Eight years ago, one Sunday morning at dawn, my then-boyfriend and I were awaken in our Allston apartment by hundreds of singing, drinking, jubilant Brazilians in a pharmacy parking lot across the street. They were waving Brazilian flags, dancing to music blaring from car radios, and repeatedly and randomly cheering at seemingly nothing.
“Did Brazil, like, win a war?” I asked my boyfriend, who seemed intent on pretending that mini-Carnaval wasn’t occurring 100 feet from our bed.
“World Cup,” he muttered, squeezing the pillow over his ears. “Fucking soccer.”
That morning, I sat on the fire escape for hours with coffee and cigarettes, contemplating the frenzied crowd as they celebrated Brazil’s 2-0 win over Germany in a match that took place in Japan. I had heard of the World Cup before, but this was the first time I understood the enormity of the World Cup. As America slumbered, indifferent and surfeited on their own major league sports, the rest of the world was captivated…by soccer?!
Four years later, I was in no danger of having my sleep interrupted by World Cup victory parties, because I was in France. Mr. P and I would stroll the deserted Parisian streets after dinner on fine summer nights, listening to the cries and yells that wafted from the apartments onto the street. Then, when the game would be 2/3rds over, we’d return to the hotel room to watch the rest of the match. Before Mr. P’s head exploded.
And now, again. The World Cup is upon us.
