I didn’t grow up with soccer. The only time I played was in a pasture in Austria, where I was a student. The school, Seminar Schloss Bogenhofen, was in the countryside near the town of Braunau, infamous for being the birthplace of Hitler.
One of only a few American students, I was encouraged to join my Austrian classmates in a pick-up game of Fussball. On the field, I quickly embarrassed myself with my clumsy moves. I also kept a lookout for cow pies.
Fast forward to Stoneham in the 1980s and my wife and I are standing with other parents on the sidelines at the soccer field off Broadway. Our 10-year-old son has just received a pass and punched it into the goal.
Although he would later abandon soccer for basketball, we gradually developed an interest in “the beautiful game.” Not yet serious fans, we nevertheless enjoyed World Cup and Olympic contests, especially the successes of the USA Women’s team.
This year, with World Cup games coming to Boston, we’ve spent way too much time watching matches on TV. We’ve cheered not only for our country, which showed great talent before losing to Belgium, but for various teams from around the world.
In picking which teams to cheer for, besides USA, I follow two principles. The first is, I like the underdogs. Who doesn’t like an upset? Or a herculean effort by a low-ranked team, like Cape Verde, who pushed Argentina to the limit before bowing out in the round of 16.
The second is, I like teams from places I’ve been, or have friends and family members living there. For this reason, and also because they were such fun to have in Boston, we cheered loudly for Scotland.
For similar reasons, I cheered for Germany because I have cousins there. I cheered for African teams because I was born in Tanzania. I cheered for Portugal because of our neighbors, who came from Portugal. I cheered for Mexico because we once took a train to Mexico City. I cheered for Brazil because we have so many Brazilians among us. And I cheered for Canada because, well, how can we not?
Having the World Cup in North America allows us to see some of the best players in the world. Like Messi, Ronaldo and Mbappé. Erling Haaland and Harry Cane aren’t bad either. And it brings hordes of fans into our cities, stadiums, bars and streets. In the faces of fans from around the world we see the same spectrum of emotions as those we feel—boisterous displays of joy and pride, bouts of anxiety and the agony of defeat.
We also learn about their countries and culture. Googling during water breaks, I find out that Cape Verde has a tiny population of only half a million, or that Uruguay is in the southern cone of South America east of Argentina and south of Brazil. Its name comes from the river Uruguay, which means “bird river.”
Watching the World Cup, I realize that the world we are seeing is richly diverse and abundant in cross-border bonhomie. In many ways, it reflects the demographic landscape that is already here. A nation of immigrants, we revel in the reunion of cultures from around the world.
I also realize, sadly, that this is a world our President and his lieutenants despise. It’s not just his America First doctrine and his disdain for other nations and cultures. Or his contempt for “shithole countries,” and his slanderous rants against Haitians, Mexicans and Somalians. It’s his open espousal of white nationalism and his attempt to rewrite American history.
It’s also his attempt to purge America of its black and brown immigrants. Even as I sit on my couch enjoying a World Cup match, I know that in 212 detention centers around the United States, some 70,000 immigrants are awaiting deportation. Thousands more are being arrested each day. They are in essence no different from the players we see on the pitch, or the fans that follow them. They are no different from us.
As we watch the semi-finals and championship game—and as we celebrate our 250th Birthday—this World Cup has something to teach us. Like the inspiring photographs of the earth taken from the recent moon voyage, the World Cup should convince us that we are, in truth, one world. It’s time we start acting like it.
Ben Jacques Stories 