What happens when you stop being small

I’ve been living a small life lately.

That was the thought I had sitting three rows from the top of Mercedes-Benz Stadium with tears running down my face. Kickoff was still hours away.

I am a careful person. A planner. Thrifty, sometimes to a fault. I’m an introvert. A homebody. Sometimes shy. I like to read and write—to live in my head.

These are the things I tell myself. For the most part, they’ve served me well. But sometimes they keep me small. Sometimes they leave me lonely.

And sometimes, I don’t listen to them.

Days earlier, in an uncharacteristically impulsive move, I bought myself a ticket to the World Cup.

I paid $400—more than I ever imagined spending on any event ticket. The seat was unquestionably in the nosebleeds. The purchase pushed me well above my budget for the month. I sat, alone, between one very talkative Morocco fan and a Canadian father who reminded me a bit of my own dad as he kept telling his teenage children to enjoy themselves.

It was worth every penny.

Soccer always reminds me of my dad. He attended nearly every game my brother and I played, his baritone ringing out across the field as he cheered us on. He’d watch games on Telemundo—never mind that he didn’t speak Spanish—his booming “Goooooooooooaaaalllll!” carrying through the house. When the World Cup coincided with our annual summer vacation, he’d scout the best spot to watch the final. I can still remember those games: in a South Carolina living room blowing into vuvuzelas while wearing Netherlands orange; on a striped couch in Maine, watching the U.S. women lose in penalty kicks.

If my dad was still alive, he would have figured out a way to attend at least one World Cup match this summer. But I hadn’t. Whatever the version of anti-hype is—cynicism?—I’d bought into that. I was dismayed by ticket prices. I was worried Atlanta wouldn’t get its act together to be a host city. I was preemptively embarrassed of our country and its many xenophobic policies. Getting a ticket seemed like an expensive and uncomfortable hassle, so I didn’t even bother to try.

It wasn’t until the night of the U.S. men’s opening match against Paraguay that I said, okay, fine, I’ll drop the money for another streaming subscription and tune in. I’m so glad I did. I had so much fun watching it. I texted old friends—the pals I’d once screamed alongside watching many World Cup games in many bars. I was flooded with nostalgia.

A few days later, I wandered over to one of our city’s free World Cup watch festivals during my lunch break. I had been working from my mom’s apartment, and she and my daughter tagged along. My mom is like me, someone who can sometimes keep herself small, who too often lets negativity have its way. We’d just peek, we told ourselves, and see what a disaster the Spain versus Cape Verde game turned out to be.

We wound up staying for the entire two-hour match, which resulted in a 0-0 draw. My mom and I traded bemused looks with strangers, a moment of shared surprise and awe. We watched a nearby family dressed in Cape Verde gear celebrate what was a tie on paper but a momentous win in reality. We walked back to the apartment, smiling. How wonderful was that?

I had to work late that night to make up for the time I’d missed. It was unquestionably worth it.

That game was my first reminder: Joy is best shared with others.

From there, I watched as many matches as I could, soaking up the displays of national pride, the dreams playing out in real time, the wonderfully diverse and unique faces on the screen—players and fans alike. I reveled in the U.S. being an underdog and mourned our all-too-predictable exit. To my delight, Billy has watched alongside me, understanding what it is that makes soccer, particularly the World Cup, so great.

I’ve been living a small life lately.

For one glorious game—possibly the only World Cup match I’ll attend in my life—I got to watch the action unfold in front of me. I didn’t watch it through the small screen of my phone. I didn’t watch it on the bigger screen of my television, or the even larger screen of a watch party. I saw it in person.

I’d almost forgotten why I love the World Cup so much. It’s what happens when thousands of people simultaneously experience something joyous.

Years later, I may not remember the players or the goals. What I will remember—what I sincerely hope to never forget—was how it felt to be part of a big, happy crowd, surrounded by people thrilled to be together.

I will remember the whistles, the drums, the flags flying high. I will remember high-fiving and hugging people I’d just met. I will remember Morocco supporters and Haiti supporters dancing together outside the stadium, red and blue swirling into one dizzying mix. I’ll even remember the sidewalk preachers with their megaphones, shouting about what they loved and believed in.

I will remember how I felt: like a flower, tilting toward the sun, soaking up the warmth.

More, please.

It can be easy to convince yourself that the world is a bad place, full of bad people. If you only view it through headlines or someone else’s jaded eyes, your trust in humanity can start to slip away. At least, that’s true for me.

The other day I read that our brains often lie to us but our bodies don’t. If I’d let my brain lead the way, I would have stayed home. It had plenty of good reasons: the ticket was too expensive, something could go wrong, it wasn’t worth the risk or hassle. My body, thankfully, knew differently. The moment I sat down in my seat, before a single player stepped onto the field, I felt myself relax and exhale.

Yes. This feels good.

I was one of the very few people in the packed stadium who wasn’t wearing a jersey. Instead, I wore a red shirt, green shorts, and a matching bandana that once belonged to my dad. (The previous week, my brother also went alone to a World Cup game wearing our dad’s beloved Grateful Dead soccer shirt.) My dad, like my brother, was an artist. And like my brother, he signed all his work with a pseudonym: Excess.

For better or worse, Dad was a man of excess. He lived his life in a big way. He rarely denied himself joy.

There’s nothing wrong with a small life, of course. There’s beauty in appreciating what you have, living within your means, finding purpose right where you are. But you can do those things and still live expansively. You can laugh with abandon. Open your doors to visitors. Choose pleasure. Be wildly generous. You can sometimes do big things—rare, absurd, $400-ticket things—for yourself.

The match ended 4-2, Morocco. By that point in the World Cup, Haiti already knew they wouldn’t make it to the next round, and they played as though they had nothing to lose. They played beautifully, with so much heart, and their fans were an absolute joy to watch. On the way out of the stadium, I witnessed Morocco and Haiti fans congratulating each other, red hugging blue, on a game well played. There were smiles all around. It was wonderful.

I ended the game like I started it: tears in my eyes, reminded that most people in this world are good.

I’ve been living a small life lately.

It’s not a bad life. It’s a life that’s full of gratitude and joy. But it’s also a life that’s often very careful and controlled. It’s a life where my risk-averse brain loves to take charge. It’s a life where, thanks to remote work, I tend to spend more time alone than with others, rarely venturing outside my comfort zone.

That’s the danger of living too small. You can forget the magic of living large: what it feels like to laugh out loud, cheer with strangers, mourn in public, get swept away by collective joy. You can become lonelier. More easily driven by fear. You can forget that a life shared with others nourishes the soul.

I rarely give myself permission to let loose and choose the path of excess. But that day, I did.

That day, with my dad’s bandana on my head and tears streaming down my face, I pushed my fears aside and walked into a massive stadium alone. I witnessed that the world is full of good people. I remembered how wonderful it feels to share rituals and celebrations with one another. I delighted knowing that I can still surprise myself.

That day, my brain learned what my body already knew.

Yes. This feels good.

xoxo
KHG

Share

p.s. There’s a name for this feeling—collective effervescence—and a lot of folks also experienced it with the Knicks’ joyous win last month. I loved how both Carla Zanoni and Jenna Park described it.