Hope, Heartbreak, and 90 Minutes of Magic

Heartbreak has a way of sneaking up on us in ways we never forget.

Not the kind whispered in love letters or sealed with promises—no. I mean the kind that blindsides you, your whole world feels like it is crashing down and you suddenly feel the need to gasp for air. It hits you from a place you never imagined could hurt that much.

If you’ve ever thought someone was the one—Mr. or Miss Perfect—only to feel your world collapse in a single breath, then you know the feeling.

That’s exactly how football broke my heart in 1998.

I had fallen in love with the magic of Ronaldo, Bebeto, Roberto Carlos and their team —their rhythm, their brilliance, their joy. Brazil wasn’t just a team to me; I adored them! They were poetry in motion. So when France crushed them in that final, my teenage heart fragmentized in ways I still struggle to describe.

I had watched every match, rooted for Brazil with everything in me, and believed in them as the defending champions.

And when it was over, I was so heartbroken, I told myself I would never invest my emotions in the World Cup again.

But then came this year.

Maybe it was the proximity. Maybe it was the feeling that the game was happening close to home that drew my interest. Maybe it was just nostalgia tugging at my sleeve.

I didn’t follow every match—life has its demands—but I followed enough. And I won’t lie: once my country of birth was eliminated, my loyalty became… fluid with each game. If I supported Team A and they were knocked out by Team B, then I supported Team C against Team B. No ties. No strings attached. Just pure innocent football flirtations with whoever caught my fancy.

The only constant throughout the knockout stage?

My complete lack of support for one team—and the blatant bias many of us saw on display.

Still, 48 teams started the race.

They all earned their place.

And over 39 days, only one champion could emerge.

Great teams I believed in—and had so much hope for—fell early. Others fought beautifully and still didn’t make it. My heart ached for them—Brazil, Portugal, Norway (love at first watch), France. Honestly, I’m amazed I still have any football heart left.

But this time, my heart didn’t break like that teenager in 1998.

It raced—from excitement, from anxiety, from the sheer chaos of knockout football.

At one point, I had to mute my TV and listen to Trevor Noah’s lighthearted commentary on YouTube just to keep me from following some of the senseless attacks on the field.

Football is wild like that.

We watched grown men and little children cry the same tears when they lost.

We watched nations jubilate in multitudes and erupt in joy.

We watched strangers become family for 90-plus minutes.

No matter what, I think football—especially the World Cup—brings people together like nothing else.

And somewhere in the middle of all that emotion, I realized something: A lot of what we do in our day-to-day lives mirrors this tournament.

We may not have stadiums full of people watching us. No one may put us on a pedestal to prove ourselves, but we still find ourselves competing—trying to get that promotion, trying to outrun our peers, trying to prove ourselves in ways big and small.

The most important lessons this World Cup left me with?

• Champions fall.
• Underdogs rise.
• The playing field is never perfectly even—so it can be anyone’s game.
• Sitting at the top doesn’t guarantee you’ll stay there.
• We are stronger together when we listen, collaborate, and let everyone shine.
• Rivals aren’t enemies. At the end of the match, they shake hands, smile, sometimes even hug.

If only life worked that way more often.

May the love this game inspires stay with us— in our homes, in our work, in our small everyday victories. May we carry the spirit of togetherness. Winners and not‑winners, all held in the same wide, generous embrace of a world brought together by football.