When the World Sings Together

A Saturday morning reflection on the memories that shape us and the things that bring us together.

June 19, 2026

Story

Some of my earliest memories involve soccer.

When I was a little girl, Sundays belonged to the New York Cosmos.

At least that's how I remember it. It probably wasn't every Sunday, but childhood memories have a way of turning special moments into traditions that feel endless.

We would pile into the cars and head to Giants Stadium. My mom and dad were there. My sister. My grandparents. My Uncle Ed and Aunt Lia. My cousins. Family friends. There always seemed to be someone new joining us, and somehow there was always enough food, enough laughter, and enough room for one more.

Long before tailgating became what it is today, we were doing it. Coolers. Folding chairs. Sandwiches. Soccer balls.

And my dad.

I can still picture him in the parking lot before the game, kicking the ball around with all of us. Back then, it seemed so ordinary. Just dads and kids playing soccer while waiting for the gates to open. But now, looking back, I realize how extraordinary those moments really were.

None of us knew we were making memories.

We were just spending Sundays together.

And special it was.

I had the unbelievable privilege of watching the great Pelé play. For a young Brazilian girl whose family came from Brazil, soccer may as well have been in my blood.

More than fifty years later, here we are in the middle of another World Cup, and I find myself just as excited as I was all those years ago.

But lately, something unexpected has happened.

Watching the World Cup has brought me right back to those parking lots.

To my father kicking a ball with us.

To the laughter that carried across the parking lot.

To the stories told with hands flying and voices rising.

To the teasing, the music, the food, and the beautiful chaos that only family can create.

To the people who made those Sundays feel less like games and more like celebrations.

To a little girl who had no idea how lucky she was.

My dad has been gone for several years now, but every World Cup brings him back to me for a little while. I can still see him smiling in those parking lots, soccer ball at his feet, surrounded by the people he loved.

And it is not just the games that have captured my attention.

It is the moments before the games.

I love watching the players walk onto the field holding the hands of young children. Those children are wide-eyed and smiling, completely unaware that decades from now they may still remember that moment. And I often wonder if the players realize the impact they are having on those young lives.

Then come the national anthems.

All forty-eight countries.

Recently, I watched Mexico's anthem and was struck by the passion on the faces of the players, the coaches, and the fans. They sang with such pride and emotion that you could almost feel it through the television.

Yesterday, as I watched the United States face Australia, I noticed the same thing. The American players sang with conviction. The fans joined in. The pride was unmistakable.

And of course, whenever Brazil plays, I see that same passion.

Different languages.

Different cultures.

Different histories.

Yet the emotions are remarkably the same.

Reflection

For all the things that divide our world, the World Cup reminds me of something we sometimes forget.

People love where they come from.

People are proud of their families, their traditions, and their countries.

And perhaps more importantly, people long to belong.

Maybe that is why I love watching the national anthems as much as the games themselves.

For a few moments, millions of people stop arguing.

Children hold the hands of their heroes.

Fans wrap themselves in flags.

Entire countries sing.

And whether the anthem is sung in Spanish, Portuguese, English, or any other language, the expressions are remarkably familiar.

Pride.

Hope.

Love.

We recognize those emotions because they belong to all of us.

And maybe that is why soccer has always been called the beautiful game.

Not because of what happens after the whistle.

But because, every four years, it reminds us that there is far more that unites us than divides us.

And somewhere, perhaps, another little girl is spending a Sunday with the people she loves, completely unaware that she is making memories that will last a lifetime—and that one day, something as simple as a World Cup will bring it all rushing back.

Question

When was the last time you experienced something that reminded you how much we all have in common?

Until next Saturday, choose presence.