Bilbo never really settled back into Hobbiton after his great adventure to the Lonely Mountain. It was impossible for him to adequately convey the excitement, the thrill, the sheer energy of his experience to the good hobbits. They simply couldn’t understand.
And I can relate.
Boston was my Lonely Mountain and Indianapolis is my Hobbiton. The good Hoosiers, not being in a host city and therefore largely immune to the World Cup’s energy, couldn’t possibly understand. I fear I have become something of a bore in my attempts to impress my enthusiasm upon them. How could they appreciate what it felt like to be immersed in a city where the World Cup dominated every street corner, every bar, and every conversation?
The time between matches at a World Cup has been problematic at every tournament I’ve attended. But at least when we’re in some far-flung corner of the globe we’re travelling with the Herd, and we try our darnedest to stay with it. So, even when there’s no game to attend, there are plenty of other fans eager to chat incessantly about the beautiful game.
Not so when the tournament is in your home country, especially one as large and diverse as the United States. The Herd is widely dispersed, and our mating calls are lost on the wind across vast plains, deserts, and mountain ranges.
But while Indianapolis will never reach the levels of Boston’s World Cup energy, there are echoes of it in the city. I woke late that first morning back after a weather-delayed and uncomfortable journey home. Grabbing my first coffee, I flicked over to Fox Sports in the eager expectation that there would be some World Cup coverage to feed this hobbit’s habit.
Ironically Fox, the right leaning network and not always a champion of globalism, is carrying the Cup—the most global event imaginable. I wonder whether FIFA chose to forgo greater TV revenue from a more left-leaning, globalist network like NBC in order to grow their demographic.
Fox Sports’ breakfast talk show—not something I routinely watch—caught my attention, for World Cup 2026 was third on the list of upcoming segments. So I waited while three very American Americans discussed the weekend’s ball games and exulted in the Knicks’ victory in the NBA Championship.
I have to acknowledg my pitiful lack of understanding of American sports. I’ve tried over the last 24 years. I really have. But it’s just not ingrained in me the way football is. And I’m too old to invest the energy required to develop the same depth of understanding of their games. It’s unfair, therefore, for me to be critical of these gentlemen’s lack of awareness of my sport.
To their credit, they did their best and, unlike many in the States, had a basic understanding of what was going on. It was their lack of general knowledge, however, that amused me most. There were so many countries they had never heard of. They struggled particularly to figure out where Côte d’Ivoire was located—until one of their number realized it was simply the French name for Ivory Coast.
They had, of course, heard of Scotland and, if they were unaware of the football, they were very much aware of the Scots’ shenanigans in Boston. I was proud of my boys for bringing the Cup to the attention of a new audience, even if by somewhat unorthodox means.
The host then committed a major faux pas—one that, to me, can never be forgotten or forgiven.
“Scotland? That’s one of those countries in England,” he said.
I nearly spat out my coffee.
We shall remember.
Except that, later that day, presumably after that very American, American had chance to reflect on the videos of the World Cup fans, I saw a Tik-Tok from him singing the praises of those international fans, especially the Scots and confessing that, while he’ll never be a soccer man (his word) he’s been truly consumed by the spirit of the Cup.
I guess everyone deserves redemption.
Being separated from the herd was bad enough, but what’s worse when the Cup is in your own country is the daily chores that interfere even with your freedom to watch games on television. Grass to be mowed. Dogs to be walked. And, God forbid, work commitments.
I snuck out for a bike ride—just to get some fresh air, you understand—but was finally able to concentrate on a game, Belgium versus Egypt, for a while. I arrived at my regular coffee shop with ten minutes to go, ordered a coffee, and sat down to watch the end.
“Is that the World Cup?” asked one of the four baristas behind the counter.
I considered it a teaching moment. An opportunity to spread the gospel to the unenlightened, for unenlightened they surely were. I invited them to a World Cup baptism at my local pub for the England–Croatia game on Wednesday.
Surely, surely that will be a lively atmosphere for that one.
We’ll see if my coffee-shop pals show up. (they didn’t!)
But after three days in the relative World Cup isolation of Indianapolis, I am finally settling into a rhythm. Catching snippets of games in between the realities of life—like the last 10 minutes of Portugal v. DR Congo and the last 10 of Spain v. Cape Verde. I can’t resist an underdog story.
I’ve even managed to watch some actual games with the few hard-core football fans at one of my two local bars. Although, at times, I’ve felt like the child of divorced parents, splitting my time between the two establishments as the argument rages over which is the better venue for watching the Cup.
I went out of my way to make sure I saw Iran v. New Zealand. Ever since the experience of Iran v. USA when I was in Qatar, I’ve had a soft spot for Iran’s football community. Mired in politics, the country loves its football, and the fact that the World Cup can bring joy to those people, even for a couple of hours, is a wonderful thing.
I switched bars at half-time to appease my squabbling “kinfolk” and found myself sitting beside an older gentleman whom I hadn’t seen there before, Pablo who, I learned, grew up in Buenos Aires, Argentina
Recognizing my accent, he shared a memory from his childhood. His school had been associated with the St. Andrew’s Society of Buenos Aires, the city’s Scottish club, and as such he had been required to learn the poetry of Rabbie Burns Scotland’s national poet. He delighted in the memory of winning medals for his recitations and, with just a little prompting from AI, was still able to recite The Banks of the Devon, which begins:
How pleasant the banks of the clear winding Devon,
With green spreading bushes, and flowers blooming fair!
But the bonniest flower on the banks of the Devon
Was once a sweet bud on the braes of the Ayr.
I told him of the awards that I had won for reciting Burns in my hometown of Ayr, near where the Bard was born, and gave him Ye Banks and Braes O’ Bonnie Doon, which begins:
Ye banks and braes o’ bonnie Doon,
How can ye bloom sae fresh and fair?
How can ye chant, ye little birds,
And I sae weary, fu’ o’ care!
Wait! This is a football blog! Where did all the literary culture come from?
Well, that’s just an example of the kind of communion you find through the shared joy of the World Cup.
But back to the football.
Iran v. New Zealand was a surprisingly entertaining game despite all the political undertones. I thought the Iranians were impressive considering everything going on in their world and the hurdles they had to overcome just to be on that field. But, as I saw in Qatar, in the end, at the World Cup, it’s just 22 lads wanting to play a game of football. And, in my opinion, that’s exactly how it should be.
I also saw Argentina put Algeria to bed 3–1. Going into the game, I looked at the Algerian squad and saw players from some of Europe’s biggest clubs. I said beforehand that they would be no pushover.
I had, however, miscalculated Lionel Messi.
At 38, and in the autumn—no, winter—of his career in MLS, I assumed he would be a bit-part player in this tournament. Perhaps coming off the bench for the last 15 minutes if Argentina needed a goal.
Instead, he played the first 75 minutes and scored a hat-trick.
Remarkable. Stunning.
I kept my eye on him when Argentina didn’t have the ball. He strolled around midfield making no attempt whatsoever to help recover possession. To the untrained eye, it looked plain lazy.
His teammates, however, know exactly how to use him. Understanding the special talent he is, they cover for his “laziness” in the knowledge that once they regain the ball, Messi comes to life. And it’s his genius that wins matches.
For many years I voted Ronaldo as the player of this generation, unable to see past his Manchester United days. But I am now a convert.
Messi is the best.
And with him, Argentina are the most impressive team I’ve seen so far. I wouldn’t bet against them winning back-to-back World Cups. That hasn’t been done since their arch-rivals Brazil lifted the trophy in both 1958 and 1962.
I’m sure that’s an achievement Argentina would dearly love to emulate.
I always thought I’d grow out of it as I got older. That I’d mellow and see it for the foolishness it is. Perhaps these World Cup experiences, and the coming together in the spirit of peace, love, and global harmony, would finally bring an end to it.
But no.
I simply can’t support England.
It’s too ingrained in Scottish culture. ABE: Anybody But England!
I say again that I have nothing against the English team. They are very good—worryingly good after today’s game—and I’m sure they are a fine group of young men. It’s the BBC that I can’t bear to think about if England were to win the Cup. It would be merciless and relentless. The rest of the UK would never hear the end of it and would be forced to listen to the BBC’s boasting until the end of time.
It’s too much to contemplate.
And so, for that reason, ABE!
But yes, England were worryingly good against Croatia today. Rather than trying to accommodate the English sports media’s clamor for the glamour of the star players, Tuchel, the coach, has made pragmatic choices and selected a squad of players who can actually play as a team. Yes, it’s only the first round of games and there is a lot of football still to be played, but I’d say only Argentina and France can stop them.
Tomorrow it will be déjà vu (or, as they say in Scots vernacular, day-zcha-voo) all over again as I throw my bundle over my shoulder, skip down the lane, and once again leave sleepy Hobbiton for the excitement of the distant Lonely Mountains.
Yes, this weekend it’s rinse-and-repeat as I retrace my steps back to the same hotel, the same bar, and the same stadium in Boston (well, Foxborough) for Scotland v. Morocco.
Having scored just the one goal against Haiti last week, I now feel more than ever that we will need one more point to secure advancement to the Round of 32. Perhaps surprisingly, of the two remaining group games, I think our better chance of taking a point is against Brazil.
Morocco are a strong side—the losing semi-finalists in Qatar four years ago and the reigning, albeit controversial, African champions. An African World Cup champion would be good for the game, and I will be cheering on Morocco as the tournament progresses.
But this weekend I’ll be roaring with the Tartan Army as we push Scotland toward that priceless point.
What! Scotland Qualified!!! 