What I actually love about the World Cup
Most months, I perform on one cruise.
This June, I did two.
The second one sailed out of New Jersey, and I got to bring one of my daughters along. That alone made the trip different—and considerably more fun—before we ever left the port.
The ships have also been showing the World Cup games on the giant screen above the pool deck. And with the tournament happening right here in North America, the excitement felt a little bigger this time.
You could feel it around New Jersey before we boarded. Then it followed us onto the ship.
Every time a game came on, people started gathering around the pool deck. Flags appeared. People cheered for countries they were from, countries their families were from, and—judging by a few conversations I overheard—countries they had selected approximately eleven minutes earlier.
Which brings me to a confession.
I don’t really follow soccer.
At all.
I couldn’t tell you who needs to beat whom. I don’t know the standings. I probably couldn’t name more than a couple of players without receiving some fairly generous hints.
So do I sit down and carefully watch every match?
Not exactly.
But I love the World Cup.
I couldn’t explain the tournament bracket to you, yet I can’t stop watching it.
And during those June cruises, standing on the pool deck in front of that enormous screen, I remembered why.
It’s not really the game for me.
It’s the crowd.
.It’s what a few hundred—or a few thousand—people do together when a ball is getting close to crossing a line.
You can feel the energy beginning to build.
One player makes a run. A few passes connect. Someone takes a shot.
And suddenly the entire place erupts.
Watching that happen on the ship pulled me straight back to one of the best nights of my life.
A night when I wasn’t even inside the stadium.
Stay with me.
The 2002 World Cup trip I still think about
In 2002, I traveled through Scandinavia with one of my dearest friends, Henrik.
Henrik and I met when he came to Minnesota as a foreign exchange student in high school. He is now a doctor back home in Norway, but all these years later, he remains one of those friends with whom I can pick up almost exactly where we left off.
During that trip, we drove from Norway, through Sweden, and into Denmark.
Somewhere along the way, I accomplished something deeply significant:
I stood with one foot in Norway and one foot in Sweden.
At the same time.
Groundbreaking international diplomacy.
I have a picture somewhere, although you may simply have to trust me.
We were heading to Roskilde, a massive outdoor music festival in Denmark. There were tens of thousands of people, enormous stages, and unbelievable concerts.
And yet, the thing I remember most clearly wasn’t any of the music.
It was the soccer.
Of course it was.
The World Cup was happening at the same time, so during the drive we kept ducking into little pubs to watch the games.
The rooms would be packed with people who cared about every pass, every whistle, and every decision made by the referee.
I didn’t know the teams.
I barely knew the rules.
It didn’t matter.
Their excitement made me want to care.
By the end of the trip, I had somehow transformed into a passionate supporter of Italy and Francesco Totti.
Three days earlier, I probably couldn’t have named a single professional soccer player.
Now I had opinions.
Strong opinions.
Based on almost no information.
In other words, I had officially become a sports fan.
Then we arrived at the festival, and the whole experience got much bigger.
The night a screen beat a stadium
Picture thousands of people camping in huge fields, attending concerts, waving flags, and drinking warm beer.
The warm beer was a new experience for me.
Not necessarily a good experience, but definitely a memorable one.
Because the World Cup was happening, the festival had placed giant screens around the grounds. The screen I remember most was near the Orange Stage.
Mostly because I love orange.
I’m a fairly simple man.
When the games began, thousands of people gathered in front of those screens.
There were flags from different countries everywhere. People were singing, chanting, teasing one another, and reacting to every movement on the field.
You would feel something start to build.
Quietly at first.
Then a player would make a run. A couple of passes would connect. Someone would take a shot.
And the entire field would explode.
Here is the part that has always fascinated me:
We weren’t even at the game.
The players were in a completely different stadium, possibly in a completely different country.
We were sitting in a field in Denmark, watching a screen.
And somehow it felt as though we were standing right beside the pitch.
The match didn’t create that feeling by itself.
The crowd did.
I have been a Minnesota Vikings season-ticket holder for years. I understand what a loud stadium feels like. My seats are close enough that I can physically feel the sound coming down from behind me.
A roaring crowd is not new to me.
But that field in Denmark felt different.
Maybe it was because no one had assigned us seats.
Maybe it was because the people around me came from so many different places.
Or maybe it was simply because, for a few moments, thousands of strangers were completely focused on the same thing.
We weren’t just a collection of people standing in a field anymore.
We had become one room.
People remember when the room becomes one room
Ask me who won those games.
I’ve got nothing.
I couldn’t give you the scores. I couldn’t tell you who advanced or which match happened on which day.
But ask me what it felt like?
I am immediately back there.
I can hear the crowd.
I can see the flags.
I can taste the warm beer.
Unfortunately.
And I can still feel that moment when thousands of people reacted as one.
That feeling has stayed with me for 24 years.
Oh, and I also bought a Francesco Totti jersey.
It was skin-tight.
Very much not me.
It is still hanging in my closet today.
I bought it before I fully understood who Totti was, which may be the most American soccer-fan decision anyone has ever made.
But the jersey isn’t really why I kept it.
I kept it because it takes me back to that field.
It reminds me of something I now think about whenever I walk into a meeting, an event, a theater, or an audience:
People rarely remember everything that was said.
They don’t remember every slide.
They don’t remember the agenda.
They may not even remember what they had for breakfast that morning.
But they remember the moment the room became one room.
The best rooms give people something meaningful to focus on together.
That shared attention creates a shared experience.
And the experience is what people carry with them.
That applies in a stadium or on a cruise ship.
It applies in a boardroom, at a company event, and around the kitchen table.
The information may matter.
But information alone is rarely what makes a moment stay.
People remember how the room felt.
They remember the laugh everyone shared.
They remember the story that made the room go quiet.
They remember the moment they stopped feeling like separate individuals and felt part of something together.
The score gets forgotten.
The sound stays.
Why I’ll keep going back to the pool deck
This year’s World Cup is the biggest ever, with 48 countries playing across the United States, Canada, and Mexico.
And apparently I am once again a soccer fan who knows almost nothing about soccer.
So when I am back on another ship and the games appear on that giant screen, I’ll wander up to the pool deck.
I’ll probably have a drink in my hand.
I may not know who is playing.
I almost certainly won’t remember the final score.
But that isn’t really what I’m there for.
I’m there for the moment when the crowd begins to build.
For the split second when everyone leans forward.
For the explosion when the ball crosses the line.
For that strange and wonderful moment when a group of strangers becomes one room.
Because the game may end.
The score may disappear.
But sometimes the feeling stays with you for 24 years.
