I am absolutely parched. First, the hour-long trudge into the bouncing Mercedes-Benz Stadium in the blazing Atlanta heat. Then 85 minutes of nerve-racking football fandom and all its insanity. That familiar primeval imperative to hydrate has been triggered. But I refuse to take a single sip from the plastic pint glass of delicious iced water in my cupholder. I’m saving it for a greater purpose.

This time yesterday, I was lounging at home in Brooklyn—feet up, sipping a freshly brewed English breakfast tea while watching TV with my 11-year-old daughter, Eshwari, a fellow football fanatic. The Fox Sports channel was teasing the World Cup semifinals, hyping up the big upcoming face-off—Messi and Argentina against Kane, Bellingham, and my beloved England. The phone rang; it was my good mate and fellow Brit, Jamie.

“Rabbsy! I’ve got tickets to the game tomorrow. You coming?”

I couldn’t believe the words that were entering my ear canal. I’d seen the prices online; the nose-bleeders started at five grand!

“Erm. How much?” I asked, pretty sure there was no price point that would justify the herculean task of making this happen, let alone getting the sign-off from my wonderfully supportive but wisely frugal wife, Suchita.

“Gratis, my old chum. My client just dropped me and now I’m long a ticket. So... You in?”

Duh. Of course I was. Everyone loves free. I looked over at my wife.

“Rabinder, you have to be there! Go!”

What followed was a lot of scrambling, chaos, and moving mountains to catch the planes, trains, and automobiles to get to the game. No airline mile or hotel reward point was left unclaimed. We hustled and juggled and somehow made it all happen! Then finally, not 85 minutes ago, I found myself taking selfies and videos, trying to capture the enormity of the occasion as the players readied themselves for kickoff and the biggest game of their lives. England against Argentina at the 2026 World Cup semifinal! The winner today would advance to the final against Spain and play for the ultimate glory—a chance to hold aloft the sacred golden trophy. England hadn’t been to the final in 60 years, so this was a generational chance. The stadium was alive—the cheering, singing, hopes, and nerves all tangled together to create an electrifying atmosphere. I’d never experienced a crowd energy like this. The referee blew the whistle and the game began. History was about to be made…

The English players were organized and committed. Their route to the semifinal had been uneven, but their heroics in the Azteca Stadium, where they defeated the host Mexico team with 10 men, had highlighted their steely quality. Resilience was not a problem for England. Argentina had been dragged through the tournament by a singular force of nature in Lionel Messi—at 39 years old, still the most significant power on any football pitch. For the first half, however, the English players crowded him out of the game and were in control of the match.

Nevertheless, I was a bag of nerves. I knew something that nobody else knew—I was wearing my red England shirt from the Euro 2004 tournament. The same shirt I wore when Portugal knocked England out of the Euros in Lisbon that year. The same shirt I wore to watch England get knocked out or beaten at every major football tournament since. Six times I had worn this fading jersey and watched England lose. It was a jinx. And yet, I kept believing that one day, the curse would be lifted. Even that morning, as I pulled the sorry shirt on, I hoped that this was the day the shirt would pay me back with interest.

At halftime, Jamie got some water for us—we had a strict no-beer policy during games, we needed to be focused. The anxiety had added to the thirst and I chugged half the pint down. But something told me to leave the rest for now, and I nestled the plastic container into the cupholder in my seat. The second half got underway and Argentina were dominant. But then, just as the fears of yet another ignominious defeat loomed, out of absolutely nowhere, England scored! It felt like a miracle. The English fans went berserk. Jamie was jumping up and down like a crazed jack-in-the-box. The scoreboard replayed the goal and the crowd cheered even louder. It was gloriously chaotic, with the English fans singing and chanting like never before. Could it finally be coming home?

I snapped a close-up picture of the scoreline—1-0!—and texted it to Eshwari, watching at home. She was a bigger England fan than I am and replied immediately with heart emojis and a “COME ON ENGLAND!” text. I was desperate for her to see England finally bring home the trophy and experience that joy. I longed to experience it myself for the first time, too. But something was nagging at me inside, and I found myself unable or unwilling to join in the merriment of the English fans.

Instead, I surveyed the pitch and, just then, everything went into slomo. The Argentina players were already set to restart the game as the English players celebrated ecstatically. I realized there were still 30 minutes of the game to be played on the stadium clock. And I noticed a diminutive figure crouching down in the middle of the pitch over the center spot. It was Messi. He was unbothered. Relaxed. He was simply re-lacing his boots. Slowly. Deliberately. Determinedly. He tied the bow firmly and rose up as if lifting from a yoga pose, unfurling like a bear woken from hibernation. Even from afar, I could see the switch flip. He clearly had some business to take care of.

It’s gonna be okay, I told myself. This time, we’re gonna be strong.

“COME ON ENGLAND!” I shouted, rejoining the chorus of English fans roaring their team to the win. “COME ON ENGLAND!! COME ON ENGLAND!!” As loud as we could shout. Willing our team forward toward the finish line. Hoping. Pleading. I couldn’t believe we were ahead. We just needed to hold on to the lead now.

Argentina switched gears but England responded, defending like their lives depended on it. I thought back to stories my dad had told me when he arrived in the UK from India in 1965. On the day of the World Cup final in 1966, my dad was at Queen’s Market near our house in Upton Park. He was still learning the language and customs, unfamiliar with the football fever gripping the nation. Suddenly, the whole market erupted in celebrations—England had won the World Cup! A burly stranger hugged him and screamed, “We’ve only gone and done it, mate! Come On England!” It became a core memory for him and fueled his love of the sport and country. As I now watched England defend valiantly against the Argentinian onslaught, I allowed myself the thought that England would finally be able to relive those celebrations again. The joy and happiness it would bring to me, my friends, my family, and the nation would be unrivaled. And because of the way this England team had prevailed so valiantly against Mexico the week before, why couldn’t they do it again?

I glanced down at the plastic pint glass, half full of water. I allowed myself to imagine for a moment what it would feel like to hear the referee’s whistle and have England advance to the final. The sheer emotion and English limbs that would erupt into the air. And how all the drink glasses would be emptied over everyone, like those moments that always go viral on the socials, the crowd belting out Wonderwall. This was going to be the first time I’d ever sprayed complete strangers with the remnants of my drink. I was hella thirsty but I was hellbent on having enough water in the pint glass to create an effective spill across my immediate vicinity. I was even practicing the action in my head, as I’d never done this before. Is it all in the wrist? I asked myself.

“What are you doing, Jude?!” Jamie was screaming at the pitch.

I looked up. The game had suddenly stopped and Jude Bellingham was having an exchange of words with Messi. Up until now, Jude had been the dominant figure for England in the tournament so far, pushing us to victory in every game. He was the embodiment of what it meant to be a football warrior. Winning games by hook or by crook. I had lost count of the times the English fans had serenaded him with “Hey Jude” during this World Cup campaign. But he was also still just 23. And he was known to have a petulant side to him. After the exchange, Messi just looked at him and nodded with a De Niro-esque smirk which said, You wanna play? Let’s play. I couldn’t believe it. I turned to Jamie and moaned, “Jeez. He just poked the bear.”

That was 15 minutes ago. What happened next was a blur of nail-gnawing tension and exasperation as we witnessed panic spreading across the England players. Messi had summoned up his greatness once more and was commanding the game to bend to his will. England’s defenses were being pushed further back and the players were grasping at straws trying to maintain a foothold in the game. Argentina smelled the fear and went for the jugular. England couldn’t get on the ball. Even the new England manager, Thomas Tuchel, who is meant to be the coolest in the business, buckled. He frantically sent on defensive substitutes to shore up the back line in the hopes of holding on until the final whistle. A chorus of disapproval rose from the English contingent: “What are we doing?!!!”

And now, here I am, 85 minutes into the semifinal of the 2026 World Cup, standing petrified in section 132, close to the pitch, watching my flailing England team desperately clinging on to a slender 1-0 lead against a determined old foe, Argentina. Argentina with their three-star World Cup winners’ pedigree (against our measly one star). Argentina with their zealous embrace of football’s dark arts, perverting the rules of the beautiful game. And Argentina with the single most gifted and influential gladiator of a football arena the world has ever seen: Messi. Come on England. Please hold on for five more minutes!

I can’t even bear to watch as Messi and Argentina continue their attacks on the English goalmouth. I’m struggling to manage my emotions, resorting to amateur breath control techniques. I check in on the plastic pint glass of water. Still there. Still ready to be thrown on random strangers in an explosion of relief and joy at the final whistle. Oh please, please, please, let us get the win.

But no.

I watch as Messi pings the ball into the English area again. He finds a compatriot in space, who belts the ball into the English goal. The net bulges. I close my eyes and recenter. VAR, please intervene! Do your magic! Let this be a disallowed goal! I reopen them to check on reality.

The scoreboard updates: 1-1. Ugh. Shoulders drop among the English faithful. The Argentinian fans explode into delirious cheers. I begrudgingly take a picture of the score and send it to Eshwari. She responds immediately with a tearful emoji. I wish I were there to console her.

And then comes the sinking feeling. We’ve loaded our team with defenders. How can we possibly get another goal now? Messi knows this too. And he commands his team to go in for the kill.

England are helpless. We are doomed. Hope is evaporating before our eyes. Messi swoops in again—this time a perfect cross, and his teammate heads another goal. 2-1.

Curse you, Messi!!!

And before you know it, the referee is blowing the final whistle. A mass of light blue and white celebrates in rapture. The English fans stumble about, zombified, trying to process the last few minutes of the match. Nobody will be belting out Wonderwall tonight.

I look up at the final score: 2-1 to Argentina. A deep sigh. A shake of the head. I take a picture for completeness and send it to my daughter. She doesn’t respond. She doesn’t need to. No need for words at a time like this.

The English players walk around shell-shocked. So close and yet so far. Again.

Jamie turns to me and laments, “I can’t believe it. I just want to see England win once before I die! Is that too much to ask? Why do we always end up losing?” I shrug. But really, I know why, don’t I? It’s my red England shirt from Euro 2004. That’s why we keep losing. When I get home, I promise myself I’ll burn this shirt once and for all. But you know what? I always say that, but in the end, I always cling to the hope that next time it will be different. Surely, if we play enough tournaments, the gods will eventually smile on us?

My phone rings. It’s Eshwari.

“Hi, Pa.”

“Hi, darling. I’m so sorry we couldn’t do it. We were so close.”

The line glitches. I think I hear her crying and I want to be there for her. “Eshwari?”

“Oh, hi Pa, did you hear what I just said? I said we’ll get them next time! Don’t be sad. OK?”

My heart explodes. She still has the eternal, unblemished hope of youth. She is amazing.

As we turn to leave, Jamie points to my plastic pint glass of water. “You gonna drink that, mate?”

And before I even answer, he swipes it and chugs it down in one big gulp. “Blimey. I’m so thirsty.”