I have a bone to pick with Optus and Sky

"Well that's rubbish!" 

We couldn't have shared her sentiment more. The cheerful Tassie bartender in our fourth attempted drinking establishment of the afternoon was referring to the fact that no matter how hard she tried—aside from convincing her manager to shell out a large fee on the spot which might not even work—she couldn't put on the U.S. vs. Netherlands match for us. Not for the first time in Australia, TV rights for the World Cup had been sold to a streaming service that was putting greed before sport. I mean, it's the World Cup, what else is new?

We ended up going 0/5 on pubs, sports bars, and even hotels (read: casino, and that's a story for another day) showing any World Cup matches. Thankfully we'd flown some of our own beverages in from Craftwork in Oamaru and unlike the very kind and similarly frustrated American / British couple sporting swag simultaneously repping the U.S., England, and Australia at the same time, whom we met during our final unsuccessful stop at an Irish pub, we were quite mentally prepared and well provisioned to have a less-than-easy time spectating from home. Home in this case being a cozy Airbnb somewhere near one of the multiple Pigeon (W)Holes.

I'd like to give nipaluna Hobart the benefit of the doubt because it wasn't a host city, it's far for even Aussies to visit so we learned, and we had such a lovely time in Tassie (see below)... but we're talking about the biggest sporting event in the world. More on that later. And this wasn't even our first or second hurdle trying to catch the matches at "home" or at a bar.

Ok, we're back.

Maybe this is just the first World Cup I've attended since I watched the U.S. Women spark a national debate—one totally lost on a mostly oblivious nine year old boy—about athletic attire at the Rose Bowl in '99. Maybe women's sports still are on an upward trajectory of viewership and haven't broken the ceiling yet. Following U.S.-focused coverage on our trip via podcasts, social media, TV and the like it sounded as if World Cup fever was at its usual cacophonous volume. Getting to experience the genuine and uniquely Kiwi fervor for the Football Ferns on both islands was uplifting and made us excited for the future of the Ferns. Nike entirely sold out of their absolute stunner of a home kit! And I almost sold one off my back to a woman on the street. Almost. Glad I didn't. Nike even had low stock of the let's-be-honest underwhelming aways. This is of course unlike Puma, a company that failed to bring a single kit (for sale or for spare) for their ascendant Moroccans and stalwart Swiss. But that's a story for another day.

Maybe 30-something men just aren't the target audience here. This I felt somewhat acutely while surreptitiously sipping some roadies walking through a quiet residential Auckland neighborhood amidst a sea of families and kids. It was a very jamais vu moment for a person who has been known to down a stubby or three or more at a tailgate and think nothing of it. And there was no judgment directed towards us from the more family-oriented crowd, everyone enjoyed that thrillride of a home opener supremely.

Panini stickers—prized items collected fervently—inspiring in-person swap meets, spreadsheets, and online forums during the even-year World Cups were instead given out as concession door prizes in the stadiums for this odd-year event. Don't get me wrong, I loved it, was there for it, am still here for it, and definitely went back for extra rounds of disappointing but better-than--or-at-least-different-than-American stadium beer for it. The cheeky wink I got from the 20-something cashier as he slid me an Ashley Hatch (unfortunately a casualty of injury and of printing the stickers and books prior to final rosters) made me question the fun of it. Is the somewhat unspoken yet very evident objectification of the men while we comment on their sticker appearance and the airbrushing habits of different nations (check out the 2018 England squad to see what I mean) suddenly... err... weird when it's the women? Or should I just have been happy to get an eight-for-two stickers to beer deal in Dunedin in what was the come up of the tourney? At least until I found the fastidious bartenders inside Sydney Football Stadium's very posh lounge area. Thank U.S. Soccer for those seats.

Even in Dunedin, Aotearoa New Zealand's Scottish, quaint, and extremely on a lash host city, the night before the Ferns squared off against Switzerland to determine their World Cup fate almost all of the bars were unapologetically showing the All Blacks. 

"I know, but we're still showing the rugby," one manager said not just to me, but to the Ferns' captain's partner who correctly pointed out that the World Cup is always the biggest sporting event in the world. Thankfully the Irish pub had on the matches. Irish pubs outside of Ireland seem to be much more welcoming to the sport of their colonizers than in the country. But I'll just be thankful we had a spot to watch from. Kiwis really are quite passionate about their rugby and the following evening the entire city paraded down from the town center to the Glass House and nearly brought it down for their Ferns, even after they were eliminated. Up the Ferns.

This is not to say that my entire World Cup experience can be summed up by getting turned down by bars. By bars, not at bars, what a change of pace.

We all know the World Cup is about tourism, white collar grift, and oftentimes worse. But that's the price we decide if we're willing to pay to participate in and spectate the beautiful game, agreed? As much as I'd have liked to visit the southern hemisphere in their summer (I'll be back), I'm glad that the tournament took place during the regularly scheduled northern hemisphere summer and no schemes of indoor stadiums in 120+ Farenheit heat, man-made clouds, or let's-call-it-what-it-was state-sanctioned mass murder were undertaken. A kind foreigner might want to point out to the NWSL that it's standard for professional leagues to take an international break for, let me repeat myself yet again: the biggest sporting event in the world.

As we roadtripped between host cities in Aotearoa New Zealand it was clear how taken the country was with its team. A kindly police officer even let my dad off a speeding ticket on the North Island when he learned they were there following the Ferns. Catch me over a beer for more on that one.

The day after the Swiss managed to limp past the Ferns and into the knockout stage, overcoming our "Your clocks are slow and so is your squad!" chants, some hours' drive between Dunedin and Queenstown during an obligatory stretch, relief, and meat pie (mostly my urging of Carrie as the meat eater) break another patron and cashier were both on about the match. As much as I'd've liked to chime in, I was fine to leave them to their discussion and emotions while I processed my own. I could listen to Kiwis talk for hours, and likely did during our trip. The highlight that comes to mind at present is the color commentary on the hoihi penguins returning home with a side of Maori pronunciation lessons from some lovely women on our way to down the East Coast. We did eventually have to leave Aotearoa, though...

And let's talk about those Aussies. My ear drums may never recover from that Denmark match, and I'm very much at peace with that. There's a certain pitch and decibel level only young girls belting "Aussie, Aussie, Aussie!" can reach while getting behind their Matildas. Let me sidebar for a moment and just say how much I loved learning that Hayley Rasso wears a ribbon in her hair so her grandmother can find her on TV. Certainly helped us up in the 'bleeds too. Just seeing Sam Kerr start warming up got the crowd almost more ecstatic than for Rasso's opener. Not to mention when the great one stepped onto the pitch for her first limited minutes of the tournament.

You know a country loves its sports when the transit—all forms of it, quite literally planes, trains, and automobiles—rep the Matildas. It made this adopted Oaklander very nostalgic for the days of "GO RAIDERS" silently blaring on the destination sign of AC Transit buses. 

In the end, colonialism prevailed on the pitch and we had to go home. Big ups Nintendo and TOTK for making an objectively hellacious United 14-hour hallucination immediately feel like a distant memory.

Fast forward to 2:55am waking up on a friend's couch in Potrero Hill and I understood viscerally a bit of what Rog and Sammie Mewis had been feeling for an entire month: a mix of emotions that can only be felt after ample daytime pre-gaming and/or minimal sleep. Preferably both. As I sat on that couch and kept as quiet as expected during a final, I couldn't help but marvel at Mary Earps' majestic swagger and ponder how it might actually be easier to watch this game in the middle of the night in San Francisco than it was in the host country. Thankfully the finals were of national importance and carried on television. But that's the U.S. for you: if the advertising money is there, you can bet it'll be on TV. And that's what gives me hope for four, eight, twelve years from now. Not the monetization, but the talent and skill we'll all get to witness as a result of nations we may have yet to see field a team investing in their women's programs.

P.S. I would be remiss if I didn't mention the telenovela that has unfolded within the RFEF after Spain deservedly topped England to lift the trophy and their grotesque president acted like a teenage boy about it. I'm not Spanish, I can't claim to fully understand the cultural differences, but I can say with absolute certainty that this kind of toxic misogyny would not be on display at a Men's World Cup final (unless of course you find Salt Bae in Qatar harmful to your health, which, fair play). 

There's a ton you can and should follow there, and don't be quiet about it. These people shouldn't be allowed to helm any federation or coach any team, and yet they've already moved on and will continue to exhibit the same unacceptable behavior unless they're hounded wherever they go.

To bring this back to where I was when I started, as they say... next year in... Thailand (at the 74th Fifa Congress) and see y'all in 2027 in the Netherlands/Germany, Brazil, South Africa, or the U.S./Mexico.