’t attempt to murder for the crime of pouring him kibble. As compensation, I would be able to watch television in her apartment. I jumped at the chance because she had Univision, which meant I would be able to see every match of the upcoming World Cup.

That’s how I found myself sitting on my landlady’s leather couch, watching Switzerland versus Ukraine, with a murderous deity sleeping in my lap. It was by no means the glamour tie of the round of 16, but it promised to be interesting. The Swiss had not conceded a single goal during their stress-free passage through the group stage, but surely if anyone could find a way to score past them, it would be the great, if fading, striker Andriy Shevchenko.

Besides the chatter of the announcers, the only noise in the apartment was the occasional contented purr, as if the heatwave scorching Rhode Island had him dreaming of his true home. The match kicked off and then two sets of men, dressed in the colors of their national flags, dutifully avoided making mistakes for ninety minutes. There is nothing wrong in choosing the less risky pass, in staying back rather than galloping forward, in prioritizing defense over attack, and the players did nothing wrong. Every chance, of which there were few, came from corners or free kicks. In the first half, each side hit the crossbar once. In the second half the teams made sure nothing would quicken the pulse of the viewers. As the game wore on, the commentators started to lapse into longer and longer silences, as their reservoirs of stock phrases, prepared anecdotes, and will to live, ran dry.

Surely, I thought, something will happen in extra time. Nope. Not at all. As the seconds ticked by ever more slowly and finally stopped, the purring prince of hell woke up, looked at my face and saw that it was drained of all joy and life. He pulled himself up, put his front legs on my chest, and started kneading, as if he was administering first aid. He then reached up, put a paw on my throat, and extended his claws so that they pushed deep into my skin, the pain piercing through the colorless gauze of a world without sensation. He stared into my eyes, as if to say: Should it release you from your suffering, I can end you now. It’s okay, I thought back at him; eventually there will be a penalty shootout, and we’ll be free.

Finally, mistakes were made; the first two penalties were saved, including one from the great Shevchenko. Suddenly, a horrifying prospect yawned in front of me like the very mouth of hell. Perhaps the ball would never cross the line between the posts. The players and everyone watching, in the stadium or on television, would forever be in limbo, waiting for something to resolve this contest, without end. And on some level, I know that I’m still there, still on that leather couch in the lung-constricting heat, with that purring god of murder in my lap, the passage of time having ceased, a single moment pulling all past and future into a black hole of pure boredom.

In my heart of hearts, I truly believe that everyone who saw that match remains stuck  in an eternal afterlife without events, emotions, or thoughts, waiting for a goal that never comes. Eventually, though, three Ukrainians scored and we were released, no thanks to the Swiss who missed every single one of their penalties. They thus achieved the rare feat of being knocked out of a tournament without conceding a goal. I was free, and my hellish companion ran off to concoct a plan to regain his infernal throne. I got up from my landlady’s leather couch, leaving a sweaty imprint I wiped off before I left the feline Beelzebub behind in his prison cell.

I hope it’s clear by now that I absolutely don’t encourage you to find a recording of Switzerland versus Ukraine from 2006. It is an event best left in the past. If you do seek it out, think of it as an animated log fire. Something to be temporarily gazed at, as you look up from a book or while you search your mind for something to say to another person. Like a flame on a screen, the match can’t hurt you. Its terrible power has long since dissipated, for you will come to it knowing that nothing will happen.

You will not have any expectation, as we who watched it live, of seeing at least a single moment of interest, that the joy and beauty of human endeavor might be expressed in a series of imaginative passes between players, that the parabolic arc of a struck ball might result in a goal that could release the pent-up emotions of entire nations. At the very least, there was a vague hope that someone might do something so ill-judged that you couldn’t help but laugh at, while simultaneously feeling a genuine pang of deep, empathetic hurt for the young person who had let his teammates down, his family down, his entire country down, his entire life now defined by one error, one lapse of concentration, one miskick, one stupid tackle, a human lifespan reduced to a single, awful moment in time. Because not even this happened.

It would be entirely understandable if fear paralyzed every player in a national team shirt. The fact that there is only a solitary World Cup match that lacked an instance of joy is a testament to the human desire to entertain, to create, to strive for beauty. A single match, universally regarded as the worst ever played at the tournament; evidence of our will to make others happy.. I have forgiven you, Ukraine, because at least you scored three penalties. Switzerland, you can go to hell. I hope you will spend the rest of eternity being chased by a murderous, sadistic kitty cat, whose only joy will be your suffering.