In the summer of 1994, at Camp Bauercrest, I watched Brazil beat Italy in a penalty shootout to win the World Cup. I was just fourteen, and I can still see Baggio's PK sailing over the bar and the Brazilians hoisting the trophy. I was mesmerized.
Ever since that game, I've wanted to attend a World Cup. It came up every few years with my closest friends from high school, and it was never a question of if we'd go, only when.
Yesterday it finally happened: France vs. Morocco at Gillette Stadium, in the same venue where I've watched countless Patriots wins and where I used to work.
The stadium was packed with fans wearing jerseys from every corner of the world, all of them there to embrace the same phenomenon—the beautiful game. It was less than an hour from where I grew up and yet I felt part of something bigger than anything I've ever experienced in Foxboro.
Alongside me was Zac, my best friend since high school, celebrating his 46th birthday. We'd talked about this day for thirty years, and we got to experience it together.
I've been to four Super Bowls, the Stanley Cup Finals, the NBA Finals, and MLB playoffs, but this was a different beast. The Moroccan fans came out in full force, drumming, singing, and dancing from hours before kickoff to the final whistle. The French fans made their way into the stadium, cigarettes in their hands, with a quiet confidence. Their fandom was as entertaining as the game.
On the pitch, France lined up in formation for the second half nearly five minutes before Morocco took the field. As soon as I saw that, I turned to Zac and said, "France big." They scored two second half goals, and won easily 2-0.
The match itself was almost beside the point. What I'll remember is the energy of the entire day: my hometown stadium, my best friend on his birthday, and the world showing up at our door to witness what I'd watched on a TV at summer camp thirty-two years ago.
It was well worth the wait.