World Cup's vastness reveals two different North American realities

New York-New Jersey Stadium is a soul-crushing expanse of grey and dust on reclaimed swamplands. Pic: Adam Gray/Getty Images

It was heading towards 9pm and the pace of this relentless World Cup had finally slowed. The Peace Arch Point of Entry might make for a mouthful but it’s a feast for the eyes. There may not be a more picturesque border crossing between Canada and the USA and, given that the dividing line runs for 9,000 unbroken kilometres, that's saying plenty.

To the west, the sun had settled down below Semiahmoo Bay but left some baked salmon pink and peachy yellows behind it to fade up into the creeping navy of the night to come. It would have been serene if we weren’t the next car up.

A United States border crossing is not a location that lends itself to serenity any more. The world has come to this part of the planet to chase its cup but America is an inhospitable place these days and with three different passports among the five occupants, there was an expectation of at the very least hassle.

In the end it was the driver, an Australian, who would delay us. He needed a new I-94, $30. It used to be $6 but a $24 surcharge was recently added under something the current US government felt perfectly okay calling the One Big Beautiful Bill.

This is one big beautiful World Cup. Until it isn’t.

Even over here, or perhaps especially over here, the vastness of the tournament is hard to comprehend. I’ve covered both of Brazil’s and Russia’s tournaments, neither a Louth-sized landmass. But from sun up to sun down, this one just feels bigger than them all. Four time zones, 16 host cities, 48 countries and yet at five in the morning while I'm transiting through some godforsaken airport in flyover country you want my opinion on Tunisia firing their manager? Lucky bastard, I suppose. Might get some decent kip at least.

America loves anything big. Better if it’s also loud. There’s a new advertisement on Stateside commercial breaks, which happen every 45 seconds. It features the odious leader of the UFC, Dana White, promoting RAM pick-up trucks, vehicles so unnecessarily large that you cannot hide that you’re making up for something small. “Never stop being American,” bellows White from the driver’s window, his elbow hanging out the side. (Imagine Harry Redknapp’s bald, angry, over-gymed cousin on deadline day.) “In loud we trust!” Super. Thanks for that.

Narrowing down any coherent thoughts or views amid this noise and endless expanse isn’t easy. But from traversing Toronto to New York back to Vancouver (via Chicago and Denver) and then Seattle across the first eight days of this thing, what strikes us most is that the biggest thing about this World Cup may be how different the host nations make you feel. At least the two we’ve been to so far.

Mexico would mostly appear to be having a grand old time down there but its two northern neighbours have provided contrasting portraits of what sport and connection can mean.

Canada is blessed to have just two host venues in this tournament, both walkable and close to the heart of both Toronto and Vancouver. That matters. You only realise how much when you switch down to New York-New Jersey Stadium, a soul-crushing expanse of grey and dust on reclaimed swamplands. Shuttle coaches, school buses and $100 trains dump out patrons by the thousand, they rapidly look for shade, realise there is none and so begins the wandering. Other NFL venues in Kansas and Boston particularly have brought the same crushing realisation on those who made it as far as the stadium in time for kick-off.

Seattle’s stadium at least is walkable. That alone doesn’t bring the vibes back up though. Arriving in darkness to our base north of the city Thursday night we crashed then woke early for the noon Friday kick-off between the nation which is the ultimate host of Fifa's most American cup yet and Australia. A Lyft driver arrived to pick us and the Aussie extras up.

The conversation turned political in the split-second it takes everything to turn political here. Clad in a US replica shirt, the driver apologised to the Aussies then said “It’s complicated…I’m not really American”. He was born in Ethiopia, as was his wife. His wife’s cousin had tried to follow their route here last year and spent the past nine months in ICE custody in California. A head cold was the only thing that had saved him from a rancid form of repatriation — not to Ethiopia but instead Rwanda. The cousin had been let out last week, with an ankle bracelet to monitor his every movement. No World Cup red-eye connections for him.

On Thursday before we’d pointed the car southwards, we’d been at Canada-Qatar, an operatic evening encounter which ended with Prime Minister Mark Carney, fresh from his own trip home to Mayo, commending Jesse Marsch’s team for showing all of their “Canadian character” in a totemic triumph.

American character has revealed itself in many great ways these past eight or nine days. The way Boston bought all the way in on becoming a Scottish city and no longer Irish, the town of Lawrence, Kansas, taking Algeria to its very heart and soul. But a country so fractured cannot provide communality and so alternative glimpses of American character have been seen too. Even the act of crossing down here feels foreboding.

More corners of the World Cup’s vast expanse will be coloured in in the coming days and weeks. It’s big and we’re only through a small part of it. It’s certainly different.