Take Me Home...
When John Denver Shows Up at the World Cup
American pride found its way to me early on. Perhaps it helped that I lived in Philadelphia (my mom’s hometown), until I was eight. The memory of my second-grade field trip to view the Liberty Bell, visit Ben Franklin’s house, and to see where they signed the Declaration of Independence is still a readily accessible one.
Strong evidence that this pride took root can be found in my choice of bedroom decor after moving across the country to Portland the following year. This was the late 1970s, so I could’ve chosen Star Wars or even the Philadelphia Phillies. Instead, I asked for “red, white & blue.” Not only did I have an American-flag-patterned bedspread, the bed itself was flanked by two colonial style lamps that incorporated sculpted, golden-hued, bald eagles into their design. And while I can’t quite visualize it today, I’m certain the walls were papered (it was the 1970s, after all) with stars and stripes in one form or another.
My youthful patriotism remained steady through my teens and into my mid-twenties, when I specifically recall attending a political rally for incumbent candidate, Bill Clinton. This felt a bit rebellious, since my parents were staunch Republicans (at least since Jimmy Carter fizzled and Ronald Reagan took the country by storm), but I think the rebel factor only served to magnify my pride. I recall the electric feeling of the crowd being packed-in between modest skyscrapers in that Southwest Portland park, and the joy of leaving that day with a freshly printed “Clinton/Gore ‘96” tee.
When the two planes hit the towers five years later, my national pride was super-charged overnight, as it was for many Americans, into a budding jingoism. For the rest of 2001 and into the next year, it didn’t matter so much whether you were Republican or Democrat, or whether you had voted for Bush or Gore—it simply boiled down to: “I voted American.” With a common foe (or so we thought at the time) everyone was united—if not on the same page, then at least in the same book.
That united patriotism faded over the intervening years, as did my American pride, but it was boosted once again by the election of our first black president. We lived in Denver in 2008, the site of the Democratic National Convention. We were too poor and too pregnant (Asher was born two days after the Convention left town) to participate much, but I do remember a palpable buzz in the air as we strolled the city and watched all the visitors who had come to see if we could actually have an African American as the Commander-In-Chief. We found out three months later that the answer was, “Yes, we can!” It felt good to be an American again. Although, there was a growing faction who did not feel their American pride in exactly the same way.
Then came 2016 and the election of, perhaps, the most ridiculously unqualified president since the Nation’s founding, followed by four years of embarrassment, which were capped off by the formerly inconceivable nonsense of January 6. What had America come to? I attempted to relocate my American pride once again. Dig as I may, it was no longer to be found—not in childhood memories, novel presidents, or even the rubble of the Twin Towers.
The jingoistic fervor of my 30s had been reduced to a feeling like one gets when their beloved father turns up completely wasted at a party where no one else is drinking. (For the record, my dad never did this.) But if you could imagine that… The entire world is the party and America has shown up, slurring, stumbling, boisterous and babbling. I wanted to fade into the background like Homer into the hedge. I wanted to sneak out the back door and disassociate with anything and everything American insomuch as it was fronted by an administration and leader that not only shunned core American values, but also seemed dead-set on eroding the very fabric of our red, white & blue.
The subsequent election of a Democrat in 2020 did very little to raise the bar. I voted for Biden, but he was definitely not my first choice. Where he embodied, at least, many of those core American values that make the United States great, his leadership was not cut out for the Presidency. His advancing age provided its own fodder for embarrassment and did virtually nothing to rekindle the American pride of my youth.
And what can we say about 2024 through the present? Our current state of affairs makes me wonder what all my first-Trump-term fuss was about. The drunk father has left the house party, replaced by a fiery hoard of destructive dads, coked-up and hellbent on tearing down the house. I don’t want to rehash it all here. Let’s just say my American pride has reached its lowest point—and it’s still spiraling…
Enter John Denver and the World Cup.
I’ve watched all the USMNT games in this World Cup with excitement and with some measure of American pride, but always with our current political events humming in the background, threatening to grab the tail of my jersey and jerk me back to reality. Then came the Round of 32 game against Bosnia-Herzegovina on July 1st. Here’s how it unfolded…
In the first fifteen minutes we control possession, but it’s Bosnia that makes the first advances. Goalkeeper Matt Freese makes two excellent saves in succession, defending the U.S. goal. Weston McKennie comes close to scoring for the U.S. in the 18th minute, making a header that glances off the crossbar. Folarin Balogun follows up with one into the net, but the ref flags it as offsides. Still 0-0. Then, in the 45th minute, just before halftime, Balogun shoots again, low from about 15 yards, and makes it past the Bosnian goalie, Vasilj. This makes it 1-0 going into the second half.
But things take a grim turn when Balogun, the very same player who had put the U.S. ahead, accidentally commits a foul that earns him a red card. By many accounts, this is an unfair call, however there’s nothing to be done but accept it. Balogun, who says later he knew young American soccer players would be watching, handles this blow with composure and respect. This is especially remarkable considering that the red card not only excludes him from the rest of the Bosnia-Herzegovina game, but also from the entire next American game!1
And there are more immediate repercussions. Rules say that when a player is taken out for a red card, there are no substitutions. The USMNT is forced to play down, with only ten players (against Bosnia’s eleven) for the rest of the game. To the credit of this U.S. Team’s fortitude under pressure, and the strategy instilled by coach Pochettino, they confidently forge ahead. In the 82nd minute, Sergiño Dest earns a free kick, which Malik Tillman takes and lands spectacularly inside the goal—over the heads of the Bosnian “wall”, just above the fingertips of Vasilj, making it 2-0!
The USMNT manages to hold on for eight minutes (plus an additional ten for stoppage), and finally secures a seriously pride-inducing victory, but it’s what immediately follows the game that triggers in me one of the deepest moments of American pride I have felt since 2008, if not since my childhood in the City of Brotherly Love.
On the final whistle, the American players shout, jump, and hug one another. The American fans do the same, screaming and chanting, “USA! USA!” I feel the goosebumps begin to rise. Then, a plucked acoustic guitar and gently bounding country bassline seem to emerge out of nowhere, followed by the easy and comforting voice of John Denver…
Almost Heaven, West Virginia
Blue Ridge Mountains, Shenandoah River
Life is old there, older than the trees
Younger than the mountains, growin’ like a breeze…
The already-cheering crowd begins swaying in unison. There’s a visible change in the already buoyant countenance of the U.S. players. I’m not actually in the Los Angeles stadium (I’m actually about fifteen miles away), but I imagine it feels similar to one of those gatherings of worshipers, where there’s a tangible sense of Presence and overwhelming feeling of unity of purpose and existence.
On cue, the chorus rings from the stadium speakers:
Country roads, take me home!
To the place I belong!
West Virginia, mountain mama!
Take me home, country roads!
It isn’t just the recorded track that’s audible. The crowd erupts, an impromptu choir, stridently singing—no harmonies, just a bold unison that matches the volume of the blasting music track. Every belted phrase seems to end with an exclamation point!
As John Denver posthumously sings the second verse, the crowd continues swaying. It’s a sea of moving colors: white, black, and brown skin; red, white, & blue clothing. Meanwhile, the colors in the stands are reflected on the field…
Matt Freese (Goalkeeper), a ‘good-old American white boy’ with Germanic and Polish roots, from an elite family in Pennsylvania.
Folarin Balogan (Forward), born in Brooklyn to Nigerian parents and raised in London, England. He could’ve played for England or Nigeria, but he chose the U.S.
Sergiño Dest (Defender), from Almere, Netherlands, born to a Dutch mother and a Surinamese-American father from New Jersey, who served in the U.S. military. Dest could’ve played for the Netherlands, but he chose the U.S.
Malik Tillman (Midfielder), son of an African-American serviceman, and a German national. He’s another player with dual citizenship, who chose the United States over his other option of Germany.
As the second chorus begins to swell, Midfielders Weston McKennie (an African-American from Little Elm, Texas), and Sebastian Berhalter (born in London, raised in Columbus, Ohio) face the stands and raise their arms as if preparing to conduct a massive choir. Impossibly, the refrain grows even louder this second time around…
Country roads, take me home!!
To the place I belong!!
West Virginia, mountain mama!!
Take me home, country roads!!
At home, watching the screen, I feel a broad smile plastered across my face, though I’m not in control of its appearance. I attempt to turn my head and look away, but I can’t as I watch the footballers-turned-song-leaders prance and wave, their smiles as broad and inevitable as mine.
By this time, the TV coverage should’ve transitioned to the commentators for post-game analysis. Instead, you can hear that their mics are live, but they are not being shown on the screen. The producers are holding on the stadium scene, entranced as we all are by this impromptu display of true American pride.
It’s not exaggerating to say that witnessing the end of this soccer game felt almost like an out-of-body experience. It was like remembering what it means to be an American—the importance of it, the unity of it, the uniqueness of it.
I suspect my American pride will swell once again, though I don’t know exactly how or when. Until then, I will keep this patriotic feeling as a sort of placeholder; a reminder that, like those earlier times in my life, authentic patriotism does exist.
It doesn’t require a perfect country to generate national pride. All it takes is a willingness to rise above politics and to meet fellow Americans on a different playing field—not the pitch of politics, but the one on which a diversity of players are welcome and work together toward a common goal, despite formidable opponents and real adversity.
That’s really all it takes to re-inspire American pride. That… plus maybe a little John Denver and a soccer ball.
UPDATE: In an unforeseen turn of events, the FIFA penalty committee announced on Sunday, July 5th that they are suspending Balogun’s red card penalty. He will now play in the USMNT-Belgium came on Monday, July 6th.