It had reached that sad moment of every World Cup tournament.  The Wednesday before the quarterfinals is the first day without any games scheduled after a couple of weeks of having several 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 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, 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.

I love the atmosphere the tournament creates and how it unites so many people under the banner of football. Businesses put signs out advertising World Cup Specials and create "international" promotions to cash in on the global aspect. A beer shop near my work divided the beer brands into different groups to mimic the tournament brackets. Rows of flags appear everywhere linked by string as if the whole world had become. a massive convention center. Strangers feel at ease talking to each other about the action on the screen, all of us somehow part of something bigger.  

As the tournament begins I am traveling in Asia, so because of the time difference it feels distant. 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. The dozen or so people are there are coiled tight with tension. One girl at the front of the room tries to will the ball forward with her hands every time Korea is attacking. Korea scores two goals to win late setting off a mini-explosion. Being with fans of a national side when their team wins  is like watching fireworks go off. 

 When I watch Korea's next game vs Mexico at the same place, they can't repeat their heroics. The goal the whole country tries to will into existence never happens. That imagined, hoped for result lives in the World Cup's pantheon of wished-for outcomes. From Roberto Baggio's missed-penalty kick in 1994 to the legendary Dutch "total Football" Squad's losses in 1974 and 1978.

For the next week 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.

The moment I land in Montreal I'm sucked into the tournament. Scotland is playing Morocco and the airport staff is gathered around the creen. Every time I turn back around the crowd gets bigger. The eyes of a crowd intently focused on a World Cup game is a unique spectacle.

On the Saturday back in Montreal a summer storm kicks up and takes the power out while I'm watching Ivory Coast VS Germany. It causes major flooding. The next day I visit my friend and his parents who are still without power and have only spotty internet service. But despite a flooded basement my friend's dad  asks about the results of the Saturday games. I relate what I can remember like a messenger bringing news to a remote village.

Back in New York 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.

In my sleepy little upstate town the enthusiasm is less apparent. At  my local pub I see Colombia beat Ghana.  A guy on the stool next to me with a hipster mustache is 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." . Soccer and the US is like a long tale of unrequited love. The sport has tried to win over the the country for the last 50 years or so but America never quite gets it.

For Canada's next game I returned to my local where the salty Irish owner presided. His way of relating to his customers is by insulting them with a smile then warmly wishing them a good day on their way out. He had strong ideas about which countries deserved support based on their past misdeeds. Belgium were dismissed as "colonialists" as was Argentina ("bunch of Nazis", according to him). And don't even mention England. (understandable from an Irish point of view).   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 when one country's misdeeds are so much more immediate? And what does a player like Romelu Lukaku (an African refugee) have to do with King Leopold? The American in a panama hat next to me has no qualms about being "USA all the way,"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 mumbling "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 a 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 watchEngland vs Mexico 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. 

The next "Game of the tournament" is Argentina's comeback against Egypt. 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 again.

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, it feels like we can all play and all dream, but in the end only a few can win. Sport is heartbreak. We fall in love with an unlikely hero then are crestfallen when they fall short.

On that Wednesday before the quarterfinals with no games 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 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. 

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,  who I'll be when it happens and what state the world will be in then.