Maybe it’s in the color.
I’ve been in Argentina for less than three weeks and I already swell with pride when the Albiceleste (that’s their soccer team’s nickname) score, but, when I think back, it took less than three days for my blood to run Carolina blue. It’s something about that hue. Watching World Cup games in San Martin Plaza is synonymous watching Carolina football games at Kenan, minus the bow ties, cowboy boots and alcohol. As I’m consumed in a sea of Carolina/Argentine blue hats and scarves and jerseys and flags. The minute the speakers blare GOOOOOOOOOOOAAAAAALLLLLLLLL, that sky blue sea begins jumping up and down in unison. It was déjà vu—I was back in the Dean Dome.
As I sit here and watch and scream and shout as the U.S. tries to stay alive for the next round, I realize why there’s so much pride in being part of something. People who share your pride reinforce it. When Argentina plays, it’s not just the eleven on the field. It’s forty million who watch wide-eyed from every square in every city. Businesses close down, everyone leaves work early and horns blare in the streets. It’s the ‘team effort’ incarnate.
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