Where do they all come from?

It was the same for Haiti and Morocco in Boston. The Tartan Army dominated the streets in the days beforehand. But as the minutes ticked down to kick-off, they appeared. Thousands of opposing fans.

Mr Smith from The Matrix came to mind. At first there’s just one of him and then, pop, pop, pop, he clones himself into a whole army.

It was exactly the same with the Argentinian fans in Kansas City this afternoon. Just one, coyly keeping to himself in the hotel breakfast room. But now, strolling the streets a few hours before Argentina v Switzerland, they’re everywhere.

A Colombian family whose tickets were bought long ago in the hope their team would overcome Messi and be playing in this match, but who came anyway, proudly wearing their blue-and-white shirts in support of their South American brothers. A father and daughter who had literally landed from Buenos Aires this morning, stopping into the coffee shop for a caffeine pick-me-up. A group of lads kicking a ball around in the hotel lobby. Oh, how I wanted to join in.

A strange little aside. In Brazil, Russia and Qatar I never hesitated to join in, strike up a conversation or snap a selfie with a fellow fan. Here, at home, I feel awkward, and that’s why there are far fewer fan photos in the blog this time. I can’t explain it. Among people I know so well, it somehow feels like it’s just not the done thing to ask a complete stranger for a selfie.

Odd.

Perhaps it’s the opposite end of the spectrum from those primitive tribes said to believe that having their photograph taken steals their soul.

But I get ahead of myself.

The excitement of Kansas stadium tonight is still a few hours away.

First comes Norway v England, and I’ve found myself a spot in a downtown bar defiantly wearing my Scotland shirt,

Rather annoyingly, I’ve stumbled into the English bar. One member of the Tartan Army, allied with a small band of Norwegian Vikings, surrounded by Proud Edward’s men.

We’ll send them homewards… tae think again!

My new Argentinian friends understand.

ABE.

We’ll row to the stadium together later.

(As an aside, I remember watching Argentina v Iran on the big screen in Fortaleza during Brazil 2014, surrounded by a huge crowd of Brazilians passionately supporting Iran. In Brazil it’s not ABE. It’s ABA!)