The passion of the fans was palpable. From the moment we entered the ground until well after the final whistle, the Suhoshin, the name given to the hardcore fan group situated in the North Stand, never stopped singing.

I had a choice to make, and it was one that would affect the direction of this piece. I could continue the night’s festivities and end up with something akin to Hunter S. Thompson’s essay on the Kentucky Derby. While it would probably have made for a great story, I didn’t believe it was in my best interests to roll those dice here in Beijing.

Even if that gets sorted, the exposed right flank will remain a feature. As LFC has worked their way through the preseason, I’m not convinced they’ve sorted out ways to limit the negative impact it may have. Teams know that’s a weakness and have continued to target it. Against Bayern, the Reds were punished. I’m afraid that’ll be the case against the top six opponents in the League, too.

It was around 3 pm when the rain cleared, and the sun crept out from behind sodden clouds. I rechecked the forecast. No rain in sight, and temperatures would hover around 75 degrees. Perfect soccer weather. It would be hot, humid, and nearly unbearable on a typical mid-summer day in Beijing. The Footballing Gods had approved of my plans.

Almost immediately from the restart, the lifeline that the match had needed was either found in the locker room or in some moment of inspiration on the pitch, I could tell this forty-five minutes would be different.

The most glaring one is that the local club opened their newly rebuilt stadium just in time for the beginning of the season. Beijing Guoan spent the previous three seasons at a temporary ground in the west of the city. And this new stadium, built on the grounds of the old one, was purpose-built for the beautiful game. As anyone would imagine, the buzz around the new ground led to a sellout for the opening match back in April and that sentiment has continued ever since.

It was an intense affair played between two serious teams with compelling arguments for winning the whole thing. Argentina on the downswing after the high of the late 80s. The Netherlands nearing their apex–maybe they could have been champions of at least one tournament in the late 90s if not for the magistery of a Zidane-led France.

But on Wednesday, June 26th, I went for a different experience altogether. As a wannabe sportswriter, one who wants to cover the game from a fan’s perspective—and not just necessarily DC United—I’ve always wondered what it would be like to sit in a professional press box.

One of the few remaining neighborhood grounds, it’s not like any of the modern stadiums being built nowadays. Nestled snugly within the confines of a tightly fitting neighborhood, space is definitely a scarce commodity. All of which provides a character more akin to Wrigley Field or Fenway Park. After your ticket is scanned, you walk up a narrow set of stairs to your section. But at the landing, you’re greeted by the concession area, which itself is equally lacking in space. The tight confines add to the charm though. Fans accommodate each other and are gracious when shoulders and bodies inevitably collide.

An addiction to the beautiful game and arguably its most exciting competition took hold.

But there was something about that game that drove that hook even deeper. Like the first time you taste a craft beer after years of stale macro brews. Or when you get that first sip of 12-year Balvenie after growing up on bottom-shelf bourbon. Whatever it was, I wanted more.

Some could argue the spectacle Sunday was merely an elaborate showpiece meant as a passing of the torch. From Lionel Messi to Kylian Mbappe, teammates at Paris Saint-Germain, a French superclub bankrolled by the Qataris. One great to the next. Though, we’d be remiss not to note that Mbappe was already a World Cup winner–having won his first four years ago in Russia.

The match was at best a momentary salve, a reminder that whatever baggage I thought it could help carry, it would, in fact, only carry so far, if at all.

Thirty-two years later, I find myself unable to get excited about the world’s biggest sporting event. The crown jewel in any four-year sporting cycle. Bigger than March Madness. Bigger than the Olympics. Bigger than the Super Bowl. Bigger than the Champions League Final. But, the context surrounding this edition of the World Cup seems to have seeped into a sporting event meant as a temporary salve for society’s troubles.

Team Melli punches their ticket to Qatar.