Mamdani, heat domes and Three Lions - on the road at the World Cup

The temperature has gone up a notch at the tournament, on and off the pitch, Kevin Brannigan writes.

NEW YORK MINUTE: Fans gather to watch the match between USA and Bosnia and Herzegovina at the Rockefeller Center. Pic: kena betancur / AFP via Getty Images

New York is boiling. Before the sun rises Good Day New York - a Fox morning television show - increases my anxiety levels with talk of expected heat related deaths, heat related strokes, heat related stress, heat related breakdowns. They run in clips of Mayor Mamdami telling New Yorkers we will get through this. He is wearing a suit. I sit on the edge of my bed in my airport adjacent hotel and calm down. Mayor Mamdani wouldn’t let anything bad happen to me.

Later on that week the Mayor would suggest New Yorkers set their Air Conditioning levels to 78 degrees (fahrenheit). Not really being accustomed to Air Conditioning I’m not quite sure what this means, but when Barstool Sports founder Dave Portnoy tweets; ‘’78 degrees? Welcome to communism people! Hope you enjoy!" I realise this is just another sign of the slow creep of nanny state bureaucracy that will eventually lead to the USSA. I really need to open my eyes and wake the hell up!

But back to that television talking heads heat anxiety induced morning as I rush from New York to Atlanta, Georgia. England have a handy game against the Democratic Republic of the Congo. A perfect kick-about to allow Declan Rice to nurse his various debilitating injuries back to health and for Harry to bang in a few goals.

Harry does bag a few goals but everything else goes in the opposite direction for England.

England in Atlanta was my third World Cup game in three days. A downer. A reminder that football isn’t always beautiful.

In every stadium the Star Spangled Banner blares out through the PA an hour before kick-off. The white (and some red) shirted hordes around the ground rise to honour the graphic generated flag that has appeared on the Jumbo-Screen. Wow I think. What a gesture of peace and thanks to their hosts just days out from the 250th anniversary of George Washington and the Continental Army routing the British and bringing some French style Republicanism to this vast land.

Again I was wrong. Those standing, some with hand on heart, wearing either a red, white or blue England retro shirt were in the main American. While they may have been donning the outfit of their past Imperial Overlords when the band strikes up they were and always would be, loyal to the USA.

With the roof closed to keep out the midday Georgia sun the arena had the feel of a Comic Convention. The Americans dressed as their favourite character; the happy Arsenal fan, the cool Mancunian, the Euro ‘96 Three Lions fan or wearing a more obscure Premier League jersey like that of Brighton to perhaps portray a deeper understanding of the game.

Of course there were also proper English fans there too. They were the ones in the Irish Exit bar close to the stadium singing about an English King. The first group of people to do so in Georgia for over two centuries.

Having spent the previous two days experiencing the beauty offered up by Mbappé, Olise and Dembélé in New Jersey at the ‘Ray Houghton Stadium’, or the era defining moment - for both countries - as Paraguay bled Germany on the shores of Boston, watching England in this quasi-real atmosphere was a downer.

Experiencing England aside, the football part of the World Cup hasn’t been bad. While criticised as a cynical FIFA move (and I suppose it was) the expansion to a 48 team tournament seems to have worked. And no more so than in the countless immigrant neighborhoods of New York.

My time here has mostly been split between Miami, Media Shuttles and New York. All three scenes are hot and overwhelming and in two of these scenarios people should mostly avoid. But New York feels different. Maybe it's the seven months of socialism?

Drinking Lebanese Mint Lemon juice and sitting alongside hundreds of Egyptians in Queens as we watched on together as Egypt won their first ever game at a World Cup - defeating an awful New Zealand - was a genuinely lovely evening into night. One that FIFA would like to cynically package and sell. But it was a moment of collective immigrant and second and third generation joy that even Don Draper couldn't corrupt.

In the Crown Heights part of Brooklyn stickers on lampposts warning of a potential ICE presence in the area point to a sinister looming spectre that must dominate the thoughts of those who have been made feel un-American by the federal government.

Be that the Egyptian guy in the Queens restaurant who politely asked me not to photograph him during those life affirming celebrations or the Somali community who saw their compatriot Omar Artan turned away before the tournament started. Fear stalks their world.

But the city does feel optimistic. The Knicks have won and outside of Barstool loudmouths, the omni-present Mamdani is universally loved. Offering hope that maybe there will be a brighter tomorrow seems to go down well.

On a plaque nailed to the exterior of Manhattan's Chelsea Hotel Brendan Behan declares ‘’To America, my new-found land: the man that hates you hates the human race.’’ Edit that to New York and he’s onto something.

Kevin Brannigan is a producer with the Second Captains podcast and covering the World Cup.