My son had never been to a professional soccer game.
Soccer is, shall we say, not really his thing. It’s also never been particularly important to me that he likes soccer, that he likes what I like. Our sons will be their own men, come what may.
But the sport has brought me untold joy, not to mention paid a good chunk of our mortgage. So I have tried to gently expose him to it here and there. He played a single season of low-stakes rec soccer. I must confess that I lightly bribed him into that by letting him pick out his own cleats – he chose neon green ones, for his favorite color then, even though I warned he wouldn’t be able to see his own feet in the grass. He made a gamely effort every week. On the drive home after the final session, he announced his retirement as a player. Literally. “Mama, Papa, I’m retired from soccer.” Oh well.
Lukie, who turns nine in two weeks, is kind, social and bright. He possesses a soaring curiosity and creativity. He is neurodivergent, too – ADHD. When he was younger, loud noises spooked him. A train pulling into a station. A solid round of applause. Loud music. Thunder. But he seemed to have grown out of that, although he still hates hand dryers in public bathrooms.
I’d been toying with the idea of taking my family to a Club World Cup game. I am on the record with my skepticism of this steroidal, money-munching monstrosity, while I have also acknowledged that the soccer on show – and the fans, perhaps more pertinently – have been redeeming.
But there was nonetheless an appeal in the chance to see some of the world’s biggest clubs playing for something competitive, and so close to home. So I looked for tickets and discovered that the dynamic prices for Tuesday’s semi-final between Chelsea and Fluminense had utterly collapsed from nearly $500 a few days earlier, just to get into New Jersey’s MetLife Stadium, to as little as $13. At those prices, who could resist?
I snagged three tickets in the lower bowl for a comical $40 apiece for Lukie, myself and my wife. Lukie was excited about going to see a high-stakes game in good seats at the big stadium. We’d go right after he finished his morning robotics camp. We were entrusting Lukie’s maiden experience of the sport at the highest level to Fifa president Gianni Infantino and his fever dream for what he thinks soccer should be.
On the drive down, I expounded on the virtues of soccer, on the magic of not knowing whether the theater you had bought a ticket to would give you nine goals or none. There was no plot; certainly no script.
“Oh, listen to Mr. Soccer Man,” Lukie said, teasing me. “Bragging about soccer.” Then he put on his headphones and streamed a dino show on his Kindle. (Lukie, who has read and approved this column, wants you to know he is “deeply into dinosaurs right now.”)
We paid the extortionate parking fee of $65, which was apparently not prone to market fluctuations and, in fact, has risen by $5 for each subsequent round of Club World Cup games held at MetLife. I checked my phone. 97 degrees Fahrenheit (36C). Feels like 98.
Lukie was charmed by the competing music and scents of grilling meats around the parking lot, as other children doused themselves with water. He stood and watched the dancing and singing Fluminense fans for a while. We weaved through the various human funnels of the security checks and exclusion zones.
Once inside, he got to feel the child’s awe at walking into a mega stadium for the first time, laying eyes on the colossal rings of stands framing the verdant field. His mouth fell open.
After that, it was just too much of everything. A DJ blasted the same old stadium tunes, suggesting there was no need for a DJ at all (Except to occasionally shout “Fifa Club World Cup 2025, here we gooo!”) Michael Buffer, better known as the “let’s-get-ready-to-ruuumbleee” guy from boxing, was there doing his thing for some reason. Flames burst skyward, sparks shot into the air, fireworks boomed. Players ambled into the broiling heat amid overcooked introductions. Explosions of smoke in the clubs’ colors wafted through the air.
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All of it assaulted Lukie’s senses at once. In his seat, he tucked his legs into his chest and covered his ears. João Pedro’s first Chelsea goal, and the ensuing roar from the crowd, finally fried his circuits. He burst into tears.
My wife took him out on to the concourse for an $11 ice cream and found MetLife Stadium staff. Peter and Christine, American heroes both, convinced Lukie to give the game another try, handing him noise-canceling headphones, some sunglasses, and all of us new seats up on a platform in a quieter and roomier area for people with disabilities.
These MetLife Stadium workers spoke to a child with empathy and enthusiasm, even as madness swirled all about them. Among the 70,556 fans – the ticket price dump had evidently worked – they managed to make one scared boy feel seen and heard. Humanity shone through in amid the artifice and the avarice.
When João Pedro scored again, sealing Chelsea’s place in the Club World Cup final against PSG on Sunday, Lukie saw it clearly. But the goal entered his consciousness without the same noise or brightness. His brain got a chance to process what it had seen, without getting drowned out by sound and sight. He cracked a smile.
Soccer, in the end, was still not for him. That’s OK. He got to try it, on his terms.
To me, someone who tends to observe the sport from up in the press box, away from the maelstrom of the masses, it was a helpful reminder of what soccer feels like on the ground level. And that for all the commercialism and corporatism we rightly cover and criticize in the media, even sport at the highest level is still played by people, attended by people and put on by people who are trying their best.
