On a cold but bright February afternoon in Milan, I boarded a crowded train headed to my first Olympic event.
The train was packed with fans from around the world. Some wore their country's colors or flags, but many didn't, so people introduced themselves the old-fashioned way.
“Where are you from?”
Within minutes I was chatting with strangers from Germany, the Netherlands, Brazil, and, somewhat unexpectedly, two other couples from Boston. It didn't matter where any of us came from. We were all headed to the same place, drawn by the same promise: the chance to be part of something bigger than ourselves.
I arrived at the Olympics expecting both fandom and allegiance. I left realizing it was often about something else entirely: belonging.
For decades, the sports industry has taught us that being a fan means choosing a side. Pick a team. Wear the jersey. Wave the flag. The model works because many fans genuinely do feel that deep connection.
But global sporting events reveal another kind of fan. One that often goes unnoticed.
These are the people who attend because they want to witness history. They travel for the spectacle and the chance to connect with others from around the world. Their interest isn't rooted in loyalty to a particular team or country. It's rooted in participation.
As we speak, Boston (where I live) and other U.S. cities are welcoming the world for the 2026 FIFA World Cup.
Much of the conversation has focused on transportation, public safety, infrastructure, and economic impact. Those discussions matter but they miss something equally important: the human experience of Boston hosting the world.
Many visitors will arrive cheering for a specific nation. Many others won't. They'll come because they want to be part of an event they may never experience again. They'll gather at watch parties, restaurants, in public spaces like City Hall Plaza and on the city outskirts. They'll meet strangers who become friends. They’ll swap stories and share moments with people they’ll likely never see again.
The matches themselves will last ninety minutes.
The memories will last much longer.
If Boston embraces the World Cup as a community event rather than simply a sporting event, we have an opportunity to create something remarkable. Not just for visitors, but for ourselves.
I think back often to that train ride in Milan and the strangers I met along the way. The German couple. The Brazilians. The other Bostonians.
And I think about the final Olympic event I attended, when I found myself seated near a fan from Japan. The U.S. won gold and his country's athletes captured silver and bronze. He bent down and hugged me as tears welled in his eyes.
We had met only hours earlier. We didn’t exchange names given the language barrier.
In that moment, my joy felt like everyone's joy and his disappointment felt the same for me.
The World Cup will crown a champion.
But it will also produce thousands of smaller moments: strangers high-fiving after a dramatic goal, families experiencing the tournament together, visitors seeing Boston through fresh eyes.
Those moments don't belong to any one country or team.
They belong to the crowd.
So as the world arrives in Boston, perhaps we should change the question we ask strangers.
Instead of "Who are you rooting for?"
Try: "What brought you here?"
The answer may have less to do with allegiance than we think.