At some point during the Netherlands’ match against Japan, I drifted off. The day had been stifling by Lake Annecy, where oppressive heat, the sun, and a mix of food and boxed wine slowly drained all energy from my body, akin to air escaping from a squeezed carton.
I faintly recall Virgil van Dijk directing a header into the net, and when I regained consciousness, the score was 2-1, with everyone retreating to their beds, intoxicated by fatigue, life, and drink.
Many of my friends are not particularly fond of football, which turned the World Cup into a sort of background ambiance, filling the conversational silences. Amid long discussions about home renovations and Andy Burnham, a muffled French voice occasionally pierced through from another realm. Names like Maeda and Gravenberch floated by, as the Low Countries sought their first final since 2010. My limited French made it hard to grasp everything. Someone opened a bottle of Heineken, while bodies sprawled across the couch and fingers flicked through phones, encapsulating the exquisite ennui of the moment.
One will undoubtedly encounter multiple narratives about the World Cup from those present. This is likely beneficial, as experiencing such an event firsthand is essential for true understanding—whether it’s a major football tournament or even a court hearing. However, I aimed to express the feeling of the World Cup as it resonates with the majority: as ambient sound, as voices whispering from a different dimension, as fleeting images on a distant screen, and as a faint scent and taste carried by the breeze, evoking vivid dreams of Steph Houghton discussing “the front-footedness of the press” It’s the sensation of waking up believing you witnessed all of Iran’s match against New Zealand, even if you did not. The delicate manner in which World Cups intertwine with our lives creates a mingled cocktail of collective and individual memories.
Everyone possesses a story like this. I watched the 2006 final between Italy and France at a seafood restaurant in Hvar, Croatia. They had one of those enormous televisions on a stand, reminiscent of those wheeled into classrooms for educational videos. I missed Zinedine Zidane’s famous headbutt because the waiter stood in front of the screen. Although I have since watched the match numerous times, if asked for my primary memory of that evening, I would likely recall the tenderness of the monkfish over any moment from the pitch.
Eventually, I transitioned to covering World Cups professionally, an experience that immerses you entirely. Almost instantly, you merge with the tournament, becoming an extension of its essence, subjected to its rhythms and moods. From the moment you wake to when you finally rest (far too late), your entire being aligns with the game’s schedule, the predictable cadence of kick-off times, ideas, content, and deadlines. The rest of your thoughts revolve around logistics and meals. Upon returning home, my smartwatch often reflects a resting heart rate elevated by 10-20 beats over the norm for an entire month. It’s evident that people visibly age during such events. It feels akin to going to war.
Throughout this year’s tournament, breaks in play frequently reveal the stark difference between World Cup matches and regular football. Everyone appears to be dancing and giving thumbs-ups. No one seems to be having a bad time. There are no protests or calls for board resignations, nor is there abusive shouting towards the referee except in the most theatrical manner. Typically, attending a football match—what elevates this sport above a concert or blockbuster—is to willingly accept the risk of disappointment: your team might lose, the game could be lackluster, your weekend may be spoiled. Yet, when you’ve spent £800 on a ticket, plus substantial amounts on hotels and flights, could you truly allow yourself not to enjoy the experience? How could you even confront that reality?
In contrast, watching from home allows for a certain detachment. It grants the freedom to let football ebb and flow in and out of our consciousness, to fill the voids in life rather than vice versa. It offers the luxury of being pleasantly bored, decadently bored. You can step out for a smoke, grab a drink, or head to bed. In Talloires, a quaint resort in Haute-Savoie, bars and restaurants showcase “Coupe de Monde” on wooden chalkboards, with the world’s greatest sporting event serving as a backdrop to dinner, nestled between cheese and dessert. Nearby, the G7 summit unfolds in Évian, and as the sun sets, helicopters glide low over the lake, a reminder of football’s inherent adaptability and the ongoing spin of the world around it, despite its grandeur.
How delightful it is to sip boxed wine and half-watch football while the world grapples with its own turmoil. To grumble about hydration breaks and the refusal to award a penalty to Kylian Mbappé, to observe these 104 matches spread across the Americas like a captivating map, and not feel compelled to watch every single one, or any at all. To appreciate this World Cup for what it truly is: occasionally enthralling, sometimes entertaining, and often disposable. A strikingly beautiful human creation, akin to a floral arrangement at the gates of hell.
