Lilly

It’s easy to get caught up in a sort of hivemind when you go to a live soccer game. Say a player far below makes some terrific run, darting and flowing around their opponents like liquid. As they near the goal we, the crowd, rise to our feet as one. If they lose the ball, the collective thud as we sink back into our seats is almost loud enough to echo. If they take it all the way and score, we explode in chants and cheers and songs.

If it’s your favorite player floating in a superb long ball to a teammate, who bats it past the keeper and sinks the first goal of the night into the net—well.

“20, 20, 24 hours to go,” roars the stadium around me, “I wanna be Venegas!”

It’s fun to listen to them sing the name on the back of the jersey I’m wearing, but I’m just a fan. Imagine being a young player just starting to carve out a place for yourself on a team, pulling off some spectacular play and suddenly, quite clearly, hearing it—your own name shouted to the heavens by hundreds of ultras.

I can’t help but wonder what it feels like to hear them sing your song for the first time. ♦