After hours of anticipation and beer-drenched chanting in the streets, every minute of the game seems to fly. I watch Algerian fans in the seats below me turn their backs to the game and wave their arms like conductors, guiding their countrymen in chants of support for their team. I watch a grown man, wrapped in an Argentina flag just a few seats away, cry as he sees Messi score what will be the first of three goals for the evening, marking his first-ever hat trick in 20 years of World Cup performances. I see, too, a pair of Kansas City locals, who arrive to the game wearing albiceleste Argentina jerseys, only to walk themselves to the gift shop and swap into green Algeria gear after the first quarter, endearing themselves to the horde of scarf-waving Algerians seated around them. I see children on their parents’ shoulders, chanting the names of their heroes on the field; I watch fervent fans tie their flags to the stadiums’ balconies, then take them down when the game wraps. I see smiles and grimaces, and hear shouts of both ecstasy and gut-punching disappointment. The final score is 3-1, Argentina, and they remind everyone of it, pounding the walls of the stadium and stairwells as they leave: Olé, olé, olé, cada dia te quiero mas!
As we leave, our 90 minutes in heaven coming to a close, I once again try to turn my head and scan the crowds around me. I don’t know how to put a price on this feeling, this contact high that comes from being surrounded by joyous fans who are fully present for every minute on the clock. But I do know that even the inconveniences of attending an event as large as this one—like shuffling ever so slowly out of a packed stadium of 64,000 people—somehow just adds to the fun. And I know that riding the electric trolley through Kansas City may never be as fun as it was today, when Algerians and Argentinians volleyed their chants across the car. What you pay for, when you attend the World Cup, is the experience of feeling truly part of something, even if only for a couple days—or 90 minutes—in a city you weren’t expecting to find yourself in. And then, the next morning, you watch the mess of blue and green untangle itself, dispersing via highways and airports, an undoing of the fabric we’ve woven ourselves into in just 48 hours, and it feels good to have been a part of it.