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First, A Story:

As previously mentioned, I’ve been staying with my oldest and greatest and best friend of all time, Gracie (I was not blackmailed into that description) at her lovely little apartment just below the flight path for every single aircraft in the greater Burlington area (on Wednesdays the local lads go out and play with their fighter jets. It’s great). Air traffic notwithstanding, when one finds oneself spending an extended period of time with a very old and close friend, it can, for better or worse, become an extended therapy session. Gracie, being my live-in therapist for the week, put a notion into my head that patterns of thought create well worn grooves in our brains -- little highways and tunnels to make all that mind-traffic run a bit more smoothly. While that’s efficient civil engineering on the part of our brains, for folks who have a tendency to fixate incessantly on the same two or three thoughts (I don’t know anyone like that 👀), those grooves and traffic patterns can get deep. So, it’s important to do what we can to break out of those rough and tumble pathways, and hop in a tiny monster truck to climb our way out.

Once we’re safely out, we can let erosion and time do their thing and ultimately wash all those bumps away.

At least, that’s the theory.

I figured there was nothing like a little footy on a Friday evening to put that to the test.

As we know, because we’ve all read the first episode of this Fall Tour (yes I did just link to my own publication...sue me), I quite enjoy getting to matches as early as the gate attendants will allow. Unfortunately, on this particular Friday, I missed the first half of warmups because I did not employ good time management skills, and had to see a locksmith (shout out Dion’s in the Old North End for getting the canopy on my truck to lock again), and because I wanted to take a picture of a railroad bridge which now holds unexpected sentimental value to me.

So, with kickoff rapidly approaching, I headed to The Salmon Hole to pursue this mythical sentimental bridge. A troop of unruly squirrels must have taken umbrage with my approach, as they rained hell fire and acorns down about my head. I feared for my noggin’, but the squirrels either had terrible aim, or were simply using bluff, bluster, and bravado as scare tactics, because all I heard were the sounds of acorns clattering into the wooden steps behind me as I made my way down the precipitous slope towards the muddy banks of the Winooski River.

Despite the tiny defenders in the canopy above, I made it, and set to carrying out a new ritual I’ve developed for this Fall Tour, 2026. I purchased two disposable cameras (shockingly expensive little buggers), and will be taking one photo everyday while I’m on the road. Naturally, by Day 3 I had already forgotten to take my daily photo, so I was both off to a great start with my ritual, and had a hot commodity of a spare photo burning a hole in my back pocket. I burnt that extra on a near-duplicate photo of the aforementioned emotionally charged railroad bridge, albeit from several steps further back from where I took the first. I swear, the second angle really added something to the composition.

All this to say: I arrived at Virtue Field a little later than I would’ve liked, but the stadium didn’t seem to mind, as I was welcomed aboard by twenty-five UVM cheerleaders. I have scarcely experienced a more awkward or uncomfortable arrival to a football ground. The cheerleaders were all moving and dancing to some tune I either couldn’t hear, or didn’t recognize, and I tried to make conversation with them as I went by (“hello, how do you do?”, “Thank you for your service”, “Jeez, nice weather we’re having today, don’t you think?”), but they seemed to only have a few stock responses in their repertoire (“Go UVM!”, “Come on Catamounts!”). Either that or they were contractually obligated to avoid engaging with the public in any way short of a vacant stare over a person’s shoulder, and a blurted pre-approved phrase. I hurried through that honor guard as quickly as possible, and beelined for my seat down near the touchline.

Upon arriving there, I noticed every player, on both sides of the pitch, were wearing the same shade of green, and was momentarily embarrassed because I thought I’d accidentally paid to watch a pre-season Varsity-JV scrimmage. I quickly did some fact-checking and deep research, and noticed the big “C” logo being broadcast on the away side of the scoreboard. It was all shades of green, and I figured it must stand for Chattanooga, which is the team I was pretty sure I was there to watch UVM play -- decidedly not Vermont’s JV team.

Phew! That would’ve been embarrassing!

Unfortunately, my relief from embarrassment was short lived, as I learned the big “C” logo did not, in fact, belong to Chattanooga, but Charlotte. So, as you can tell, I came in really prepared for this one. I thought I’d better do a little research on what the hell I was about to watch, and figured fifteen minutes prior to kickoff seemed like a swell time to do that. Wouldn’t want my readers to think I was an unprepared hack or anything.

And after five minutes of serious journalistic research, I learned I’d stumbled into a must-watch, early season matchup. Charlotte, it turns out, is pretty good at soccer, and sit at #18 in the nation, just a wee bit behind good ole UVM at #7. Now I think I’ve mentioned in the past that I have no knowledge or understanding of how these NCAA rankings work, which obviously means they’re gospel, and I believe them without question.

As the teams re-entered the locker rooms to attend to their final preparations, I decided to remain in my seat down near the very front of the stand, in an effort to keep riding with Grave Digger and continue to form new grooves and patterns in my brain. But...I didn’t like it, and found myself feeling incredibly exposed down there on display for all to see. Everyone was obviously staring at me, and reading my notes over my shoulder, because I’m obviously the center of attention and the main character, and everyone obviously takes note of everything I do everywhere. Obviously.

On top of feeling very much in the public eye, it was way busier down there, or perhaps just busier in the stands in general. If the cheerleaders at the entrance weren’t sign enough, there were baby-faced college students everywhere. I’m not kidding. Locusts. Crawling up the sides of the stands, squeezing around my legs and feet to get to their friends, unable to sit still for longer than thirty seconds at a time, never shutting up because they were there to socialize instead of actually watch the match. God! The nerve of them! To be nineteen years old, away from their parents for the first time, and trying to take full advantage of it. Unreal. Take me back to summer when the only people in the stands were Blake, his mom, and a bunch of sixty year old Vermonters with nothing else to do with their afternoon.

Speaking of Blake, ya’ll are not gonna believe this:

As the teams emerged from the tunnel, with each player hand in hand with a young child from the local community (a random, funny tradition in football), who should I see walking out there, last in line, but young Blake. That little fucker! I couldn’t decide if he’d somehow given his mom the slip and joined in the procession without permission, or if his mom had said to herself, “Ya know what, watching the match in the stands went so well last Sunday, maybe we oughta just put Blake out on display for 2,000 people to see.”

It’s anyone’s guess as to the rationale behind this perplexing turn of events, but regardless, there he was! In the spotlight, and making the most of it. Someone within the UVM Promotions and Events team had made the mistake of giving the little terror a flag to carry while he went out onto the field, and had neglected to really drive home any instructions and policies surrounding proper conduct with said flag. So, of course, as the stadium rose respectfully, hats off, hearts facing the tattered Stars and Stripes of Virtue Field, Blake saw his moment. He started waving that tiny flag like he was stranded on an island, trying to get the attention of a passing aircraft. When that got old, he decided to change tactics and began banging his flag into the ground, before accidentally dropping the abused thing to the turf. This proved to be the stroke of luck and inspiration our little tyrant was looking for, as he apparently quite enjoyed the effect, and elected to take matters into his own hands and launch it as far out in front of himself as he could. Luckily he’s not a very big kid, and couldn’t get a whole lot of oomph into his toss, and only had to jog ten yards out of position to retrieve his toy. I wasn’t getting the sense that Blake had a major future in the javelin, but he sure as shit seemed to have an affinity for being in front of a crowd.

Anyway, through a firm grip from his UVM player-escort, Blake was reluctantly ushered from the pitch, and after giving the young performer the standing ovation he was due, I was forced to settle into the considerably more boring experience of watching a football match.

Due to my poor seating choice smack dab in the middle of the student section, I realized I was spending more time people watching than actually viewing the match, and was having a hootin’ hollerin’ good time watching the most lackadaisical ball boy you ever did see. The only time I’ve ever seen someone move that unhurriedly in a professional setting is when I watched that sloth at the DMV in Zootopia. Because of Mister Unmotivated down on the touchline, I nearly missed it when Pieter Bultman scored for UVM in the 21st minute (totally against the run of play, I might add: Charlotte were all over them through fifteen minutes). I resolved to find a different seat for the second half.

I journeyed to the opposite side of the stand, climbed all the way to the top, and found myself seated next to two of the most earnest football fans I have ever met: Barb and Doug. Retired sixty-somethings, who had lived in Burlington for most of their lives and who flaunted their Vermont-ness by using the phrase “jeezum crow” with a frequency I didn’t know was possible. What they lacked in actual knowledge of the sport, they made up for with enthusiasm and strong opinions on the job the stadium announcer was doing, and were quite clear where they were placing blame after Natsuki Ogata’s leveller for Charlotte, which came just after halftime. (Side note: Ogata was far and away my player of the match. He was shifty and creative and an absolute nightmare for the UVM defense).

“God, would it kill him to put a little enthusiasm into his voice?” Doug asked.

“Maybe if he was more exciting the crowd would actually cheer, and we’d be winning!” Barb helpfully replied.

“Gotta get him pickled up before the next game -- give him a few cocktails.” I had never heard the term “pickled up” before, but decided I both liked it and hated it at the same time.

Whether or not the poor announcer was responsible for the state of the match, the comments were emblematic of the way Barb and Doug went about supporting their team, and their players. They knew all of the guys out there, referring to most of them by their first names, and held a fondness in their voices that implied they genuinely cared for each of them as people.

When Shalom Adja scored his first career goal in the 57th minute with a lovely finish to make the match 2-1 in UVM’s favor, Barb veritably lit up with excitement for the young man, and became his biggest cheerleader for the rest of the time he was on the field. In fact, she was visibly frustrated when he was taken out, saying to anyone who would listen: “Oh, come on! He had more in the tank!”

Because of where we were positioned; just underneath the platform at the top of the stand reserved for television cameras, we had a perfect listening post to eavesdrop on the two local television cameramen behind us. It was unclear how much of the match they were actually filming, but it was clear how they felt about the Boston Red Sox, and Doug had finally had enough, “we’re watching the Catamounts, not the Red Sox!”

Even though the cameramen adhered to Doug’s admonishment, it didn’t stop Larry Noel from leveled the match again for Charlotte in the 78th minute. Barb and Doug groaned in collective agony as if they were out there right alongside their boys, feeling every drop of sweat, every twist and turn of their studs in the turf, and their pain at conceding a goal late in the match.

UVM very nearly scored the winning goal with what would’ve been the last kick of the game, but the ball floated just over the bar, and things ended all square at 2-2. Barb and Doug were heartbroken, and yet so freakin’ proud of the effort those young men had put in. It was so wholesome it made me want to cry.

While I was admittedly distracted for much of it, my Friday evening experience did exactly what I needed it to, and gave me a monster truck ride out of my habitual thought patterns. To Barb, Doug, Blake, lackadaisical ball boy, chatty cameramen, and all those pesky college students: thank you for giving me a pleasant distraction for an evening, and for reminding me that a football match is so much more than simply what happens on the field, and whether you’re an expert or not, there will always be something within the hallowed walls of a stadium for anyone to enjoy.

Before We Go, Let’s Sexualize Some Mascots:

Now that we’ve gotten through that touchy-feely, “football brings us all together” bullshit, let’s do something weird.

When I came across the photo below of Timber Jim from the 1970’s (famously the original mascot of my hometown club, The Portland Timbers), I was struck by how gosh darn handsome that son of a bitch was, and it made me wonder: is he the hottest mascot to ever live?

So, I’m taking a poll, doing some hard research, and seeing if, on my travels, I can find a more attractive mascot than Timber Jim, circa 1970.

Your help in this matter is of the utmost importance, and much appreciated.

Thank you for your participation in this matter.

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I recently finished reading The Left Hand of Darkness by Ursula K. Le Guin (shout out Allie for letting me borrow it) while traveling in Slovenia for two and a half weeks with my family. It was a fascinating read — in particular the ideas it floats around patriotism, which resonated poignantly for me whilst travelling in another country.

“How does one hate a country, or love one?... I know people, I know towns, farms, hills and rivers and rocks, I know how the sun at sunset in autumn falls on the side of a certain plowland in the hills...I wondered, not for the first time, what patriotism is, what the love of country truly consists of…and how so real a love can become, too often, so foolish and vile a bigotry. Where does it go wrong?”

I love Europe, and Slovenia is a wonderful country, but I’ll be damned if I wasn’t pretty freakin’ happy to be returning to the good ole US of A last week. There is a security and sense of comfort that comes with occupying space within the arbitrary boundaries of one’s homeland. We have major issues in this country, but it’s also home, and I don’t care who you are, or where you’re from, it’s good to come home.

With that in mind, I can hardly imagine something more patriotic or distinctly American than attending an NCAA Men’s Division One soccer match on a Sunday afternoon. So it should surprise no one that I found myself in the stands of Virtue Field in Burlington, Vermont to watch University of Vermont (UVM) play Colgate University (of Hamilton, NY, in case you were, as I was, wondering where the hell Colgate was) in both teams’ second match of the season.

Before I launch into this, I’ll offer a big disclaimer: I know absolutely nothing about college soccer in the US. All I really know is that there are about 12,000 teams competing across roughly 800 distinct conferences, and they’re all ranked by some wacky algorithm and competing for the chance to play in the NCAA tournament at the end of the season. I’ll go a step further and admit that the only college soccer game I’ve ever watched was the 2024 NCAA Championship game where UVM defeated Marshall 2-1 to win the program’s first national championship.

Outside of that? I got nothin’ folks.

Despite my lack of expertise on the subject, I went in with some pretty strong preconceived notions about what I’d find during this match, namely:
-not a ton of technical ability
-lots of incredibly physical play from some very athletic and fit guys
-tons of long balls, leading to 50/50 and second balls
-goals (if any) would be scored almost exclusively via set pieces

To be clear, I didn’t think of this list as all negative. It may not be classy, flowing football, but that’s okay. I didn’t need it to be. It is, as I’ve said: distinctly American, and special because of that. I was freshly home from time spent in foreign lands, after all, and a bit of classic American game play was pretty much what the doctor ordered.

But, as I arrived at the stadium at around 12:15pm (had to leave time to watch warmups, obviously), some things happened which I did not expect. First, I was greeted with a wave of nostalgia. Memories flooded in: late summer days spent training on the artificial turf of my high school field, the heat radiating off that stagnant body of green plastic, the smell of those little rubber nuggets baking in the afternoon sun.

Second, my thoughts about “not a lot of technical ability” flew out both ears as I watched the UVM starting eleven absolutely pinging the ball around in their small-sided possession game. It was the level of precision, focus, and flow-state I had only achieved on rare occasions in my (not that illustrious) playing career, and these lads were doing it in their warm up. For fifteen minutes, I stood there, bellied up against the railing of the grand stand, entranced, assuring myself that I could totally hop in there without disrupting the rhythm if I really wanted to...

Sadly, I was not invited to play with the big kids, and as kickoff approached, both teams sauntered to their respective locker rooms, and I was compelled to find an actual seat. I think I’ve touched on this in the past, but man oh man do I love General Admission seating. You’re telling me for $13 I can sit wherever I want? Sometimes that freedom, as freedom will do, turns into something of a curse rather than the blessing it claims to be, and an indecisive gentleman such as myself can become rather overwhelmed by choice and possibility. But on this occasion? No worries. Halfway line, two-thirds of the way up the stand = perfection.

As the teams walked out, I overheard someone behind me say: “jeez it’s a little empty in here today”.

This took me aback. There were way more people than I had expected (official number: 1,890). Was it bouncing with energy and filled to the brim like a Vermont Green FC match? No, but for the second match of the season against a non-conference opponent on a Sunday afternoon in late August? I was pretty impressed with the turnout.

It occurred to me then, that I was very possibly seated in a budding hub of American soccer. Usually, when we think of soccer hotspots in this country, places like Southern California, New Jersey, and Seattle (and Portland, Oregon, of course) come to mind. Before 2021, I doubt anyone would’ve placed Vermont in that conversation. But it was around that time that some magical things began to happen in The Green Mountain State.

In May of 2022, Vermont Green FC kicked off their inaugural season in USL League Two, and immediately embedded themselves within the cultural and sporting fabric of not only the greater Burlington area, but the state as a whole. I could write a whole piece just on that club and all the cool things they’re doing (who are we kidding? That’ll probably happen at some point), but let’s stay on topic for today.

And, just a few months prior to that, in 2021, the “We Five” movement within the University of Vermont soccer program was born. Never heard of that? Feel like it sounds like some sinister conspiracy group not dissimilar to the Illuminati? Relax! Turns out it’s just a group of former UVM soccer players from the late 60’s and early 70’s who are now, apparently, quite well off financially, and elected to use those hard earned bucks to funnel cash into the soccer program with a goal of “winning a championship in five years”. Lots of sporting organizations love to throw around this “win a championship in the next five years” thing, but very few of them actually pull it off.

Yet, through a mixture of increased funding, creative recruiting strategies, and significant cultural shifts both on and off the field, they pulled it off. Was it a headline grabbing, ESPN storyline when they made their “win a championship in five years” claim? No, but my theory is that’s precisely why it worked. These “We Five” folks weren’t gunning for fame, fortune, or global recognition of their brand. They were people genuinely dedicated to their work, their program, and their school, and within four years, they achieved their goal and won the program’s first ever NCAA Championship.

Eight months later, in August of 2025, Vermont Green FC won their first national championship in USL League Two (with several Catamounts playing a pivotal role in that run), and the local community was hooked. I should say: I’ve only lived in this state for two years, so I can’t really speak to the culture around football prior to 2024, but from what I’ve seen: people are in it. It also helps that their teams continue to be good, with The Green’s men’s tean repeating as USL League Two champs this past summer, while the women also made the national championship, only to fall in penalties to some stupid team from Seattle.

And hence: budding epicenter of American soccer: my hot take for the day. Maybe it’s not that hot of a take. I don’t know. You tell me.

I was musing on this when the match kicked off and the teams started smashing long balls from one end of the pitch to the other. As we’ve covered, I was expecting this style of play, however after watching the UVM guys warming up, and showcasing their healthy dose of technical ability, I was confused at what I was seeing. It was a choppy, physical, closely contested first half...where was that silky, one and two touch play? The cute touches around defenders, the elegant clipped balls into space? I suppose this is where you have to give some credit to Colgate. I had watched their warmups as well, and while they attempted to emulate the fluidity of what was happening on the home side of the pitch, they spent more time running around collecting balls that had bounced off of shins and out of play, than they did actually connecting passes.

So, what do you do when your opponent is far better than you in a technical sense?

Make it ugly, of course!

UVM apparently looked at that game plan and said, “okay sure, we can play that way if you want”, and scored two goals in the first twenty-six minutes: one off a long ball over the top, and one off a set piece.

When halftime arrived, the atmosphere in the stands mostly reflected what we’d seen on the pitch. It was almost as if the fans, like the teams, were still in preseason form, and were warming themselves up, knowing there would be other, more important matches in the coming months they’d need to save their energy for. This is not meant to fault the players or coaches for any lack of effort. It just felt like a lazy Sunday afternoon at the stadium, and everyone in attendance had signed a social contract agreeing that they were pretty much okay with that energy.

Everyone except Blake, that is. Blake was nine years old and sat directly behind me with his mother, and friend Brian. Or, more accurately, his mother really wanted him to be seated, but young Blake was not having any of that bullshit. He was squirming and stomping his feet (as anyone would, given the resounding percussive attributes of metal bleachers), yelling at the referee to give out a card at every opportunity, and generally having the run of Row N. Mom was less enthused with Blake’s self-prescribed mission directive, and routinely lectured him on the merits of being a good host, sitting still, and paying attention. I did not envy that mother.

The second half plodded along much in the way the first had, with UVM mostly bossing proceedings against a pretty thoroughly outmatched Colgate side. In fact, where Colgate’s players looked like the 18-21 year olds they were, UVM’s players were beefed up men; friggin’ Spartans, or Nordic vikings, or some such legendary example of rampant testosterone. And as the Catamounts scored their third goal (also via a set piece), the match increasingly devolved into the Sven and Thor lookin’ motherfuckers of UVM running around bullying a bunch of scrawny American teenagers.

Not pretty.

It wasn’t until very late in the second half when both sides began to actually play football a little bit. Somewhere between the time young Blake was receiving his fourth stern talking to from his mother, and when he loudly questioned to the heavens, and anyone in his general vicinity who would listen: “WHY DOES THIS FEEL LIKE THE LONGEST GAME OF MY LIIIIIIIFE???”

It appeared the big bad bullies from Burlington heard our young man’s desperate cry, because they went on to score an absolute peach of a fourth goal.

Why it took 80-some minutes and three prior goals to get us to the point where we remembered it was okay to pass the ball, rather than just hoof it downfield, I don’t know, but it was worth it to watch that curler.

And so it went, after a late consolation goal for Colgate, that UVM walked away as 4-1 winners, and I was left with a pleasant feeling in my tummy. It had been an afternoon well spent, watching a match that probably really only mattered to the almost 2,000 folks in attendance, and a smattering of people who couldn’t make it out to Virtue Field. That’s what made it special though, and I think that’s what’s so interesting about these hyper-local stories: the people involved in them care deeply. Not because their team, or the particular match is going viral, or grabbing national headlines, but because it’s a physical manifestation and representation of their home. For my money, that’s where patriotism is at its finest: love for place, and love for community; that’s all it needs to be.

Leave the bigotry at the door, and go cheer on your local football team.

Some Highlights, If You’re Into That Sort of Thing:

13’ UVM 1-0 Colgate

I know I’ve spoken about the “long ball over the top” in thinly veiled, disparaging tones, but take nothing away from this goal. That take and finish from Luis Fischer is class, and the 60 yard ball from Islam Houssni wasn’t too shabby either.

26’ UVM 2-0 Colgate

Set piece goal #1 of the afternoon. Again, I know I’ve got a bit of a tone going on when I talk about set piece goals, but that volley from Houssni is no easy skill, and if the defense is just gonna let you walk in there and smack one from seven yards out, you’re obliged to do just that.

69’ (heh heh) UVM 3-0 Colgate

Set piece goal #2 of the afternoon! Again, that defending is…not so hot. It’s not the prettiest goal David Ismail has ever, or will ever score, but they all count the same, and thunder thighs are always kinda fun.

74’ UVM missed penalty

I was sitting there taking notes and thinking that Ismael was probably the best player on the pitch, and then he kinda fluffed this penalty. He put it on frame, which is half the battle, and credit to Colgate goalkeeper Christian Kellogg (saving penalties is not easy), but I fully expected Ismael to bury that for his second of the match.

78’ UVM 4-0 Colgate

There it is! The pick of the lot! I knew UVM had more in the tank than the set piece machine, and they proved it. TJ Liquori with the lovely assist, and Phillip Schmidtke applying the beautiful curling finish. Just put that one on repeat.

82’ UVM 4-1 Colgate

As I said, it wasn’t until little Blake egged both teams on and told them they were being boring that they started to play a little bit, so credit to Colgate here. Behind Ismael, I was going to say that UVM goalkeeper Niklas Herceg was the other best player on the pitch (he seemed more comfortable with his feet than most of his defenders), but I hesitated in making that claim because he really didn’t have a whole hell of a lot to do throughout the match. I even wrote in my notes: “I’d like it if he had to make a save and see what he’s got”. Well…this was a tough one, and Herceg maybe could’ve done better with it, but after 82 minutes of mostly standing and watching, and with his team up 4-0, he can be forgiven for not being totally keyed in, plus I’m certain he saw this pretty late. Don’t worry Niklas, I wouldn’t have done any better.

Closing Remarks

With the passing of this match, The Football Was My Savior’s Fall Tour is officially underway! I’ll spend the rest of this week in Burlington, staying with my oldest and best friend in the world, Gracie, (and editor extraordinaire -- thank you for giving this piece a read through for me!) and catching another UVM Men’s match this coming Friday, 8/28.

Where am I headed after that? You’ll just have to follow along to find out!

The Part Where I Ask You For Money, But Feel A Little Weird About It

The Football Was My Savior will ALWAYS be free, but if you would like to support me, and the longevity of this project, the best way to do so is to check out my page on Ko-Fi, and donate any amount you feel comfortable offering.

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No matter how you choose to support this project, thank you so very much for deciding to spend part of your day with me.

Starting September 3rd, I’ll be embarking on a month-long road trip from Vermont, to Providence, NYC, and all the way through to Charlotte, NC, with lots of fun stops along the way. I’ll be living out of my truck and/or sleeping on the couches of generous friends who happen to live in the regions I’ll be visiting.

Where does the football come in, you ask?

An excellent question! Discerning readers will notice that each of the above cities I listed are home to one or more USL (United Soccer League) teams. For those of you unfamiliar with the USL, here’s a brief explanation:

It’s a men’s and women’s professional soccer league in the United States that doesn’t serve as a direct competitor to MLS (Major League Soccer - the premier men’s professional league in the States), or NWSL (National Women’s Soccer League - the premier women’s professional league in the States), but rather, as an alternative. It is, in effect, the minor league of American soccer.

And it happens to hold a very special place in my heart.

Some of my earliest football memories stem from the USL. The Portland Timbers, for most of my childhood, competed in the league and I have incredibly fond memories of heading down to PGE Park on Saturday afternoons with friends and family to catch a match. We used to get there right as gates opened, grab a handful of $10 GA tickets, then sprint through the concourse, dodging vendors and unsuspecting fans in the process, to secure tables at the pitchside beer garden for what were arguably the finest seats in the house. And honestly, when I look back on those days, it’s easy for me to convince myself that those moments were better than the MLS days of the present. That beer garden with the pitchside seats? Gone, and replaced by a smaller amount of seating which costs way more than those trusty GA tickets. A gaggle of eighth graders screaming insults and profanities at the visiting team? Also not a thing anymore, and, in hindsight, probably for the best. Timber Jim hoisting himself up a 60 foot log just so he could rev his chainsaw from the top and beat a drum? Gone, gone, gone, and that’s a damn shame.

I honestly don’t think football would have nearly as much importance in my life today if it weren’t for those summer nights at PGE Park watching the USL Timbers.

And, after all this time, the USL not only endures, but thrives, and is doing some really cool stuff in the process.

They place an emphasis on creating teams in middle to small markets; think cities like Omaha, Boise, Monterey Bay, Louisville, etc. Large enough hubs in their regions, but not major media epicenters. Because of this, they lean heavily into building clubs with local, community-based vibes. They’re not setting out to build mega stadiums, not looking to secure massive broadcast and sponsorship deals, or to sign the next aging European star. Most of the stadiums in the league range from 5,000 to 15,000 seats, which provides a strikingly intimate viewing experience. From an external perspective, the USL projects stability and sustainability as its growth model. In a world clogged to bursting with low-effort dopamine hits, “get rich quick” schemes, and an overall lack of patience for development, their approach is genuinely radical and different to what we are so often inundated with.

Additionally: The USL has plans to initiate the first promotion/relegation system in the history of American professional sports. Again, if you’re unfamiliar with what promotion/relegation is, here’s a brief explanation:

Essentially, there will be a pyramid of three leagues:

1. USL Premier (First Division)

2. USL Championship (Second Division)

3. USL League One (Third Division)

At the end of each season, the top three teams in each division get promoted to the next highest level of the pyramid, while the bottom three teams get relegated to the next lowest rung. So, for example: finish in the top three of the USL Championship? Next season, you’ll be playing in USL Premier.

I probably don’t need to spell out why this is exciting and fun, but I’ll do it anyway: there’s always something to play for. If your team is playing in USL Championship, and they absolutely suck, you still have a reason to be invested in each match because they’re fighting to avoid getting relegated to USL League One.

It’s fun, see? (Unless your team absolutely sucks and they’re playing in USL League One, in which case ya’ll have bigger problems, and there’s really nowhere lower for you to go).

So! If you hadn’t been able to gather this fact yet: I’m pretty excited about what’s happening in the USL.

Which is why, as mentioned, I’m taking The Football Was My Savior on the road this fall, and am planning to cover over 2,000 road miles, and visit more than ten cities and states, and tell the story of the journey right here on Substack and in your inboxes!

Along the way, I’ll be reaching out to all of the clubs I’ll be visiting, and hopefully have the chance to sit down with front office, coaching staff, or players, and pick their brains about what makes their club special, while also learning about their experiences. As I’ve pitched this idea to friends, so many of them have been curious to learn what it’s like for a person to stake their livelihood on a small, community-based football club in the United States, and I aim to shed some light on that.

Additionally, I’ll be reaching out to fans and supporter groups of all of these clubs, with the same aim: to hear about their experiences with their local club, and understand and share why it matters to them.

Football at the USL level is accessible, affordable, and community driven. It is football, simply for the joy and the love of it, and at its core, it embodies everything I hold dear about this silly little game. So, what better way to honor that than by immersing myself in its wake, soaking up its culture, and breathing in everything it has to offer?

September 3rd, The Football Was My Savior hits the road, USL-style!

A Little Housekeeping:

The Football Was My Savior will ALWAYS be free, because I firmly believe art and storytelling should be free for everyone.

That said, travel and things associated with it, cost money. If you would like to support me, and the longevity of this project, the best way to do so is to check out my page on Ko-Fi, and donate any amount you feel comfortable offering.

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Whether you choose to support this project monetarily or not, simply reading is support enough, and I am so grateful you’ve decided to spend part of your day with me.

I sheepishly put down a cracked open thigh bone, and hoped Max wasn’t immediately regretting his decision to allow my uncultured country bumpkin-ass into his urban sanctuary..

Despite my lack of social niceties, Max had a lovely Saturday mapped out for us.

A morning run, some coffee, a meet up with my friend Tulah to go brunching and chatting, before an evening at The Comedy Cellar.

Astute readers will notice the third place match between France and England didn’t make it into the above Saturday itinerary. This is because I, like many football fans the world over, have never quite understood why it takes place. The overriding sentiment surrounding the third place match throughout my life has consistently been: sure, if it’s on, and there’s nothing else even remotely more exciting going on, I’ll watch it, or at least have it on in the background, but I’m not going out of my way for it.

Boy oh boy, arrogance has a way of smacking you in the face, doesn’t it?

When 6:30pm rolled around, and we had to leave Max and Ghjulia’s apartment to make it to our dinner reservation, we were glued to the television. England up 4-0 at the end of the first half? You’re kidding, right? France clawing back to make it 3-4 by the 66th minute? What on god’s green earth was going on??

At one point, Max made the rather astute remark that it was, “almost like both teams decided not to use the middle of the pitch”, and he was right. It was like a finishing drill taking place in the form of an official match. One team would take their chance, and then by unspoken agreement (or perhaps a spoken agreement, for those of you of the persuasion that the matches at this World Cup were fixed to some degree 👀), they’d allow the other team to hoof it up to the other end, and take their turn defending for their lives. I have never seen a professional football match like it.

Despite being mildly annoyed at our lack of foresight and the way we’d planned our evening, I will say: there were silver linings to being forced to leave the television early and not witness the rest of the historic match unfold. Throughout my life, I’ve possessed this (probably romantic) vision of what a World Cup viewing experience ought to be. In this dream, there’s an environment; a city, a country--whatever--where all of humanity just…stops, presses pause on their earthly motions and preoccupations, and simply: watches. But invariably, the world falls short of my grand visions because, well, people have different priorities.

On this particular occasion, however, as I desperately tried to stream the remaining moments of this France - England classic on my phone in between subway stops, I got a taste of fulfilling that dream. As we mercifully exited the LTE black hole of the NYC subway system, and entered the bustling streets of Manhattan, it seemed that every street corner had a bar showing the match. Everywhere we walked, we were forced to sidestep the gathered crowds craning their necks to peek through the open windows of the bars and restaurants before them, just to catch a glimpse of the action unfolding on that pitch in Miami. And, such was the nature of this chaotic third place match, every block there was something new, some shakeup or highlight to catch as we passed by; a different roar (or groan, depending on the gathered audiences), to bring tidings of the latest developments. For the briefest of moments, it seemed the entire city was on the same page. Each bar and cafe, every new city block was a fresh exhibit displaying a new perspective--an image captured in time: a vignette of an absolutely bonkers match.

I am, and likely always will be, a dreamer. More often than not, I understand my dreams will remain just that: fantasies, which the real world can never hope to match. But, in this one moment, during arguably the most meaningless match of the entire tournament, I was able to live out a tiny glimpse of a dream, and I profusely thanked both France and England for mutually deciding to forget how to play defense. Next summer, for the Women’s World Cup, I promise, I’ll make a point to intentionally watch the third place match.

…

New York City, and other major global metropolises I’ve visited, have this aura about them: an energy which you can feel just by taking to the streets. There’s a feeling of being inches away from something remarkable, grand, and probably famous. It’s as if the hallowed ground of the celebrity and the infamous are within touching distance of everyone. And so, to sit in a bustling Greenwich Village restaurant, which has been operating for nigh on 150 years, you get the sense that not only is it possible that some star or another has sat right where you’re sitting, but also that they just got up—vacated their space for you, personally. It’s hard, then, particularly for the dreamers among us, to avoid feeling as if we are stars ourselves.

Invariably though, this veneer of dreams, this translucent curtain between fantasy and reality, comes crashing down with no warning or prior notice, in the form of a Sunday morning hangover. Turns out, hours spent drinking Brooklyn Lagers (not my favorite light beer, but, ya know, when in Rome), coupled with pitchers of sangria and the occasional shot of whiskey, will really send you crashing down to earth in about the time it takes for your body to begin metabolizing all the poison you’ve just ingested.

So, I awoke on the morning of the World Cup Final with a headache, a dry mouth, and a nervous system in the firm grip of my old friend: The Anxiety Monster. Ah well. sometimes you’ve gotta pay the piper or whatever, and let that fucker have his moment in the spotlight.

Blessedly, one of the best and most effective means of sating the appetite of the ravenous Anxiety Monster is: activity. So, this being the day of the final, we were forced out of the house, and began the trek to Governor’s Island for “The People’s Final”, presented by the office of the mayor. I am not incredibly hip to the state of New York City politics, but I’ll give Zohran Mamdani this: the man knows his way to my heart. His shameless love for the beautiful game, and dedication to providing quality experiences for the millions of folks who also shamelessly love it, has effectively garnered him the loyalty of football fans everywhere.

So, we arrived on the funny little isle of the governors, full of spirited hope and an eager, boyish enthusiasm for the afternoon ahead of us.

Before we go any further, I should say, in general: I don’t really like big events: birthdays, New Year’s Eve…The World Cup Final (even this particular post, it being the final one in the series). Because with big events, come big expectations, and without fail, the event winds up incapable of meeting those expectations:

• New Year’s Eve is meant to be this glitzy, glamorous ringing in of the New Year—a turning over of a new leaf full of resolutions, parties, and what ought to be the best and most fun night of the year, if not your entire life.

• Birthdays are similar. You’re celebrating yourself, for christ’s sake, better make a meal out of that and hope you don’t fall flat, otherwise it might look like you don’t really like yourself that much.

• The World Cup Final? Arguably the biggest offender of them all. After over a month of glorious, near daily celebrations of the beautiful game, it all comes down to one final match which is chock full of hype, expectation, and invariably (for the neutral, at least) disappointment. Teams play it unbelievably safe, not wanting to be the ones to make the single mistake which leads to ridicule, loss and infamy. And for the fan, the experience is much the same. It’s a BIG deal! You’ve spent so much time watching and thinking about this tournament, all for this one moment, you want to make it worthwhile, memorable.

All this to say: I found myself caught between that age old conundrum of doing what I wanted to do, and doing what I thought I should do, and trying to figure out which one of those impulses was actually the god’s honest truth.

I don’t want to make this out like we had a bad time...it was just...a lot, and, admittedly, our indecisiveness over our plans, and the last minute nature of our decision left us rather unprepared. I.E.: a half liter of water between us, and no food. But hey, at least we brought chairs! And sunscreen! I’d call that growth, honestly. When I was in my 20’s, I’d have been lucky to show up on time for the event with anything other than the shirt on my back (if that). Maybe by the time I hit my 40’s, I’ll get it figured out.

OR! I’ll just accept that I don’t really like large events with even larger crowds, and I really don’t love sitting in direct sunlight for over three and a half hours, and I really need some snacks and plenty of water, rather than several beers on an empty stomach, otherwise I wind up tired, and a little cranky. Throw in the absolutely massive line to get on the lone ferry off the island after the full time whistle, then being herded like cattle getting ready for a stock show for an hour and a half...Suffice to say: by the time Max and I made it to Lower Manhattan and sat down for a much overdue bite to eat, we were both...a little cooked; physically, emotionally, and spiritually.

All of this, though, stems from the fact that the World Cup Final is a #bigevent, and as such, I felt compelled by a vapid combination of FOMO, guilt, and self judgement, to find the “best” place to view the spectacle--the experience which would yield the most interesting, envy-worthy story. There was also the fact that I was literally in New York City, less than fifteen miles from where the match was physically being played.

I told myself, “It seems a bit silly to be this close to the actual event, and just sit at a neighborhood bar.”

But why is that silly?

The gents working at the bodega down the street from Max and Ghjulia’s apartment were watching the match on a cell phone, narrating events to their colleagues and customers alike. There were folks up and down their block of 5th Avenue, crowded into bars, seated at outside tables or the curb, watching proceedings any which way they could. This is all per Ghjulia, who wisely stayed home, but from what it sounded like there was a veritable block party on display right out the window of their apartment. All we really had to do was open the living room window, and we’d have been a part of the whole thing.

Now, don’t get me wrong: The People’s Final on Governor’s Island was a marvelous event: they had multiple mini pitches set up to play organized pick up games before, during, and after the match. There were fans of all persuasions: Spanish, Argentinean, and neutral. The grass was absolutely luscious and cool, and despite my earlier comment about roasting in the sun, it really wasn’t that hot, and was actually a lovely afternoon, with the smoke from the wild fires miraculously clearing out. And finally, the two young boys seated behind Max and I were a sight to behold. They clung to every touch of the ball, were on the edge of their seats for each of Spain’s ten million shots, celebrating, then mourning, as their heroes failed to find the back of the net. I thought one of the poor little fuckers might have a heart attack at the tender age of twelve after Spain’s initial goal was disallowed for a very tight (but correct) offside call. And when Ferran Torres scored Spain’s winner in the 106th minute? There were tears, ya’ll. And it was glorious. I was so happy for those boys, and if we’re being totally transparent here, a little jealous. I will likely never get to experience my team playing in a World Cup Final, let alone scoring a winner in extra time. Those two youngsters probably don’t know how lucky they are, and they don’t need to. All they have to do is bask in the glow of their team winning the freakin’ cup.

So, like I said, the experience wasn’t “bad”, it merely left me wondering if I will ever find the proper balance between seeking out the “peak” experience, and searching for the thing that will bring me the most joy. Because it seems that the thing which will bring me the most joy is almost always the peak experience, which I’ve missed because I was searching for the “peak” experience…
That sorta came out like Bilbo Baggins’ famous speech on his 111th birthday, but maybe you get what I’m saying.

...

As for the final itself? Well, it went about the way finals typically go: kinda sleepy. So sleepy in fact, I may or may not have closed my eyes for small stretches of the second half...not proud of that, but, I’m here to offer the truth.

There’s been a lot of talk since before kickoff, and now in the aftermath of it all, of how Spain are the ones who truly “deserved” to win. Argentina has been framed as the bad guys, and in so many ways, I don’t disagree with that take because they did it to themselves. Spain went out to play their game, whereas Argentina was there to try and disrupt Spain’s game, rather than attempt to play their own. It was uncreative, unoriginal, and ugly, and I truly wish it had been England in the final (or Cabo Verde cuz, ya know, they’re awesome), rather than Argentina. While I think the end result was going to be the same no matter who lined up against Spain, I firmly believe England would’ve given them more of a fight. But like...a good kind of fight, and not the kind where you grab someone’s throat at the end of the match, or turn your backs on the team that beat you fair and square (and dominantly) while they receive the trophy and their winner’s medals.

I don’t mean to disrespect the Argentineans: they’re a very good team who just appeared in back to back World Cup finals. Say what you will on the way they went about doing that, but the fact remains: they did it, and that deserves praise--it’s really fucking hard to make a World Cup final. That said: fuck those guys, man (Messi aside, because he is now the undisputed GOAT), and I’m really glad they didn’t win again. I agree with the pervasive narrative that the “right” team won this World Cup.

And frankly? There’s not a lot else to say about the Final. It is almost always one of the worst matches of the tournament (the 2022 final being the exception to this rule) and routinely leaves me feeling an undying level of gratitude for the early stages of the competition. It’s cheesy and so so SO corny to say something along the lines of “it’s not about the destination, but about the journey”, but GOD DAMMIT, there’s a kernel of truth there, and I’m SO annoyed to admit that I think it totally applies to the World Cup.

Cliche’s aside, the 2026 Men’s World Cup has come to a close, and I am happy to say, my cup is full. It’s been a wonderful ride, and I’m so thankful I was in a position in my life where I could lean in as much as humanly possible to the whole experience. Not everyone has that kind of flexibility and independence, and I recognize I am lucky to have been able not only to follow this tournament as a fan, but also to use it to experiment with new forms of writing and storytelling. The past six weeks have left me feeling inspired, energized, and eager to tackle the challenges I’m setting for myself in the months to come.

If nothing else, this summer has affirmed what I already knew to be true: the football will always and ever be my savior.

P.S.
Curious if this is the end for TFWMS?
Spoiler alert: it’s not!

I’ve got some big plans in the works for the fall months, and I’m super excited to share them with ya’ll. That said, this post is already pretttttttyyyyyy long, so I’ll save the details for another time.

Stay tuned!

A Little Housekeeping:

All of the posts and content related to The Football Was My Savior will ALWAYS be free, because I firmly believe art and storytelling should be free for everyone.

That said, we live in a capitalist society and things cost money. If you would like to support me, and the longevity of this project, the best way to do so is to check out my page on Ko-Fi, and donate any amount you feel comfortable offering.

If donating on a monthly or yearly cadences is more your speed, then you can become a paid subscriber right here on Substack through the button below:

Whether you choose to support this project monetarily or not, simply reading is support enough, and I am so grateful you’ve decided to spend part of your day with me.

Last night, the Portland Timbers defeated the Seattle Sounders, in Seattle by five goals to one.

That’s all.

Now, let’s get down to business: there’s a World Cup to be won!

AND (even more importantly), a third place match to be settled! Which everyone is TOTALLY gonna watch, right??

Naw, prolly not.

All eyes are, as they should be, on Sunday afternoon where Argentina will (somewhat improbably) be looking to win back to back World Cups. Furthermore, they’ll be looking to win, in order: Copa America (2021), World Cup (2022), Copa America (2024), and, if things go right for Leo Messi and his band of merry men, World Cup (2026). If they can pull it off, it would be a feat which has never been achieved before in world football. To win back to back major continental tournaments, and back to back World Cups is...incredible. To do so, would imply a level of dominance which is pretty freakin’ hard to argue with. When you win everything you play for...well...you’re probably doing something right. And yet...I really don’t believe this Argentinean team is as good as these stats suggest. They’re good, don’t get me wrong, and they obviously have a knack for just...winning games they have no business winning, but even if they win Sunday’s match against Spain, they are not, for me, the best team in men’s international history.

No, that honor would go to the only other team to almost achieve the feat of back to back continental titles, and back to back World Cup titles: Spain. Kinda fitting they’re meeting in this year’s final, when you think about it. But if you were to give me a choice between the Spain team which won the Euros in 2008, the World Cup in 2010, and the Euros again in 2012, and this Argentina team? You know I’m taking the Spaniards every time.

(Fun fact: I was in Sevilla in 2012 with my brother, Quinn, when Spain won that European Championship, and that is easily one of my favorite football memories. I remember feeling the ground shake as the gathered fans caused a tiny earthquake after Spain scored their fourth goal against Italy).

And on Sunday? You guessed it, I’m taking Spain.

You heard it here first, folks, Perrin’s Official, The Football Was My Savior, Prediction of the Men’s World Cup Final 2026:

Spain: 2 - Argentina: 0 in regulation time.

Yup.

Go ahead, everyone place your wagers on your sports betting platform of choice now that you’ve gotten the information you so desperately craved from your resident expert who’s never wrong about anything.

I can hear you wondering: how’s that World Cup bracket challenge going for you, Perrin?

...

It’s going quite poorly, thank you for asking, but I’ve had a lovely time with it, and it’s brought together a community of friends and sports fans from across the various chapters of my life, and that makes me a winner.

No, in all seriousness, I really like football, but I have no idea what I’m talking about, so definitely don’t take my word for it.

All I know is: at right around noon today, I hit the road and headed to that concrete jungle where dreams are made of: that biggest of motherfreakin’ apples: Saint Johnsbury.

PSYCH! I’m going to New York City, obviously! Jeez ya’ll are gullible.

Now, don’t get it twisted: I’m not going to the final match.

It felt necessary for me to be very clear there, since it’s totally within the realm of possibility that I could afford a ticket to that match. (Fun fact of the day #2: The cheapest tickets out on the secondary marketplace at the moment are between $5,000 and $7,000...so...yeah, I can swing that. I’ve got five paid subscribers to this Substack! I can do anything!)

No, no, I’ll be making my way to the cozy confines of one Mister Maxfield and one Missus Ghjulia’s Brooklyn apartment for the weekend.

Now, as a rule, I do my utmost to avoid driving my truck into the city. So, naturally, as a rule, I wind up driving my truck into the city almost every time I make the trip down because I am, at times, a poor planner, and never map things out well enough/have my shit together enough to figure out another way of achieving access to this great metropolis.

But not this time!

No, no! This time I got some insider beta from Becca and Luke, who apparently know an awful lot about Fairfield, Connecticut (you learn something new about your friends everyday). So, after an uneventful four and a half hour drive down I-91, I slid into the Fairfield train station and veritably had myself launched from the truck to shiny red, and slightly cracked and sun worn seats of the Metro North train to Grand Central Station. (everything related to NYC is so magical and romantic, don’t you think? Like, you know what I’m talking about, and where I’m going when I say “Grand Central Station”). Not joking though, the speed and efficiency with which I unintentionally timed my arrival in Fairfield to my boarding of the train was such that I didn’t have time to sort out paying for my parking. Nor did I have the chance to use the restroom. As such, I had several pressing needs to attend to, before the train had even left the station.

As the saying goes: “one cannot think, when one has to pee,” so I began the odyssey (like how I slid that one in there? Cuz the major motion picture blockbuster event of the year, Christopher Nolan’s: The Odyssey, releases in a theater near you this weekend? I’m culturally relevant, you can say it) to the restroom. Being a bit of a country boy these days, it had been years since I’d even seen a train, let alone ridden one (disregard the whole post I have about being stranded on a train from Seattle to Portland a little over three weeks ago), and as such, I had forgotten that the individual cars are connected by nothing more than a narrow catwalk, which may as well be a tightrope between the two hunks of hollowed out steel, hurtling to infinity and beyond.

Furthermore, there were posted placards at every crossing, instructing passengers that it was strictly prohibited to pass between cars while the train was in motion. So, being the law abiding citizen I am, I waited patiently between station stops to make it across as many cars as possible. In that moment, I knew how young Obi-Wan Kenobi must have felt as he waited for those random force-field things to go on sleep-mode so that he could get one step closer to helping Qui-Gon Jinn fight Darth Maul. Luckily for me, my experience with navigating force-fields was much better than Obi-Wan’s, and I was able to make it to a workable toilet before Darth Maul killed Qui-Gon. See, in this metaphor, Darth Maul is my pee. So...I didn’t pee myself. Get it?

I did, however, pee on myself! So it was sorta like Darth Maul got in a little flesh wound or something. Turns out peeing on a moving train is harder than it looks.

Anyway, that’s probably enough about urine for one post, so let’s just say: after the deed was done, I made my way back to my unguarded stuff, which I was sure was on the verge of being stolen, because this was the big city and people steal your shit here (obviously). It was while waiting patiently again for my force-field windows to open, and thereby allow myself to traverse the tightropes between cars, that I noticed that everyone and their mother were ignoring the “prohibited to pass between cars while in motion” signs, and just going willy-nilly like there wasn’t a single damn rule on board the vessel.

“What’s the world coming to? Without rules, there can be no civilization! Don’t you good people of Connecticut and New York understand that??” I screamed in the face of a little girl flaunting the rules with her mother in tow.

The little girl flipped me off and got on with her day, and I was struck by the resiliency of the younger generations.

Anyway, I returned to my seat, just as a group of thieves bedecked with fun masks designed to look like past presidents, and wielding automatic weapons were settling in to leer ominously over my stuff, clearly preparing to steal it. I shooed them away with more diatribes about the sanctity of laws and order, and they ran, quaking in their boots at both the ferocity of my arguments, and my good sense.

Satisfied with myself, I settled in to figure out my parking situation.

…

I couldn’t figure out how the app worked, so I figured that meant I was good to park for free over the weekend.

“Ahhhh,” I sighed to myself. “All in a day’s work”.

And so here I sit, on my way to The Big Apple!

To some, it may seem silly to go to all this trouble just to watch the big game in a bar, when I could quite easily have done the very same thing in Vermont, and saved myself all this hassle (and likely avoided getting my truck towed). But to me, it’s all worth it. All the force-fields, and tight-ropes, the dysfunctional apps, and the bathroom emergencies. The unoriginal thieves ripping off cult-classic films, and the people of all ages, unconcerned and unbothered by breaking simple rules.

Because you see, while I may not be going to the game itself, I’ll be close: fourteen miles, to be exact. (Fun fact of the day #3: FIFA’s set up a series of force-fields around the stadium which checks the status of your bank account and decides whether you’re worthy to move closer. They’re dastardly like that). New York/New Jersey Stadium, The Meadowlands, Metlife Stadium--whatever the hell we’re calling it today, may as well be in Max and Ghjulia’s back yard. I can smell the energy of the World Cup from where I sit on this train, fumes getting stronger and stronger with every boisterous clickety-clack of these old train tracks.

This is the culmination of a journey which began over five weeks ago, and I’ll be damned if I’m not going to get as close to the action as my social class will allow.

So, I migrated to my tried and true, favorite soccer bar in the Northeast Kingdom (okay second favorite, because we all know Hazel’s is my #1), The Buttery.

As soon as I stepped through those air conditioned gates, I knew I’d made the right decision: Spanish fans decked out in their crimson reds congregated on one side of the small restaurant, while the faithful blue French folks in their classy AF collared kits were on the other side. Everyone had their hackles raised, ferocious saliva dripping menacingly from several of the normally cultured European mouths, making a real mess of the floor, but working incredibly well to set the scene.

Only joking.

There was no one else in The Buttery when I entered, set up my computer on the bar, and ordered up a 3pm glass of chardonnay (because, why not?).

First of all, before we get into the match, I’ve gotta give a shoutout to MY MAN, referee, Ivan Barton. The short king from El Salvador is renowned for his years spent refereeing in the CONCACAF region, and infamous, this World Cup, for calling some of the most chaotic and strange matches of the summer (which has usually been more or less his fault). Somehow, he got himself picked to referee a World Cup semi-final, and I felt certain he would find a way to make himself the centerpiece of the story.

I was vindicated, when he apparently forgot to bring his magic spray to work, then, in the 22nd minute, he awarded Spain a (relatively) soft penalty, which allowed them to take an early 1-0 lead.

But then, something magical happened: Mr. Barton managed to avoid any major controversy! He did it! Right before our very eyes, the man actually had a pretty flawless game, and despite a call or two which felt a little harsh, he stayed out of the limelight, and let the two teams do the talking.

(I’m poking fun at Mr. Barton here, but the reality is: refereeing at any level is an incredibly difficult and thankless job, and I genuinely can’t even imagine how hard it is officiating at the World Cup. So, hats off to Iván and the rest of the officiating crew at this World Cup, because by and large, they’ve done a wonderful job.)

Now, before we get any further, a disclaimer:

The main purpose of this blog is to tell the stories that go on before, during, after, and between the matches at this World Cup. There’s almost always a tale to tell, if you look hard enough, and are willing to embellish a detail or two. But sometimes, the bar is empty, and it’s just me and my chardonnay and the semi final. And on those days, the story is the football. For those of you who don’t give a shit about that (lookin’ at you, Kris), I’m terribly sorry. Bear with me, and maybe you’ll find something you don’t hate.

Because, honestly? What a story it was--what a show!

At first blush, if you were to take this match at a surface-level viewing, it was anything but a classic. Without trying to be snobby, I’d go so far as to say that for the “once every four years fan”, it was probably a pretty boring watch. It was not dissimilar to the most recent Super Bowl, where the Seattle Seahawks put on an absolutely stifling defensive performance en route to a very comfortable, and boring, victory (SEE, FOX?? I can do it too! I can create parallels between soccer and American football in a meaningless attempt to connect with casual American sports fans!).

I think my friend Max (who I’ll be visiting this coming weekend in New York City for the World Cup Finallllllllll) summed it up best when he texted AJ and I midway through the match saying: “Okay so Spain’s defense is truly that bitch”.

Yeah, they really are that bitch.

They took arguably the most potent attack to ever line up at a World Cup, and limited them to basically zero major chances, absolutely controlling the match in the process, before proceeding to pass the French to death. It was beautiful.

Some of my favorite memories growing up playing competitive soccer were the possession drills we would often run in training. I was never very good in the attacking phase of play. Give me a little space to play a hopeful cross into the box, I’m your guy, but ask me to be inventive in the build up, or to beat the opposition one on one? Not gonna happen, unless I spaz out and do something crazy that randomly works. That said, keeping the ball? Playing simple, one and two touch football? That’s my jam. So when the coach would set up a little grid, and have us go out and play 7v7 possession for half an hour, I was in heaven. It was all my favorite parts of the game. Pass and move, pass and move; if you lose the ball, no big deal! Just defend and win it back, no one’s going to score on you; football at its elegant, simplistic best. A lot of my teammates understandably didn’t love this exercise because it was “boring”, but to me, it was the essence of football. Constant movement, keep the ball, find the space, repeat. It becomes a flow, a rhythm--a comforting pattern.

All that to say: watching Spain play has always reminded me of watching a VERY high level possession drill, and it’s like poetry in motion at times.

Seeing Rodri (who, by the way, appears to have finally fully recovered from tearing his ACL almost two years ago, and is back playing at an insanely high level) have a pass fired into his feet with an attacker on his back in his own defensive third, which he cushions with a lovely little one touch pass to create some space, before receiving the ball again, and playing a perfect clipped ball twenty-five yards down the touchline to relieve some pressure--chef’s kiss.

Spain was never going to dazzle you. They aren’t going to play heavy-metal football, the way Jurgen Klopp would want, they aren’t going to be direct and rely on sheer physicality and scrappyness--no. They’re going to walk out there, look at the opposition and say: “we’re better than you. We’re more technical and more organized. Even our goalkeepers are better with their feet than most of your outfield players. And each and every one of our players have been doing this from the very first day they learned to kick a ball. Good fucking luck, loser.”

Even their “superstar” (as the FOX broadcast team likes to bill 19 year old Lamine Yamal) is just a cog in the Spanish machine. A very good cog, to be sure, but a piece of replaceable machinery at the end of the day. It’s perfect. He buys into the system, it’s not all about him, and he never tries to do too much. It’s fantastic to watch, and speaks to his character, as well as the Spanish system in general. They have complete buy-in from every single person in their setup.

Thierry Henry touched on this in his post-match comments, where you look at Spanish football, and see that they are successful at every level. Women’s team, Mens’ team, Youth teams; they all play the same way. They have a philosophy, and they stick to it. Everyone from their kit man to the managers of their men’s and women’s teams is bought in, and they win (or come damn close) pretty much everything they compete in.

And you could see this understanding written out in every one of the French players. Of course they were sad to lose, and if they’d gotten lucky and snagged a goal at some point, they would’ve been overjoyed. But after the final whistle, there were no players breaking down in tears, and no outbursts of anger at the referee. This was a very good French team who knew they were beaten, and beaten fairly, and didn’t have much to complain about. Furthermore, they weren’t just beaten on the day, but rather, by generations of work, consistency, and dedication from the Spanish Football Federation.

Now, the question I have is: how do you combat that? You see this kind of thing in football and sports at every level: one team figures out a “hack”, if you will, and make themselves dominant for a period of time. Eventually though, someone will figure them out. Someone will either beat them at their own game, or they will find some alternate style or philosophy that can go toe to toe with what Spain does, and they’ll win.

But with international football, these things take time. Your federation can’t just go out and buy the next $100 million player and build a new team around them. We’re talking about a generations-level-view. In most sports, and in the vast majority of cases around soccer as well, you’ll see a trend happen in one season and in the next, other coaches and teams have figured out ways to combat the trend because they’re smart and good at their jobs.

But with international football, where you have multiple generations of players growing up under the same system, the same culture, the same style, any shift you might make as an opposing country will take years, if not decades to come to full effect. Sure, you could find a manager who thinks differently, and works to get the most out of his players, but ultimately, when you’re going against a group of players who have been coached and trained to play a certain way their entire lives...you’re going to need a pretty fuckin revolutionary set of ideas to take them down.

What we’re looking at is systemic, and that adds a fascinating dynamic to things that few (if any) other sports in the world can stack up against.

Now, I would be remiss not to mention and pay some respect to the outgoing French manager: Didier Deschamps. I’m gonna hit you with some stats that Official Stats and Deep Research Man, AJ, would be proud of:

Deschamps was born in 1968, and began playing football competitively at the youth system of French club, Bayonne, in 1976 at the age of eight. He would go on to make his professional debut for Nantes in 1985, and over the course of a sixteen year playing career, racked up well over 400 appearances at the club level, while also being capped by the French National Team a whopping 103 times (oh, and he also captained the 1998 French team which won the World Cup). After he retired from playing in 2001, he immediately took up a managerial position with Monaco before spending the next eleven years (with a break or two in between) managing other top clubs in Europe, on his way to becoming France manager in 2012. It is now 2026, as we all probably know, meaning Deschamps has been leading the French team for fourteen years. That, in itself, is an incredible achievement.

But I don’t bring up these stats just to laud the man on what has been a remarkable career (though it has been, and he deserves praise for it). I throw this all out there because it struck me, yesterday, as I was watching him take a lap of honor around the pitch, applauding the French fans at the end of the match, that this man has spent his ENTIRE life in football.

Think about that for a moment: how strange, how odd, to have every aspect of your life revolve around a meaningless game.

You can take that line of thinking one of two ways:

1. How sad, and pathetic. What has he done for the world? His life has revolved around kicking a ball.

2. You could do a hell of a lot worse than devote your life to a game. There are quite a lot of things a person can do which cause way more harm than kicking a stupid little ball around a rectangular patch of grass.

At the end of the day, (and at the end of my second glass of chardonnay), I was (and still am) inclined toward option number two. Am I trying to rationalize my own devotion to this silly little game? Maybe. But still. Life, at the end of the day, is meaningless. Or, put slightly differently, we have to create our own meaning. So why not throw yourself into whatever happens to strike your fancy? Why not dedicate your life to meaningless games? You could always do worse.

My dad likes to say, “you want to make god laugh, tell her your plans.” He may have a point.

I knew things weren’t necessarily hunky dory right from the off, as I nearly stepped in a large pile of cat vomit on my way to the bathroom, not five steps removed from rising from slumber. I narrowly avoided the first pile, but the second, slightly smaller, sneakier one? Direct hit to the sole of the foot.

So that was cool.

At least Bruce had the decency to keep (most) of his puke on the hardwood floor, rather than the carpet.

“Ah well,” I grumbled sleepily to myself, “cats puke, not the end of the world.”

A remarkably chipper attitude for a man with vomit on his feet at 7am, wouldn’t you say?

After clearing up the mess from my dear Bruce, I went to visit the ladies in their henhouse. As I crossed the verdant green lawn just outside the kitchen window, covered in morning dew, I noticed several things: one of my large tubs of Quaker Oats, lid thrown to the wind and oats scattered every which way, mixed in with the contents of a boxed-paella meal, spice packets sprinkled generously in with the uncooked oats, and a flask I’d received as a gift for being a groomsman in a dear friend’s wedding almost ten years ago perched atop the whole lot like the cherry on top of a very strange dish.

It was around this time I began to wonder if something had gone horribly wrong. The massive pile of black, smelly bear shit plopped right in front of the paella-oats-flask-sundae really drove that point home.

After further inspection, I found the screen covering the kitchen window to be torn to shreds, while dirt stains and claw marks lined the outside of the house and window sill, where I can only imagine some fat, very happy bear, struggled to hoist its way inside, then back out again, belly likely getting stuck in the narrow window, and legs kicking determinedly as it squeezed through after gorging itself on the entirety of my pantry.

This was my first experience with a home invasion, and golly I really hope it’s my last. I spent the better part of my morning cleaning up the mess from my uninvited guest, while simultaneously berating Bruce for his cowardice and inability to defend the house whilst I slept, and beating myself up for the stupidity of leaving the kitchen windows open when I had a bunch of dry goods sitting out. Let’s be real: who’s the incompetent one here? The guy who more or less beckoned a bear into the house for a midnight snack, or the nine pound cat who cowered in the bedroom, vomiting with fear at the behemoth downstairs, rather than going to hiss and spit at the monster?

Yeah, I thought so too: Bruce really needs to get his act together.

While I set about cleaning up the mess from my gentleman caller, I distracted myself with, you guessed it, thinking about football.

There’s a phenomenon I’ve experienced in every Men’s World Cup I’ve lived through, which I like to call: “The Quarterfinal Black Hole”. I believe it stems from a combination of the USMNT typically being knocked out by this point, and from a decided change in the overall feeling of the competition.

And I don’t like change.

Much like how I don’t enjoy scooping up steaming piles of bear shit at 8:30 in the morning and lugging them to the nearby woods, in an effort to dissuade said bear from becoming a repeat offender.

Nevertheless, I made the trek to the woods, smelly cargo in tow, and realized, (maybe obviously) that for the first time, in almost a month of football, the World Cup truly slows down after the Round of 16. When things begin, there’s this air of possibility around each of the 48 teams participating. While of course, Curacao, Cape Verde, the USA, Canada, South Korea, etc, never truly believe they have a shot at winning the whole thing, there’s still this feeling, this overriding sentiment of: anything’s possible. Each team is guaranteed three matches, and genuinely, anything can happen in three matches of football--that’s what makes it such a beautiful, wonderful game. And, for the teams in the category I’ve outlined above, any small success is a major win. Which is fun! As a fan, you get to celebrate each tackle, each pass, every goal and save, as if you’ve just won the whole damn thing.

It’s for this reason that I must finally break my silence on the “32 team tournament vs 48 team tournament” debate. I will say, on record: I am a fan of the 48 team tournament. I didn’t want to be, and in fact went into this summer with a firm conviction to hate it at every turn, but gooooosh darn it, it was a damn good time. It added to, and extended my favorite part of the World Cup, which is when there are still a ton of teams in it, it’s anyone’s game, and the big favorites aren’t just out there playing with themselves (that is a masturbation joke. You can laugh. It’s funny). I recognize this sentiment might feel slightly counter to my general take that FIFA are a bunch of money-grabbing pricks--it’s something I’m wrestling with myself. Because they are a bunch of money-grabbing pricks, and it’s obvious that the addition of the Round of 32 and adding the extra teams to this tournament was sort of like FIFA branching out of their traditional domain of money-laundering, and moving into the realm of idea-laundering. They claimed they were doing it for the good of the game: giving more nations the opportunity to compete on the world’s biggest stage, but really, they were just salivating at the sheer number of extra matches the expansion would bring, and the incredible amount of revenue they could generate because of it.
And, because it’s interesting, and we haven’t heard from him in a while, here’s what Official Stats and Deep Research Man, AJ has to say on the matter:

“Per Marca and the NYT:

FIFA anticipates this 4 year cycle to be greater than a roughly $13 billion haul from this World Cup, which is a massive jump from $7.568B of the Qatar cycle. Russia was $6.421B, Brazil $5.387B, South Africa $4.168B, and Germany $2.348B.

So in roughly 20 years they’ve increased revenues more than 5.5 times, with the largest jump being nearly double between Qatar and the current cycle.

I don’t think you can really conflate that with the expanded format given the ticket price increase for this tournament over prior years, but it’s absolutely a contributing factor.”

If you’d like to take a deep dive (deeper than I generally want to go, which is why we contract out for this kind of thing) into FIFA’s finances, AJ has provided this fascinating and in-depth article from The Athletic for your perusal:
https://www.nytimes.com/athletic/7330307/2026/07/09/fifa-finances-bookkeeper-analysis/

So, all that to say: I am forced to admit that FIFA have successfully duped me. Congrats Gianni, you win again.

But even FIFA and their idea-laundering schemes can’t defeat the passing of time, and of course, over the weeks, reality always sets in. One by one, each of the darling teams get picked off, discarded, thrown to the wayside like a can of refried beans an angry black bear couldn’t figure out how to open...
By the time we reach the Quarterfinals, the Frances, Englands, Spains, and Argentinas of the world begin to show their credentials, and things tend to turn out pretty much exactly as we all expected them to. (Side note: The fans of those nations really don’t understand just how good they have it. The English are always talking about “bringing the cup home”, or some such nonsense, but really, can’t they be happy that they’re consistently challenging for a semifinal spot?)

And so, the passion sort of...fades, for me, when we reach this point, and I find myself not caring a whole hell of a lot about the outcome of the matches, nor being overly perturbed when I’m unable to watch much of them.

For example: I spent the majority of the France - Morocco match the other day making an absurd amount of pesto while shooting the shit with some friends who had come over, ostensibly, to watch the match. Though, such was our disorganization in the kitchen, it took us the entire hour-long build up to the match, plus the 90+ minutes itself, to get through cooking dinner. And ya know what? I wasn’t even mad about it. (Before you go claiming this is a sign of growing maturity, and a tempering of my temper, let me assure you, it’s not. I’m no more mature, and no less prone to a temper tantrum than I was a week ago. It’s just the Quarterfinals. I don’t even feel like I need to capitalize them...the “quarterfinals” is more apt.)

Perhaps it’s simply that each match has felt like a foregone conclusion. France were never losing to Morocco, and honestly, I think the only teams that could maybe beat them are Spain and England (sorry, Argentina). This French side is simply irrepressible, and it’s gonna to take a special team, and a special performance to take them down.

Similarly, it never felt like Spain was going to lose to Belgium. Romelu Lukaku and Kevin De Bruyne’s Red Devils put up a valiant effort, and it was genuinely tragic to see them concede the goal to make it 2-1 in such a preventable way.

That one’s not all on Senne Lammens, but you do have to think the goalkeeper needs to hold onto the ball, or at least react a little quicker to the rebound. But also, let’s maybe step to Pau Cubarsí with some amount of urgency before letting him have a pop for 25 yards out, eh? Even when it was 1-1 though, I never felt the Belgians were in the match with any real hope of winning. It was all about saving face and respect (something the USMNT could learn about 👀), and there was an air about the Belgian players and fans that suggested they knew they were beaten when Mikel Merino scored. Mister Merino, how do you do it?

The one matchup I’m genuinely interested in is the Norway - England tie this afternoon. I think England is better. I also think Norway is better than the “underdog” status they’re inhabiting at the moment. Erling Haaland will almost certainly score a goal (or two), and when you’re pretty much guaranteed a goal, you have a decent shot at winning the game. So, I’ll admit, my “Quarterfinal Black Hole” theory doesn’t quite apply to this particular match.

Finally, tonight: it feels like a sure thing that Argentina will inevitably find a way to almost lose to the Swiss, before somehow, maybe through the help of the referees, or via Messi’s unending, ageless brilliance, pull out a win. This = black hole material.

None of this is meant to dissuade anyone from taking enjoyment from this round of the tournament: it’s still fun, it’s still exciting, it’s still the World Cup for christ’s sake. But this, for me, is consistently the forgotten round, and I’m curious if anyone else has had the same experience (leave a comment below with your thoughts, if you feel so inclined. I’d genuinely like to know if I’m alone in this).

Despite everything I’ve just said, once I finish putting the finishing touches on my bear cleanup, I fully intend to settle in with an ice cold Modelo, and watch Norway and England duke it out. There’s nothing I’d like more than to be proven wrong about all the shade I’ve thrown towards the quarterfinals, but I’ll admit to not being filled with optimism, and the first two matches of the round haven’t done a ton to change that sentiment. However, as we’ve established, the pessimism associated with my Quarterfinal Black Hole can be attributed to a number of factors, not limited to my friendly neighborhood black bear forcing entry into the house I’ve been charged with safeguarding for the month of July (PSA: if anyone is looking for a house sitter, I’ll be available at the beginning of August, (and maybe sooner, if I get fired from this current gig) and have a sterling track record...)

Lock your windows and doors, folks.

To feel devastated by a defeat, there must first be a feeling that victory is attainable. If you never believe you have even a singular chance at winning, it’s pretty hard to feel aggrieved when you fulfill that promise, and lose.

The first time the US fell to Belgium in a World Cup knockout match, back in 2014, I was crushed. The US team at that time was objectively inferior to the Belgium side on the day, and yet, they defended for their lives, scrapped to score a goal, took the Belgians to extra time, and fell in heartbreaking fashion. While of course, losing sucks, I wish I could say my heart was broken this time around.

But instead, I feel..nothing.

Not because I’m older now, or because I’m less invested in the sport or the team, but because, while watching that match on Monday night, there was never a single moment where the American players on the pitch made me believe victory was attainable.

At the tail end of the match, right after the US had decided to assist Belgium’s all time leading goal scorer, Romelu Lukaku, for his team’s FOURTH goal, Fox Match Analyst Stu Holden said: “Belgium have just played a top level game.”

I am a Stu Holden fan, I think he does a nice job commentating, analyzing, and distilling things down so that he’s accessible not only to the fan who watches tons of football, and knows what they’re about, but also for the fan who tunes in once every four years and doesn’t know a lick about the game. I also think he seems like a genuinely nice guy, who really loves American soccer.

That said, I 10000000000% take umbrage with his sentiment.

Belgium played a top level game? You’re joking, right? The only goal we didn’t absolutely gift them was the one where our captain, and most experienced player on the pitch, Tim Ream, got absolutely owned at the back post by Charles De Ketelaere.

Was Belgium clinical? Sure. But when the opposition, on three separate occasions, hand you a goal on a silver platter, it’s pretty fuckin’ hard not to score. I am not in the habit of picking on individual players for poor performances or mistakes, because at the end of the day, we’re all human, and shit happens. But even Tunisia would’ve scored at least a couple of the chances we created for Belgium, and that team was bad.

For me, the US doing anything other than making the quarterfinals of this World Cup was going to be a disappointment, because on paper, this team was talented enough to do that. And even if they couldn’t quite make it past Belgium, I felt certain we would at least give them a respectable battle. But the performance we watched on Monday night could barely be described as a whimper, let alone any kind of fight.

Now I know there’s plenty to be said about the Flo Balogun red card situation (and subsequent reversal), and there’s more than enough that’s already been said on the matter, so I want to avoid the trap of simply adding my voice to the cacophony already on display. What I will say is this: I genuinely believe Football won, on the day. It was an unfair decision to rescind his red card suspension, a blatant display of favoritism, and altogether an unforgivable blight on what had been, to that point, a fantastic tournament. The Belgians, and the rest of world football, were right to feel incensed by what happened in that fiasco, and quite honestly, US Soccer got exactly what it deserved by being totally humiliated in front of their home fans, in Seattle (one of the great bastions of football fandom in this country), all while being viewed in the most-watched soccer broadcast in American history. And that’s all I have to say about that.

Finally, I want to make one thing very clear: I am angry at the performance I watched on Monday night, and at the fact that we, as a footballing nation, lost immeasurable respect on a global scale because of it. But I am not angry about any perceived notion that this loss has set back the development of the sport in the US in any meaningful way. There was a pervasive rhetoric in the leadup, and throughout this summer’s competition that a good performance at this World Cup was going to change the shape of American soccer for generations to come. I simply don’t buy that. The youth soccer landscape in this country is, and always has been, a complete and utter shit show marred by politics, in-fighting, favoritism, and general wealthy, pay-to-play, soccer mom bullshit. That is not changing anytime soon, and beating Belgium, or even giving a decent account of ourselves against them, wouldn’t have made a difference. Until we, as a country, accept some level of humility and own the fact that we don’t know this game, we are not the top dog in world football, and we do a terrible job of developing young players, (and could stand to take a lesson or two from USWMNT manager Emma Hayes, because that woman knows what the fuck is up), nothing will ever change. While what transpired in Seattle on Monday evening was, in no uncertain terms, an absolute failure, I don’t believe gaining or losing the support of the mainstream American sports fan is ever going to make or break the fate of football in this country. We are not on track to win a World Cup any time soon, and that is fine.

If we never win a World Cup in my lifetime, that will be okay with me. I would rather see us fight and scrap, and battle our way to losing in every Round of 16 or Quarterfinal match we encounter, than watch us attempt to cheat, and proceed to get our asses handed to us. On Monday, I was ashamed to be an American soccer fan. I was embarrassed for ever having talked this team up to anyone who was an outside observer. I was apathetic because the team made me feel nothing with their performance. There was no heart, no drive, but instead only this unspoken expectation that they would magically do well, simply because it was a World Cup on home soil, and there was a huge bandwagon attached to them for a couple of weeks.

Fuck that.

In football, and in life, you have to earn respect and success, and the USMNT took a massive step back in both of those departments.

Break my fuckin’ heart USMNT, but please, never again make me feel nothing at all.

SEATTLE, WASHINGTON, UNITED STATES, July 7th, 2026

The United States Men’s National Team took part in a highly anticipated World Cup Round of 16 matchup against Belgium yesterday evening in Seattle, WA. Despite the hype suddenly surrounding the team, the USMNT were quite handily played off the pitch by a Belgian team, which, in their previous matches, had been wholly unremarkable, and looked, to the casual observer, to be an entirely beatable team.

It was an uninspiring performance by the men of the United States, made all the more disappointing by the fact that they had managed to get the mainstream American populace engaged, interested, and invested in their World Cup run. To fall flat on such a massive stage, under the immense spotlight of the country’s gaze, will surely lead to fall out, and leaves the United States Soccer Federation (USSF) with a gargantuan task to recover their image.

Understandably, the performance led many fans to search for explanations to help understand their team’s epic collapse. And, after an official press release from the White House this morning, they got the answers they were looking for.

“We can confirm that yesterday evening, at 8:00pm Eastern Standard Time, our leader: President Donald J. Trump, laid the most powerful curse the world has ever seen, on the United States Men’s National Team,” stated White House Press Secretary Karoline Leavitt during a briefing this morning. “In collaboration with FIFA, Gianni Infantino, and The Association of Football Gods, the President took action to defend America against what was becoming a dangerous, and rapidly growing threat to our nation, and our freedom.”

Leavitt went on to explain that the fervor and public enthusiasm for the unexpectedly positive performance of the USA team at this summer’s World Cup had led to a massive uptick in “radical leftist ideologies and globalist sentiments”.

When pressed on what exactly the government had identified as a threat to national security, Leavitt was not lacking in details:

“This game, soccer, is sinister. People all over the world like it: black people, white people, Asian people, men, women, children, all different religions--the list goes on. This kind of unifying event is distinctly un-American, and there was legitimate intelligence to suggest that if the US Men’s National Team had been allowed to win their Round of 16 match against Belgium, the whole country may have joined together to support the team, and momentarily erase the divisions between us. This could not be allowed, so the President took action.”

When asked for comment outside the NATO Summit in Ankara, Turkey today, President Trump was bullish, “I don’t like soccer. Did you know they have that gay flag on the back of their jerseys sometimes [referring to the Pride jerseys worn by the US Team]? They had to be stopped, so I, personally, stopped them.”

This reporter questioned The President further on how, specifically he was able to perform such an act, and Trump did not hide his pride at what he had achieved, “I made a few calls,” he shrugged smugly, “the secretary for the “Football” (I call them Soccer) Gods used to play golf at one of my resorts. They assured me that if I were to tamper with the red card decision on that Bologna guy, that they would be forced to step in and make the USA lose the game.”

When asked for comment, The Association of Football Gods (AFG) provided this statement:

“The AFG will not stand for intervention in the beautiful game from any political figure or entity. This is the world’s game, and any meddling, tampering, or changing of the rules to benefit one team or the other, will always be definitively stamped out, with impunity. While FIFA, and the United States may be seeking to make as generate as much profit as possible from this summer’s World Cup, we, The AFG will continue to strive to assert our own influence to maintain the sanctity of this beautiful game.”

It remains unclear whether The AFG is aware that they were manipulated by President Trump into cursing the USA to their worst performance of the tournament, and thereby furthering his political agenda. What is clear is that the USMNT have crashed out of the World Cup in spectacular fashion.

Ah well, at least our women are really really good.

Okay, today, at the time of this writing, it’s not hot. It’s actually quite pleasant, and making me rethink all the heinous oaths and vows I had cast at Vermont, and New England in general, in the days leading up to the Fourth of July (happy belated 4th by the way). It’s truly remarkable how sensitive (dare I say: whiny) I am about the heat and humidity. As I grimly drove to St. Johnsbury on Friday afternoon, wearing a scowl which had become a permanent fixture upon my brow during that 72 hour period, I passed a dude out mowing his lawn...at 3pm...in 87 degrees and 70 percent humidity...

As a West Coast transplant, I thought to myself, “I will never understand these people,” with a mixture of overly harsh judgement and grudging respect as I drove by the man in his tank-top, and lit cigarette clamped between his lips--just doing the chores.

For the first time in my life, on that day, I wished it was a longer drive to St. Johnsbury, as the confines of my truck provided the only air conditioned space I’d experienced since returning to the East Coast. But alas, from Danville, it’s only about fifteen minutes, and my sanctuary was broken before it could do any meaningful work on my spirit. That said, I was headed to the big city in search of just that: sanctuary. The wifi at my housesitting gig was still down (fun fact, found out yesterday that some inventive hornets had selected the outdoor wifi box thing (that’s the technical term) as a wonderful place for their summertime abode, and in so doing, had severed several of the fiberoptic cables therein. So much for the ole “turn it off then turn it back on” trick), and as I’ve mentioned ad nauseum, air conditioning is hard to come by in this part of the world. So I figured, what better place to find both A/C AND wifi than my local public library? I’ve said it once, and I’ll say it again: god bless the public library; may you live on forever and always as an institution for us all.

The notion had been to wait out the worst of the heat inside, work on some writing, while half watching/listening to the Australia - Egypt Round of 32 matchup.

You can imagine my dismay, when I entered the St. Johnsbury Athenaeum (which is a word I’d never heard used in any context, let alone to title a library, but turns out, it means: “an institution for the promotion of literary or scientific learning”, or, my personal favorite: “a reading room designed to promote learning and the arts”. Kind of elegant, really), and found its interior to be roughly the same temperature, if not slightly higher, than that of the air outside (though, admittedly, slightly less humid).

Committed to my course of action as I was, and with really nothing better to do, I petulantly parked my tuchus at a table relatively near a ceiling fan, and was about to get to work when my guardian angel appeared: The Librarian.

“You know,” she said, “there’s a desk in the Art Gallery no one’s using today. It’s air conditioned in there.”

You had me at “desk” and totally sold me at “air conditioned”, madame.

Moving quicker than I have since my late twenties, I veritably teleported myself into the Art Gallery of the Athenaeum, and for the first time in days, breathed easy. This was more like it. Oh, and by the way, not only is the Athenaeum a stunning old building itself, but the Art Gallery? Incredible space. I don’t know that I’ve ever set up my mobile office anywhere quite so grand, picturesque, or down right inspiring in my life. A room “designed to promote learning and the arts,” indeed.
Gleefully, I turned on the match, and was calm. There’s something so beautiful about the way a football pitch looks about five seconds before kick off, when all the players are exactly where they’re supposed to be, poised for the thing to start. You can see, in that heartbeat in time, the structure of it all, which will, in mere seconds, be rendered mostly invisible by the chaos of the match. It’s still there, throughout the ninety (or one hundred twenty, if you’re lucky) minutes, but never can you see it so clearly--the framework for the entire extravaganza, poised to explode into life.

And while this particular match wasn’t necessarily a classic, it’s difficult to watch any World Cup knockout round game and not feel that you’re witnessing, at least in some small slice, history, which, in its own way, makes each and every match “a classic”. It was also difficult not to feel that I was experiencing something quite singular, as I sat with “The Domes of the Yosemite” towering over me; a silent sentinel keeping constant tabs on my wellbeing.

All this while small groups of people who, like me were attempting to escape the heat, wandered through the little gallery, surreptitiously looking over my shoulder at my screen when they thought I wasn’t looking (I would’ve invited you to watch with me, Dude In The Green Collared Shirt, all you had to do was ask). It felt, in a vaguely self-centered, narcissistic way, that I was part of the gallery itself. I was sat right near the center of the room, at a desk which I liked to imagine had borne witness to more moments of creative genius and pieces of profound thought, than any one human brain could comprehend. If I wasn’t a part of the gallery, I was, at the very least, the purveyor of it; typing imperiously at my desk, never deigning to acknowledge the presence of the plebeians strolling through, living out the imagined image of myself as a man who had important work to do.

I struggled to maintain facade of self important composure when Patrick Beach improbably saved Rami Rabia’s 93rd minute header from shockingly close range, to keep Australia in the match and force extra time.

Patrick Beach save: 93’

The save is fantastic, but I almost like Rabia’s reaction more. There’s something so pure about the rage and utter disbelief one experiences after doing everything right, and still not having circumstances go your way.

And, to my delight, the drama of it all continued, as big Harry Suitor stepped up to take the first penalty of the shootout. My fingers were poised over my keys, ready to wax poetic about the unflappable qualities of a centre back taking a penalty, and how we all ought to be ashamed of ourselves for ever doubting those giants of men. And then...big Harry Suitor elected to play into stereotypes and absolutely sky his pen about five miles over the bar.

Ah well, he’s good at kicking the ball hard, (and despite me sort of making fun of him, I’m fully with Thierry Henry on this: if you step up to take a penalty in a shootout, you have my respect, regardless of the outcome).

Of course, Mo Salah had to come along and show him how it was supposed to be done, with a dinky little Panenka-esque spotkick, and an even cheekier little grin after pulling it off. Come on, Mo, that was just mean.

So, once Australia had showed us all how not to partake in a penalty shootout, and Egypt elatedly advanced to the Round of 16 for only the second time in their history, my guardian angel of a librarian entered my art gallery domain, and politely informed me that it was 5:00pm and that I had to find somewhere else to loiter.

Where did I decide to migrate, you ask? One of the other “Top 5 Places to Visit in St. Johnsbury, VT”: The Buttery. A restaurant, cafe, and wine bar you could understandably be surprised to find in this corner of the Northeast Kingdom, and would be forgiven for believing you’d actually stepped into a quiet part of Brooklyn, or even, perhaps (if you’re really feeling imaginative) somewhere in Europe.

To my surprise, my several hour tour of duty in the Athenaeum had made me feel something I never thought I’d feel again: slightly chilly. So much so, when I stepped outside, the baking heat of the evening air actually felt kind of pleasant, which inspired me to ask the fine folks at The Buttery if they wouldn’t mind me taking up residence at one of their sidewalk tables outside. They looked at me as if I’d lost a marble or two (The Buttery being another place with incredible A/C capabilities) but agreed to my request, while I resolutely assured them, through the confidence oozing out of my eyeballs, “don’t worry, I know what I’m doing”.

I did not, it turns out, know what I was doing, and within five minutes of the kickoff of the Argentina - Cabo Verde match, was sweating through my shirt. But being a prideful, stubborn creature, I decided it would be best just to stick it out.

In truth, I was stepping into a fantasy--a romantic vision of my summer’s eve spent in the only thing approaching a major metropolitan center near my home, and come hell or high water, I was going to live that puppy out--heat be damned! So, I sipped my orange wine, enjoyed a delicious scallop scampi dinner, and watched what was maybe the most entertaining and easily the most compelling match of the World Cup so far, all while imagining I was actually the romantic writer I envisioned myself to be: seated at a trendy sidewalk cafe, gathering notes for my latest piece, while soaking up the balmy early July air.

Speaking of gathering notes, here’s what I jotted down in my journal at halftime of this match:

“Argentina are SO impressive. You could say “oh yeah, sure, they’ve only scored one goal in the first half against Cabo Verde”, but that’s because they didn’t need to score more than one. They never once started pinging the ball around, or upping the tempo, or really trying to take the game to Cabo Verde. They were patient, calm, and honestly: slow, in pretty much everything they did. They never allowed Cabo Verde to break, or counter them, and if the opposition ever had the chance to build at all, Argentina allowed it. They said, “sure, you can have the ball. We genuinely don’t believe you can break us down, and we’re not gonna pressure you, or work particularly hard to prove that. We’re just gonna to keep our shape, and let you make a mistake.” And they were right. The Cabo Verdeans just didn’t have the quality to string together a run of good things. They could do one, maybe two good things in a row, but they could never get the next one--the final one. Argentina handled that first half with a level of control I’ve not really seen from a football match before. So intelligent, so controlled, so deliberate and intentional. They don’t give a shit about this game. It’s a stepping stone. They have to win, so they’ll win. End of story. There’s only one game that matters to these guys and it’s the final. I hate to say it, but the only team I’ve seen who I genuinely think could beat them is France. Maaaaaaybe Spain, but I don’t know.”

For the record, I stand by what I wrote about the first half of that match. It’s just...the second half did not follow the script, and that “final good thing” I talked about? Well, safe to say Cabo Verde found it:

Deroy Duarte goal: 59’

Sidney Lopes Cabral goal: 103’

I firmly startled a nice family walking by my roost at the sidewalk table when I went, “OH!!” after that Sidney Lopes Cabral strike. Even Lopes Cabral himself couldn’t quite believe what he’d just done (anyone else kind of think he was about to propose to his girlfriend when he went up into the stands?). If you keep watching those extended highlights (which you should, if you weren’t able to catch the full match), he almost scores again from pretty much the same angle.

This match was a peak World Cup viewing experience for me, and was added to the list of what’s becoming almost an embarrassing level of riches of peak viewing experiences this summer. Not only did I enjoy the hell out of myself, sipping my wine and espresso, and feeling incredibly cultured and high class, and not only was it a stunning Cinderella story watching tiny Cabo Verde go toe to toe with the best team in the world, but it was also unexpectedly communal. I had multiple people stop midway through their evening walks to watch a moment of the match with me, or simply to ask what the score was. And, when I would inform them that it was tied in extra time, without fail, every single person appeared to understand just how significant of a feat that was. Why does that matter? Because it tells me that even in this tiny community, people are, at the very least, aware of the World Cup, and aware of football, and in many cases, they’re actually invested in it.

To be a football fan in America is to be, if not alone, then certainly a minority. Which mostly suits me and my sensibilities: I’m a douchebag hipster at heart (despite vociferously denying this on many occasions), and going against the grain while building my superiority complex by being a fan of a niche thing? That’s sort of my brand. But it is nice, a couple times every four years or so (because I’d be remiss not to include the Women’s World Cup in this conversation), to be thrust into the national limelight, and to have people actually give a tiny bit of a shit about the thing I give a whole hell of a big shit about.

And so, amid commiserating in heartbreak with Cabo Verde and their fans, I returned home. I opened the windows, and let what had turned into a rather pleasant and cool evening breeze into the stuffy confines of the house, and went to sleep knowing that I had experienced something special that afternoon: from the matches themselves, to the people and places which provided the backdrop for the dramas, it had, unexpectedly, been a good day.

In case you were wondering, the subtitle for this post is a direct reference to this clip 😂
I’m dramatic, but not THAT dramatic, I swear.

The day of the USA - Bosnia & Herzegovina match was morbidly hot and humid in Northern Vermont (and much of the eastern half of the continent, from what I understand). It was the kind of shittyness us West Coasters hear about and think about and fear about when we imagine New England summers, but really have no established concept of what it’s actually like because it just doesn’t get like that out West.

Today, for the record, is shaping up to be hotter and humider, so there ya go. You win, East Coast. I am too weak for your weather.

Regardless, on this fateful Wednesday, July the first, I had just moved out of my comfy cozy home on the campus of my previous place of employment, and moved into the comfier and cozier home of Tom and Dana, which I will be staying at and housesitting for the month of July. It’s the kind of home you walk into and immediately feel the amount it’s been lived in. The kind of space that has absorbed years upon years of commotion and life: triumphs and failures, heartbreaks and celebrations. Houses like these have a personality and life of their own, and it’s been some time since I’ve been in one quite like it. It was both refreshing and intimidating; in many ways, it was too much HOME for one little man and his little cat.

That’s neither here nor there though. What is unfortunately here, is the fact that I may or may not have been responsible for busting the wifi at this lovely home, not twelve hours after moving in. And, being located in a rural part of a rural state, there’s little to no cell service to speak of. So, naturally, I spent an inordinate amount of time Wednesday morning raging at the router and cursing it (and myself) for my connectivity woes (and the fact that I was missing the England - DR Congo match) while getting creative with my unplugging and replugging of the power cord, attempting as many different forms, angles, and iterations of the simple procedure as my little brain could come up with. I continued to get skunked at every turn, which of course, only served to increase my rage. All the while, there was some outside portion of myself looking in on the whole scene and laughing (rather unkindly, I might add), for I was behaving quite like an ipad kid who had lost ipad privileges, and was throwing a fit about it.

Of course, my anger with the wifi and the router was a direct by-product of my own anxiety, and let it be known: “anxious” was my overarching state of being that day.

A myriad of unhelpful questions and doubts sprinted through my mind: What the hell was I doing? Living in someone else’s house? Spending all my time focusing on a stupid soccer tournament? Refusing to make a single major life decision because I was absolutely petrified of making the wrong decision?

There were exactly zero answers available to these impossible questions, so, I did what any partially sane, heat-addled, stressed out person would do: I abandoned ship, and fled to Hazel’s: the sanctuary of wifi, relatively cool basement air, and that stupid soccer tournament which has been capturing all of my attention.

I wasn’t scheduled to work that evening, and the bar is technically closed on Wednesdays, but the owners thought it would be fun to make a special occasion out of the USA match, and open up for a watch party. I was conflicted on whether or not I wanted to attend this event, as I can be a bit of a curmudgeon when it comes to my football viewing experiences. For me, a watch party is far less about the “party” and much more about the “watch”, a concept which seems perpetually at odds with the rest of the attendees of such functions.

To be clear: I mean no disrespect to those who simply want a fun event, and an excuse to get out of the house and be social with their friends and community—that’s an admirable pursuit. But what you have to understand is: there are few teams I consider myself an actual fan of these days—few games which I genuinely give a shit about. For the most part, I am a neutral observer who just wants to see a good game played out by good teams. But when it comes to the USMNT, I really do care (for better or worse), and am truly invested in the result (probably too much, but hey, that’s fandom for you).

Come to find out, all of this musing was purely academic, as my fucking up the wifi at La Casa de Forster meant I wasn’t going to be able to execute a simple Google search, much less stream a World Cup match. I may be hard on myself, but I’m not a sadist, and I wasn’t about to sit around the house at 8pm continually trying, and failing, to get my FotMob app to refresh and give me updates on the score of the game.

So, to Hazel’s I went!

At 4pm...

Four hours before kick off of the USA game...

Why so early, you ask? Well, I had nothing better to do, was an anxious wreck, and needed to do something. So, I bid Bruce adieu, and plonked myself down in the relatively cool confines of the basement bar, where Cam and Mariah generously allowed me to watch the Senegal-Belgium match on the fancy dancy projector screen, while using their wifi to get a little writing done, all before the bar was technically open (what can I say? It pays to know people).

As the match began, I felt much like how the two teams on the pitch seemed to be feeling: a little nervous and slightly uncertain how exactly they wanted to approach proceedings. Should they attack? Open things up and go for it? Or sit in a little, get a feel for the match, and let the opposition take the lead? It’s always a tough call, in a World Cup knockout round match and in life, and there never seems to be a “right” answer in either situation.

Despite this truth, I found myself beginning to search for that elusive “right” answer, and as time ticked away in the first half, I began to wonder if I’d made a mistake--if I wouldn’t have been better off sequestering myself at Tom and Dana’s house, and riding out this anxiety wave on my own.

I don’t know how many folks reading this missive have ever experienced anxiety in this sort of raw sense, but let me tell you: when it hits, it fucking hits and doesn’t pull any punches. It weasels its way into your consciousness and your body, infests the emotional and the physical planes, and like one of those spooky ants (or is it spiders?) who basically turns its prey into a zombie and controls its every move, the anxiety…well…controls your every move…(didn’t really stick the landing on that simile, but you get the picture). And so, you find yourself second and third and fourth and fifth (and so on to infinity) guessing yourself. You question every thought which crosses your mind, every action you decide to take (or not take); you lose trust in your very capability to function as a person in the world.

When things get this bad, there are one of two ways in which it can go:

1. The machine of your anxiety sticks around, humming along happily until you finally make it to a reasonable hour and are able to just go to bed and hope you can fall asleep and that the Anxiety Monster has decided to go somewhere else by the time you wake up.

2. You get so deep in the shit that you finally, miraculously, hit rock bottom, and realize there’s nowhere else to go.

#2 is my preferred resolution, because there is something so incredibly freeing about hitting rock bottom. Things can’t get any worse, and you kind of just…let go. And once you decide to stop caring, or not even decide, but simply run out of things to care about, that Anxiety Monster has nothing else to latch onto, and it also…lets go.

That evening, as I approached the hallowed ground of rock bottom; football, as ever, was my savior.

I’m not sure if it’s American guilt, or colonizer guilt, or just the guilt of privilege, but there seems to be an unspoken agreement amongst all western soccer fans that we want African teams to win (unless they’re playing your team, then fuck ‘em). There is a general sentiment of: “these poor fuckers have been though enough as it is, the least we can do is let them win a football match.” So, while the bar slowly filled in around me, and the match ticked on, it wasn’t surprising in the least to find each and every one of us cheering on every tackle, pass, shot, cross, and save which Senegal made. Fuck those dirty Belgians! We all know what they did to The Congo! And the freakin’ Brits went ahead and knocked them out earlier today, so it’s obvious that colonialism’s alive and well! (I’m making a joke here, but we should be clear: colonialism is alive and well).

In my solidarity with Sadio Mane, the handful of locals who had turned out early for the USA match, and the Senegalese people at large, I found something...surprising happening. I was...enjoying myself. At a...watch party.

Christ, that’s how you know you’ve hit rock bottom, Perrin.

Regardless of whether this was a permanent shift in my personality, that calloused, prickly football fan with a major superiority complex was gone...just like Senegal’s lead after the 75th minute.

And boy oh boy, could you hear a pin drop when Belgium scored their 120th minute penalty to win the match.

Heartbreak. The Football Gods, it seems, did not hear, or chose not to heed, the cries of the white saviors in our little Vermont bar. Ah well, we can rest easy knowing we tried, right? Guilt assuaged for one more day.

Because of the extra time required to settle the aforementioned match, there was only about an hour before the main event of the evening kicked off, and what I needed in that brief intermission was a bath. An odd sort of thing to need while seated at a bar, thirty minutes away from any shower I was allowed to use. But the simple fact was: the buildings of Northern Vermont seem to have something against this newfangled invention we like to call “air conditioning”. And as such, I had done nothing but sit in my own sweat and filth all day, and was not feeling particularly comfortable in my sticky skin.

With that in mind, I took myself across the lawn which stretches out before the Hazel’s patio, and made my way to the little creek which wends its way along both the property line and the liquor license line, and which helpfully creates a natural barrier and stopping point for any adventurous and inebriated customers.

This creek holds a funny place of importance for me. It was there, two and a half years ago, that I decided to move to Vermont. I remember the moment vividly. I had just gotten through a more than eight hour day of interviews and socializing at the school which would become my place of employment, and was having a pizza and a beer at the place which would also become my place of employment. After finishing my meal, I wandered over to the creek, and looked down its length in the fading April sunlight. It had been a beautiful day (an uncommon occurrence for Northern Vermont in April, though I didn’t know this at the time), and there was something about that creek which spoke to me. It was small, and yet so full of itself, so dedicated to its job--as if the little body of water knew its purpose, understood it wasn’t the Mississippi, or the Colorado, while simultaneously recognizing that that did not diminish the importance of its task. Beauty, with no attempt, nor desire for grandeur. And I knew, as I cast my eyes up and down the little cascading water falls, and the tiny eddies and currents of that creek, that I would be moving to Vermont. A bit bold, maybe, considering I hadn’t received a job offer yet, but what can I say? Despite my rampant and near constant social anxiety, I can really turn it on when I need to, and I know when I’ve interviewed well.

So it was fitting that I returned to this creek, as I was dangling on the precipice of leaving this funny little state. Fitting that I submerged myself in its waters and emerged refreshed, clean, and blessedly calm, after a day of turmoil and inner strife.

There are two types of eight year olds in this world:

Type 1: sees a projector and a massive screen displaying the Germany-Paraguay match (a classic, one of a kind, once in a lifetime moment in football history), and immediately proceeds to block the entire projection in order to pursue the art form of shadow puppetry. This eight year old continues honing his craft in increments of anywhere from five to twenty minutes, stopping periodically to pursue something else of interest, before always coming back to his tried and true medium of choice.

Type 2: notices the massive projector screen displaying the classic, one of a kind, once in a lifetime moment in football history, and proceeds to shout at the top of his lungs: “Mom! They’ve got the Germany game on!!” His mother, of course, has already noticed this, what with the screen being something in the neighborhood of eighty inches, however she indulges her son’s enthusiasm, and likely is relieved that she doesn’t need to worry about keeping him entertained for the next hour and a half (little does she know, it’ll wind up being over two hours, because, as mentioned: this wound up being a classic World Cup knockout match).

I encountered both Type 1 and Type 2 eight year olds within the first two hours of opening up the bar for my shift at Hazel’s Taproom in East Burke, VT on Monday evening.

Now, I know what you’re thinking: “wow, that’s funny Perrin works at a bar…I assumed he was making a healthy living off of his random football blog on Substack.”

I know, I know, it’s hard to believe, but “The Football Was My Savior,” is not yet bringing in the big bucks. So, I supplement my income/entirely subsist off of my part-time job at the cutest little taproom in all of the Northeast Kingdom of Vermont. I also happen to quite enjoy working there; the owners are fantastic people, and even if I did wind up in the promised land of making a living off of my writing, I would probably still work at Hazel’s, because it’s fun.

So, it was a Monday: the second day of Round of 32 play. I had just witnessed Canada’s dramatic, added time victory over South Africa (and had politely needed to extricate myself from the clutches of some of the most chatty customers I’ve had in a long while so that I could watch the tail end of said match), and I was looking forward to what I hoped would wind up being three matches of similar entertainment value. As we drew closer to the fateful evening when the USMNT would face off against Bosnia & Herzegovina (which is tonight, if you had somehow not heard. I can’t even talk about it. I don’t know if my nerve will allow me to get through it) and my anxiety spiked proportionally, I needed every ounce of distraction I could get. As most (if not all) of you know by now, Monday’s slate of matches delivered in spades.

While the evening warmed up, and customers slowly began streaming in, I enjoyed the background music of Type 2 eight year old, narrating the match for me from my position at the outdoor bar, just around the corner from the screen. I heard his cries of dismay as Paraguay unexpectedly took the lead, then experienced his jubilation as Germany equalized, with a roaring: “GO AHEAD, GERMANY!!!!!”

Type 1 eight year old, for his part, seemed hell bent on ruining the experience for all of us, simply to pursue his passion for shadow puppets. He wasn’t even that good. It’s like…come on man…at some point, you’ve gotta accept the reality that this line of work might not be for you, and GET THE HELL AWAY FROM MY PROJECTOR SCREEN.

So, when I wasn’t shooting Type 1 eight year old dirty looks, I was living vicariously through Type 2 eight year old, and realizing that I was, perhaps, witnessing a formative moment. I was a little older than him when I truly remember my first World Cup. It was 2006, and my mind is filled with snapshots from that summer:

1. Watching the USA-Italy match in my grandparents RV, on their tiny television that was intrepidly, and improbably, holding a signal, as if it were doing a personal favor for twelve year old me. That US team, led by Kasey Keller, Claudio Reyna, and Brian McBride, bravely squared up against eventual champions Italy, and scored (sort of, it was an own goal, but they all count the same) the first of two goals that that mighty Italian team would concede in the entirety of the tournament.

2. Also in my grandparents RV (spent a lot of time there that summer), watching Portugal and The Netherlands in the Round of 16, and seeing the referee issue somewhere in the neighborhood of about 43 yellow cards and 19 red cards (it was actually 16 yellow cards, and 4 red cards--a World Cup record, and the reason this match is now known as “The Battle of Nuremberg”). Luis Figo, Deco, and a young Cristiano Ronaldo (though he was forced off at the half due to injury from one of countless clattering challenges that were tossed around that day) against Wesley Sneijder, Arjen Robben, and Robin van Persie--all duked it out in what must have been one of the nastiest, and most physical World Cup matches of all time

3. And, of course, watching the final at my friend Max’s house, a whole bunch of our friends and family gathered together to view on two separate televisions (because there wasn’t enough room for all of us to sit around one). The only problem was that one television was slightly ahead of the other, which meant that the “oooooohhhhhhhh!”’s coming from the other room were a preview for those of us on the delayed television, as we would ultimately see Zinedine Zidane and his infamous head butt on Marco Materazzi (it must be said, having looked back at this footage for the first time in a long time: if you’re gonna head butt someone, or hit them in any way, you may as well do it with full commitment, and Zidane certainly did that. Did he completely put France in a hole and make their lives way more difficult en route to losing in penalties? Yeah, for sure, but still, you have to admire his decisiveness).

All of these core memories coursed through my brain as I listened to the little eight year old in the next room forming, what I imagined, were core memories of his own. Of course, it would end in heartbreak for the little lad, but then, that’s football, isn’t it?

As the Germany-Paraguay match progressed into its second hour, I greeted a couple of regulars I hadn’t seen in some time: an older couple, probably in their early to mid 70’s, who are, without a doubt, the sweetest people who ever deigned to sit at my bar. When you look at them, you sort of assume that (the man at least) is a classic rural Vermonter: a guy who’s worked the land most of his life, probably makes his own maple syrup (he does, I’ve tasted it, it’s delicious), and who generally doesn’t give much credence to anything outside of the changing weather and the passing of the seasons. What you don’t expect when you look at this couple, is that they really know their football! While I frantically tried to take orders, pour drinks, and watch the madness of the Paraguay-Germany penalty shootout, (shoutout to the woman who saw my attempted, and failed, multitasking and kindly insisted I wait to pour her beer until after the shootout had concluded—you’re a real one, Miss), good ole Vermont country boy proceeded to predict the result of every single penalty. Dude could hardly see the screen from where he was sitting, but apparently he could see enough as he rattled off: “putting it wide,” and, “bottom left,” and “off the post”, for every damn spot kick. As each shooter came up, I began to see this man in a different light. Not only had I wildly underestimated and undervalued the depth and breadth of his interests, I also began to realize I was in the presence of some kind of prophet. If only I’d thought to consult this man before I made my picks for my bracket challenge…

As the final kicks ensued, and Paraguay wheeled away in delirious celebration of their monumental achievement, I had to ask: “okay, so you’re a pretty big soccer fan, then?”

“Oh, no, I just like sports,” the old man replied.

Then, he and his wonderful wife, (who, while not the centerpiece of this story, deserves to be mentioned as one of the kindest souls you’ll ever meet) paid their tab, tipped me with outrageous generosity, and went home. I like to think they were heading back to their comfy living room to watch the Netherlands-Morocco match later that evening, but in all likelihood, that Paraguay-Germany game may well be the only time they tune into the tournament this summer. In their enigmatic nature, it’s possible to imagine any number of truths and eventualities.

When the match ended, and Type 2 eight year old (actively being consoled by his mother) despondently departed the bar, it was as though he sent out an invisible cue to the rest of the folks in the bar that it was time to clear out. In my mind, I was screaming at them: “the match of the day is on next! You’re just gonna leave and miss the whole thing??”, but there was a second voice at work in my noggin’, which was quietly saying: “let them leave, then you can close early and sip a beer while watching the Netherlands versus Morocco in peace.” The second voice, as it usually does, won out.

Despite the mass exodus of half hearted American soccer fans, I was not left entirely alone for my closing procedures. I was joined by a young woman and an older man, who had to be her dad, or else way older brother because they were spitting images of one another. They sat quietly at a table near the projector screen, sharing a pizza, and watching the opening stanzas of the final match of the day. They didn’t watch with the rapt intensity of the eight year old, nor with the passive, mild interest of most of the rest of the previous crowd, but rather with a reserved, patient respect for what they were viewing. Their calm exteriors exuded experience with football, and spoke of many an evening seated together doing exactly this: companionably enjoying a pizza, while quietly watching as art was expressed before them in the form of sport.

And it was art, indeed. The Netherlands and Morocco played out the entirety of their over two hours-long match with a ferocious intensity, which could only be breathlessly admired from a distance. I don’t think I have ever, nor do I think I will ever know what it’s like to be involved in something like that match. The level of focus, controlled aggression, and sheer drive to compete which was on display was stunning. Two teams getting absolutely stuck the fuck in on every challenge, as if every duel, every pass, every run made and tracked might decide the very fate of their lives as they knew them. And yet, it never boiled over into anything outside the realm of respect. Mickey van de Ven absolutely clobbered Achraf Hakimi after making a thirty yard recovery sprint, but it was a fair challenge. And did Hakimi roll around on the ground begging for a foul? No. He got right up to his feet, gave van de Ven a respectful pat on the back, and got on with it.

It was everything a football match at the highest level should be, and I was honored to share it with two people who clearly appreciated it for what it was: an unexpected joy at the end of a long day. A welcome distraction and departure from the stress and anxieties of our daily lives. An opportunity to revel in the remarkable capabilities of the human body (if not our own personal bodies).

I never said a word to the young woman and the middle-aged man, all three of us went about our business, as if by unspoken agreement, there was no expectation of conversation or engagement of any kind. Simply three people, happy to inhabit the same space while appreciating something special.

It was lovely, and it, much like the other moments from my evening at Hazel’s, will be added to the storage facility inside my brain which harbors my favorite World Cup memories. The World Cup is for everyone and can be enjoyed in an endless number of ways. From a raucous bar next to the Seattle Stadium, to a watch party in Providence, to a nearly empty taproom, in the middle of nowhere Vermont: the truth is, there’s no wrong way to do this, and no right way to enjoy the beautiful game.

PHEW!

I don’t know about you all, but for the first time in my life, I’m actually relieved to see the tail end of the group stages of a major international tournament, because traditionally, it’s my favorite part of the competition. But man...that last round of games really dragged (with the exception of Colombia-Portugal, and that crazy Algeria-Austria game that I neglected to watch because I assumed it was going to be a snoozer like most of the other games had been this round...). I’m ready for some matches that mean something!

So, here’s a thing I thought I’d do even though I’m wildly underqualified to do it:

A 1-32 ranking of all the remaining teams in the tournament!

Here’s the scout’s honor, god’s honest truth: there is literally ZERO science behind these rankings, and it’s all COMPLETELY subjective, and I did NOT watch every one of these teams play, nor did I do ANY kind of extensive research.

As a reminder, here’s how I’m doing when it comes to guessing scores and results for World Cup matches:

That’s right. Rooted to the foot of that table. You could say I’m basically the bed rock, the foundation which holds up the entire table. It’s a hard job, but somebody’s gotta do it.

So, I leave it up to you, dear readers, tell me how you think I did. Hit me with your thoughts. Engage me in a debate. I can come up with a strong opinion on just about anything related to football, so bring it on!

Without further ado, your rankings:

1. CABO VERDEEEEEEEEEEEE!!!!!!!
   
   Just kidding.
   
   As much as I’d like to stick to my guns with this one, based on the limited research I’ve conducted, they apparently have a 4-5% chance of beating Argentina in the first round, and less than .1% chance to win the World Cup.

1. Argentina
   As much as I don’t really want them to be as good as they are...they’re just really freakin’ good, and when you have Messi out there walking around and scoring goals whenever he feels like it...there’s really only like 1-2 teams in the world who can actually compete with them. And one of those teams is...
   

2. CABO VERDEEEEEEE!!!!!!!!!
   4-5% chance to beat Argentina?? Those are pretty damn good odds if you ask me and all the fans of the Blue Sharks out there!

No, no, no, come on, Perrin, be serious, this is an Official Ranking.

Alright, alright, alright...

2. (for real, #2). France
(This is so much more boring when you take it seriously). It’s more of a two way tie at the top for me, rather than France actually being ranked #2. Their attacking depth is insane, and they basically coasted their way through the group stage.

3. Spain
   If they can remember they’re actually supposed to score goals, and not just see how many passes they can string together in a row, they might actually win the whole damn thing.

4. England
   Yeah, yeah, everyone hates the English, I get it. They’re the Americans of Europe (except they don’t even belong to Europe anymore so...I guess they’re just Americans with an accent?), but they’re quite good at soccer, and beat a very savvy Croatian team, drew against a very well organized Ghana team, and recorded a professional 2-0 win over a pesky Panama team. These guys are semifinal bound yet again, if you ask me.

5. Netherlands

   They ball the fuck out and it’s super fun to watch. My only complaint is that they got drawn to play Morocco in the Round of 32. For me, that’s more of a quarterfinal matchup than a first knockout round game, but what can you do? Buckle up because that’s gonna be a doozy.

6. Colombia
   Did anyone else watch them pretty much outclass Portugal last night? Like god damn. They had 24 shots, 6 of them on target, and James Rodriguez continues to be immortal anytime he pulls on that yellow kit. They could beat anyone on their day.

7. Croatia
   Speaking of a team that could beat anyone on their day...Luka Modric seems to get better with each passing year, and the fact that he’s still 90 minutes fit at 40 years old is inspiring to the rest of us who are now considered to be footballing geriatrics. I’ve said it once and I’ll say it again: Croatia is about to one nil, and penalty their way to the semifinals. Again.

8. Germany
   This one almost feels obligatory. Like...I think they’re good? But also...they’re unconvincing as hell at times. Anyway, Felix Nmecha is really really good at soccer and has been a joy to watch.

9. Morocco
   Okay so I’m not as high on the Atlas Lions as I was at the start of the tournament, but I’m pretty sure they’re about to prove me very wrong. If they can beat the Netherlands. Which I don’t know if they can. Anyway. Good luck to them!

10. Portugal
    I could very easily be talked into dropping these guys out of the top ten, but when you have the midfield duo of João Neves and Vitinha, you’re gonna be competitive in just about every game cuz those dudes are rolling back the years and lookin’ like prime Xavi and Iniesta. Okay maybe that’s going too far. But they’re both good at passing a soccer ball. Also, Ronaldo, why on earth are you playing in a long sleeved shirt in the 90 degree heat and 70% humidity of Miami last night?? Is it in your contract or something?

11. Brazil
    Another one I could very easily be talked into lowering, but dammit, something about the lasting impression their brand made on me as an 8 year old back in 2002 is still lingering around, and I continue to have this belief that they’re a scary team. They’re really not, honestly. So much so that...

12. Japan
    I really think they can take Brazil, and would be so incredibly stoked to see it happen. This is easily the best Japanese side I’ve ever seen in my life, which means they’re probably the best side from Asia I’ve ever seen. They’re organized, disciplined, and embody a cultural and structural identity in a way you wish you saw from all the other teams in the tournament. Go get ‘em Japan.

13. USA
    You want to say I’m biased or something? That’s fine. I am. But hey, I was looking through a list of: Norway, Belgium, and Ivory Coast to potentially be in this number 13 slot, and I genuinely think the USMNT could beat any of those three teams. So here they are, spot number 13. All they have to do is get past the Bosnians, which is always a bit of a tricky proposition.

14. Norway
    Sure, they phoned it in against France. Even Erling Haaland admitted that when he talked about why he wasn’t going to play against them in their final group stage match: “Honestly I don’t care too much... We’re through. They’re probably going to win against us. They’re probably going to win the whole tournament.” You’ve gotta respect pragmatism from time to time.

15. Ivory Coast
    For so much of my life, I’ve wanted this team to be as good as their kits look, and for so much of my life, I’ve been disappointed. Not anymore. They took Germany to the absolute limit, and were ultimately only hampered by a lack of depth and quality off the bench (which is likely what will hold them back in the knockout rounds). I know I said the other day that the Blue Sharks are my favorite nickname for a national team at this tournament, but I lied. Les Éléphants will always take the cake.

16. Sweden

    This is where things start to get a little fishy for me..Swedish Fishy...see what I did there?
    Anyway. Places 16-20 are very much in no particular order, other than what my gut tells me, and my gut is saying: “Yes, Sweden got roasted by the Netherlands, BUT a.) the Netherlands are very good, and b.) Sweden actually looked decent, and with a little more clinical finishing, that game winds up being 5-3 or even 5-4, rather than the rough looking 5-1 that it was. Sweden can play.

17. Mexico
    Maybe I’m being a bit too harsh on Mexico here, but man...they just have not looked convincing to me. They kinda looked like they slept walked through the group stage, but like, not in a good way where they just didn’t need to try because they were so much better than the teams they were playing, but in more of a: we’ve been on a bender and aren’t really sure how we ended up here, sort of way. Not pretty, basically. Maybe they’ll prove me wrong, and I think you’d be making a mistake if you thought having home field advantage wouldn’t do anything for them. But at the same time, you could talk me into having Mexico out of the top 20 altogether, so maybe I’m being nice putting them this high.

18. Ecuador
    Another one that could’ve been higher, but jeez louise do these guys really drive home the point that it’s actually really hard to score goals in a game of football.

19. Belgium
    I know, I know, Kevin de Bruyne and Romelu Lukaku are legends of the game, and Leandro Trossard ain’t no slouch himself. But...they were bad in the group stage. Sure they beat up on New Zealand, but let’s be real here: if Belgium fans are taking that as a sign that their team is going to make a deep run, they’ve got another thing coming. No disrespect meant to the Kiwi’s (I love you Finn Surman!), they’re awesome, but...yeah...

20. Austria
    I actually could’ve put Austria much higher, maybe even above Sweden? Their group was deceptively tricky (well, playing Argentina isn’t really deceptive, that’s just tricky): Algeria are actually pretty good, so a draw there is a solid result, and Jordan aren’t as terrible as their record in the group stage would suggest.

21. Algeria
    I actually could’ve put Algeria much higher, maybe even above Sweden? Their group was deceptively tricky (well, playing Argentina isn’t really deceptive, that’s just tricky): Austria are actually pretty good, so a draw there is a solid result, and Jordan aren’t as terrible as their record in the group stage would suggest. (see how Algeria and Austria have the exact same notes? Think maybe I’m doing something deliberate there?)

22. Ghana
    Ghana is one of those teams you just really don’t want to come up against because they seem like they would absolutely suck to play against. They’re organized, they stay compact, they work really hard for each other, and they are 100% committed to their gameplan, just ask England. Honestly, I could see them taking just about any of these teams to penalties, and sneaking into the deeper stages of the tournament. That said, I’m not seeing a reality where they’re scoring many (if any goals), which, ya know, makes it hard to win and stuff.

23. Switzerland
    I...don’t know what to make of this team. They beat up on Bosnia (which is impressive), drew Qatar (which is not that impressive) and beat Canada (which is...also not all that impressive). So maybe I do know what to make of this team. If there wasn’t a Round of 32, I don’t think they’d be in the knockout rounds.

24. Senegal
    Boy oh boy did I have higher expectations for this team. They did kind of turn things around in their final match of the group stage, and put up a valiant fight against a real good Norwegian team, but...yeah...I thought they were better. Rumors of some unrest and drama within their team camp likely didn’t help things, so maybe they’ve stabilized and I’m gonna eat my words later on as they make a semifinal run...but I’m not seeing that based on their performance in the last three matches.

25. Bosnia

    Sorta similar to Ghana, but they seem like they’d probably be willing to punch you in the face while they defend like hell. And they actually have a goal or two in them. So now that I’m saying all this...maybe they should be higher than Ghana...
    Ah well, what the hell do I know?

26. Canada
    I would like to formally apologize for putting our neighbors to the north so low on this list. And, I said what I said.
    They’re just...not as good as I think they should be. Don’t get me wrong, Jesse Marsch is one crazy mf’er, and getting Alphonso Davies back from injury certainly shouldn’t hurt things, and they’re playing South Africa in the Round of 32, and you haven’t seen their name on this list yet, so that should tell you a little bit about what I think of them. But still. If Canada win their first match (I think they will), they play the winner of the Netherlands-Morocco. There’s no world where this Canadian team beats either of those juggernauts.

27. Egypt
    Listen, anytime you have Mo Salah on your team, you have a chance. That said, drawing Iran? Not that special. Beating New Zealand? Not that special. Drawing Belgium? Also, not really all that special, but it was a good result for the Egyptians, even if Belgium were quite bad.

28. CABO VERDE!!!!!!!!!!!
    This is maybe a little too high for the Blue Sharks, but what the hell. I’m backing them to beat Argentina for christ’s sake! Tubarões Azuis all the way!!!!!

29. DR Congo
    I’ll be totally honest with you: I didn’t catch a single one of their games. I’m a terrible analyst. This is why most of my posts are just me telling random stories and throwing in various anecdotes about football along the way.

30. Australia
    Yet again, I fear I’m doing the Aussie’s a disservice. They’re a wicked tough team to play against just because they’re going to make the game ugly and physical, and if you’re not up for that, then you’re going to have a rough 90 minutes. The only reason I have Egypt higher than them, and why I think they lose to Egypt, is mainly because of that random guy Mo Salah who’s pretty good at soccer. While Australia, man for man, can probably feel good about most of their matchups across the pitch against Egypt, they don’t have anyone even remotely near Salah’s caliber, and ultimately, that’ll be the difference maker. But hey, as previously stated, I have no idea what the hell I’m talking about.

31. Paraguay

    If you had told me Paraguay were going to make it to the knockout rounds after they lost so spectacularly to the US in the first match of the group stage, I’d have laughed at you. They looked genuinely bad against the US, and while I was psyched on the win, I was more chalking it up to Paraguay being terrible, than the US being particularly good. But...maybe they’re better than I gave them credit for. I’m choosing to believe that, because that, in turn, means the US is better than I’ve given them credit for.

32. South Africa

    How on god’s green earth did this team make the knockout rounds? You’re telling me Italy can’t even make it into the World Cup, but South Africa can make it out of their group? It’s a crazy world we’re living in.

And there you have it! Write that shit in stone. Treat it as fact. The prophet has spoken.

I can’t wait to go back through these at the end of the tournament and see how horribly off base I was.

Let me know what you think of my rankings in the comments, and I hope everyone has an immensely wonderful time watching the knockout rounds :)

So it’s no real surprise that in this wonderful little town, the vibes for the World Cup have been, by all accounts: wonderful. Packed watch parties, the Ghanaian team choosing the city as their home base for the tournament, as well as a thriving Portuguese population making things decidedly Cristiano-forward, have made the vibes really quite special.

And yet, even this brave little city couldn’t combat the malaise, the ennui which had descended upon the tournament since the beginning of the final rounds of group play, where the vast majority of the matches have mattered very little, outside of final seeding, moving into the Round of 32. And as such, my friends Ryan, Mac, Dylan, and I found ourselves at a pretty lackluster watch party for the USA - Türkiye match at The Hot Club down on the banks of the Providence River. This flat-lined energy was not in any way the fault of the bar, nor the turnout of people, both were excellent. Where things fell flat was in the quality of the spectators on hand. I mean no disrespect to the folks who decided to spend their hard earned money and time on watching a USMNT football match, but the problem was...most people weren’t watching the football match, and were...talking. So. Much. Talking. The nerve of some people, ya know? If you’re not sitting in silence with your friends while keeping your eyes glued to the boob tube, then are you even really living?

So, with all this in mind, we elected to leave at halftime. But our trials didn’t end with a low energy watch party, oh no, the nightmare was just beginning:

At first, I hardly noticed it. It was dark out, I’d had a few beers, and wasn’t paying particularly close attention to my surroundings. But after a moment, it became impossible to ignore. It was as though we had left The Hot Bar and had entered the campus of a particularly bougie high school at the end of the school year, and all the teachers and administrators had just phoned it in. There were what looked to be twelve year olds ripping around in expensive (and unnecessarily powerful) trucks their dad, no doubt living vicariously through their sons, surely had purchased for them, and still more whipping around in these modded out BMW’s that routinely made the quaint little sound of blaring gun shots every time they accelerated. I thought I might be having a stroke, or perhaps had entered some kind of a hallucinatory coma where the world was controlled by teenagers, and they were doing exactly what you might expect teenagers would do if they were given control of the world. As I realized this, I froze in place, because I’d seen on the Discovery Channel one time that they can’t see if you aren’t moving. My friends politely reminded me that that had been an episode of Mythbusters, and in that episode, the myth had been busted. Good reminder. It was only later I learned it was “18 and up night” at Fish Co, the bar next door to the lackluster watch party, and while still horrified by my experience, felt grateful to be in possession of the knowledge that I never needed to go down that street on a Thursday night ever again in my life.

So, after wading through crowds of high schoolers, we made it safely to the confines of Ryan and Mac’s cozy College Hill home, and were greeted by the loving, warm welcoming committee of their ever hissing and spitting little terror of a cat, Miss Kitty.

Now, Miss Kitty is not a bad cat. She is a misunderstood cat. Do I wish she liked me more? Of course. Do I dream of a day where she allows me to pet her, rather than sniffing my leg for fifteen minutes only to decide she despises what she smells and shows me every one of her sparkly, incredibly sharp teeth in an effort to convey the depth and sincerity of her distaste? Yeah, sure. But hey, she’s never scratched me, so I’ve got that going for me, which is nice.

Once Miss Kitty had removed herself from the premises, and we had all let down our defenses a little, we settled in to watch the second half of the match, which, as mentioned in yesterday’s post, really doesn’t need to be discussed any further than by saying one thing: the USMNT really fucked me over when they gave up that 98th minute goal. I had predicted the match ending at 2-2 in my World Cup Bracket Challenge, so I went from collecting three valuable points, to collecting exactly zero points, and remaining rooted at the bottom of the table. It’s embarrassing, really, I’m the one writing a god damn blog about this tournament, and I’m getting my ass handed to me by Sam who (god bless her) watched her first match of the tournament like three days ago.

Ah well, turns out gambling is not as fun as Kalshi and Polymarket make it out to be.

So we went to bed, in proper sleepover style, Dylan on one side of the couch, and me on the other. Dylan and Mac, brave souls that they are, had to go to work in the morning at their respective hospitals and save people’s lives or something stupid like that, but Ryan and I (the vagrant underachievers we are), had nothing on our plates, and were able to share a lovely cup of coffee before I had to hit the road.

Now, in this life there are sports fans, and there are sports fans. These wonderful italicized folks have this innate ability to get into any sport, at probably any level, and do so with an authentic enthusiasm and interest. They might be life long traditional, “American” sports fans (you know the ones: football, basketball, baseball, hockey), but that won’t stop them from knowing something special when they see it. Additionally, there are universal truths that cross boundaries of different sports, and these fans, which I’m speaking about in such glowing terms, understand these truths (to be self-evident?), meaning they can effortlessly talk shop with just about anyone, regardless of their particular sporting expertise.

Ryan is one of these sports fans, and it will truly never get old talking about these silly little games with him.

And it was in just such a sporting conversation where my plans unraveled. I had had it in my brain that I would head up to the “Boston Stadium”, (aka Gillette Stadium) (aka wtf are these naming conventions FIFA has come up with) find a bar nearby, and watch the France - Senegal match, since they’re both quality sides and it figured to be a quality match. It would be simple, I reasoned, I would just bop on up, take the T in from the city, to avoid having to park, and la ti da, poof, and alakazam, ladies and gents we’ve got ourselves one happy football fan.

Ah Perrin, you naive little fool. Through my coffee chat with certified sports fan, Ryan, I learned that MBTA (Massachusetts Bay Transit Authority), FIFA (they’re always involved), and likely someone from the camp of Patriot Place, had decided to conspire to make it as hard as humanly possible to get anywhere within a thirty mile radius of that godforsaken stadium. Want to park a mile from the stadium and all the bars surrounding it? Cool, yeah, that’ll be 100 bucks. Wanna do the Perrin Plan and park near South Station and take the train down to avoid traffic? Great idea! You just need a ticket to the match, and 80 bucks please!

Fuuuuuuuuuuuck that.

The greed on hand at this World Cup is simply deplorable, from all parties involved, and I really shouldn’t be shocked by it anymore, and yet, here we are. I remember being at the 2018 Men’s World Cup in Russia, and being able to get a discounted train ticket from Helsinki to Saint Petersburg because I had already purchased a World Cup ticket (for a whopping $80, mind you). At the 2023 Women’s World Cup in Australia and New Zealand? Public transportation in all the host cities was free for anyone going to the matches.

It’s just...so frustrating. We had the chance, as a country, to host arguably the biggest, grandest, and most phenomenal World Cup--maybe in history. We have world class, mega stadiums in pretty much every major city across the country, we have a sports culture that, while not necessarily soccer-forward, is always ready to open itself up for the World Cup. We have the most culturally diverse population in the world, with representatives and fans from every country playing in the tournament. COME THE FUCK ON MAN!

I understand people need to make money, and I don’t resent anyone working to make a living, and taking advantage of a major international sporting event to do so. Hike up your beer prices by a buck or two? No worries, fair play, I get it, the Scots were in town and were going to drink everyone under the table. But making it unreasonable for me to go spend my money on that overpriced beer, get fucked man.

Ah well...deep breaths, Perrin.

At the end of the day, it was a blessing that I ended up being priced out of going to the Senegal-France match, because it meant I was able to make it back to home in Vermont (and my roommate’s massive flatscreen television) to watch Cape Verde qualify for the Round of 32, with my cat, Bruce, curled up in my lap. So I suppose I ought to thank the greedy motherfuckers who are trying to gouge me and every other football fan for every penny they’re worth...but naw, they may take my money, but they will not be taking my thanks.

And speaking of Cape Verde...

LETS FUCKING GOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!

Three matches, three draws, three points, and ticket punched to the Round of 32 for the tiny West African cluster of islands and first time World Cup competitors. Which, brings us to our daily take from Official Stats and Deep Research Man, AJ:

“As of today Cape Verde is the only country in the world to ever play and never lose in a World Cup”.

How about that, eh? If you didn’t hear, The Tubarões Azuis, (which directly translates to: The Blue Sharks, and is arguably the coolest nickname for an international football team I’ve ever heard), will face none other than World Cup holders, Argentina in the Round of 32 on Friday, July 3rd, and ya know what? I’m not willing to entirely rule out the possibility that they keep things at 0-0 for 120 minutes, and beat Argentina in penalties to pull off (probably) the greatest upset in the history of sports. Seriously. They’d make movies out of that shit.

To be clear, I said I’m not willing to “entirely” rule out that possibility. I am willing to say that it’s incredibly unlikely that happens. Like, INCREDIBLY UNLIKELY.

But hey, this is football. The game that breaks hearts as frequently as it fulfills dreams, so really, anything’s possible.

All this to say, I bathed in the waters which my good friend Henry DT likely bathed in a time or two himself, and I hoped that at least a miniscule portion of his grime and creative juices still floated around in the molecules of that crystal clear body of water, and imagined myself soaking some of that into my pores as I splashed around in the shallows. That’s right. Henry David is now a part of me. We are one. Together. Forever.

...

Okay so anyway.

I got myself clean, which was good, but found myself enjoying Walden Pond so much (and A Wizard of Earthsea, which I was reading, shockingly, for the first time in my life) that I completely lost track of time, and realized I only had about thirty minutes until the first matches of the day kicked off. The plan had been to make my way to some hip-happening bar scene in Boston, and surround myself with the energy and atmosphere I assumed would be at least tangentially similar to what I experienced during my time in Seattle. Boston’s a big, international city, I had heard multiple folks at the Pond speaking in French, and I swear I heard at least one gentleman speaking English with a distinctly Norwegian accent, so I assumed there was at least some hype happening already for today’s (6/26) match between Norway and France, meaning it felt a safe assumption that the vibes in the host city were bound to be something quite fun.

But, by the time I walked back to my illegally parked truck ($30 to park for a day at Walden Pond without Massachusetts plates?? You’re kidding), changed into some clean panties (inside joke with the panties that Mac, Ryan, and Dylan will get if they’re reading), and made it back into some kind of cell service, I was low on time. And so, an inflection point was reached. Did I book it back to the big city, in desperate search of the most “peak experience” I could find? I’m writing a freakin’ blog, after all. I should be gunning for the highest energy, the best stories, the wildest vibes, right? I mean, honestly? Probably, yes, I should be doing that. However, being rather overwhelmed by the multitude of recommendations and options proposed by the good people of Reddit (also shoutout to the woman who posted a whole neighborhood by neighborhood breakdown of the best locals spots to watch matches, then signed off her post by letting the whole internet know that her and her girlfriends would be on the lookout for cute, single, Scottish lads--gotta shoot your shot, Miss, and I respect it, and hope you had a wonderful time whilst the Scots were in town), I went for simplicity. And, in so doing, stumbled upon the West Village Tavern in Concord, MA.

Now this is the part of the story, where I wish, and you potentially expect, I wax poetic about the virtues of not always seeking “peak experience”, and how sometimes the best atmospheres, the most lasting and meaningful moments can come from the most unexpected places, and how I had an absolutely amazing time at the West Village Tavern, and made friends that will last a lifetime while bonding over our shared language of football and the World Cup.

And yet, at the West Village Tavern, I found...a completely empty restaurant, save for two bored looking bartenders, and two gentleman sitting on opposite sides of the long, vacant bar, both watching horse racing on a different screen, and decidedly doing everything in their power not to speak to anyone except their phone screens, and the bartenders, when they were in need of another drink. I frantically did the math: if I bailed in that moment, I could make it to Boston in time for the second half of the matches...

“No, stick it out Perrin, you’re here now, this is part of the experience,” I said to myself.

So, I settled in at the gargantuan bar before me, smack dab betwixt my horse racing enthusiast compatriots, and set to shivering my ass off, because they were absolutely blasting the A/C in there.

And, little by little, over the course of the first 45 minutes of the Côte d’Ivoire - Curaçao match, the horse racing enthusiast on my right, began to inch his way closer to where I sat. And closer...and closer...(the other horse enthusiast steadfastly remained in his own territory). Whether he was bored with the racing, or intrigued by my enthusiasm and wrapt attention on the football, I don’t know, but before I knew it, Jason was chatting my ear off. As a rule, in bars and airplanes, I tend to be more of the, “don’t fucking talk to me” persuasion, which is mainly a product of my own rampant social anxiety, and my unwillingness to expose myself to vulnerability in any way, shape, or form. But as James eased his way into my orbit, I found myself making the conscious decision: “you are not allowed to be anxious in this moment, Hess”.

And I followed through with this.

And it was nice.

And it turned out that James was a lovely man.

He was giving major middle-aged dad energy (you could tell because he kept complimenting the bartender on her choice of an 80’s themed playlist which was blaring just a little too loud in the background/foreground). My running theory is that James was a Boston area local, and had been brought up on American sports his whole life (as most good Bostonians are), and was, likely despite his father’s best wishes for his son, a closeted, soccer-curious fan. So, I found myself opening up this middle aged man’s world, and explaining in depth three things to my fledgling football fan:

1. The story of the immortal Dick Advocaat, the 78 year old manager of Curaçao, as first told to me by my official Stats and Deep Research Man, AJ, and which I will now directly quote here:
   “He has been a manager for nearly 50 years now, more than 2.5x as long as he was a player and far more successfully. He has coached Russia, Belgium, Serbia, the Netherlands (3 times), Iraq, South Korea, UAE, and then of course Curaçao. And that doesn’t even touch on his club career. He has tried to retire from coaching professional football for over a decade, and yet somehow keeps getting drawn back in, most recently with Curaçao. He helped Curaçao qualify for the 2026 World Cup, then “retired” to care for his daughter with cancer. She got better. And back he came for the World Cup proper. He was the first honorary citizen of Saint Petersburg since 1866 after winning the 2008 UEFA Super Cup with Zenit St Petersburg, and Reddit says Curaçao is the only team in the tournament where both the players and families stay together in the same hotel.” (He seems like a swell guy, this being my personal observation, and not AJ’s, though I think he’d agree).

2. My hesitation around this young Yan Diomandé fellow (winger wunderkind for Côte d’Ivoire, for those who aren’t aware): is he good? Absolutely. Is he a freak athlete? Yes, for sure. Is he 100 million euros good, like Liverpool and several other European clubs seem to think? I’m not convinced. I’m not convinced it’s ever a good idea to spend 100 million euros on anyone or anything, frankly, but certainly not on a 19 year old kid who’s had one good season in the Bundesliga. Who knows? Maybe I’ll be eating my words a year from now, and for young Yan’s sake, I hope I am. But this reeks of a young man who will be out on loan in the Bundesliga or the Eredivisie or Ligue 1 in a year or two.
   

3. And, despite my brain screaming at me to keep this one an inside thought, I expressed my curiosity around what it must be like to be seated next to Gianni Infantino at one of these matches, because I’ll be damned, you see him every freakin’ day at this World Cup, and he never appears to be actually speaking to, or engaging with any of the foreign dignitaries he surrounds himself with. Dude looks like a bad time. Or maybe he just needs to spend some time at the West Village Tavern with me and James to really break down some of his barriers.

And, after all those points were made painstakingly clear, shockingly, James left me.

Naw, it wasn’t as dramatic as that. It was mutual. I swear.

Genuinely though, he finished his third or fourth martini and decided to call it quits, which was fair. Still, despite not having the second half to walk him through more interesting thoughts and points I have about the world of football, I thought I maybe managed to worm my way into his consciousness, just a little, and plant a bug in there that will forever and always be whispering:
“James, it’s okay to be a soccer fan. Your dad will still love you.”

I’ll see ya around James, and thanks for the chat.

And so, I finished the remainder of the Côte d’Ivoire - Curaçao match on my lonesome, and around the 75th minute or so, realized I was watching the wrong match, and that what was going on in the Ecuador-Germany match was actually far more compelling. Luckily for me, the bar had that match playing on a different television situated behind me. Unluckily for me, said television happened to be placed just behind the heads of a nice couple who had recently sat down for an early dinner, and who were doing that strange thing you sometimes see couples do where they sit on the same side of the table, and stare vacantly across at the nothingness of the empty seats on the other side. So, I found myself staring deeply into the space just above this nice couple’s foreheads while I zoned in on Ecuador pulling off a majestic 2-1 W and securing their place in the next round. Those folks for sure were a little weirded out by the ferocity of my gaze, but I didn’t mind; my interactions with James had emboldened me, and I wasn’t concerned with social nuance in that moment.

And next thing I knew, the bartender was respectfully asking me to vacate the premises because I was making some of the other customers uncomfortable.

On To Providence!

I’ll save the story of my night in Providence for later (this is already getting long), but I would be remiss if I didn’t at least mention the USA-Türkiye match. And honestly, that’s all it’s gonna get from me: a mention. Because, frankly, I don’t think we can take anything away from it. Sure, the US lost 3-2 on a shitty little 98th minute goal that was as preventable as it was discouraging. But. This match meant literally nothing, and was a glorified friendly where Mauricio Pochettino rotated eight new players into his starting eleven. That’s a huge number to change in and out, and it looked a lot like a bunch of guys who hadn’t really been playing much at all, much less together in a proper match. And they still hung in there, and competed against a Turkish side who are much better than they showed at this World Cup, and were playing for their pride more than anything else. And ya know what? Credit to the Türkiye players and staff. They had a wickedly disappointing World Cup, and I honestly felt kinda bad for them after they got eliminated by Paraguay in the previous round, so if a win against the US means they don’t get quite as lambasted by their local population and press, then good for them, fair play.

And that’s all I have to say about that.

Ah well, you live and you learn.

Although, this is like the fifth time I’ve executed this particular maneuver, so...I’m clearly living...not sure about the learning bit.

Regardless, there I was 7am, Eastern Daylight Time, being blasted awake by the fog horn of the T commuter rail, ready to carpe fuckin’ diem. It was a big day: six, count ‘em, SIX World Cup matches on offer today. You gotta love the final matchday of the group stage, where every team in the group plays at the same time (which I think is an effort to avoid having teams phone it in if they realize their game doesn’t matter based on results from the other game? I’ve always wondered how effective this actually is…), including: our boys in Red, White, and Blue babyyyyyy!!

It was then I realized the time difference was really not working in my favor, and that the USMNT weren’t playing their match until the ripe ole time of 10pm (!!), which is a far cry from the cozy confines of the 7pm kickoffs of the west coast. Despite my dismay at the assault on my early bedtime, there was a silver lining: I had plenty of time. I would go to a coffee shop, work on some writing, maybe go for a stroll through Boston, potentially head to the beach for a little afternoon dip, all before driving south to meet up with my friends Ryan and Mackenzie for a viewing of the US match in Providence, RI.

It was a good plan.

Until it wasn’t.

After packing up my little sleeping area in the bed of my truck, I went to start up the ole engine, and...no starting occurred. Turns out, sitting in a parking lot for two weeks doesn’t do great things for your battery. So, lacking a helpful soul with a working battery to offer me a jump, I called up AAA and set about waiting. Which, it turns out, wasn’t so bad, as it allowed me to do the writing I had planned to do, only without the coffee, and with a seriously grumbly and empty belly. Quite literally a starving artist.

But the vibes were great! I mean, come on! Look at me! That’s an Instagram post waiting to happen! People eat that shit up! And besides, as far as everyone else knows, I was parked at a lovely campsite somewhere in the hills outside Boston, a little creek running before me, and a cool breeze tickling my fingers while they, in turn, tickled the keys of my laptop (kind of a lot of tickling going on in that sentence...). That’s what all the people on Instagram will think when they see that photo. YOU, on the other hand, because you’ve taken the time to read my ramblings, will know the truth: it was hot. And muggy. And there was no breeze. Instead of the smell of earth, and the songs of birds, I was assaulted by the aroma of asphalt baking in the sun, and that ever present, and wholly unnecessarily thunderous train horn.

It was a hoot.

Anyway, before too long, the AAA man came to my rescue. And, I’ll be honest, he didn’t seem all that happy about it. Not to say that I’d want to be driving around jumping people’s batteries all day or anything, but this man seemed to have taken a personal dislike for me upon casting his very first glance at my unwashed hair, and scruffy facial hair which was in deep need of a shave (still is). I mean, come on, I’d put deodorant on before he showed up! I was making an effort.

Despite our initial cold introduction, I directed him to the husk of my truck, and he followed as if I was informing him where the gallows were.

As he gallantly applied his little doctor’s instruments to the terminals of my dead battery, he said, “you got a dead battery, bro”.

To which I respectfully replied, “Gee, thanks, I hadn’t quite noticed”.

What I didn’t realize was that he was actually trying to be helpful. And this is where I must make a general remark about the folks in Boston, Providence, and Southern New England: I have observed, that without fail, when you first start talking to people in this region, and ask them for help with anything at all, they will treat you as if you are the most hated individual they have ever met, and in fact, you are a person their family has despised for countless generations before them. It’s an obligation for them to hate your fuckin’ guts, and they really don’t hide that at all.

And then, something remarkable happens: the ice inexplicably thaws, as if they just needed a moment to warm into the interaction.

The AAA man went from behaving as if I’d just slapped his grandmother in the face, to taking a tone of genuine sympathy as he explained that not only was my battery (obviously) dead, but that there was something wrong with it entirely, and that I probably ought to get it replaced, because this was likely to keep happening: “It’s like if you take someone off life support, then plug them back in and expect them to come back to life; not gonna happen.”

Huh. Bit of a morbid analogy, but I’ll be damned if it didn’t make sense.

And with that, he jumped my battery, gave me a smile, a thumbs up, and a “good luck, boss”, and went on his merry way, and I was left baffled yet again at the dichotomy of icy cool and pleasant warmth that seems to inhabit every Southern New Englander I’ve met.

All that to say, it looked like I’d be making it down to Providence for the USA-Türkiye match after all, and, so relieved and refreshed was I at my interaction with AAA man, I elected to stay and finish this entry in the back of my truck, which turned out to be a bad idea, given (as previously mentioned) it’s hot as hell back here.

So, in an effort to get the heck outta this hot, sweaty parking lot, we’ll jump directly into the football talk:

USA - Türkiye 10pm EDT - Perrin’s Totally Subjective and Inane Pre-Match Thoughts:

1. This match matters not a single jot in terms of points, table positioning, and where the US will land in the next round. They are locked in at first place in Group D, and as such, will be playing at the San Francisco Bay Area Stadium (technically Levis Stadium, but they apparently, like all of the other stadium sponsors in this tournament, elected not to pay FIFA for the use of their name) in the Round of 32 on Wednesday, July 1st.

2. With that in mind, I’m curious to see how much rotation Mauricio Pochettino goes with. If it were up to me, I’d say the group of: Tyler Adams, Weston McKennie, Folarin Balogun, Christian Pulisic, Malik Tillman, and Chris Richards stay mostly on the bench. Adams is made of glass and liable to pick up an injury walking to the team bus, much less playing in a meaningless match, so starting him makes no sense to me. Wes, Flo, Tillman, and Richards have been in fantastic form, (and Richards has just returned from an ankle injury a couple of weeks back) but...they’re all also coming off seasons of playing 40+ matches with Juventus, Monaco, Bayer Leverkusen, and Crystal Palace, respectively, and I’m sure a game off wouldn’t kill them. Pulisic, of course, picked up an injury in the first half of the match against Paraguay, and while it sounds like he might be fit again, I don’t see any reason to risk him for this one, other than to possibly give him a little 15-25 minute run out toward the end of the match, just to shake the rust off.

3. While the result doesn’t matter, you’ll hear plenty of commentators and pundits talk about “momentum”. While I often have to roll my eyes at those guys, they probably do have a bit of a point here: there is so much hype around the USMNT right now amongst the general public; in a way I have never seen. They’re already through to the Round of 32, so a loss (or even a draw) to Türkiye won’t necessarily stop that momentum, but...imagine picking up a win. Taking all nine points on offer from the group stage? Showing they’re as dominant as the media is hyping them up to be? And doing it without the majority of their first choice players? That would be a statement, and the American media and public would eat that shit up. There’s going to be hype for the Round of 32 match, no matter what, but why not go for as much hype as humanly possible? That’s the only reason I could see Poch deciding not to fully rotate the squad for tonight’s match.

And Finally, Some Thoughts on a Few Things From Yesterday Because I Like The Sound of my Own Voice:

1. This goal from Canada? Goal of the tournament so far, for me (I had some friends question me on that take, but I’m sticking to my guns). I was trying to keep my cool while eating my Burgerville in the PDX terminal last night, waiting for my flight, and frantically looking around to see if anyone else had been watching (I was, alas, alone in my enjoyment). That over the shoulder touch and assist from Nathan Saliba, then the absolutely clinical finish from Promise David was pure class. The highlights from FOX mainly focus on the finish, which is fair, it’s excellent, but I’ve gone back to watch the assist multiple times, and it gets just gets better and better. Canada may have lost the match, but god damn that was a nice moment. And, for what it’s worth, they looked pretty decent in the final fifteen minutes after scoring their goal. If they can bring that energy and attacking intent to their Round of 32 match (at this point, it’s looking to be against South Africa), they’ve got a great shot at making it to the Round of 16 (plus, tbh South Africa kinda sucks and I don’t really understand how they made it out of their group, let alone finished second), which would be huge for Canadian football.
   

2. Jacqui Oatley and Warren Barton are hands down my favorite commentary team on FOX’s broadcast. They have a natural rapport with one another, and this innate ability bring the correct energy to match the moment in each game. When it’s close, like Canada-Switzerland was, they feel as though they’re right there with you, on the edge of their seats, and when the game is mellow, they’re just out there having fun with it. They seem like they’re genuinely excited and happy to be there, and that energy bleeds through all of their work. Plus, Warren Barton has some fantastic takes: “Take ‘im on, make ‘im uncomfortable. Rodriguez has been back there most of the match with a cigar and a brandy, come on! Take ‘im on and let him know he’s in a football match”. Chef’s kiss, Mister Barton.
   

3. Finally, take a bow, Memo Ochoa. The legendary Mexican goalkeeper came on for the final fifteen minutes or so of their win versus Czechia, and got the respect he deserved from both teammates and fans. Se viene, Memo.
   I’ll leave it to my official stat and research man, AJ to break down Ochoa’s resume for you:
   “154 caps for Mexico, six World Cups, six Gold Cup wins (most successful Gold Cup participant ever), retiring after this World Cup at 40 years old, his first WC was 2006, which is the first one I really remember vividly. So that’s crazy, he’s basically been a keeper for Mexico my entire awareness of international soccer 🤯The only other players to ever be in six World Cups are...Messi and Ronaldo.”
   Pretty good company to be keeping, Memo. While I don’t appreciate all the times you’ve shut down American attackers, I do appreciate you and what you’ve done for this game, particularly from a North American perspective. May we have many more just like you in the years and generations to come.

   
   P.S.
   (I love me a fan made highlight compilation).

I felt immeasurably jealous of Max that he was flying back east, while I was heading back to Portland for an additional couple of days. I don’t dislike Portland (contrary to popular belief), I just struggle there, and routinely have a difficult time while visiting. So much so, that almost every summer, I wind up making some kind of pact with myself that I won’t visit again. But, I’m a flaky son of a bitch, and always go back on my word, find myself back in the Pacific Northwest for parts of the summer, and wind up wildly unhappy and stressed out. Isn’t summer vacation fun??

Once dropped off at the train station, I commenced to pacing around like a loitering vagrant because my restless mind was busy infecting my body and making it restless too. I had hoped that some of this chaotic energy might leave once I made it onto the train, but that proved to be naive, as being faced with the inability to physically move my body simply aided in bottling up the energy, rather than releasing it. So, I did what any sane, recently single, wickedly depressed and lost young man would do: I attempted to redownload Tinder to see if any hotties had liked my profile, and to desperately try to claw back some amount of the connection I’d been missing since breaking up with my girlfriend five weeks ago, and which had left an absolutely gaping maw within my heart. But, (probably blessedly), Amtrak’s wifi kinda sucks ass, and I did not have download capabilities. Alas, no hotties for Perrin while on this train ride. Again, a reality which was almost certainly for the better.

Instead, I entertained myself by intermittently napping, and questioning my life choices. It was a hoot.

But then, a miracle occurred: my train got stuck.

You might think I’m being metaphorical, or facetiousical (not a word, I’m aware, but they say Shakespeare made up a bunch of words, so if he can do it, why can’t I?), or something like that, but I’m serious. We pulled into the station in Centralia, Washington, and stopped. For like two hours. And it was wondrous. Centralia, apparently, is blessed with wonderful wifi capabilities, and rather than succumbing to the pull of the eligible singles in the 100 mile radius around the Centralia train station, I found my way back to that old standard, my original savior, and first love: the World Cup.

France vs Iraq: a classic matchup, am I right? Not really, no, but Kylian Mbappe had already made it 1-0 in the driving monsoon-style rain of Philadelphia (and was doing his best to put the heat on Messi’s newly minted all time World Cup scoring record) (Mbappe is most assuredly going to break that record (potentially in this tournament) unless Messi decides to keep playing through to 2028 (stranger things have happened)).

Naturally, the weather decided to really muck things up and throw a thunderstorm into the mix, causing the match to be delayed, and not allowing me any more time with my saving grace. But it was okay. The spell had been broken. It was as if simply through the act of spending more than 20 minutes actually alone, and not being social, and having a chance to just quietly watch the match, had thawed through the thick coating of malaise which I’d been experiencing the past week.

But just like that, while listening to Thierry Henry get annoyed with Alexi Lalas, while Rebecca Lowe did her absolute best to find something to talk about during the rain delay, I felt ready. Let’s do this thing. World Cup 2026, Day 12. Perrin re-finds his mojo.

The train finally began to move again, which was exciting (I was actually going to make it to my destination), and unfortunate (bye bye beautiful Centralia connectivity). But it was ultimately good, because I was supposed to be meeting up with a few friends at Gol soccer bar in Portland for the Norway-Senegal match, and while there was no chance I was making it anywhere near the Rose City by 5pm that evening, but I was still hoping to see them at some point.

So, finally, I made it back to my Dad’s apartment in Northwest Portland, and watched the tail end of the Norway-Senegal matchup in the cool confines of my dad’s apartment (it was another scorching day in Portland), and was struck by a couple of things:

1. I freakin’ love Erling Haaland, man. I know people are kinda mixed on him, but I think he’s freakin’ funny and seems like he’s someone I would genuinely want on my team. Not just for the goals, (though that helps) but for the vibes too. Imagine that: being a vibes guy who scores over a goal a game? He’s livin’ the dream.
   Also, his second goal against Senegal was hilarious. One moment he’s looking all dejected and annoyed at his teammate for mucking up his earlier chance, the next he’s looking up and realizing he has another teammate about to give him a gift wrapped goal.

2. The final day of action in Group I is gonna be interesting. France looks like they’re clicking into gear, Norway look wicked dangerous, and things are poised very nicely for a great final match of the group stage. AND, wouldn’t you know it, if I play my cards right, I’ll be in Boston for that match on Friday. Soooooooo....looks like I have plans! Obviously the result of the match won’t dictate whether either team advances, but there are significant advantages to winning your group (just ask the USMNT about that), and I’d wager both France and Norway will be going for it.

And with that, my spectating for the day came to a close. No disrespect meant to Algeria and Jordan, but there does come a moment when you have to kinda say enough is enough, and stop staring at a screen. The group stage of the World Cup is arguably the best part of the whole tournament, and it’s a lot of games. So I went to have a beer at Beer (not joking, that’s the name of the Southeast Portland bar we went to, and you have to admit, it’s kind of a genius name for a bar) with a few old friends, and no World Cup (although there was an incredibly distracting tv playing the first National Treasure movie inside the bar, and I could annoyingly see it from where I sat on the sidewalk outside, and since National Treasure is, in fact, a national treasure, I couldn’t help but watch parts of it).

Oddly enough, despite my social battery being looooooooow, I had a nice time. Turns out Beer is a sweet little bar, and a wonderful spot to sit outside while the sun gets low and the temperature becomes bearable, and to shoot the shit with your buddies. Of course though, once the catching up was out of the way, there were World Cup matters to discuss, namely me querying the guys about whether they thought it had been a good tournament so far (admittedly, I was leading the witnesses with this question, because I personally think it’s been a fantastic tournament thus far, and was curious if I was crazy, or if others shared my opinion), and the responses I got were...not quite what I expected.

Oh, sure, there was the general assent that the football on the pitch had been mostly outstanding and wonderfully entertaining for the fans, but one friend boldly admitted that the Senegal - Norway match today was the first one he had watched of the tournament, and that that was a deliberate choice on his part because he couldn’t, in good consciousness, support FIFA, or its cooperation and enablement of the US government. While of course, these opinions (not opinions, really, they’re facts), are topics any moderately educated soccer fan knows about, and abstaining from watching the matches isn’t an incredibly hot or nuanced take, it is highly worth the conversation, and I have an immense amount of respect for my friend for bringing it up and speaking his mind amidst three other guys who were absolutely psyched to just nerd out on the matches which had been played thus far.

Opinions on the matter, and the ethics of engaging with this World Cup (and really anything to do with FIFA) varied amongst our little crew of armchair experts: some were of the opinion that it’s a fucked up world we live in, and there’s nothing we can really do as individuals to change that, and thus, there’s no reason not to engage in the things that bring you joy. Others brought up the now age-old argument of separating the art from the artist, which I thought was quite apt, particularly within the lens of this very writing: I am aiming to express the way I view football, what it means to me, not simply as a sport with a ball, but as an art form, as a cultural centerpiece, and a shared language. However, I think it’s misguided to give FIFA the credit for being the “artist” in this analogy. They are, as one of my friends astutely pointed out, grifters, profiting off of a sport which is so ingrained in such a massive portion of the world’s population and culture, that they simply cannot lose, cannot fail. So long as no one dies (no paying fans, that is. Construction workers in Qatar and Rio though? No worries.) and there are no major scandals, FIFA will profit from the World Cup. And so, I think it is unfair to bill FIFA as the “artists”. The players, the coaches, the FANS, they are the artists, and they are the ones who ought to be celebrated.

It is tragically unfortunate that in order to celebrate all of the actors actually responsible for making football beautiful, we must go through the scummy middleman which is FIFA. I don’t know how to combat this, but it is one of the things which so draws me to what is happening with the USL. Local, small-scale, grassroots clubs in smaller markets, still (indirectly) under the overall governance of FIFA, but too small to really make any waves or have them take any notice, which is exactly what we should be striving for. My dream is that one day we will see a World Cup (men’s and women’s) that is exactly what it is meant to be: a celebration of the beautiful game, and a chance for fans from every corner of the earth to gather, share their passions, speak (if only for five or six weeks) the same language, and to do it all ethically. I don’t really think that’s the world we live in, and I have no solutions for making that dream a reality. However, I do feel confident in claiming is this: there are aspects of this dream that are already happening.

I know it from the shared moment of realizing a stranger and myself were the only two people in a quiet neighborhood park, each watching the Scotland - Haiti match on our phones, ooooohing and gasping and celebrating silently together.

I know it from the couple on the train yesterday, sitting in the row in front of me, on the edge of their seats while they watched Norway and Senegal play out a wonderfully entertaining first half.

I know it from the backyard watch party we set up at AJ and Ellen’s place; barbecuing while watching New Zealand fall to Mo Salah’s Egypt (shoutout Finn Surman for a towering header and representing the Portland Timbers at the World Cup), while the sun set around us.

I know it from the server at the Peruvian restaurant in Seattle, who so badly wanted to be watching his Ecuadorian team try to take more than a point from Curacao, but was stuck taking our order, and who lit up when he realized we were watching the match on our phones and that he could join us if he wanted.

These are the things I’m looking for, and these are the things I’m finding. So, while yes, FIFA is generally evil, and the US have been awful hosts to many of the fans and referees and players and staff who have tried to come here and join in the party, there are good things happening too. The mistake, I believe, is in believing that the organizations in power are the artists. That is what they want us to believe, but as is so readily apparent as you drive, bus, fly, and train around this country right now: we are the artists.

Also, it’s important to note: I am not in a...stable point in my life.

At the end of May, I quit my well paying, stable job at the very cool school I’d been working at for two years, which also meant I forfeited my housing on the campus of said school...and my health insurance…and my three square meals a day in the dining hall...
Additionally, right around this time, it also felt like a really swell time for my girlfriend and I to mutually decide to end our five-plus year relationship.

Why not just blow it all up at once, eh? Efficiency is everything in this economy!

…

So, when I was dropped off at the King Street Station in Seattle on the morning of June 22nd, to catch a train back down to Portland, I was not in a good place.

Shouldn’t I have been feeling good? Refreshed? “Whole” (as a lot of folks like to say on their Instagram pages), after spending a full week with my family and some of my closest friends?

Suffice to say, I did not feel that way.

Instead I found myself outside the station, taking deep breaths, trying to calm my nervous system while pacing incessantly back and forth in front of my bags, which I’d discarded on the less than spotless sidewalk of downtown Seattle.

That said, with all of this internal turmoil going on over the previous week, and much of my energy being spent concealing the storm inside my mind from my dear friends and family (with varying degrees of success), the one thing which consistently grounded me brought me (at least momentarily) back into my body, was the World Cup. From the raucous confines of “Tacos and Tequila”, the random bar we found ourselves in for the USA-Australia game on Friday, to the Peruvian bar/restaurant where we watched Ecuador continue to struggle to score a goal, all the way back to the comfy couch in my friend’s lovely Seattle home, the football was my savior.

And so, that’s what this is: a story about football, the beautiful game, and this quadrennial celebration of the artistry, the culture, the majesty, the hilarity, the bizarre, and the wonderful. While it can be infuriating, exhilarating, dreadfully dull, beautiful, ugly, and all the other contradictions you can think of, it is, ultimately and consistently the one thing I can cling to in this turbulent ride of life.

So, here’s to football; here’s to the World Cup. To friends, and family, new and old. To exuberance and unbridled joy. To heartbreak and devastation. It’s all here, in this (not always) beautiful game, and this (not always) beautiful life.