The Messiah

Last minute plans are often the best ones.

Thanksgiving break usually means being back in Central New Jersey (yes, it exists) and going to the same four spots on Nassau Street. But Thanksgiving 2022 was during the World Cup, and when I realized my brother would be in Brazil during their first few games, I knew I couldn’t miss the opportunity.

Recently, Brazil’s iconic futebol jersey has taken on a political context. Luckily, when we landed in São Paulo, the whole city had donned the Seleção yellow, and we blended right in. We found a spot in Astor, a bar with bumping Latin music (“Envolver” by Anitta is still stuck in my head) and very little personal space. Alongside a moderately inebriated and highly energized crowd, we watched as Brazil stumbled in the first half, and then roared with excitement when Richarlison finally hit the back of the net – and once again when he scored the most picturesque bicycle kick. Drinks were thrown like confetti, strangers were hugged, and language wasn’t a barrier to express the excitement of opportunity. Even though it was just the first game, the city poured out into the streets of São Paulo and a mini-Carnival began that lasted into the night.

Even more last minute was Buenos Aires. Inclement weather scrapped our plans of a sunny weekend, and the “Explore” feature on Google Flights dug up a gem of a deal. Unlike Brazil we landed without the national jersey, and with kickoff only a few hours away, I was panicked. Wearing no jersey would be a shame, and wearing Brazil’s might have been criminal. I asked every street vendor on the way to Parque Centenario, but it seemed like every La Albiceleste jersey was already purchased and worn. Luckily, a few vendors near the park screen had an oversized jersey which we quickly bought (after a bit of haggling, of course). As we found our spot amongst thousands, I noticed a difference. What united Brazilian fans was the crest on the front, but in Argentina, we saw only one name on everyone’s jersey: Messi.

The national anthem was sung with nervousness. Though I don’t speak Spanish, (‘Beginner’ on my resume = 2 years of elementary school Spanish), the fear after the shock loss to Saudi Arabia loss was palpable. Every time Messi got the ball, there was a collective gasp of anticipation – hope almost verbalized. So when La Pulga (the “Little Flea”) turned and slotted the ball calmly into the bottom left corner, the park yelled it all out. Maybe this World Cup will be different. As we walked back, there was only one name on every back and in every chant. One nation, under a Messiah.

Despite the journey, I watched my last World Cup game where I watched the first: my D.C. apartment. With croissants for France and empanadas for Argentina, my friends (mostly) cheered with excitement and relief when the final penalty when in, the most dramatic match in history concluded, and Messi became Messiah. I thought my World Cup journey was over, and nine days later I landed in Kerala, India for an over-planned family vacation. From the backseat window, I expected to see backwaters and tea plantations. What I didn’t expect was a 50-foot Lionel Messi staring back at me. Throughout the state, there were giant posters of soccer players: Ronaldo, Neymar, but mostly Lionel Messi, towering over roads and town centers. As I would come to learn, Kerala didn’t just love soccer, it lived it.

In the decades after Indian independence, Kerala’s Malayali population developed a strong affinity for Latin American politics and literature, and expressed this through fostering an equally strong love for futebol and its working-class heroes. Since the Indian national team has rarely made headlines on the international stage, Kerala’s population remain fervent supporters of Brazil and Argentina. In the streets, we would still hear passionate post-Cup commentary on what led to Brazil’s downfall, and how Messi’s win was destiny. (I’m mostly guessing based on context clues – I don’t speak Portuguese, Spanish, or Malayalam).

Luckily, this time we had landed with both jerseys. My brother and I once again wore our Seleção and La Albiceleste jerseys with pride, and locals would stare and point and smile. Once again, language wasn’t much of a barrier.