“The World Cup doesn’t end so much as it slips back into itself. As soon as the whistle is blown one last time, the recaps, the nostalgia, and the smart surmises begin. But then, a day later, after the last team has returned to its home country and the cheers of hundreds of thousands of euphoric fans, the specifics start to stretch beyond the immediate recall they enjoyed during these June and July days. The locations and stadia whose names were on the tip of your tongue begin to hang back as you go forth with your life. You’ve suddenly forgotten the name of that player you didn’t know on that team you weren’t familiar with—the player you’d enjoyed so much that you’d learned to pronounce his name perfectly. Or, if you’re American and have grown through this tournament to love the game, the world may suddenly seem farther away again. The excuses to strike up a conversation with a stranger dwindle. The news of the rest of the world starts with the Middle East again. And left to fend for themselves, the details of your World Cup experience begin to connect their own dots.” The Paris Review

“When it was all over, Messi stood there dejected and alone, holding the Golden Ball as the World Cup’s best player. It was a hollow consolation, one he didn’t want and probably didn’t think he deserved. As he walked up the stairs to receive his prize, some fans reached out to touch him. But most Argentinians sat—as subdued as they had been in weeks—clapping quietly, watching Messi fail to become the emblematic hero an entire nation had hoped he would. The World Cup has a way of amplifying things. Goals become national statements. A poor performance becomes an affront to the flag. Every action is bigger and holds more importance—and, inherently, holds some symbolic meaning.” 8 by 8