Before I knew what a delantero (forward) was, I knew what “GOOOOOOOOOL DE MÉXICOOOOOOO” sounded like. I knew the excitement in the announcer’s voice. I knew the cheers coming from the living room. I knew the way an entire afternoon could suddenly revolve around ninety minutes of soccer.
Long before I understood every rule, I understood that something important was happening.
My dad never misses a Mexico game, so World Cup summers were never quiet in our house. There were jerseys, snacks, people yelling at the television, and enough referee criticism to make you think everybody knew better than the referee.
So when I learned the opening match of the 2026 World Cup would be played at Azteca, I didn’t expect to get emotional.
Pride was the first thing I felt. Of all three host countries, Mexico would have the honor of opening one of the biggest sporting events in the world. That felt right to me.
Then came the tears, which was confusing because I’ve never been to Azteca. I’ve only been to Mexico City as a baby and I don’t remember much about the city itself. Yet somehow a stadium I’d never visited managed to hit a nerve.
The Soundtrack of ’98
The first World Cup I really remember came with a soundtrack. If you start playing La Copa de la Vida, I still know every word.
I remember Ricky Martin’s fist pump and singing, “Go, go, go, allez, allez, allez. Arriba va, el mundo está de pie.” Years later, I took my mom to see Ricky Martin in concert. For me, he was the soundtrack of my first World Cup. For her, he was Ricky Martin from Menudo. My mom had her songs. We had ours. And somehow they all led us to the same concert.
But when I think about those World Cups, I don’t just remember the music. I remember Memo Ochoa throwing himself across la portería, those white gloves flashing as he made save after save while the living room exploded.
Watching him always takes me back. Back to Mexico. Back to a dirt road that hadn’t been paved yet. Back to the mud after it rained.
I’m four years old, standing in front of la portería while my cousins line up to take their shots. They’re all older than me. They’re all boys. I know they’re going to kick the ball as hard as they can. So I stand there waiting for it. Bracing for it.
The ball comes flying toward me and I throw myself in front of it anyway. Most of the time, I stop it. Sometimes the ball hits me so hard it knocks me back a step. I can still remember the thump.
I knew I was little. I didn’t care. I was part of the game.
The Living Room Stadium
My dad never misses a Mexico game. Neither does my brother. My sister gets just as invested. My mom wasn’t nearly as obsessed as the rest of us, but she’d sit there and watch anyway because that’s what the family was doing.
That’s probably why most of my World Cup memories blur together now. Not because they weren’t important. Because they all carry the same feeling.
I’m sitting on the floor in front of the couch because I’m too excited to sit anywhere else.
“Brenda, siéntate en el sillón. No te sientes en el piso, te vas a enfermar.” Brenda, sit on the couch. Don’t sit on the floor, you are going to get sick.
I ignore my dad because I’m focused on the game. We’re arguing about tarjetas (cards). We’re yelling at the referee. Someone gets bumped and suddenly they’re rolling around like they got hit by a truck. My dad isn’t buying it. “Son bien papeleros.” (They’re clowns.) Or: “Nada más quieren el penal.” (They just want a penalty kick.)
We’re trying to guess how much tiempo extra (extra time) they’re going to add, and I’m over here giving the other team ojo (evil eye) during the tiros de esquina (corner kick) as if I have any influence over what’s happening on the field.
Spoiler: I don’t. That has never stopped me from trying.
Maybe that’s why I never stopped thinking about it. Every four years, the World Cup would show up again and suddenly everybody cared. There would be a new song, a new host country, a new reason to get our hopes up. My dad would still be watching every Mexico game. I’d still be yelling at the television.
And somehow I’d find myself thinking the same thing. Maybe one day I’ll be there.
I Thought 2026 Might Finally Be My Turn
I’ve wanted to go to the World Cup for as long as I can remember. Every four years, I’d tell myself the same thing. Maybe when I’m an adult. Then I became an adult. For years, the tournament always seemed to be happening somewhere far away from my life. I didn’t even get my passport until October 2024. So I’d watch from home and tell myself: Maybe in four years. Then four years would pass. Maybe in four more.
This year was different. At least that’s what I thought. For the first time, I wasn’t automatically crossing the World Cup off as impossible.
My brother started joking about selling the terrenos (properties). I immediately told him I fully supported that plan if he was taking me. My brother has been saving money, following announcements, and trying to figure out how to make it happen. At one point, he even tried to convince me to sell my concert tickets.
“Forget the concerts. The World Cup only happens once in a lifetime.”
Technically, I was alive for the 1994 World Cup in the United States. He wasn’t. So I understood what he meant. I still wasn’t selling my concert tickets.
I joined the ticket queue por si las moscas (just in case) after I saw an article saying more tickets were going to be released. For hours, that queue followed me everywhere. Every time I took Oliver outside, I took my phone. Every time I went to the bathroom, I took my phone. I checked it between tasks, I checked it while I waited, I checked it whenever I thought maybe something had changed.
The site froze. It kicked me out. I got back in.
When I finally made it through, I looked at every game it would let me. Mexico. Dallas. Houston. The semifinals. Anything that felt remotely possible. Maybe there would be payments. Maybe something would work itself out. Maybe a white rose would appear on my table, el airecito (the air) would blow, and somehow I’d end up with World Cup tickets.
Was it realistic? Not really. Did that stop me from hoping? Not even a little. For a few hours, I gave myself permission to hope.
Why Azteca Made Me Cry
I didn’t get the tickets. At least not this time.
But somewhere between the ticket queue, my brother researching every possible scenario, and our conversations about how we were going to magically make this happen, I realized something. The dream was never really about a ticket. The ticket was just the doorway.
What I wanted was the experience. I wanted to hear the crowd in person, hear the chants, feel the energy that I’ve spent my entire life watching from a living room. When I imagine walking into El Azteca for the first time, I don’t think about where I’m sitting. I think about what I’ll hear. The crowd. The music. The chants. The vendors shouting. The sound of thousands of people caring about the same thing at the same time.
I’ve never been to El Azteca. I’ve barely experienced Mexico City. Yet somehow both feel familiar. Mexico doesn’t feel unfamiliar to me. I’ve spent plenty of time there. But Azteca was one of those places that felt almost mythical. The kind of place you know long before you ever see it.
Maybe that’s why I got emotional. Not because it was a stadium. Because it was Azteca.
When I finally make it to Azteca, I know I’ll be looking at the field. But I’ll probably be listening.
And somewhere in all that beautiful, deafening noise, I’ll hear something familiar.
“Brenda, siéntate en el sillón. No te sientes en el piso, te vas a enfermar.”
I’ll hear my dad arguing with the referee. I’ll hear someone complaining about the tiempo extra. I’ll hear the same excitement I’ve been hearing my entire life.
Maybe that’s why the World Cup sounds like home. Not because of where it’s played. Because of who I think about when I hear it.
