Normally, I come here trying to write something deep.
Something thoughtful.
Something that reaches a little beneath the surface and tries to pull meaning from the ordinary things.
Sometimes that means memory.
Sometimes that means grief.
Sometimes that means a recipe, because I still believe food can say what the heart does not always know how to speak.
But today, I have to be honest.
I cannot seem to concentrate.
Team USA has a match tonight in the World Cup against Bosnia and Herzegovina, and yes, I will be watching.
Not with the game on in the background while I pretend to do something else.
I mean watching.
Leaning forward.
Talking to the television.
Believing every pass might become something.
Feeling that small, ridiculous, beautiful hope that comes with being a fan.
And maybe that is worth writing about too.
Sometimes the soul does not want to sit in the heavy room. Sometimes it wants to stand up, clap its hands, wear the colors, and believe that something good might happen before the night is over.
My road into soccer did not begin with some grand childhood memory. I did not grow up studying formations or arguing about clubs from across the ocean. I did not have the language for the game yet.
A co-worker named Tracy helped open the door.
Sometimes that is how new loves find us.
Not through some dramatic conversion.
Just a person saying, “You should watch.”
And you do.
Then you watch again.
Then the game starts to make sense.
I have been watching and learning
And tonight, I am excited.
I want Team USA to move forward.
I want that next round.
I want that feeling of possibility that comes when the country is watching together, even if we are watching from different couches, different cities, different little corners of the day.
There is something beautiful about a World Cup in this country.
I have also been watching videos online, seeing the reactions of fans from Europe and other parts of the world who have come here for the tournament. I have watched them walk through American cities with surprise on their faces. I have watched them talk about the food, the crowds, the stadiums, the welcome they have felt.
And something about that has stayed with me.
Because for all the things this country is, for all the arguments we have, for all the wounds we carry and the contradictions we live inside, there is still something moving about seeing people arrive here and feel received.
welcomed.
Fed.
Cheered with.
Talked to.
Pointed in the right direction.
Given a memory to carry back home.
That matters to me.
Maybe because I know how hard it can be to feel welcomed anywhere.
Maybe because hospitality has always meant more than politeness. It is a way of saying, for this moment, you are safe here. For this moment, you are not a stranger. For this moment, pull up a chair.
And maybe that is part of what has pulled me deeper into the game.
Soccer feels global in a way few things do.
Different languages.
Different flags.
Different histories.
Different songs rising from the stands.
And still, everybody understands the ache of a missed chance.
Everybody understands the miracle of a late goal.
Everybody understands what it means to hope.
That hope has started working on me.
Enough that I have found myself thinking about going to a New Mexico United game.
There is a difference between watching something from a distance and letting yourself enter it.
And I think I want to enter it.
I want to hear the noise.
I want to feel the rise in the crowd when the ball moves with purpose.
I want to be around people who care enough to yell.
I want to learn not just from the screen, but from the stands.
Maybe that is what fandom is.
Not just knowing the names.
Not just understanding the rules.
Not just buying the shirt.
But allowing yourself to care about something you cannot control.
Allowing yourself to be lifted and disappointed and lifted again.
Allowing yourself to join a chorus that was already singing before you arrived.
So tonight, I am not going to force myself into some deeper essay.
I am not going to pretend my mind is somewhere else.
Tonight, my mind is on Team USA.
My hope is wearing red, white, and blue.
My attention is on that field.
And my heart, maybe more than I expected, is in the match.
Come on, USA.
Give us something to remember.
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Resources for Hard Times
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