Henry Winter’s World Cup Diary, Day 35
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Miami/Philadelphia/New Jersey
Sometimes there are days that expand your horizons, challenge your perceptions of people, and test the ability of your aging hamstrings to withstand airport runs and hard shoulders, freeways, malls, and stadiums. In a foreign country. With a bunch of strangers (and babies) who just beat your team. What a day it was yesterday, a day of patience, occasional escapes and above all friendship in crisis.
Final day of the World Cup. The big one. Next to the big apple. Excitement building. I was still at the Miami airport, having covered the bronze medal craze last night, and now, as we boarded, I was slightly disturbed to hear two ground engineers discussing a flat tire on our plane. It probably bothers the passengers who just got off it more.
The flight time was 6.37 am. The passengers were ordered to disembark the plane. Some grumbled as they walked back across the bridge to the gate. This was met by one of the engineers with a harsh expression “your life is in my hands”. We waited patiently, me and at most 20 Argentinian fans chose Philadelphia while New York fought the smoke from the Canadian fires.
New departure time: 8 am. Then 8.30 am. Apparently they have to lift the whole plane, a complicated task. Fair enough, I struggle with tire changes on the Mini. I spoke to a couple wearing Argentina jerseys, Julia and Fernando, inevitably Messi shirts. He is River Plate. So I asked if they were going to the finals and they wanted to share an Uber with MetLife about 100 miles away. Evan, an American with a Peruvian father and a Mexican mother, was a Chelsea fan who was already traveling with them, so we joined forces. They added two more, both Argentines in Messi shirts, to free games with their two-year-olds, even to World Cup finals.
Immediately everyone remembered Atlanta and Thomas Tuchel and what happened. I had to relive everything that added to the misery of the morning. I explained that my first World Cup included Diego Maradona against Brazil at Italia 90 – which passed to Claudio Caniggia in Turin – and a second covering all four of Messi’s Champions League wins, the World Cup in Qatar and, most recently, his swell of England, the Jets and Spain.
They spoke proudly of Messi’s humility and how well he represented his country. Same with Lionel Scaloni, and we’ve taken a brief look at his West Ham career and why he’s loved by Liverpool fans. I was able to contribute to the debate about their best defenders as I was at the Argentina vs England games in St Etienne, Sapporo and Geneva. We all said Walter Samuel, The Wall.
The ground crew then announced that we would be getting another plane and had to take the Skytrain to D21, a short distance away. Evan was worried about missing the final. Julia exuded confidence. The two-year-old continued to sleep throughout the drama. The flight time was now 9.24. The clock was ticking a little louder.
Julia and Fernando explained why they should go to the final. They looked halfway through the house in Denver where they were working and decided to be in New Jersey. They somehow managed to get an eye-watering ticket, flights from Boulder to Miami to Philadelphia, and booked their mother to babysit their two cubs. Without hesitation, she flew nine hours from Buenos Aires to babysit.
Like Evan, Julia and Fernando are shocked by the price of the tickets. Welcome to FIFA. They had good jobs, engineers and food producers, but it was still wealth. They explained that every Argentine would make such a sacrifice. Football, the final of the world championship and Messi meant the world. Even at the cost of earth. I argued that since they were in their early 30s, they were likely to live another 60 years, so the lifetime cost spread was $116 per year. Bargaining. They saw Messi in the World Cup final.
Six of us (and a half) agreed to share an Uber. I organized a whatsapp group called “OPERATION BICKOFF” with Scaloni’s headshot for inspiration. They appreciated more videos of the Argentinians recording in Atlanta and I posted them to welcome them. They helpfully added pictures of their compatriots taking over Times Square. It seemed a bit far away. And it was about 1000 miles. We finally boarded at 9.35.
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The pilot apologized for the three-hour delay on a day already under time pressure with a 3pm kick-off time. “We know many of you will be going to the game,” he said. “But we cannot put security as secondary.” Fair enough. Now raise the wheels and put the foot down. He promised to knock us down in Philly on the 12th and he delivered. “We’ve got a quick taxi to the gate and then you can go and watch the World Cup final.” The clock was still against us. Twenty blue-and-white t-shirts walked through the terminal, one cradling a rather brave baby. We were in an Uber by 12.30, driven by a Moroccan, still sad about his team’s performance but very happy to talk about his beloved Barcelona.
We talked about everything, strangers brought together by the passion for football. How do non-believers start a conversation? Fernando Enzo Fernandez’s “The Falklands“After the England game” banner and what I thought about it. Telegraph or Athletic where a reader pointed out that the UK government should issue a statement saying it is unhappy with Mr Fernandez’s display but will use the £4million it receives in tax from the Chelsea staff every year and spend it on Falklands defence. Fernando gently changed the subject and talked about his favorite English players, including Alan Shearer and Joe Cole. Argentinians’ respect for English football has never been in doubt.
A problem. We needed gas. Our Moroccan friend entered the service station. We were heartbroken to see a line of cars at every pump. Evan jumped up and ran to the car that was about to fill up. He explained our situation and the American graciously allowed us to interrupt. The pit stops went by quickly. Approaching MetLife at 2.35, we gambled on getting out early, shaking hands with the driver who wished us good luck, pausing for a quick group selfie and then tearing it up.
After a mile and a lift, I was 10 minutes into the North press stand. We all swapped pictures before we started. We all made it. The strangers divided into the semi-finals joined the final. Football, bloody tumor.
Check out the rest of Henry Winter’s World Cup Diary here