World Cup diary: Scenes from FIFA’s Fan Fest

What is a fan fest, in any case? Not the big-screen TVs or the security guards paid to police it. It’s not the #RivalHug photo booth, VIP terrace, between-match DJ sets or official FIFA store. It’s the noise, the passion, the feeling of belonging, the pride in your coun— no, wait. It’s an Icelandic man, wearing a hat inscribed with the words “Russia is my life,” minding his own business, enjoying a cold beer and, without being able to do a thing about it, finding himself being interviewed on Chinese TV.

Ah yes, the Fan Fest. There was a time, and it was 2005, when the concept needed explaining, when it had not yet been formalized into the official FIFA World Cup Language, when the Guardian had to write the following sentence in the buildup to Germany 2006: “The 12 host cities will cater for those without a ticket, too, by providing a secondary venue called the Fanfest.” These days it’s as much a part of the World Cup experience as watching Neymar cry. The world is here, and the world is having a Good Time.

Like all good parties, the Fest (which is what only the very coolest people call it) is probably best enjoyed after dark, and yet here I am, standing in its shadeless embrace at approximately the hottest part of this 85 degree day, watching people run, for no obvious reason, toward the stage under the big TV, and then watching a second wave of people, having seen the first wave of people, also running toward the stage under the big TV. They are rewarded for all this running by the appearance of a confused-looking Iker Casillas.

This is the sort of place the Fan Fest is, the sort of place where Iker Casillas can arrive, with no introduction, on a stage in Moscow, conduct an interview in a combination of English and Spanish and not a single one of the several thousand people watching him will stop to wonder, “what exactly the junk is going on here?” The Moscow Fan Fest is high above the city, near Sparrow Hills, but you get the sense it could be anywhere in the world. What is important is not the location, but the mood, which is sort of overcrowded-beach-meets-UN-General-Assembly.

If you hang around long enough you notice a hierarchy of fans developing. Brazil are playing Costa Rica, which means Brazilian fans are dime a dozen, which means if you’re a Brazilian fan and you want people to pay attention to you, you need to find a way to stand out, like a wearing a very cool hat, or screaming incoherently at every passerby. The rare fans are more popular — the lone Icelandic man with the Russia hat, the Colombians lined up in the same, six-person t-shirt, shuffling sideways, kindly letting strangers take turns occupying the spare head holes.

Next: The best player on every team at the World Cup

A group of Belgians, apparently by dint of (a) being in a medium-sized group and (b) all wearing the same color, are particularly popular. Eventually, they catch the eye of the Chinese TV people, who ask them about Yannick Ferreira Carrasco. Who does he play for, they ask?

“China,” they mutter.

“Yes, but which team?”

*thinking*

“Dalian Yifang,” says the man with the microphone.

“What else do you know?” (An excellent question, if I may interrupt for a second.)

*more thinking*

“He lost … “ begins one of the Belgians. “his first game … ” continues another. “5-0 … ?” They agree on 5-0.

“It was 8-0.”

I meet a group of Bangladeshi men holding a flag that reads, “We are Bangladeshi but we love Brazil football.”

“Why?” I ask.

“Ronaldo,” one of them says, covering the front of his head with his hand, the universal symbol for “do you remember that ridiculous haircut Ronaldo sported at the 2002 World Cup?”

Do you think Bangladesh will ever make the World Cup?

“Not today,” he says. “Maybe tomorrow.”