It’s Too Much

I rarely have a conversation about men’s sports that isn’t also about money. Sometimes the terms of a player’s contract will be dropped like an ordinary piece of news—the overall value, how many tens of thousands of dollars per week that comes out to. Someone will say we should probably pay our teachers and nurses more; someone else will note these athletes are paid less than what they’re worth to the far wealthier leagues and owners they play for. Other times, financial anxiety percolates up from some deeper, more personal and heartfelt place, causing one’s dad to call out to rookies through the TV screen and beg them not to go spending all their newfound cash on stupid crap.

In the US’s pre–World Cup friendly against Germany on June 6, American left back Antonee Robinson drove his foot through a ball that was falling steeply from fifteen feet in the air, drilling it into back of the net from just outside a crowded box. It was an incredible goal. But the backflip he did afterwards got me down. I sat there wondering what kind of person signs a $13 million contract with Fulham FC, fights his way back from recurring injuries and knee surgery, just to risk injuring himself during a goal celebration. (Never forget Argentina’s Fabian Espindola, who blew out his ankle landing a celebratory backflip in a 2008 MLS game. The goal was ruled offside).

Granted, the odds of severe injury do seem remote for Robinson, clearly a practiced gymnast. But even a tweaked ankle could cost him tens of millions of dollars; a big move to Liverpool or Manchester seems plausible for a player like Robinson (rumor has it they’re interested), and those odds would go way up  with a stellar performance in this World Cup. Then, I had a darker thought, that this could be a calculated weighing of risk versus reward. The flip is going to look great in future ads and endorsements, and context is irrelevant in the clip economy—who cares if the goal in question happened during a pre-tournament friendly that his team went on to lose 1–2.

Nevertheless, the Men’s World Cup of Soccer is no place for selfish behavior. FIFA is projected to make over $3 billion from ticket sales alone, more than tripling what it brought in at the gates in Qatar four years ago. Its contracts with host cities are a big fuck you to local governments and taxpayers; ticket pricing is “dynamic,” meaning steep and climbing, even with the expanded format (FIFA admitted 16 additional nations to this tournament, upping the number of games from 64 to 104 and flooding the field with underdogs or, less generously, cannon fodder). All of which is to say a lot of fans will have paid a lot of money, some much more than they can easily afford, to travel to stadiums across North America, only to be forced to buy a $12 bottle of Dasani and watch a blowout.

Here in Boston, the cheapest passes to group stage games are several hundred dollars each, not including the $80 train fare from South Station to “Boston Stadium,” FIFA’s dubious name for Gillette Stadium in Foxborough. Thankfully, the short-term rental company Airbnb has agreed to help by donating exactly 1,104 tickets to the children of Massachusetts. It’s unclear from the rapturous statements issued by public officials how, exactly, the tickets will be distributed, and to which children and why. What should be very clear is that backflips are a no-go, in these conditions. We can’t afford it. For most goals, a couple of high fives should do just fine; for the rare goal as nice as Robinson’s, I would accept a forward roll, provided the player begin from a crouching position and flip gently forward onto padded mats delivered onto the field by a couple of Airbnb-sponsored child attendants. Fair compromise, I think.

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Underdog Update

One in four of Earth’s nations qualified for the 2026 World Cup. But not Italy, because the diminutive Bosnia and Herzegovina (sixty-forth in the rankings) beat the four-time World Cup champs in penalty kicks back in March’s qualifying playoffs.

The Bosnians came out strong in their World Cup opener against cohost Canada, holding the Reds to a 1–1 tie on their home turf in Toronto. Bosnia played a very solid game, looking dangerous on set pieces and reasonably well-organized in the back, but Canada also blew several big opportunities to score. The worst of these came around the sixteenth minute, when Bosnian defender Amar Dedic accidentally passed the ball to Canadian Number 10 Jonathan David in the box, giving him an open look at the net from just behind the penalty spot. David choked and hit a draggy ball straight to goalie Nikola Vasilj, prompting Canada’s coach Jesse Marsch (of Racine, Wisconsin, the only American head coach in the tournament) to throw a winsome little tantrum. His face lights up, darkens in an instant, then he strides spitting and screaming down the length of Canada’s bench, whipping his hands around like a man incensed that the paper towel dispenser in the bathroom stopped working.

Curaçao, the smallest nation ever to compete in a World Cup, held Ecuador to a 0–0 tie. It was a game played almost entirely between Ecuador’s offense and Curaçao’s goalie Eloy Room. Room made fifteen saves, the second most ever in a World Cup game. After the sixth or seventh block, cameras cut to Ecuadorian keeper Hernán Galíndez, who, suffering an excess of free time, had taken a seat on the grass and was watching the game with his chin resting on bent knees. When Room blocked the shot (an excellent header to the near post), Galíndez dropped his head back and tipped sideways, appearing to die of boredom.

But nothing so far has topped watching Cape Verde face off against two former World Cup champions in a row. Ahead of their opener against Spain (a favorite to win the whole tournament this year), commentators guessed how many goals Spain would score—one said ten, one said seven, and the other said five.

I was only watching the game because I had already seen it end in a 0–0 draw. Most big upsets have a miraculous quality; we feel God intervening on behalf of the little guy. But Cape Verde, frankly, looked pretty good against Spain. Defender Pico Lopez had more than a few heroic moments, but the whole defense stayed organized and composed, and the midfield played with good pace, stringing enough passes together to build out of the back several times in the first twenty minutes. “Whether Spain wins this game by one or by seven,” the commentators observed, Cape Verde could be proud of its performance.

Vozinha, Cape Verde’s affectionately mononymized 40-year-old goalie, made his first big saves late in the first half, standing up nonchalantly with white paint all over his elbows. As the game wore on, Cape Verde’s defensive strategy—pack the box; when in doubt slam the ball off a Spanish shin for a throw-in—began to wear on the Spanish midfield, who sought comfort in a phlegmatic keep-the-ball-at-all-costs possession game. Their passes risked nothing, accomplished nothing, and then became predictable enough for Cape Verde’s defenders to pick off.

With ten minutes to go, Cape Verde looked tired, but completely unflustered. Spain ought to have looked frustrated or panic-stricken, but instead there was just this zombielike commitment to more passing. The only urgency came from Spanish head coach Luis de la Fuente, whose eyes seemed to bore holes through his little spectacles. Cape Verde’s Bubista looked more relaxed than any head coach I’ve ever seen in my life. It was wonderful.

I caught Cape Verde’s second game against Uruguay on an airplane. Again, they looked good; quick and composed. By the time we were airborne, they were up a goal, thanks to a low, driven free kick outside the box. But late in the first half, Uruguay scored, and then, horribly, they scored again a few minutes later. The fans who had contagiously giggled their way through the game against Spain now prayed into clasped hands with carsick expressions. Uruguay’s offense started to gel. Goalie Vozinha looked pissed and uneasy. A third goal seemed imminent, a fourth inevitable, a fifth likely.

I missed Cape Verde’s second half equalizer because I was too busy casting sad eyes out the window and contemplating life’s cruelty. A thump on the shoulder snapped me out of it; my seatmates pointed excitedly at the screen. A terrible defensive pass into no-man’s-land had pulled the Uruguayan keeper from his box and Cape Verde’s striker had volleyed it into the net from twenty yards out. Spirits soared: The fans on my seatback screen were hugging, crying, and jumping up and down. During the hydration break I poured a miniature bag of Sun Chips into my mouth and nodded gamely at an ad for Jesus. The final score was 2–2.

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Love from the Fan Zone

For those unable to attend games in person, FIFA has graciously allowed host cities to organize and pay for their very own FIFA Fan Festivals™, where fans can come for free to watch the game on big screens, shop for FIFA merch, and enter to win limited-edition FIFA merch from a Bank of America kiosk.

The MC for the Boston showing of the USA opener against Paraguay on June 12 wore a jersey bearing the name of fictional Premier League soccer coach Ted Lasso. This was either a show of good-natured neutrality or a concession that Lasso is American soccer’s biggest household name. Either way, the crowd in Boston’s City Hall Plaza was unimpressed. They had been warmed up by a local indie rock group out of New Bedford called Autumn Drive, who played a couple of original songs and then “Seven Nation Army” twice, to the delight of everyone. (The White Stripes’ song has been a folk anthem for soccer fans ever since Belgians began chanting the bassline at Champion’s League games in 2003.) But MC Lasso killed the mood: He tried and failed to lead us in a confusing variation of the “I Believe” chant, before passing things over to a towering, remote Jason Sudeikis (the “real” Ted Lasso), who appeared directly behind him on the big screen. Sudeikis delivered some short, blandly sweet remarks to the live crowd at SoFi stadium in Los Angeles: “When people come together, something special happens.” Fans who minutes ago had been chanting soccer’s favorite hook at full volume now stared languidly into their phones.

An opening ceremony followed, featuring the flags of all forty-eight competing nations and an unremarkably bad performance by pop artist Katy Perry. The Boston crowd booed both Katy Perry and her boyfriend, former Canadian Prime Minister Justin Trudeau. They booed FIFA President Gianni Infantino, US Secretary of State Marco Rubio, former English national team player David Beckham, socialite Paris Hilton, actor Tom Cruise, billionaire Bill Gates, and another celebrity I didn’t recognize. They also booed the referees on the field, all of the assistant referees in the VAR room, every player, fan, and coach associated with the Paraguayan team, as well as American central midfielder Weston McKennie, who angered them, I think, by playing too unselfishly in the box. The English flag-bearer received lengthy boos from a large contingent of Scottish fans. (The Scottish national team, playing in the World Cup for the first time in twenty-eight years, is based out of Boston for the group stage. Fifty thousand Scots traveled here for the tournament, equal to nearly a full percent of Scotland’s population. They have won the city’s hearts by drinking up all the beer, buying up all the unwanted Red Sox tickets, and tumbling down the metal slide outside City Hall in their kilts.)  But the most deafening boos of the night came on the two occasions the big screen cut to black during the broadcast. The hostile sound swelled rapidly for three long seconds, then collapsed into a mellow, pacified cheer when the game came back on.

The Americans—scrappy newcomers in the ’90s, now confronting the awful expectation that they win World Cup games—beat Paraguay 4–1, scoring more goals in this opening match than they did in all of their Qatar World Cup games combined. The first of these was an own goal, but USA’s star forward Christian Pulisic deserves most of the credit, splitting two pairs of defenders in the box and sending the ball across the six, where Weston McKinnie deflected it into a Paraguayan defender who haplessly deflected it into the goal. Pulisic also assisted the second goal, again beating defenders down the left side before finding Folarin Balogun in the box, who reached the inside of the far post in one touch. Balogun scored the third goal, too, running onto a long through ball from midfielder Malik Tillman, then beating two defenders to score. Jubilation in the fan zone—until the US came out for the second half, absent playmaker Pulisic. The offense, while still rolling, suddenly looked predictable without him. And I’m not just saying that because Christian and I both grew up in central Pennsylvania, land of manure smell and thrifty grammar (I don’t know Pulisic’s childhood, but it pleases me to imagine his mom telling him his socks “need washed.” Give them here, Christian).

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Oh No Christian!

Turns out a calf injury had taken Pulisic out of the Paraguay game; sadly, it also kept him from the US’s second group stage match against Australia. The good news is that the US managed a 2–0 win without him, and will now advance to the Round of 32 at the top of their group no matter what happens in the now meaningless game against Turkey on June 25. The bad news is that they looked slow and disjointed. Australia’s first shot on goal came forty-five seconds into the game; the US composed itself and, thanks to a Balogun drive down the left side, managed an early goal at around ten minutes—but it was an own goal by Australia. The US failed to put a single shot on frame in the first half.

American Coach Mauricio Pochettino (or “Poch”) set the US side up with two strikers instead of one, to compensate for Pulisic’s absence. Australia, assuming (not incorrectly) a reduced US scoring threat, kept its own most dangerous striker Nestory Irankunda on the bench until far too late in the second half. The thought was probably that Australia’s compact five-back would keep the game scoreless, and then Irankunda, with fresh legs, could be counted on to beat the US back line on counter attacks. Poor strategy, in hindsight.

That’s not to say the US team didn’t deserve the win. Robinson looked fast down the left side. McKennie drifted around creatively. Balogun played really great, except for a few too many fuck-ass heel-passes and the time he jumped Australian center-back Harry Souttar in the eighty-eighth minute (initiating a violently charged hug that earned both of them a yellow card). Defender Alex Freeman, son of a former Green Bay Packers receiver, put on the best performance of the day, playing a smart, end-to-end game and scoring the US’s second-half goal after a blocked free kick set the ball loose in Australia’s box. From my grandma’s living room in Plano, Texas, Freeman’s goal looked blatantly offside. The sideline ref thought so too, lifting his flag on the play. But VAR technology determined that the studs of a long-legged Australian defender’s cleats kept him onside, just barely.

“This game is kind of bullshit,” said my Australian husband. If it hadn’t been true before Freeman’s goal, it certainly was afterward. My typically far-flung family, reunited for a funeral, enjoyed a solid thirty minutes of classically dramatic soccer gameplay. Soon, the US grew impatient and stretched, and started to give the ball away. Australia gained the upper hand, but played with miserable desperation, kicking long balls downfield and hoping for Irankunda to save the day. The two sides traded bad turnovers for minutes on end. It was not good soccer. If I were focusing on the positives, I’d say the fouls called against Australia were mostly legitimate, the US players’ balletic dives to the ground, beautiful, and their displays of pain, vivid and time-consuming. Granted, I was often distracted. I missed a good play by Balogun in the box because my Californian cousin was showing me a TikTok of a monkey drinking coconut water. And I think some good Australian passing occurred while I was getting clarity from the other cousin about what she meant when she said, with bright sincerity, that US Secretary of Health Robert F. Kennedy Jr., shown in the stands at the game, “looks great.”

As the second half wore on, and the Australians accumulated yellow cards, my husband began insisting the fix was in. Even the more conspiracy-minded members of the family doubted it, his only evidence being the way Poch pats referees warmly on the cheek after games. But then the ref himself went down in the eighty-ninth minute with a cramp, forcing Australian midfielder Aiden O’Neill to stretch the supine official’s calf muscle for several minutes while medics fetched him electrolyte goo. “Hmmm. . .” my New Mexican uncle said. “The other ref is cute, put him in!” suggested one of the cousins. “He’s no Christian Pulisic,” said the other, and I had to agree.

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