Honest to truth, I don't like soccer. Slow (or so they say), with fewer lights in our stadiums every day and few moments of joy lately, my passion remains baseball. However, it's impossible for me to stay out of the euphoria, the passion, that contagious and almost fanatical enthusiasm the World Cup stirs.

My son, well, that's a different story. He is, obviously, more a product of his time than of his parents, and "now, Mommy, football is the best thing." No matter how many times I've told him my number 10 is Omar Linares, he insists, and I'd better get with the times. Luckily, there's Diego, with his love for Cuba, his tattoo on his leg commemorating scoring goals, and "the Hand of God" that he would never have extended to that fascist Trump. Luckily, I can mention Maradona and assure him that there's only one God.

"It's not politics, Mom, it's football." My teenager has turned out to be wise, so I joined him to applaud Messi's hat trick against Algeria, wearing Diego's yellow and blue jersey. It was a remarkable feat at 38 years old, and yes, I enjoyed the endless roar of "goooooaaalllllllllllll," which drowned out even the tinkling of bells and other bells that usually fill my apartment in Central Havana, a few blocks from Central Park. These days, passions aren't ignited by Industriales and Santiago, but by national teams with almost unpronounceable names like Virgil van Dijk (Netherlands) or rarely catchy ones like Kylian Mbappé (France).

And even though the Cuban national team hasn't participated in a World Cup since the distant year of 1938, the streets of the island are completely transformed during the tournament in a kind of massive "football adoption." Without a team of their own to cheer for on the field, Cubans embrace foreign jerseys with unwavering loyalty. Flags of Argentina, Brazil, Spain, Germany, and Portugal begin to hang alongside the white sheets on Havana balconies, the railings of Santiago de Cuba, and the electric tricycles that proliferate on an island besieged and harassed, precisely from one of the World Cup host countries: the United States.

"You've gone off-topic again, Mom!" my son would probably say, but how could he not, when the embargo prevents people from watching the games? Between fuel shortages, power outages, and poor internet coverage caused by the blackouts themselves, it's pointless for Telerebelde to pay the expensive broadcasting rights when, in most homes, the televisions remain silent.

Ah, but here people always find shortcuts: those who can, gather in bars, cafes, cultural and recreational centers with their own energy supply; the neighbor with an Ecoflow system sets up a stadium in his living room and, as a sort of "backyard radio," broadcasts to the domino players, who bounce dominoes while discussing, over a drink, the likely fates of world football.

Everyone has their team, and my favorite Barcelona fan says I should "cheer for one." "I know," I reply: "I'm with Iran." "Mom, you're going to lose in the first round." "Well, that'll be on the field, because as for everything else… well… let's forget about politics… look, I know, I'm rooting for Mexico. I owe it to that amazing woman who has had more courage than all the male footballers combined and hasn't left us alone in our worst moments." You're hopeless, Mom…

So we go on discussing and exploring flags, capitals, ideas about justice, and even glimpses of world culture. I feel it's the best thing football has given its youngest fans in Cuba: a connection to the world and a certain eagerness to investigate and learn, something they often don't find in the classroom.

Another advantage is the power to get them to put down their phones, because a true Cuban football fan isn't content with just watching the games or playing on Nintendo. They take off their shoes or grab their oldest ones and play in the neighborhood sports field or in the street. The goals can be broken chairs or tables, a couple of rocks marking the distance, or whatever they have on hand. That's the recurring scene these days, one that defies any attempt to extinguish us, with the light, the joy, the vital energy of an island that has learned to float amidst so much.

When the World Cup arrived, Cuba proved that Diego was right to choose this country as his second home, a place where passion knows no geographical boundaries or official rankings; it's about the pure joy of the game, experienced with that unique Caribbean exuberance, capable of transforming a match thousands of kilometers away into a popular celebration.

Translated by Amilkal Labañino / CubaSí Translation Staff