Over the years in China, I’ve learned to be careful what you wish for. The Chinese are gracious hosts, and if you so much as hint at a desire, they will move heaven and earth to make it happen.

One evening in Shanghai, with a rare night off to myself, I casually mentioned—within earshot of my business agent—that I’d love to see Shanghai Port, third in the Chinese Super League, take on fourth-place Beijing Guoan. “I’m a big football fan,” I said, “and it would be fun to catch a match in China.” I’d already checked online and asked the hotel concierge, but unfortunately, the match was sold out. Not a single ticket to be had. Oh well, I thought, maybe next time. And with that, I put the idea out of my mind.

Later that afternoon, while relaxing in my hotel room and considering whether I might at least find a bar showing the game, my phone buzzed with a text message. It was from my agent. He gave me the name and number of someone who would take me to the match. I was to be outside the hotel at 5:30 p.m., looking for a car with a specific registration number.

I felt a little uncertain—no other details had been given—but I trust my agent, so I followed his instructions. At precisely 5:30, a sleek black Volkswagen limo with the correct plates pulled up at the hotel entrance. Using Google Translate, I confirmed that the driver was indeed the person sent to take me to the game. Throwing caution to the wind, I climbed into the back of the limo, and we set off through the golden light of late afternoon Shanghai.

About 45 minutes later, the SAIC Motor Pudong Arena came into view. Backlit by the setting sun and illuminated by towering floodlights, it looked just like any major stadium in the world. Streams of fans—most dressed in red Shanghai Port kits—walked cheerfully along the streets. The scene was unmistakably and thrillingly familiar. I felt a surge of excitement at the prospect of watching football with fans on the other side of the world.

But then, the Volkswagen sailed right past the stadium without slowing down.

Puzzled, I watched as the stadium faded in the rearview mirror. A few blocks later, the car pulled into the visitor parking lot of a Coca-Cola bottling plant. Strange. Through a mix of gestures and Google Translate, I gathered that I was to get out here—this was where the person with my ticket would meet me.

So I stepped out and waited.

By now, I was feeling increasingly uncertain about the whole situation. I was grateful that the driver—a tall, slender, kindly looking man in a crisp dark suit—stayed with me. He didn’t speak English, but he was my only connection back to the hotel. The evening was calm and quiet. The bottling plant sat just off a leafy avenue, lined with parked cars. Streams of fans walked past on their way to the game.

As the sun finally dipped below the trees, the peaceful scene was punctuated by the end of a shift at the plant. Dozens of workers filed out, many of them wearing Shanghai Port kits and heading toward the stadium. It struck me as a strangely serene moment: me, loitering in a quiet corner of Shanghai, unable to communicate with anyone, while my driver chatted away with the security guard and a few factory workers he seemed to know

Fifteen minutes passed. Then another fifteen. With every car that went by, I expected someone to slow down and reveal themselves as the man with my ticket. But no one came. I began to doubt that it was going to happen.

After another fifteen minutes and still no sign of a ticket, I texted my agent to thank him for his efforts and let him know it seemed unlikely the ticket would arrive. I asked him to inform the driver to take me back to the hotel. He replied, simply: Please be patient.

Another fifteen minutes went by. It was getting close to kickoff, and I had fully given up hope, when the driver’s phone suddenly buzzed. After a short conversation in Chinese, he turned to me and urgently motioned for me to get back in the car. We sped off again.

We didn’t go far—just a couple of blocks—before the car pulled up abruptly outside a streetside café. I guessed we had been waiting in the wrong place all along. So, we got out once more. At least now I could see some of the match, which had just begun, playing on a TV inside the café with fans who also hadn’t been able to get tickets.

I was preparing for another long wait and had just started to enjoy watching the game with my fellow spectators when I heard the driver call my name.

Another car had pulled up. The driver gestured for me to get in.

What the heck, I thought. In for a penny, in for a pound. So I climbed into the back seat.

It was all very unusual—and probably a little concerning—but everyone was polite and there was no sense of danger. The real issue was that I couldn’t ask what was going on due to the language barrier.

This new car, driven by a short, stocky man in a black leather jacket, already had three passengers: a man in the front seat and, beside me in the back, another man and a young boy—his son, I assumed. We headed off toward the stadium at speed.

At last, I thought, we’re going in.

As we approached, I noticed the road to the stadium was blocked with bollards—but the driver didn’t slow down. Instead, a security guard appeared and moved the bollards aside to let us pass. We zoomed past without stopping, down a road running alongside the stadium. About halfway down, the driver made a sharp left turn, heading down a slope past another guard, and into a massive underground parking garage.

The driver clearly knew exactly where he was going, navigating the garage with confidence, tires squealing slightly on the slick, painted surface. Within moments, he found the spot he was looking for, parked quickly, and shut off the engine.

He opened the glove box, pulled out a set of lanyards and credentials, and handed them to each passenger. Then he motioned for us to get out. We followed him briskly to a nearby door that led to a stairwell and up into the stadium. The muffled roar of the crowd grew louder with every step.

At the top of the stairs, we passed another security checkpoint, flashing our credentials so quickly that the guard had no time to actually inspect them. Then, strangely, we walked straight into a bathroom, where the driver promptly collected all the credentials back. [I would find out later that the credentials belonged to the cheerleaders. No: not like the American football cheerleaders. The ones embedded in the crowd leading the singing – as I shall describe in a minute]

I suppose I should have been deeply concerned about participating in what was clearly a very unofficial entry into a stadium in a foreign country—but by now, I was just along for the ride, and inwardly I was laughing. You couldn’t make this up.

After a quick pause to catch our breath, the driver led us down a couple more corridors and finally into a tunnel that opened up into the stadium itself. We were met by a wall of sound—the crowd fully engrossed in the match.

But as I took it all in, I noticed something odd: there were no open seats. Not a one. The match really was sold out.

The driver, still unfazed, motioned us—my three fellow passengers included, all completely unbothered by the entire situation—toward a standing area behind the first row of seats, near a section reserved for wheelchair users.

Despite the questionable manner of my entry, I was thrilled to finally be inside, swept up in the energy of the crowd—24,999 Chinese fans, and me. The game was already in full swing on the field below. Shanghai, clad in red, was attacking the goal to my left, while Beijing, in Lincoln green, pressed forward toward the goal on my right. The atmosphere was electric: cheerleaders led the crowd in chants and songs which echoed around the stadium, backed by the relentless beat of a drum. Who needed a seat anyway? From my vantage point, I had a perfect view—not just of the match, but of the crowd.

After taking a few moments to soak it all in, I remembered the rather unconventional circumstances of my arrival. I turned to check on my co-conspirators, only to find that the driver had vanished and the others had seamlessly blended into the crowd. I was alone amidst the throng. As I looked around, I also noticed three security guards stationed at the official entrance to our section. I spent the next few minutes bracing for a tap on the shoulder—a demand to see my ticket, perhaps an inquiry about how I had ended up there. But no such confrontation came. The guards appeared entirely uninterested in me. Eventually, I relaxed and allowed myself to enjoy the game.

I’d seen snippets of Chinese Super League matches on TV during previous visits to the country, and I’d always found the playing style to be chaotic—plenty of individual talent and non-stop action, but little structure, discipline, or apparent strategy. This match was no exception. Though football doesn’t allow timeouts, I found myself wishing I could call one, just to ask the players to calm down, take a breath, “put a foot on it,” and simply hold the ball for a moment to think. Of course, I couldn’t, and the game continued at its breakneck, frenetic—but undeniably entertaining—pace. While the technical quality wasn’t top-tier, the match was fiercely competitive and thoroughly enjoyable. The sheer tempo generated a flurry of goalmouth action that kept the crowd on its feet throughout.

Finally relaxing, I realized—thanks to a rumbling stomach—that amid all the kerfuffle, I had completely skipped dinner. I began to wonder whether Chinese football stadiums had concession stands. With five minutes remaining until half-time and anticipating a rush, I casually wandered toward the main entrance, doing my best to appear nonchalant as I passed the security guards. They didn’t even glance my way. Out into the concourse I went—and voilà! I was pleased to discover that the stadium did indeed have concessions, albeit with a very limited selection.

No hot dogs, burgers, or nachos like you might find elsewhere. So, for dinner, I made do with a bucket of gourmet popcorn and a Qingdao beer. At least it was gourmet.

Just as I completed my purchase, the half-time whistle blew. One interesting observation: almost every spectator watched the match straight through the first 45 minutes, cheering and singing the entire time. Hardly anyone left their seat—and the few who did, only to attend to an urgent call of nature. But when the whistle blew, the crowd rose as one and flooded the concourse, making a beeline for the concessions and bathrooms. Exactly fifteen minutes later, just about everyone had returned to their seats, ready to resume the match and the singing. A remarkably orderly bunch.

As the crowd thinned, I lingered by the concessions a little longer to browse the merchandise. Six young women were working the store. One of them spoke unusually good English and seemed to take great pleasure in showing off her language skills to her friends as she helped me pick out a few mementos from this memorable evening. It was an easy sale—there was no way I was leaving without a strip from my new side-squeeze team, Shanghai Port. I asked the shop assistant to take my photo. Later, when I showed it to my agent, he said (through Google Translate) that I looked like an eighteen-year-old!

Properly attired, fed, watered, and now fully immersed in the experience, I returned to my spot behind the first rank of seats for the second half. It continued in the same frenetic and entertaining vein as the first. It wasn’t the best game of football I’ve ever seen, but it was certainly one of the most enjoyable. My only real disappointment was the language barrier—it meant I couldn’t discuss the match with anyone. One of the great joys of attending a football match is the banter with strangers: critiquing the game, poking fun at players, and second-guessing the refereeing decisions. But that wasn’t to be. Still, I took great pleasure in the crowd’s reactions and expressions, making up my own stories about what they might be shouting.

At one point, feeling relaxed and emboldened, I decided to try my luck and work my way around behind the goal where the craziest, liveliest fans were gathered. I almost made it. But that was the one time the security guards intervened—not because I didn’t have a ticket, but because, as I squeezed into the aisle, I was blocking the view of the people behind me. The guards politely gestured for me to move. So I did.

What an experience—one I can sum up in a single word: normal. So incredibly normal.

There I was, on the other side of the world, immersed in a culture that Westerners are so often taught to view with suspicion. I didn’t speak the language, couldn’t read the signs, and yet—everything felt so familiar. Men, women, families, young and old, all gathered together in cheerful support of their local team playing what is, let’s be honest, an undeniably silly sport. Twenty-two men running around a patch of grass, trying to kick a ball into a net! And yet, the fact that this absurd game stirs the same passion in nearly every corner of the world creates a kind of shared understanding—one that transcends culture and background. That alone, I think, is something worth celebrating.

In the end, Beijing Guoan beat Shanghai Port 2–1. Liu scored first for Shanghai in the 40th minute. I missed Abreu’s equalizer for Beijing just two minutes later—I’d gone for gourmet popcorn. It wasn’t until Lin scored the winning goal in the 55th minute that I realized Beijing had taken the lead. To be honest, I don’t remember much about the goals themselves. I was too wrapped up in the atmosphere, too captivated by the crowd.

As the final minutes ticked down, my phone buzzed—a message from the VW driver, telling me to meet him after the game back at the streetside café where he’d dropped me off. My internal compass is pretty reliable, so despite feeling a bit disoriented, I had a rough sense of which direction to go. The final whistle blew, and I stood with the rest of the crowd to leave the stadium.

So normal.

Ten minutes and a couple of blocks later, I was back at the café. My driver was there waiting to greet me. An hour after that, after wending my way through the vibrant Shanghai streets, reflecting on what I had seen, I was back in the comfort of my hotel. What a game!!