Messi in America - Part Two: From Axe Bars to Soccer Cathedrals

We may have come to witness the greatest team sport player in history, but to reach Messi’s paradise, you first have to pass through a rather anonymous, grayish squad called the “New England Revolution.” Their anthem? A whiny, grating punk tune, which attempts to restore with amodern twist the early days of New England’s independence with a not-so-subtle nod to local pride.

On the pitch, moments before kickoff, five uniformed middle-aged men line up with the American flag and the team’s banner, aiming to inject some patriotic morale. Meanwhile, stadium speakers blast crowd-rousing tracks as part of the pregame ritual. One innovation that Europe could learn from: real-time stat banners projected digitally on the field.

Then it begins. The teams walk out. It’s official, the GOAT is in the building. I maneuver my way down a few rows to get a better look at him. Messi enters the stadium, scanning the crowd, hand in hand with what looks like the most beautiful teenage girl in the entire northeastern United States.

American fans love analyzing and chatting throughout the game - I join in too. But truthfully, it's a “concert crowd,” as the football snobs (or Ultras) in Europe would say. Then, at the 4:35 minute mark, one of those trademark Messi touches, a silky move, lobbing the ball above 3 defenders makes me forget about the crazed usher who’s been eyeing me for the seat i'm in (we'll get back to that later).

That seat? Roughly $700 for this game, maybe 80 for any other one of this team... The pitch is pretty small, and the level of play? Somewhere around England’s second division.

Still, Messi looks like he genuinely loves the team. His arrival should have caused a Beatlemania-level frenzy. Behind me, a young guy named Jack admits, “We should feel grateful just to see him play.” The tempo is slower here, maybe even intentionally so. American soccer seems to respect the dimension of time the way other American sports do, structured, segmented, and clock-conscious.

Eventually, the usher returns. Apparently, my enthusiastic “Leo!” shouts were “too loud”, and "someone complained". He demands to see my ticket. Just then, Messi scores off a turnover. I flash a generic ticket - not enough. Luckily, a kind guy behind me invites me to sit in an empty seat beside him - Messi is still on the radar. Louis Suarez by the way, is no where to be seen, I mean he is the number 9 of Miami, but he just looks out of shape and breath. Still a top 10 striker in history.

That someone could complain about a fan being too loud at a football match might just sum up American soccer. It's a country with massive potential for the sport, but still short on true football culture. When fans complain about someone shouting the GOAT’s name, you know there’s room to grow.

After Leo scores effortlessly his second goal, New England claws back into the game with a stunning goal from Carles Gil. The crowd wakes up. Miami barely controls possession. At minute 84, Messi lines up for a corner, and the entire stadium rises for him.

After four minutes of added time and a lukewarm match overall, it’s nearly 10 p.m. The show ends. Messi walks off. The stadium erupts in applause.

As for me? After nine years and a long-delayed catharsis, I finally closed my emotional account with Barcelona.

For me, as a kid who grew up in Israel to American parents, who was introduced to football by his brother and never imagined anyone greater than Maradona or Pelé, seeing Leo was a monumental moment.

Now it's time to go home, except for the Argentinians camped outside the stadium, grilling spicy meat. Perhaps they'll follow him to the next match as well.