Soccer fandom found me in an Irish pub in the summer of 2014. Sure, I had played FIFA growing up and was loosely aware that Chicago Fire was the nearest geographical team for me to root for domestically. I knew I liked Messi more than Ronaldo, and I had been wearing my knock-off Barcelona jersey because I thought it said that, just maybe, I could be more cultured and enlightened than the football and basketball jocks who a fine arts kid had trouble identifying with. But it wasn’t until that World Cup viewing that I was committed to fandom in earnest.

I had heard from a friend who was helping me foray into the world of professional soccer that The Curragh, a bar in our hometown, would be hosting a watch party as the United States took on Ghana in the first round of group play. My dad, despite being somewhat unfamiliar with the soccer sector himself, was kind enough to take me. It was all so invigorating—gulping down battered mozzarella sticks and Coke with grenadine, surrounded by the buzz of excited broadcast viewers garbed in kits new and vintage alike. Having grown up a Detroit Lions fan and still living in the shadow of their infamous 0-16 season, seeing a group of fellow supporters actually excited to watch their team play was certainly novel. 

I vividly remember the first goal, from Clint Dempsey in the first minute, rolling into the net and catalyzing the bar into an eruption of jubilation, triumphant fists, and open-mouthed grins. I remember the groans when Jozy Altidore went down with a hamstring injury. I remember the relief when John Brooks’s header officially sealed victory for the red-white-and-blue. The bar was there as one, watching each run, each touch, and each kick with a seemingly singular pair of eyes.

I think this experience is the closest I’ve ever felt to understanding the iconic theme from Cheers, “Where Everybody Knows Your Name.” In those moments, it didn’t matter that I didn’t have a USA kit or that I only vaguely understood the infamous offsides rule. That communal moment, intertwined between persons through a shared love and elation, was a powerful one. It went on to shape the rest of my life. When thinking about the time, resources, and emotional capital I’ve sunk into soccer fandom since, it’s actually kind of ridiculous.

I’ve chased the magic of that game, trying to replicate the environment a few times since. The first was a not very memorable, a 2023 Champions League final between Manchester City and Inter Milan. I gathered a few friends at Bob’s Bar in Grand Rapids. I recall our table was the lone group there for the game. Even amongst our own ranks, I think there was more interest in the several rounds of Pass the Pigs that we played rather than the fixture. Outside of the friendship we brought through the door with us, I can’t say I felt any special camaraderie through the experience.

I tried again this year after moving to the east side of the state. Not only was there more than one relatively local “soccer bar,” there was a bar specifically for the team I betrothed myself to in the aftermath of that 2014 awakening, Arsenal! Surely, that shared fandom could be the missing link to recreate the emotions that opened this world to me. I rendezvoused with a crew of friends at McShane’s in Detroit for Arsenal’s season opener against Manchester United. The plethora of red torsos and white sleeves that greeted me was a promising start, and even more promising was the traditional anti-Tottenham Hotspur chant that resounded around the bar right before kickoff. As the ball entered play, however, I once again found my spirit falling a bit flat. Perhaps it was due to my viewing of fellow fans as competitors for seating in a crowded floor plan. Perhaps it was the uncomfortably sticky floor that usurped pads from their chair feet, or the unnerving presence of the self-serve bloody mary bar with pickles and cheeses sitting exposed for a questionable amount of time. As the match neared the final whistle, a fellow Arsenal supporter passed around a guestbook to sign. Maybe everybody was trying to know my name. But if that was the case, why didn’t it feel as vibrant as I remembered?

I congregated with a few of those same friends later this year at Conor O’Neill’s in Ann Arbor. We relished in Eberechi Eze’s hattrick during a fantastic beatdown of Tottenham Hotspur in the North London Derby. We all noted that there was something warmer about the atmosphere than what McShane’s had offered. It was probably the finished wood accents, the friendly man in a ravishing Arsenal jersey and kilt combo who made us commit to tell him if he was ever standing in our sightline, and the playfulness with which the owner bantered with various Arsenal, Lions, Bears, and Vikings fans all trying to get their games on the biggest TVs. Arsenal chants were sung, groups of kids in Inter Miami Messi jerseys cavorted at their tables, and I left that bar thinking, “I would come back here for another game.”

A few weeks later, the Thanksgiving holiday trundled off the calendar page and into life, and I returned to my hometown of Holland on the same day as a weighty clash between Arsenal and their Champions League nemesis, Bayern Munich. I found myself back at The Curragh. The bar was near empty, as you’d expect for 3 p.m. on a Wednesday. My mom joined me at halftime after she finished her workday. We split an order of mozzarella sticks, but 2014’s Coke with grenadine had turned into a Guinness instead. She kindly and inquisitively engaged with me as I explained why Noni Madueke’s goal was so meaningful after the critical reception his transfer caused this summer, and why the Arsenal coaches love Gabriel Martinelli’s work ethic that brought about the fourth goal of the match. The atmosphere of The Curragh in that moment was very different than it had been on that formative World Cup matchday eleven years ago. Yet I did not find myself let down by it.

The truth is that none of these bar visits, including the original nostalgia-tinged World Cup viewing, were ones where everybody knew my name. But they each hosted a companion, or several, who chose to join me in sharing the experience. Maybe I had been chasing the wrong thing all these years. These companions knew my name, and they knew it well. My relationships with them weren’t reliant on a chant to demonstrate our camaraderie, and they weren’t limited to ninety minutes plus stoppage time. How beautiful to behold those shared memories and the friendship carried beyond–something not worth trading for all the mozzarella sticks in the world.

Luke Brandsen

Luke Brandsen graduated in 2019 and uses his business/HR degree to inform directing mission-focused programs. He currently lives in Ann Arbor, Michigan, where he squints at the players on his bootleg soccer stream, breaks guitar strings, and desperately tries to recall where the last D&D session he ran left off.