A week after Moscow the WhatsApp thread still buzzed. A friend I had met in Moscow offered semifinal tickets in St. Petersburg; I bought a plane ticket that same day. The flight was misery: middle seat between a snoring man with his shoes off and an aisle passenger that wouldn’t stop fidgeting, so I could not move. I landed exhausted.

St. Petersburg was more incredible than I imagined. My directions led through a metal door into a trash-strewn courtyard and a flickering hotel sign. The room looked thrown together for World Cup guests. Walking home after dark I felt watched.  Two men slipping between doorways. I quickened, melted into a crowd, and ran through the alley into the hotel. I barely slept and watched two semifinal matches that felt miraculous. They invited me to the finals suite; I said no. Some things are worth staying for.