Watching the World Cup final from Barcelona

Congratulations to my adopted home

It’s gonna be zero-zero and go to penalties, I said, about four minutes into the game.

Don’t know why it popped out, but it felt good to register a prediction ahead of time. Accountability and such. Anyway, it would be fun to watch a World Cup final come down to penalties, like the last one had. (But I mean, not if it meant Spain would lose—of course not then).

As the minutes dragged by, and night fell, and we all took bathroom breaks, and then the next round of beers came, and the vermut, the others I was watching the game with started to curse me. Fuck you Russell, came one from across the table, with love. It really was looking like my prediction would come true. Seventy-five minutes in and still no score.

I was sweating through my shirt. Had the night just not cooled, or was it the heat from the crowd, or just the energy of a World Cup final watched from a beach bar terrace in Barceloneta?

Finally, in extra time, Ferran Torres, an FC Barcelona player, became a hero for his country, rocketing in a goal and putting Spain ahead 1-0. Thankfully, the game would not go to penalties. Too nerve-racking, anyway. The heat was starting to get to me, and it was late. Getting home after the semi-final vs. France had been quite a trip, and I wondered what this night would bring.

The ref blew the whistle, tension turned to elation, and tens of thousands of fans who call Barcelona home erupted in celebration across the city.

Vamosssssss!!!!! I texted my son.

Vvvvvaaaammmoooossssssss, he texted back.

I cheered, I toasted, and I high-fived strangers around me, something I can’t remember doing since the Knicks and the nosebleed seats at Madison Square Garden in New York as a kid. Sports really do bring people together now and then.

Yet I knew many Catalans were not exactly fans of their national team. In fact, many not enthused at all. Anything that purports to represent Spain—a flag, a language, a team—can often be met by Catalans with ambivalence, or even hostility.

I think I get it (I’m from America, after all). Still, many of these players are Catalan. Others play for FC Barcelona, and are therefore beloved local icons. I knew my son’s position was this: if there are Barca players on the field, that’s a team he’s rooting for. So go Spain.

With the crowd still celebrating, I handed 30 euros to my friend Brian Wiesner who had organized the watching and who lived next door. I want to make a run for the city bikes, I said. Good luck, he replied. It’s gonna be wild out there.

And it was. The beach boardwalk of Barceloneta was crammed with fans, all cheering. Spanish flags waving. Fireworks in the distance. There was still a bike left, and it was an e-bike no less—thank God. It would get me uphill and home much sooner, rather than slugging it out in the heat with three pints in me.

I got on, slowly pedaled through the crowd, turned up Passeig de Joan Borbó, along the waterfront, glided past the super yachts parked in the harbor, weaved through people in the streets chanting Es-pa-ña! Es-pa-ña! Turned left onto Passeig de Colom, the old Gothic Quarter on my right, taxis honking, people cheering, flags waving, past the monument to Christopher Columbus, around the Placa de les Drassanes, up Parallel and my barrio. The road here had been blocked after the semi-final vs. France, and it was blocked again tonight.

It was a certain charming pandemonium in the streets:

I briefly got off the bike, navigated toward the curb, chose a side street up the hill into Poble Sec, and cruised the rest of the way to the bike station near my apartment. Be there in 5, I texted my girlfriend.

I parked the bike, waited for that satisfying click of the mechanical lock, and the green light—then headed for a shower and the AC and a cozy bed next to a beautiful woman.