Pearl River      After almost 40 days of World Cup soccer games up and down the North American continent, the end is finally near with the contest between Argentina and Spain.  I still know nothing about soccer, although I have learned what a “red card” means, or at least, used to mean until Trump injected himself into the affair.  The rest is still largely a mystery, although I have huge admiration for the athletes and the amount of conditioning it takes to be on the run almost constantly for what seems like forever.  I’m most clueless about when the game really ends, but maybe I’ll buy a clue before this thing comes around again in four years?  I won’t watch the final, but will route for Argentina, pretty much solely because we organized and had members there for years and won significant victories from Boca, the immensely popular Buenos Aires soccer club.

I have to admit that although I won’t really miss the games, I’ll miss the fans.  I hate to admit how many hours I’ve jumped down the rat hole on reels to watch the fan videos of their experiences in the “real” America, rather than the Trump aberration that they clearly expected.  When the fans hit our native soil, their surprise and enthusiasm was infectious.  Frankly, I can’t help but admit how proud I have been that our countrymen have embraced our visitors so heartily, especially in this time when the administration has tried to force us all to worship on the altar of chauvinism in order to induce fear and loathing for all immigrants, rather than embracing them as members of our global community.

World Cup-ers can’t seem to get over the size, scale and immenseness of America, and it’s not simply the huge difference in geography compared to many of their countries, especially in the UK and Europe.  They walk along the aisles in Walmart and Costco stores with their mouths wide open.  They fondle items and marvel at the variety and range of consumer choices.  They can’t cease to be amazed at the size of “normal” houses, refrigerators, and more.  Waffle House is a hit for its hours, pricing, and even its food.  Buc-cee’s, the Texas-based and rapidly expanding, gas and food emporium, had visitors counting the number of gas pumps and doing selfies with huge brisket sandwiches.

How could we not laugh when members of Scotland’s Tartan Army said they “had drunk all the beer in Boston” and nothing remained but Bud-Lite, clearly in their correct estimation, not really a beer?  The orange crowd from the Netherlands marching through the streets was a hoot.  The red clad Norwegians pulling their oars together in the stands and everywhere was an unforgettable sight.  Their star player, Erling Haaland will likely be ubiquitous for years now, putting Beckham in the rearview mirror, because of his unbridled joy about seemingly all things America.  Pictures of him walking off the plane in Norway with a stuffed raccoon drinking out of a whiskey bottle were the least of it.  His good sportsmanship in losing and his skill at playing are one thing, but his closing comments that “On every single thing, the World Cup here has been amazing. I like the Americans.  I think they are kind of hilarious as well. I like the way they are.”

All that is true.  Americans are “hilarious.”  We aren’t the people that Trump and his team think we are.  It’s good for people from other countries to break through the administration’s invective and see who we really are and hope to be again in the future.  I’m not sure that was the intention in having the World Cup here, but for the rest of us, that’s become the GOAL!