A Town in Tartan, For a Time

From my corner of Maine, I found myself watching Boston this week.

Not because of politics.

Not because of breaking news.

But because, for a few remarkable days, nearly fifty thousand Scottish soccer fans filled the streets of Boston.

They’re called the Tartan Army.

Until a few days ago, I couldn’t have told you that.

Truth be told, I don’t know much about soccer.

I couldn’t explain offsides if you paid me.

For my son, Alex, his excitement for soccer began with Maine’s new professional soccer team.

When Alex moved into his tiny house on my property a month ago, bringing with him a few of those fancy, silky Maine soccer jerseys on hangers, no less, I noticed.

And then came the soccer ball.

Every day he can be found in the yard, weaving it in and out and between his feet, practicing new moves like the elastico and the roulette.

And then came the videos from Boston.

Even from my corner of Maine, you couldn’t help but feel the joy.

The kilts.

The bagpipes.

The singing.

The city running out of beer.

The dancing.

The men in kilts climbing monuments, crowning statues with traffic cones.

Thousands of Scots bringing us their joy.

It made me wonder if perhaps the World Cup isn’t really about soccer at all.

It reminds me how hungry we are for shared joy.

Thank God for them.

Let’s face it. America hasn’t exactly been winning any international popularity contests lately.

Their presence was a gift.

A reminder that people still value joy over conflict.

Today, they’re packing their bags.

The bagpipes have grown quiet.

Boston is returning to itself.

And here I am, a few hundred miles away in Maine, surprised by how much I’ll miss seeing people I never met.