Watching World Cup Alone

It’s 2:47 AM and I just muted my phone. Brazil vs. Croatia, quarterfinal, and I’m sitting on my kitchen floor in Bushwick because my roommate went home for the summer and didn’t take her half of the TV. The matcha latte I made twelve minutes ago went cold. I didn’t move to drink it.

Outside, somewhere in the building, I can hear someone yelling “GOOOL” through a cracked window. I know because I listened. The walls in this building are paper thin. Every single neighbor on my floor has someone over, or someone on FaceTime, or someone screaming into a pillow six feet away. Me? I have a cat who left the room when I yelled at the ref at minute 31.

That’s the thing about watching the World Cup alone that nobody warns you about. Everyone talks about the games, the drama, the goals, the VAR controversies. Nobody talks about how it feels to be the only one in your apartment losing your mind while 4 billion people on the planet are doing the same thing at the same time. You’re not alone in the event. You’re alone in the room. And those are two completely different kinds of alone.

I didn’t plan this. I love soccer. I have loved soccer since I was seven and my dad woke me up at 6am on a Saturday to watch a Champions League final I still can’t name the teams of. I knew this World Cup was happening. I had the dates circled on my phone since the draw in April. I had my jerseys washed. I had the snacks ready — the weird imported ones from the Korean grocery on Atlantic, the shrimp chips, the ones that taste like the beach. I had everything ready except people.

My group chat died somewhere in June. Not in a dramatic way. We just stopped texting. Some of them moved. Two of them had babies. One of them got into CrossFit and now only posts about deadlifts. The other one I haven’t actually spoken to since that weird brunch in March where she made a comment about my job and I never followed up. We were supposed to watch together. We said “definitely this time.” We always say that.

So Tuesday night, kickoff was at 3pm Eastern. Too early. Most people were at work. I was actually at work too, sort of, in the back room refreshing the score on my phone under the conference table. My boss gave me that look. The one that says “I see you, I’m not going to say anything, but I see you.” I went home at 5 and set up.

Set up. Like a ceremony. Curtains drawn. Cat fed. Phone on do not disturb except for three specific people who, as it turned out, also did not text me during the game. I unboxed the Brazilian flag I bought on a whim in March, the small one, the 3x5, and I hung it over the bookshelf where I usually put my work bag. I made a Michelada even though I don’t really like Micheladas. I lit a candle. I sat down.

First goal at minute 12. Croatia. I screamed. I screamed so loud the cat came back into the room to make sure I was okay. I screamed again because he scared me. Then I realized I was screaming alone. In an empty apartment. While the building shook with other people’s joy. I sat back down. I drank the Michelada. It was too spicy. I drank it anyway.

This is the part I can’t really explain to people who don’t get it. Watching the World Cup alone isn’t sad the way watching a sad movie alone is sad. It’s a specific kind of lonely that has a half-time break. You can pause. You can walk to the kitchen and refill your drink and nobody will ask you what you’re doing or why your eyes are wet. But the half-time also means you have to sit with the silence for fifteen minutes, and during those fifteen minutes, you start to think about things.

You think about the friend who used to call you during halftime of every major match. You think about the ex who told you that you were “too into sports” and that she couldn’t “match your energy” and that you should “find someone who gets it.” You think about the fact that you have been single for fourteen months and that the last time someone sat on your couch and watched anything with you was last October and it was a documentary about serial killers and she fell asleep before the end. You think about the time your dad drove you to that sports bar in Flushing when you were sixteen and you were the only kid there and the bartender bought you a Coke and said “welcome to the club, kid” and you felt so seen you almost cried right there on the stool.

I almost cried last night. Not because of the game. Croatia was up 1-0 for most of the second half. Brazil equalized in the 76th minute and I did cry then, a little, the way you do when something you believed in actually happens, like the universe pays attention to you for once. But the crying that almost happened at minute 82, when Richarlison did that ridiculous dribble that made the whole timeline lose its mind, that crying was something else. That was the loneliness catching up.

Do you know what it feels like to be in the middle of a global celebration and feel completely on the outside of it? It’s like being at a wedding where you don’t know anyone but you can see the couple in the middle of the dance floor and they’re so happy, and the band is so good, and the food is so good, and you came alone, and you keep telling yourself this is fine, this is fun, you’re an adult who can attend things alone, and then someone asks you who you came with and you say “just me” and they have that pity face, the one that’s trying not to be a pity face, the one that makes it worse. Multiply that by 4 billion. That’s watching the World Cup alone.

My mom called at halftime of the second game. I’m an only child. She asked if I was watching. I said yeah. She asked who I was watching with. I said “the cat.” She made that mom sound, the one that’s like a sigh that has words in it but the words are all sad. Then she said “I wish you had a wife, mijo, someone to bring you snacks.” I laughed but I had to put the phone down for a second. That sentence hit me like a wall. She’s been saying that since I turned 28. I’m 34 now.

The thing is, I do have friends. I have plenty. I have a group text that has 14 people in it and we make plans every few weeks and they always fall through for some reason — someone is sick, someone has a work thing, someone’s dog needs the vet, someone is “really trying to save money this month.” I don’t blame them. Life is expensive. Life is busy. I am also busy and also expensive. I just thought, you know, for this one thing, the World Cup happens every four years, I thought we would all show up. I thought it would be like the Olympics in 2008 when we all squeezed into Jess’s dorm room and watched Phelps win his eighth gold and screamed so loud the RA came up. I thought we’d have at least one of those nights.

We had zero.

I went on Twitter. I went on Instagram. I went on TikTok. Everyone was posting. “Watching with my boys!!” “World Cup tradition since 2010!!” “My dad flew in for this!!” I scrolled for twenty minutes and then I put my phone in the other room because it was making me feel like I was failing a test I didn’t know I was taking.

Then Brazil scored the second goal. The 83rd minute. A header. I didn’t even know who scored it. I was too busy trying not to throw my beer. I jumped off the couch. The cat jumped off the cat tree. We were both on the floor. I had foam on my lip from the Michelada. I yelled “COME ON” so loud the downstairs neighbor banged on the ceiling. I banged back. “WE’RE BOTH WATCHING THE GAME, BILL,” I yelled, even though his name isn’t Bill, I don’t know his name, he bangs on the ceiling every time I do anything between 11pm and 7am. He banged again. I banged again. I felt insane. I felt alive. I felt completely unhinged and also completely myself.

But I also felt it. That little twist in the stomach. That hot pressure behind the eyes. The thing that comes when you realize you can only share this moment with a cat, a candle, a flag you bought for yourself, and a neighbor you don’t even like. I am 34 years old. I live alone. I work a job I don’t love for money I don’t hate. I have a therapist I see every other Tuesday who keeps asking me “what does community mean to you” and I keep saying “I don’t know” because I don’t know. I thought I had it. I thought my people were my people. I guess four years is a long time. People change. Cities change. You change. The brunch place closed. The bar closed. The friend moved to Austin. The friend had a baby. The friend only posts about deadlifts.

Croatia equalized in injury time. Of course they did. Croatia always do something stupid and romantic at the end of a knockout game. I watched the goal go in and I didn’t move. I just sat there. The room was quiet. The building was loud. My phone was on the other side of the wall doing whatever phones do when you’re not looking at them. The cat came back in and sat on my foot. I think he could tell.

Extra time. Penalties. I watched them all. I drank the rest of the Michelada. I ate the shrimp chips even though they were stale. Brazil won the shootout. I didn’t cheer. I just sat there, on my couch, in my apartment, in my building, in my borough, in my city, in my country, on my continent, and I thought: I have never felt more connected to the world and more alone in my own home at the exact same time.

I texted my mom. “Brazil won.” She said “good for them, did you eat dinner?” I said “shrimp chips.” She said “that’s not dinner, mijo.” I said “I know, mom.” She said “do you want me to come over this weekend?” I said “for what?” She said “to watch whatever game is on.” I said “it’s over, mom. They’re done.” She said “okay, next one, four years, I’ll be 70 but I’ll come.” I put the phone down. I don’t know what to do with that kind of love. I never have.

I cleaned up. Blew out the candle. Folded the flag. Put it back in the box it came in. Washed the Michelada glass. Threw away the shrimp chips. Fed the cat. Looked around. The apartment looked the same as it did before the game. The bookshelf looked the same. The couch looked the same. The empty spot next to me on the couch looked the same. The only thing that changed was me, a little, in a way I can’t name.

I went to bed. I didn’t sleep. I lay there and listened to the building. Someone down the hall was still watching something. Someone was clapping. Someone was laughing. I closed my eyes. I thought about 2010. I thought about my dad. I thought about the bartender in Flushing. I thought about Jess’s dorm room. I thought about the ex who couldn’t match my energy. I thought about my mom driving four hours to my apartment to watch a game with her 34-year-old son who doesn’t have a wife and eats stale shrimp chips for dinner.

I think the loneliest thing in the world is to be in a room full of celebration and have no one to high-five. The second loneliest is to do it with a cat. The third loneliest is to do it with a mom who offers to drive four hours. I’m not sure which one I am tonight. I think I’m all three. I think that’s the part that gets you.

I’m going to watch the semifinal on Sunday. I’ll probably be alone again. I’ll probably light the candle again. I’ll probably make a Michelada I don’t like again. I’ll probably buy more shrimp chips. I’ll probably text my mom. She’ll probably ask who I’m with. I’ll probably say “the cat.” She’ll probably sigh.

I’m not okay with it. I’m not not-okay with it either. I just am.