Saturday red eye, Monday train, Thursday plane - it’s a lot. But Friday, after some panicked catchup, with all the love in the world for being back in the comfort of my home office, and all the appreciation in the world for a market holiday short week so at least my phone was quiet, I accomplished what I could before filling up the tank, getting my wife picked up from work, and locking the GPS on Philly.
A few months ago I was cursing at the FIFA ticketing fiasco. I was swearing off of going even though it’d been a dream since ‘94. The emotional man-child I can be was on full display.
A few weeks ago, I was still ticketless, and my wife was hearing all about it. She started texting my friends, because she’s the one who makes sure we do stuff like eat a salad after eating Chicago food all weekend, and other responsible adult stuff like that.
While I’m busy being torn and indecisive, fitting for a professional decision maker (eek!), she’s a woman of action. She even got my other indecisive buddy roped in. Despite the costs, despite the logistics, despite the chaos of bolting another travel day onto the back of multiple travel days, we were going to the World Cup, damnit.
The tickets didn’t even show up officially on the phone until we were halfway to the city. It was a touch on the nerve-racking side. We did a little celebration in the car when they showed up.
I paused for a moment while I was writing this to think about what song was playing when the tickets appeared but then I remembered what was playing. We had the US game on. Propped up on the center. God bless YouTube TV and Verizon Wireless.
Even when it panicked us partway down because the location services were probably sending off all sorts of red flags, we found out we officially were in possession of the Brazil vs. Haiti tickets we were promised via technology to have. If you haven’t experienced this, you pay for the tickets only to get FIFA app’d into “you’ll just have to wait” up until a few hours before the game and it’s pretty agonizing.
So the USA won while we drove, and the tickets showed up, and next thing we know we’re heading towards the area we usually park for Phillies games hoping that the extremely generic, not to mention price-inflated pass, can put us in that lot. Immediately you can see the sprawl of what FIFA-increased security looks like. For all of the times we’ve been in the sports complex area, we’d never seen anything like it.
Somehow it was seamless. The Linc had a massive perimeter setup around it. The amount of yellow jerseys for Brazil was as expected. Samba was in the air. The Haitians were parading too. It’s one thing to see it on TV. It’s a whole other thing to walk down the police barricaded blocks with 70k+ people to get in the queue for entrance.
It’s one thing to be in a place for a game. Even playoffs or something with higher stakes. It’s another thing to be in that place where the home crowds have been imported and the air is that electric.
We found our friend, ran into multiple friends also in attendance - which, that alone is nothing short of magical, to be walking through the stadium concourse and hear, “Holy s***!” followed by hugs and “where are you sitting” details, and watched the end of the Scotland vs. Morocco match before finding our way to our seats.
Everybody was there for an event. Everyone was there for an unpredictable outcome.
Granted, it was Brazil vs. Haiti so, call it like it is, Haiti and their fans were there for a miracle or the standard reality of facing a country with 18x the population to pick players from, but this is the magic of the World Cup.
The seats we got were high. We were over the highest view from Citizens Bank Park by a bit, and I can tell you that because I could see the top of the board in CBP from where we were sitting. We weren’t beggars and we weren’t choosers in this situation, just 3 people who got aftermarket tickets in a block and only grateful to be there.
The pageantry and the passion - I’ve never witnessed anything like it. It’s not the same on TV. It’s not the same from the privacy of your home. It’s not even like being at an international friendly. This is a religious experience. And, much like religion, it’s the best kind of least important, most important thing.
The processional before the game could choke a person up. The sun was setting. The flags and the players were coming out. The routine by which the stage was set, you have to be there to experience it. I can show you an image like this, but it can’t tell you the H.R. Martin length epic required to describe it.
The stands were filled with people who gave absolutely ZERO f***s about both the Rocky theme playing and the intermittent moments of Eagles cheerleader sideline routines. The city was Braziladelphia. Philadelphians were only outnumbered by Haitians. It was as surreal as it sounds.
You are there to celebrate one thing. Victory, sure, but the beautiful game. And, the game in context of the greater tournament. Just how impossibly global it is. How united it feels. Even for how corrupt and awful and absurdly expensive it is, it is a broad brush stroke of humanity wrapped up the emotions of the experience.
The field isn’t the only characters, either.
The Brazilian guy facetiming his wife and son for the whole game, giving play by play, and on the Brazil goals, he shouted so loudly that my wife’s ear was ringing.
The Haitian lady two rows down who, when she realizes the Asian family from out of town behind her and in front of us might be cheering for Brazil but is definitely NOT Brazilian, she’s selling them on “Why not root for Haiti though? Would you really do that, right behind me, without even being from there?” They pay her face value but cheer at the wrong time and when she turns around to give them the look, I wish I took a picture, because it was the stankiest stink eye I’ve seen in a long time.
The drunk fan who won’t shutup or sit down the whole game seated a few rows back, that both Brazilian and Haitian fans unite around getting ejected from the section - talk about a show of solidarity.
You have to do the things. Life is short. I wanted to experience this since I fell in love with the tournament in 1994, and tracked all of the games and results by hand, and started following all of the international leagues and teams as much as you could until the internet made it all so much easier.
Life is bigger than any person. Or, at least, we experience it that way.
This game was bigger than my wife and I on a couples getaway, less formal than a work trip, and somehow, it felt like it sat perfectly in between stuff you do with actual friends and stuff you do with 70,000 in person one night only friends, not to mention a huge portion of the rest of the world.
PS. Who’s in for 2030?
HEY LOOK - I did an audio/visual version of this post (and the two before it):
