We passed by in our SUV, the air conditioning fighting back the heat as we wound our way through Juárez. As we passed the stadium—home to FC Juárez—it took only a second, maybe less, for my eyes to catch it, register it, and feel that small jolt of recognition that comes when you spot something sacred in a city not your own. There it was: a football ground. Modest, maybe. Weathered, certainly. But it didn't matter. It was a temple.
I’ve come to love soccer—fútbol—late. It wasn’t the sport of my youth. Growing up, the only soccer game I remember watching was in gym class when it rained. But something changed in me. Maybe it was the atmosphere of a Sporting KC match, or the way KC Current fans sang like true believers. Maybe it was the sudden electricity of watching STL City explode onto the scene, a new club for a city with old pride. Or maybe it was just that I finally sat still long enough to feel what the rest of the world already knew: soccer isn’t just a sport. It’s a passport, a protest, a party, a prayer.
Now, I find myself looking forward to the World Cup coming to Kansas City like a child waiting for Christmas. Not just for the spectacle of it, though that will be grand. Not just for the influx of fans from every continent, though that will be thrilling. But because I want to see my city—my own city—host the world. I want to hear ten languages shouted in celebration from the same corner. I want to witness that impossible, chaotic joy that only the beautiful game provides.
And what’s most remarkable is how simple the game remains. In Juárez, I saw it again and again: in dusty lots, beside industrial parks, between walls tagged with graffiti and hope, there were kids playing. No jerseys, no cleats, no referee. Just a ball, a stretch of space, and enough friends to divide into sides. That’s all it takes. That’s always all it’s taken. It's the only sport you can play barefoot, under a tin roof, in the street, or in the shadow of a stadium.
There is something democratic in that. Something unifying. A language anyone can learn, if they’re willing to move their feet and open their heart. You don’t have to be rich. You don’t have to be fluent. You don’t even need a proper pitch. You just need the ball, the space, and the will to keep going after it. And in that way, soccer feels like life itself.
As we drove on, the stadium faded behind us, swallowed by the pulse of the city. But I carried it with me. Another reminder that wherever you go, people are playing. And wherever people are playing, there is still joy to be found.