In 2010, I flew to South Africa for the World Cup.
Two weeks earlier, my marriage had ended, and my twin boys were only 3. I’d wanted to go to a World Cup my entire life, and I almost didn’t get on the plane, but my friends talked me into it.
Before I left, I bought matching Tim Cahill jerseys, one for me and one for each of the boys. Cahill was Australia’s best player, the guy who scored the goals that made Aussies briefly care about soccer every four years. We put the jerseys on, took a photo, and I crouched down and promised the boys that when they turned 18, I’d take them to a World Cup of their own.
They were too young to understand, but I meant every word.
That photo has been my Facebook cover for 16 years
I brought it up with the boys every so often, half promise, half running joke.
They got more into soccer as they grew up, and we saw big European teams like Tottenham, Manchester United, and Real Madrid when they toured Australia. And we watched games at 4 a.m. because that’s when football happens on the other side of the world.
As we watched Argentina win in 2022 at some ungodly hour of the morning, I told the boys the next one we’d be there for in person.
When they announced the US as the 2026 host, I was very excited
Everything aligned with the US being the host for 2026. My wife is Texan, and we have family there, so we’re in the US all the time anyway. The boys would be 18. It lined up so perfectly. I entered the ticket ballot and got selected. We were thrilled.
Then I went to buy the tickets and found out what “selected” meant.
It was before the schedule had been announced. There were no games or opponents listed. You commit your money to a category, 1, 2, or 3, and find out later what you’ve bought. That’s a lot to spend on a mystery, so I let the ballot lapse and told the boys we’d wait for the draw, when we’d at least know which games were which.
The draw came out. Australia was in the same group as the US. Of every fixture in the tournament, that was the one. My adopted second country against my actual one. I wanted it more than any other game on the calendar. So, naturally, that was the one everyone else wanted too.
Then I priced the dream, and it fell apart
Tickets to that match were absurd. Host-city hotels with reviews warning you not to stay there were running past $700 a night. Add three flights from Australia, more flights to follow the tournament around the US, tickets, food, and transport.
The number stopped being a holiday and started being a deposit on a house.
I sat the boys down. I’d made them a promise, and I’d keep it if they wanted, but they needed to see what it cost first. They’re not 3 anymore and can do the math. They nodded and said it seemed like way too much money. Even though they wanted to go, they knew we couldn’t justify it. They took it far better than I did.
We’re keeping the promise, but for a different trip
A few weeks later, I floated a different plan. Their Australian university year finishes in November. In December, we’re going to South America and doing a soccer trip we can afford. We’ll watch local league games in Chile and Argentina, where tickets cost a fraction of what they do at a World Cup. And we’ll visit the Estadio Centenario in Uruguay, where the very first World Cup final was played in 1930, and is now home to the Museo de Futbol.
I couldn’t get my sons to the newest World Cup. So I’m taking them to the oldest one instead.
The Tim Cahill jerseys don’t fit them anymore. They’ve been taller than me for years. Mine still fits, and the photo’s still up. I’ll change it when we’ve got a better one.
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