ESSAYS
THE WORLD CUP IS A TIME MACHINE
On soccer, memory, fatherhood, and the unexpected ways we measure our lives
It’s 2026. I’ve started doing yoga again.
I’m 35 and I’m on parental leave after the birth of my second child and I’ve finally had a chance to slow down enough to realize my body is basically one big knot that needs untying.
As I write this, the World Cup final is just days away and I don’t mean this in a bad way, but with the added teams and hot monotony of summer, it feels like it’s been going on forever. I mean, when it started, I didn’t have a son.
I’ve always felt that there’s a distinct feeling to World Cup summers, as millions of people around the globe tune in for each kickoff, irrespective of timezones, creating a kind of cosmic hum that only comes about every four years. And as snippets of games come and go across my smartphone screen — some boring some riveting — I find myself rocketing back in time like an Erling Haaland header, hitting the back of the net of the space time continuum in a glorious ripple of nostalgia.