How I Became a Soccer Fan (and South African)

Interrupting regularly scheduled ruminations about life and love from Portugal, I bring you a story about my love of the beautiful game.

Picture this: It’s 1998.

I’m a newly graduated, twenty-something woman living in London, working in fashion by day, bartending by night. Honestly, I was kind of pleased with myself for having found a way to actually live abroad. I mean, it’s not like I grew up with parents or other close relatives who grew up gallivanting around Europe.

I went there because, in 1998, the UK was the coolest place on the planet. Trainspotting. Britpop. Oasis. London’s emerging fashion scene. It was where everything seemed to be happening at once.

The World Cup was taking place across the English Channel in France, and matches were on television at my pub. Drunk people singing. Grown men crying. Flags from countries I’d never seen before. It was all so mesmerizing, and excitingly different for a small-town girl from Illinois.

One day at the pub, after watching South Africa lose, a drunk Brit looked at my brown face, smirked, elbowed me, and spoke louder than needed when he said:

“HA! Your team lost.”

I hadn’t said a word, but he’d already assumed he knew more than he actually did. I quickly, and oh-so-politely, spat back:

“I’m not South African. I’m American.”

I felt: Annoyed.

It’s like someone repeatedly calling you by the wrong name. It happens once, and you’d hardly notice it. Two different people do it on the same day, or it happens three days in a row, well then it starts to feel kind of odd. Absurd. Maybe even a little confusing. But, then it happens again. And again, from someone else, and another person. Then, one day, you find yourself snapping at a total stranger:

“NIGEL!! MY NAME IS NOT SARAH!! I have taken care to call you by your correct name. Why are you being too lazy to learn mine?”

Of course, I’d never automatically assume someone’s name was Nigel simply because he looked like the other Nigels I’d met. Likewise, you can’t really assume where anyone is “from” any place based on “how they look.” And, since we’re talking about the 90s, look at the Spice Girls. They were all so very very British and all looked and sounded and dressed so very very differently. “British” is not, nor has it ever been, just one face. Ditto for “American.”

He probably hadn’t met enough of us yet.

Remember, this was before smartphones, Obama, and probably most people in the pub had ever actually met an actual American apart from the ones they’d seen on TV (which is totally not representative). “Nigel” aside, what I remember most about that World Cup was how I became a “football” fan.

That summer, England fans who’d gone to France had behaved so ridiculously, and showed their assess so much, that Tony Blair went on national television and apologize to the French, en Français.

It was wild! Though I never showed my ass, I could understand how someone would. I’d gotten really swept up in the whole thing. The chants. Feeling like you want to change your nationality, or allegiance, or just travel to more countries because you’ve fallen in love with a team and/or their fans. How, for about 90 minutes, in every time zone, the entire world seems to be sitting, standing and singing (and this year ROWING) along at the exact same time as we’re watching the same damn thing.

It is, indeed, a beautiful game.

I’ve been watching soccer ever since.

This year, here in Portugal, I watched the games in Praça do Comércio, while cheering for every country I’ve lived in (my native United States, plus The Netherlands, England, and of course Portugal).

I also support everyone from Africa.

And Norway. Because, how could anyone not? They’re so lovely! I even watched a match there with my Norwegian friend Thomas. 🇳🇴

I have good news if you’re reading this and:

• your team got kicked out of the World Cup sooner than you wanted them to, or

• you’re wondering “wait, what the hell did I even do with my Sunday nights before all of this happened?”

You don’t have to wait for the next World Cup. Pick a team and support them. Seriously, that’s how you keep that World Cup Fever going all year round.

Every year, England’s top 20 teams (e.g. Manchester United, City, The Arsenal, Liverpool, etc.) play each other.

Between now and the next World Cup, you can watch your favorite play in the Premier League. Years ago, that’s exactly how I first got to know about Norway’s keeper Erling Haaland. He’s a City player.

• When to catch it: Runs roughly September through June, annually.

• Where’s the next final: There isn’t one! 😂 Whoever gets the most points throughout the season finishes top of the table and wins “the league.”

Every year, the top clubs across Europe (e.g. Real Madrid, Manchester City, Bayern Munich, Atlético, etc.) play each other.

From 1998 until Sir Alex Ferguson retired, I was hardcore with Manchester United support, and I went to several games. Admittedly a fair-weather fan, I stopped watching when they started losing. But, when I did watch and attend games, that’s how I found out about (and saw!) Cristiano Ronaldo, David Beckham, Wayne Rooney, Ryan Giggs, Carrick, and others play.

Similarly, during the next World Cup, you’ll probably see players you’ll remember having seen play this year.

• When to catch it: Roughly same schedule as the Premier League.

• Where’s the next final: In Madrid on Saturday, June 5, 2027.

Every four years, the world’s women compete. I can’t speak for the other countries but, unlike the men, the U.S. women’s team actually knows how to win.

• When to catch it: Every four years, 1 year after the men’s tournament.

• Where’s the next final: Rio de Janeiro, Brazil. On Sunday, July 25, 2027.

Every four years, this is the World Cup, if only Europe could play in it.

• When to catch it: It, too, happens every four years, two years lagged behind the men’s World Cup. So, every other even-year summer, it’s either Euro or the men’s World Cup (i.e. 2024 Euro, 2026 World, 2028 Euro, 2030 World). Rinse. Repeat.

• Where’s the next final: Tournament takes place June 9–July 9, 2028, co-hosted by England, Scotland, Wales, and Ireland. (My guess is that they left Northern Ireland off the list because most local fans will either be loyal to the Crown or the Republic, and hosting matches in Belfast would be highly likely to result in real violence.) Final takes place in London at Wembley Stadium on Sunday, July 9, 2028.

By the way, I’m not going to lie, when I first got into soccer, it was easy to get confused about which “leagues” and “cups” were what. Because the same players seemed to play in all of them. To help you keep things straight, let’s try this.

The Mbappe Matrix

He’s a French player on Real Madrid, which is in Spain’s La Liga. So:

❌ He does NOT play in the Premier League. Real Madrid is not in England.

✅ He does play in the Champions League. Real Madrid is a top European club.

✅ He does play in the Euro Cup. France is in Europe.

The Haaland Matrix

He’s a Norwegian player on Manchester City, which is in England.

✅ He does play in the Premier League. Manchester City is in England.
✅ He does play in the Champions League. Manchester City is a top European club.
❌ He does NOT play in the Euro Cup. Norway is in Europe, but Norway hasn’t qualified for the tournament. So, despite living in Europe, he’s never actually played in it.

Here we go! As much fun & dramatic as this year’s World Cup was, I’m even more excited for the next one. Not only is the World Cup coming back to Europe again, it’s coming here!

Portugal is co-hosting the 2030 World Cup, along with Spain and Morocco.

I’m so excited that I’m losing my shit. But, I promise it won’t be in a way that would require whoever is the U.S. president at the time to go on TV and apologize to the Portuguese people, em Português:

Lamentamos imenso que a nossa pequena e excêntrica rapariga morena seja uma louca. Ela está na meia-idade, na perimenopausa e tem TDAH, mas, na verdade, não sabemos o que se passa com ela!

Spain, Portugal, the EU, and FIFA all have real incentive to make this work.

And, I’m gonna guess most Europeans will outright refuse to pay prices folks were charged for tickets in the U.S. (or they’ll organize legitimate protests to apply pressure and make tickets more affordable).

So, four years from now, I hope to be standing in a stadium a few miles / kilometers from my apartment, in the country whose language I now speak, watching the biggest tournament on earth happen in the country where I actually live. I’m excited just thinking about it.

Now’s the time to plan ahead and come visit Portugal (or Spain or Morocco).

Tiny, Private Love Letter is written by Twanna A. Hines, an obsessed observer of how we love, learn, leave, and find our way through this world. When you subscribe or upgrade, you’re supporting independent writing and helping offset the cost to produce the work you’re currently reading.

Twanna A. Hines, M.S. is an American entrepreneur and award-winning sexual health educator. She is founder of FUNKY BROWN CHICK, Inc., a social impact consultancy serving nonprofits, foundations, B-Corps, and international organizations. She has appeared in The Guardian, NBC News, Al Jazeera, Fast Company, and 25+ other outlets; she has been covered by The New York Times, CNN, Cosmopolitan, Essence, Vox, and 50+ additional media outlets. She has been called “a gifted storyteller” by The Washington Post. See more at: twannahines.com.