It's reached that melancholy stage of the World Cup tournament. That first day without any games scheduled after a couple of weeks of multiple matches per day.  The World Cup has been a part of my life since I was a kid. In the early days, before wall-to-wall TV coverage, it mostly only existed in my imagination or as mythology in books photographs, and grainy satellite images on the news. The names of World Cup heroes present and past were who we pretended to be when we played neighborhood pickup games - Gerd Muller, Franz Beckenbauer, Johan Cruyff, Pele, Rivellino. On summer vacations at my cousin's New Jersey home my brother and I used the huge, slightly sloped, expansive front lawn as the pitch for our own mini-World Cups, replicating an entire tournament bracket of teams one-on-one until we crowned a champion. We'd grab whatever scraps of information we could about the teams and then try to become some version of them. One day my parents stared in disbelief into our backyard as they watched a whole neighborhood of children with their arms tucked in their sleeves in makeshift slings. We were imitating my Brother, who had seen pictures of the great German midfielder Beckenbauer play that way after fracturing his arm.

This year's tournament coincided with travel from New York to Korea and Montreal, so for me the World Cup has taken place across three countries (Like the tournament itself). Initially I found it nearly impossible to follow the games live because of the time difference in Asia so I was forced to watch them on delay (in Spanish) once I had installed a VPN. I watched Canada's first group game with a sense of distant National pride. The first game I was able to see live was Korea's opening group match. We arrived late at a small fried chicken place with Korea down 1-0 to the Czech Republic. With a half hour to go, the small but riveted crowd exploded as Korea scored two goals. My World Cup had begun. The next Korean game against Mexico was less successful for them but I did enjoy watching the table of middle-aged women loudly drinking soju. One woman in particular  - decked out in a red scarf and red dress - made me really wish Korea would have scored a goal to see her reaction. But it wasn't to be.  That imagined, hoped for goal lives in the World Cup's pantheon of wished-for outcomes. From Roberto Baggio's missed-penalty kick to the legendary Dutch "total Football" Squad's loss at the 1974 and 1978 finals.

For the rest of my Korean trip the tournament is a low background hum. The way it once was for me before cable TV. But now it exists on demand inside my laptop whenever I want  access it. I watch Canada beat Qatar for their first ever win as the Prime Minster looks on. I see Paraguay, the Ivory Coast, The Netherlands and Curacao in a blur of colours and goals and fouls and face-painted costumed fans through bleary jet-lagged eyes.

When I land in Montreal, the vibe is different. The tournament surrounds me like wallpaper. As soon as I arrive I see the last stages of Morocco vs Scotland with some of the airport staff who seem to all be for the Moroccans. Every time I turn around the small crowd of people behind me gets a little larger. A few make comments under their breath. Encouragements or suggestions for what the players should do. You get the sense all of them have some fundamental feel for the game. 

On the Saturday the tournament follows me around like a soundtrack to my day. A game is on when I go for Greek food with my sister and mum, then is waiting for us at the cafe next door. It's there too in the waiting room of the hand car wash place. Back home I settle down, drained from my long flight and errands to watch a 4pm Germany/Ivory Coast match. Ivory Coast surprisingly takes the lead and I'm excited to for the 2nd half when a summer storm kicks up and takes the power out. The storm lashes the area and causes major flooding. The next day I visit my friend and his parents who are still without power and have only spotty internet service. They ask about the results of the Saturday games. I relate what I can remember like a messenger bringing news to a remote village.

On Sunday I drive back home through Upstate New York, where the World Cup seems like a distant rumour in the small towns I pass through. I have no problem avoiding any hint of the results so I watch the matches on replay comfortable in the cocoon of my air-conditioned TV room, which will become World Cup HQ for the next few weeks.  I venture out a few times to bars for the communal experience with mixed results.

I go into Manhattan to watch Canada's first ever knockout game against South Africa on a muggy Sunday afternoon. The Canadian bar has a line snaking down the block, so after several attempts I find an Irish place that seems to be filled with neutrals and a group of inscrutable-looking South African men. I soon identify a red maple-leaf cap wearing young guy who springs out of his chair whenever Canada makes an attack. I join his table for the second half and we become fast friends. He places his hand on my shoulder whenever Canada threatens to do something and when they finally score the game winner late on we're up together singing O Canada in what will become Canada's greatest soccer moment and also their last of this World Cup.

In my sleepy little town the enthusiasm is less apparent. At  my local pub I see Colombia beat Ghana with a guy on the stool next to me with a hipster mustache going on about fishing and high school memories, calling everyone "brother". At one point he looks up and says with contempt, "Every four years everyone loses their fucking minds over soccer," . Which brings me to America and its relationship to the sport. Soccer and the US is like a long tale of unrequited love. The sport has tried to win over the US for the last 50 years or so but the country never quite gets it. It's hugely popular with ethnic groups and among the liberal enclaves of large cities and college towns but everywhere else it comes a distance 4th or 5th in popularity. In most of the rest of the world it's a sport for the masses. In the US it's mostly played by the privileged. Like a lot of other things it's been privatized. 

For Canada's next game I returned to my local where the salty Irish owner presided. He had strong ideas about which countries deserved support based on their past misdeeds. Belgium was very much a no go as was Argentina ('bunch of Nazis'). And don't even mention England. (understandable from an Irish point of view) My plea for Canada' relative moral goodness was shot down by a woman who was from Germany ('Nazis') and had lived in Belgium ('Colonialists') dud to the residential schools scandal. Fair enough. But I'm not sure if I agree with this moral calculus I hear so many times during international competitions. Does it really make sense to root for the US against Belgium on such a basis when the former's misdeeds are so much more immediate and harmful? And what does a player like Romelu Lukaku (an African refugee) have to do with King Leopold? The German lady's companion has his own agenda. He's for the US ("USA all the way" he actually says) and makes snide comments about the foreign sounding names of Canada's players. "That really sounds Canadian" he says about one player sarcastically. And when France's team is brought up he says they are "full of Africans". Later I hear him saying "they just don't integrate" which prompts a side-discussion with his companion who keeps her opinions about immigration policy to herself. I think of him later when Folarin Balogun, the US's star player is reinstated to play for the match against Belgium after Trump intervenes in a stunning display of corruption and hypocrisy (Balogun is also so-called birthright citizen having been born in the US practically by accident - the kind of person Trump's policies would have expelled from the country).

By the time the USA/Belgium game comes up practically the whole world is rooting against the US. Their comeuppance is complete and satisfying. I decide to watch the game at home to avoid US fans and find myself clapping wildly and yelling "Les Belges!" out my nighttime window to the indifferent night.

I watch the England vs Mexico game and am reminded how irritating it is to watch a game with an un-knowledgable crowd, yelling at  inappropriate moments, calling for fouls that don't exist, and seemingly more interested in their phones and side conversations. Their pro Mexico bias tilts me towards England who win an amazing game.

The next "Game of the tournament" is Argentina's comeback against Egypt, which I watch with a work colleague and former teammate who knows and loves the game as much as anyone I know. The American office workers around me take in the game over the burgers and fries, interested but not invested. Egypt's loss in the most heartbreaking Messi magic way resonates with my Mum who was born in Alexandria, but also the whole Arab world. The next day I see a photo of a huge crowd in Gaza watching the game outside amid the rubble and destruction and suddenly wish that Messi hadn't done his thing at the right time again and that the officials hadn't cancelled Egypt's goal of the tournament. As the tournaments narrows to its conclusion, the familiar elite are once again the only potential Champions. Argentina, England, Spain and France. The underdogs from Africa and Asia and North America are inspiring but ultimately, like on the big real world stage, the message seems to be, we can all play and all dream, but in the end only a few can win.

On the Wednesday before the quarterfinals when there are no games scheduled it dawns on everyone that this will all end very soon. Sooner than we wanted or expected. The past few weeks seem a blur now. Looking back over the results I see games I didn't remember happening or have little recollection of. I wish it all could slow down just a little to let me catch up.

On the Saturday I watch England vs Norway in my packed local and I soon become aware of a very loud passionate English woman who is swept up in the whirlwind of every attack....yelling "Declan" or Harry!" like she knows every player personally. Her fervid fandom is refreshing and stands out in the sea of mostly American neutrality.  When an England goal is called back for offside she has a brief public meltdown putting her hand on my shoulder for a solid minute as she recovers out of my view. When I casually mention "penalty kicks" I awaken her national trauma. "I'm old" she says referencing all of England's past near-misses and failures. I notice she's wearing a black and white checkered hair clip and wonder if it's a reference to the 2-tone ska record label, meaning  we're of the same generation and probably listened to the same music in the 80s. In the end England and Argentina prevail. Norway and Switzerland feel hard done by and we, the real fans, can't take our eyes off the screen.

Inevitably as this tournament comes to its finale, the talk moves to the next tournament and the next venue. The year attached to it is only four years from now but looking at the number written down, 2030, it feels a lot further away. I project myself to that time and wonder where I'll be for the next one. And who I'll be when it happens and what state the world will be in then.