A pall hung over Seattle’s last World Cup match on Monday. This was supposed to be the day. The US Men’s National Team had the chance to go further in the tournament than they had in 24 years. Seattle, which had been the hidden gem of World Cup host cities—our novel, semi-functional transit s ystem and a stadium that is not marooned in a suburban parking lot pleased the world—had a chance to be the center of it. On a stunning 80-plus degree day no less.  But then FIFA World Peace Prize winner and US President Donald Trump called FIFA President Gianni Infantino to ask that our red-carded star striker, Folarin Balogun, be allowed to play in a game he should have sat out. Everyone in the world was rooting for the USMNT to lose, and who could blame them.  Unfortunately, I had already made plans to watch the match with an international crowd in Pioneer Square to be as close to the action as possible without paying at least $1,300 American dollars. Contrary to what the Seattle Times probably thought about the affair, my patriotism was not pure, nor was it uncomplicated, in this complicated time.  I feel uncomplicated about the street car my friends and I took to get there. This “boutique service” with “low ridership” (in the opinion of one city hall commenter) is good. Did I take it the whole way? No, walking was faster than the street car and the light rail, which had been hit by a car. We picked our way through a mass of people in Pioneer Square. The corral of lime bikes and scooters covered half a city block. The crowds were so massive, it was impossible to see the giant screen at Pioneer Square. Our other friends did not bother to meet us, they were at Hing Hay Park in the Chinatown-International District (CID). As we waded through the red, white, and blue thousands, a man and woman in yellow referee uniforms handed us yellow cards from a bucket of yellow cards. I pocketed one, and departed for the CID. On the way, we saw a trio of Founding Fathers consulting their phones for directions. None were Hamilton. More than 100 other spectators had gathered at Hay Hing Park, and more were flooding in. The watch party was the final push for the CID to attract business to the area amid reports that the World Cup had actually hurt their businesses. According to the Northwest Asian Weekly, in spite of their proximity to the stadium, CID businesses saw sales plummet by 20 percent on match days. Ahead of Monday’s match, a group of neighborhood advocates and business owners held a “Come to the CID” rally outside Seattle Stadium.  People sat in rows of plastic stools in front of us. We stood. They had run out of stools. The afternoon sun was directly above the screen, bearing down on the crowd. It was nearly game time.  “At least the sun will be out of our face by 8 pm,” someone said. It was 4 pm. A few minutes into the game, the feed froze. The crowd groaned. The organizers tried to fix it.  “It’s literally YouTubeTV,” someone laughed.  “Imagine if it was StreamEast,” another person said, referencing the world’s largest illegal streaming site that was shut down last fall.  The stream fixed, the USMNT coach, Mauricio Pochettino—a handsome, Argentinian with an enviably full head of hair—waved his arms on screen. His blue shirt had massive sweat stains. The sun was relentless.  “Ugh, me as fuck,” a girl next to me said. In the ninth minute, Belgium scored. “I didn’t expect Belgium to look this good,” a person behind me muttered. I thought it must be the side-effect of the entire world rooting for our failure. Or the fact that we are just not that good at soccer. Play continued. A Belgian player fell. He writhed on the ground.  “It’s that Seattle heat,” the man sitting on a stool in front of me said. He had hiked his Pura Vida shirt into a crop top to cool himself. His back was very freckled. “It’s that Seattle elevation.”  On a free kick, the USMNT scored. People jumped up from their stools.  “Okay, it’s basically 0-0 now,” a man behind me said. “We’ve got this.” About two seconds later, Belgium scored again.  “Fuck,” the man said. “The coach has to give the Gladiator speech at half time.” He started quoting. “…Father to a murdered son, husband to a murdered wife. And I will have my vengeance, in this life or the next.” He seemed to have mistaken the meaning of the film. Our team had been helped by a corrupt leader. Russell Crowe’s character, Maximus, had literally everything taken from him by a corrupt leader. Subtle distinction. On a US breakaway, the screen froze again. It stayed frozen. One of the hosts muttered a frustrated, “Oh my god” into the mic.  It played for a second and froze again. “One minute guys,” the organizer said.  He paused and unpaused the stream. Then, he toggled over to the picture quality.  “No! Don’t lower the quality!” the woman next to me shouted.  The stream picked back up. The US had done nothing impressive. It was so hot. “We gotta score another goal, fuck,” a man, a tactical expert, said.  The same woman grumbled about the quality. “The 480p is pissing me off.” Finally, half-time. We stayed put lest we lose our spot.  Drops of sweat rolled down my back. My friend, also melting, threatened to search “sports bars near me.”  A woman on a stool in front of us, an oracle, said, “The shade is coming. I can feel it.” The people two rows ahead of her were blissfully shaded.  “Feels like we’re lucky to be down one goal,” someone said. “This team looks terrible. I don’t know how we got to the Round of 16.” The second half started right as the sun sank behind a tree. Shade, blissful shade.  The broadcast panned to the FIFA president. So bald. The crowd booed—not for the baldness. But for the badness. “You’re booing the guy who’s letting your striker play,” one man complained.  “I’d boo if I were Belgium,” his friend added.  Belgium scored their third goal. The USMNT’s keeper had come out of the box, received a pass, tried to do something fancy with the ball, gotten it stolen from him, and the Belgian team scored from distance, knocking the ball easily into the goal.  “American foolishness,” someone lamented. “Oh my god I can’t believe that just happened,” someone said.  “I mean, it is the men’s team after all,” another answered. Soon, it would be the women’s world cup and I could root for the US with less guilt. Trump, after all, despises them (they are women).  The sun returned through a gap between the tree’s leaves, blinding us.  Hope and interest in the USMNT’s chances waned.  “I must say, I like those Belgian jerseys,” a woman said of the light blue and pink kits. Are they trans allies taking revenge? “They’re inspired by a Dutch painting,” her friend said. A moment later, “Fuck, wait, I mean Belgian.” (The jerseys, in fact, were inspired by the works of a Belgian artist, Renée Magritte.) When the ref gave a player a yellow card in the game, my friend asked if I had the yellow card I’d been handed and. I dug it out of my purse. “I think they might be some kind of Jesus thing,” she said.  Examining it, I scanned the QR code on the back. It took us to “Thatisayellow.com.”  The first message read: “Despite our national divides, cultures, customs, languages, we are together and everything FEELS okay.”  “Okay…” we said, and scrolled. No Jesus yet. The world is broken, it read.   I scrolled. By the eighth swipe of my finger, there it was: “JESUS SAID THERE WAS MORE THAN THIS.”  “There it is!” my friend shouted.  The game played on. We paid mild attention.  Then, Jeff Bezos in a box seat at Seattle Stadium. Hadn’t he washed his hands of this place? Doesn’t he know taxes from his ticket will help the city?  A helicopter flew over us. The crowd waved, until the text on the belly of the chopper came into view: Lifeflight. Oh. A bit on the nose.  A long-haired man in a red Hawaiian shirt stood up. “Everyone on your feet!” He said. He started chanting. “USA! USA!”  About 20 people obeyed. A US forward crossed the ball across the goal to…. nobody. Belgium booted it away. The people, sheep, sat down.  A trickle of people began to leave, not wanting to see almost certain defeat. Then, with minutes left in the match, Belgium scored a fourth goal, salt in our open wounds. “Let’s fucking get out of here,” someone said.  “Tai Tung?” said another.  The American dream was over, if it was ever alive.Anyway, if France wins the whole thing, I get $200. The post Watching the Cursed US Men’s National Team Lose at a Seattle World Cup Watch Party appeared first on The Stranger. ...read more read less