Before this trip, I could say I liked soccer. I play on my school team, and I might watch a game or two in a week. But watching three games a day seemed overboard. In addition to that, in Buzios I also would be playing soccer on beaches and fields, with friends and with locals. I didn’t think I was that into soccer. I thought I would be sick of it a few days into the trip.

I already had gotten a wave of the soccer spirit while waiting for my family’s flight at the Houston airport. There were Germans with bright red mohawks, Mexicans with giant sombreros, and, of course, Americans waving the Stars and Stripes. It felt like every country was represented in the fifty seats outside the terminal  gate. I could tell that everyone else was psyched for this, for the World Cup. And watching them, I was kind of afraid that I wasn’t ready to enjoy soccer like they were.

I still had that mindset when I got off the bus in Buzios. I slept on the ten-hour flight to Rio de Janeiro, then slept more on the three-hour drive from Rio to the small beach town where I would be staying for the next two weeks. Getting off the bus, my senses were being bombarded by the dark cobblestone streets, the sound of motorcycle engines revving in the distance, and the mellow smell of fruit and humid dirt. There was also a whiff of the sea in the air. Then I saw the seven-foot tall plastered walls that surrounded all the different pieces of property, and the artful graffiti that covered it, including a painting of a man playing soccer. We were definitely not at home.
My family was staying at Pousada Marbella, a small, two-story, motel-style place. Most of our AM Sports Tours group were staying there or close by. In the small, window-filled lobby people and luggage were draped over the couches and tables, crowding around a small but clear TV. I wiggled my way to the front to watch the Brazil vs. Croatia game. The first game of the World Cup, narrated by a nondescript male voice in Portuguese. The soccer had begun.

The next day while on our way into the downtown area, called El Centro, my family and I passed some basketball courts which I doubt had ever been used for basketball. On one half, kids my age were juggling a soccer ball and on the other half people my dad’s age were playing a serious game. A little further on two soccer teams were playing on a real soccer field. On the TV’s people were watching soccer, and all the stores were advertising soccer jerseys. It seemed soccer was everywhere in Brazil.

In the Centro there were very few cars driving down the uneven cobblestones. Two-story buildings pressed up against the street, and a large crowd bustled along. Electrical wires stretched across the street, dangling with Brazil’s flag and green-and-yellow ribbons. A group five-year-olds all wearing Brazil soccer jerseys ran by us carrying a soccer ball. We heard a little commotion further down the road, and we sped up to see a large square, the center of Buzios. The noise was from Chilean fans who were setting up chairs in front of a gigantic TV, chanting in Spanish at the top of their lungs.
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Game day. Also known as wake-up-too-early day. By 7:00 A.M. our entire group was loading onto buses to make the three-hour trek to Rio. I found a seat and fell asleep.

We were dropped off at the famous Copacabana, around 1:00 P.M. The FIFA Fan Fest dominated a large portion of the white-sand beach. Behind the opaque fence I saw the largest TV ever, bigger than the big screen at the Dallas Cowboys stadium, blaring the soccer games. There was also a zipline and a small theme park ride.

Street vendors milled around in makeshift flea markets on the wide sidewalk, selling Brazilian flags, Brazilian scarves, Brazilian jerseys, and little statues of Christ the Redeemer. We perused the tents while keeping our hands in our pockets; Rio is a hotspot for pickpockets.

We decided to eat at a restaurant on the beach. They served us rich beef stroganoff and some kind of seafood etouffee—it was astonishingly good. On the TV the announcers were preparing for the upcoming 7:00 p.m. Argentina vs. Bosnia game, which we would attend. Argentina jerseys could be seen everywhere, and I heard chants in the distance. I also saw some Bosnians, vastly outnumbered but compensating with body paint, flags, wigs, and height.

The time flew by and the next thing I knew we were on the buses again, heading towards the stadium. Graffiti dotted the highway. I remember one piece depicting Fuleco, the World Cup mascot, holding an assault rifle and dribbling a soccer ball at the same time..

We were dropped off a bit away from the stadium, and the AM Sports Tour staff said it would be a fifteen-minute walk to get there. They handed out our tickets—thousands of dollars worth of tickets—and then we started walking. It was a Sunday, so most of the shops were closed. The only stores open were these small convenience stores where people were gathering in plastic lawn chairs to watch the game.

Many people in our group—including me—were wearing Argentina Jerseys. As we would walk by many Brazilians would yell things at us, like, “Bosnia!” They weren’t being mean, but you could tell that there was a rivalry between Argentina and Brazil.

As I maneuvered through the narrow streets of Rio, I felt enclosed. The buildings, like in Buzios, were pressed up against an uneven sidewalk. But the buildings were much taller and it felt like they were leaning into the street. Low hanging electrical wires criss crossed above our heads, green and yellow banners dangling from them. Watching our back was the statue of Christ the Redeemer.

I felt like we were walking through a small Texas town in the late evening, that is until we turned onto the main street. We were suddenly in a whole new place. It was a wide road—a mini-highway—and it felt even more open because there were no wires or buildings. A few cars and a number of buses drove by us towards the Maracana looming in the distance. What shocked me the most was the noise.

The noise came from people, and people were streaming out of every nook and crevice of the road—it felt like people appeared out of nowhere and started walking with us. The world was rising up around us and heading to the Maracana.

An army truck drove by us, and mounted police trotted around the open areas in full body armor. Further in the distance there were more police, armed and ready.

The police may have stopped the riots, but it certainly didn’t suppress the soccer spirit. This time I could hear Bosnian chants mingling in with the Argentinian ones. Of course, I had no idea what either group was saying, but it sounded cool. It got louder and more crowded the closer we moved towards the stadium. When our group split up it probably took my family twenty minutes to get through the quarter mile between the entrance of the stadium and our seats because it was so packed. Did I already mention that it was still two hours before the start of the game?

It might have been five o’clock, but the sun was already setting. The stadium lights turned on, and the soccer spirit kept on rising. When the teams came out for warm ups, the cheering was so loud you’d have thought that someone just scored the winning goal.

Fan for fan, I’d say the Bosnians were louder than the Argentinians. But overall the crowd was rooting for Argentina. Even the seats in the stadium were the same light shade of blue as the Argentina jerseys. Chants rang around the circular stadium and all eyes were on the field.

To be clearer, most of the eyes were on Messi. He is regarded as a deity of soccer. Half the Argentina jerseys had Messi written on the back. We were waiting for his goal.

And it came in the sixty-fifth minute. Messi ran down the field, cut sideways at the top of the box, avoided two slide tackles, and sent a rocket past the keeper. The crowd went nuts. The whole stadium bowed down, and a chant filled the stadium, “Messi. Messi. Messi. Messi.” We were hailing the soccer god.

The game ended 2-1, Argentina victorious. Fans streamed from the stadium, still energetic and cheering while songs played over the speaker systems. My family regrouped with the tour, and we loaded onto the buses around 10:50. We got back to Marbella around 1:20, and I knew I was going to be exhausted the next day.

But it had been worth it.

A week went by, feeling like only a day had passed. My life revolved around soccer. Wake up, go play soccer. Go to the beach, then to lunch to watch the 1:00 game. Touring Buzios in the afternoon, going back to the hotel or stopping somewhere to catch the 4:00 game. Then maybe I would hang out with my brother’s friends, we would go to the Centro to watch the 7:00 game.

June 22nd, 4:00. The sun was setting as I got off the bus at the Copacabana. We were back in Rio—but this time not for the Maracana. Me, my brother, and our friends were going to the FIFA Fan Fest to watch the USA vs. Portugal game. The beach and the streets around were crowded, the stadiums were crowded, the stores were crowded, everything having to do with the World Cup was crowded. But also full of energy.

The only time I’ve seen more American patriotism in my life was on the 4th of July. Americans were everywhere in the crowd, noticeable by the Stars and Stripes. Flag capes were the minimum, most people had hats, sunglasses, and facepaint to go along with it. Their energy was getting me ready for the game.

We stopped by a beachfront food stand, and I got a coconut drink—literally a coconut with a straw stuck inside. I’m not usually a fan of coconut, but something about the sand, the sun, and the wind made the coconut not as bad as I remembered it. Our group milled around, walking through the dense flea markets and buying whistles and cheap jerseys. My brother and I maneuvered through the crowd, looking for a Brazilian soccer flag for one of his friends. Although all the signs contradicted the fact, it was still over an hour before the game.

Finally the sun had set, and it was probably forty-five minutes until kickoff. Our group decided it was time to get into the FIFA Fan Fest. It was a gigantic area, fenced off, with only one entrance. Slowly we made our way there, stopping by more shops. When we finally made it to the back of the line—we were shocked.

It was one of the longest lines I had ever been in, and I’ve been to Disneyworld. It was only a football field or two long, but it was crowded. ‘Line’ was an ambiguous term. It was a giant—over a thousand people—crowd being funnelled into a fenced off choke point only wide enough for eight to ten people to stand side by side. The people behind kept pushing forwards, but the people up front wouldn’t budge. I felt like I was between a human hammer and anvil.

I was literally pressed up against the people around me; arms, torso, thighs, butt. You could count the hairs of those around you.

All the while people are cheering, chanting, beers are being passed around over the crowd. Soccer spirit continued on unhindered. And when you’re that close, it’s hard not to join in on the chants, the energy (but I did say no to the two beers offered to me).

Thirty minutes later we were finally inside the gate, the game had just started, and our group decided on a rendezvous point. We knew we wouldn’t be able to stick together in the crowd. The closer we got to the giant TV, the more crowded it became. My brother and I wiggled our way to almost the very front, where it was almost as crowded as the entrance line.

I saw many Portugal fans, but the cries of, “I believe that we will win. I believe that. . .” made it feel like there was an American majority at the Copacabana.

In the fifth minute, just as my brother and I reached the front, Nani scored off of a botched clearance. Being surrounded by Americans, all the cheering stopped, the only noise was coming from the surprisingly-quiet TV. The mood around me sucked the noise out. I was feeling pretty down.

The US went back on the offensive, quickly picking up the dropped spirits in the crowd. Spirits (not meaning liquor) stayed high. And finally, second half, in the sixty-fourth minute Jermaine Jones sent a beautifully placed shot from outside the top of the box into the net. Everyone was jumping, there were flying spirits—both kinds this time—and quite a lot of selfie video taking/hugging. Still riding on that energy in the 81st minute Clint Dempsey, one of the biggest stars on the US team, was able to push a cross in with his hip and secure the lead.

Again flying liquor, hugging, loud noises, and everyone having a good time. For the rest of the game people were dancing, the chanting was non-stop. This place was happier than Disney World with no lines.

Unfortunately, that’s not the energy we left with. During stoppage time—the ninety-fifth minute—world-renowned Ronaldo was able to send a well-placed cross to Varela, who headed it in without mercy. It was literally the last play of the game.

We were shocked. For minutes, while the Portuguese pranced around, we just stood there, trying to comprehend what had happened. It was a tie, but it felt like we had lost. I really felt like I had lost. My brother and I shuffled back through the crowd, bobbing and weaving and trying to not get separated. Some performers were now on the stage dancing, but I didn’t see many US fans planning to stay. My brother and I met up with the rest of our group and we headed back to the buses.

But like the people of Buzios, less than a day later the depressed feelings had rolled off my shoulders. The days went by fast. My family toured Rio, I got a picture with Christ the Redeemer, I played soccer on a field with some Brazilians and got crushed 9-1. At least my team scored one goal. Another five days of eating Brazilian food, hanging out on Brazilian beaches, talking to and making friends with Brazilian kids. And soccer. All of it included soccer.

Before I knew it, June 23rd had come, the night before we were going to leave. My family was packed and ready to go. The AM Sports Tours group was having a goodbye barbecue at the field sometime later. We showed up early, and none of the food was ready, so we decided to go find somewhere to watch the game. The game was Brazil vs. Cameroon, and all the shops without a TV were closed. The closest place that we knew had a TV was a gas station just under a block away from the barbecue.

Just as we set out, a rapid chain of what sounded to me like gunshots rang through the area. But it wasn’t gunshots, it was fireworks. Neymar Jr. had just scored in the seventeenth minute of the match. Fireworks were a great way to keep track of how many goals Brazil had scored in a match, and it had been very useful during the previous Brazil games.

We walked through the walled neighborhood, under the faintly fluttering banners and streamers hanging from the electrical wires. Our world was colored green and yellow.

The gas station was on the main road, at the edge of the neighborhood. But it didn’t look much like a gas station—first off, the store looked like a cafe, and the cafe was crowded. It was nothing near the FIFA Fan Fest crowded, but the plastic chairs were taken, all thirty-five of them, and there were many people standing. At the counter a guy was selling drinks as well as food, some basic rice-and-meat dishes for those who were hungry. But stranger than the gas-station-restaurant were the people eating in the gas-station-restaurant.

It looked like at kickoff, anyone within a hundred meters of the place had dropped everything and gone to watch the game. There were a few motorcycles parked haphazardly on the street, a vendor’s food cart lay abandoned—someone tried to buy something from it, but the vendor told him to wait until the game ended—and even four police officers had stopped their car and were seated, having a couple drinks to watch the game. The Brazilians were more into soccer than Americans are into football. Brazilians of all ages were watching the game.

Luckily, I was wearing a Neymar Jr. shirt, so my family was welcomed into the fold of the gas station. We found some seats, I got a weird grape-flavored soda and we watched the game.

Cameroon scored in the twenty-sixth minute—but followed closely by another goal from Neymar Jr. in the thirty-fifth minute. The energy at the gas-station was much calmer than anywhere else in Rio where we had watched the game. I found that in general, the Brazilians are very laid back, easygoing people. Instead of being sucked into the spirit, that night I kind of floated into it, into the soccer-is-life mood of those around me. Brazil scored twice more, and the game ended with score 4-1. We headed back to the barbecue, had some supertizing beef and chicken, then made our way back to the pousada, bringing the night to a close. The next day we left, and the day after—after a ten-hour flight—we were back in Houston.

It wasn’t until after the trip that I started thinking about how I hadn’t gotten get tired of soccer. And the conclusion that I came to was that I enjoyed it because I had experienced soccer in a much more in depth way than I ever really had. At home watching soccer meant sitting for ninety minutes of people kicking a ball. In Brazil, it meant cheering for a team, making bets with friends, eating good food, and having a great time. Playing soccer at home meant getting sweaty and possibly yelled at by coaches, random parents, and other players. In Brazil it was about getting better as a player, making friends, and, most importantly, playing soccer.

I experienced soccer in the Brazilian way, as a lifestyle, rather than just an activity, and I think that’s really why I enjoyed the trip so much. For the first time I immersed myself in soccer,

Brazilian-style.