When I arrived at MetLife for Sunday’s World Cup final, I had already checked in to two red eye flights departing a few hours later: one to Madrid, the other to Buenos Aires. The moment the final whistle blew, I planned to step onto the plane bound for the winners’ country and wake up in the capital of the new world champions.
For the past month, I’ve been triangulating the nation as a correspondent covering the U.S. Men’s National Team. After recovering from heartbreak when the U.S. was eliminated, I joined the Spanish press pool. Having studied abroad in Madrid and being a Spanish speaker, covering La Roja was a natural—and personal—fit.
Brené Brown spoke about feeling “collective effervescence” during the World Cup, referring to sociologist Émile Durkheim’s term for the near-sacred surge of emotions when people share a meaningful experience. That “bubbly kind of holiness”—when boundaries between individuals dissolve as the crowd sings, celebrates, and hopes in unison—is what has captivated me the most, too. I began arriving at stadiums up to six hours before matches to witness the camaraderie conveyed by painted faces, handmade shirts, and strangers embracing as though they had known one another forever.
I knew exactly where I wanted to experience peak collective effervescence: right in the heart of the victorious country. Celebrations typically begin the second a team raises the trophy, as viewers spill from homes and viewing parties into the streets and party all night until the players return home for a parade the following day. I wanted to arrive before the champions and experience the entire arc of their homecoming. But in true more-is-more fashion, I also wanted to be at the final in New Jersey to report on the pre-match atmosphere.
And so began an exercise in logistical Tetris.
I needed two itineraries, each departing late enough to give me time at the stadium, avoid post-match traffic, and beat the team home. Once Spain and Argentina secured their places in the final, airfares surged. A direct economy ticket to Buenos Aires climbed above $7,000. If ever there was a moment to cash in on my long-hoarded air miles, this was it. Packing presented another challenge. Madrid is in the middle of a heat wave. Buenos Aires, meanwhile, is deep in winter. My suitcase, which I couldn’t even store at the stadium, would need to be prepared for both.
When I arrived at MetLife just after noon, the crowd was a sea of pale blue and white. Drums echoed through the parking lots. Cars had been wrapped in portraits of Argentine players. A towering flag bearing Lionel Messi’s face rippled above the crowd. By my estimate, Argentina supporters seemed to outnumber Spanish fans by at least two to one.
I noticed four people draped in Spanish flags with their faces painted red and yellow. One man, Felipe, had landed from Madrid just three hours earlier and would be heading back home tonight. “This team is the most beautiful symbol for our country,” he told me in Spanish. He insisted that, should Spain prevail, I go directly to Plaza de Cibeles. “I’ll meet you there. Ojalá,” he added—God willing.
Not everyone outside the stadium had a ticket. One man had flown all the way from Argentina simply to experience the atmosphere. A woman also held a handmade sign titled “Reasons to Give This Girl a Free World Cup Ticket.” Her list included “Good karma for life” and “I can’t afford $10,000, but I can afford hope.”
As the match began, ticketless fans gathered around phones, chanting and gasping. I left MetLife to the dismay of my Madonna-loving heart just as the halftime show was about to begin. I boarded an NJ Transit train to Penn Station, ran to my hotel to collect my bags, and boarded the Long Island Rail Road to JFK Airport. (As I knew I would need to leave before the match ended, I had surrendered my coveted seat within the stadium ahead of time.)
Nearly everyone in the train car was watching the action on a phone. Several passengers did a double take when they noticed my World Cup credential and wristband. “Wait, why are you here?” a teenager passenger asked. After explaining my travel ambitions, she mounted her phone on the train window so we could watch together. When Ferran Torres scored the goal that cinched the title, the car erupted in cheers. In a poetic twist, the final whistle blew at the exact moment I stepped off the train at Jamaica station to transfer to the AirTrain.
I heard the gate for my flight to Madrid before I saw it. Sounds of “¡Olé! ¡Olé! ¡Olé!” echoed through the terminal, led by members of the flight crew as they boarded. A Spanish flag had been draped across the entrance of the plane, with more hung throughout the cabin.
While I had every intention of sleeping, the adrenaline that carried me from the final only intensified overnight. I love a whirlwind adventure, and this trip awakened a very particular sensation that I had experienced only once before, when I completed seven triathlons on seven continents in seven consecutive days: a potent combination of energy and exhaustion, jet lag, and joy; the awareness that you are living a core memory as it unfolds.
Over the intercom, the flight’s purser, Frank Aguilar, congratulated the team, setting off another round of applause. “I’m married to a Spaniard, I’m of Spanish descent, and I had faith in our team,” he told me—with a temporary tattoo of the flag on his face. “The Gods were on our side.” He added that he had specifically requested to work this flight, trusting his intuition that La Selección would win.
At 11.30 a.m.—three hours before the team’s plane was due to land—the arrivals terminal was a sea of everything you’d expect. Balloons, flowers, and flags—yes. But also, a bouquet of meat, as a woman named María José had crafted jamón serrano and jamón ibérico slices into a bunch of flower-like shapes
The terminal was already so busy that security had to create a lane wide enough for the amused passengers emerging from customs.“¡Yo soy español! ¡Español! ¡Español!” the crowd chanted. Some had even brought clarinets and horns. Local journalists darted through them, breathlessly conducting interviews for morning news shows.
The fans who received the biggest reaction were the teens wearing full-body inflatable shark costumes in homage to MVP Ferran Torres, who had become a national hero overnight. It was a moving turn for a player who has spoken openly about feeling trapped in a “bottomless pit” a few years earlier. As I cover the intersection of sports and mental health, I had followed Torres’s story: how he attended regular therapy and worked his way out of what he described as rock bottom. Torres became known as El Tiburón—the shark—after working with a sports psychologist to develop his own shark mentality: fierce, focused, competitive, and capable of swimming through hardship.
When the monitor showed the team’s flight had finally arrived, the ground floor was so packed that fans had spilled onto the upper levels of the atrium, leaning over the railings to get a view. The terminal was too crowded for the team to pass through, so they were taken directly to their buses. While the windows were completely tinted, making it impossible to see any faces, the players banged on the glass as people screamed in delight; a small gesture of gratitude to the supporters who had waited hours to welcome them home.
By 4 p.m., three hours before the champions’ parade was even scheduled to begin, the streets of Madrid were jammed and many of the main arteries were closed to cars. Walking down Gran Vía–imagine 20 blocks of Broadway on either side of Times Square shut down for revelry–an endless current of red and yellow was all that could be seen.
Spanish flags had been styled in every conceivable way: as skirts, scarves, crop tops, and even bathing suits. Women wore necklaces and bracelets adorned with football charms or the numbers of their favorite players, reminiscent of the jewelry worn by Inés García, Lamine Yamal’s girlfriend. Temporary hair color, flag tattoos, and flamenco fans abounded, while volunteers offered free face painting.
The victory parade route had been designed to pass through many of central Madrid’s most iconic landmarks: Calle de la Princesa, Plaza de Colón, and Plaza de Cibeles. Estimates would later suggest that between 1.8 and two million people took part in the victory celebrations—more than half the population of Madrid proper—and you could feel it. At one point, it took me 30 minutes to travel the equivalent of two blocks.
Bathed in golden hour light, La Roja danced from an open-top bus emblazoned with the words “REYES DEL MUNDO” (kings of the world) and “STARS SHINE TOGETHER.” The players wore shirts etched with “SOMOS CAMPEONES 2026” (we are champions), although many were shirtless by the end of the parade.
Striker Borja Iglesias took over the decks, DJing a mix of reggaeton and Spanish dance music. The players kicked footballs into the crowd, embraced each other, sprayed Champagne, took selfies, and gripped the FIFA World Cup trophy; they cradled it like a baby, kissed it, tossed it into the air, and hoisted it toward the crowds. It was also midfielder Álex Baena’s 25th birthday, prompting spontaneous choruses of “Cumpleaños feliz” to flow through the streets.
The team arrived at Plaza de Cibeles just after sunset to a giant stage where two exuberant hosts introduced the 26 players one by one, in numerical order, offering a brief biographical detail or tournament highlight before presenting each as “nuestro campeón del mundo”—our world champion.
This was an opportunity for their personalities to fully shine as each player was given his own moment of recognition. Gavi and Dani Olmo both chose Bad Bunny’s NUEVAYoL, while Lamine Yamal sent the crowd into a frenzy with Don Miguelo’s Y Qué Fue?. Marc Pubill sang to Baby Lover, Pedro Porro joined in with El Barrio’s Pa’ Madrid, and Borja Iglesias rapped to Violadores del Verso’s Cantando. The more reserved members of the squad were affectionately pushed forward by their teammates. In one endearing moment, Martín Zubimendi was cajoled into singing along to Shakira’s Waka Waka.
Consistent with the entire World Cup, Marc Cucurella produced some of the celebration’s most viral moments. For many encountering him for the first time, the left back had become one of the game’s most recognizable characters, thanks to his mane of extraordinary curls flying behind him as he tore down the flank. Away from the pitch, his dance moves and karaoke performances caused just as much delight. But Cucurella also connected with audiences through a moment of striking vulnerability. In a widely=shared interview with his partner, Claudia Rodríguez, Cucurella spoke through tears about raising their autistic son, Mateo, and the challenges of finding support. Cucurella has said that his children’s well-being guides his professional decisions and that, whenever the family considers a new city, one of the first things they investigate is whether it will offer the right opportunities for their son. At Cibeles, he made his entrance to Malbec by Duki and Bizarrap, seizing the mic to sing. As the stage was readied for a performance by Arde Bogotá, the Spanish rock band, Cucurella spontaneously commandeered the drum kit, pounding out a beat as he whipped his famous hair.
Ferran Torres emerged to a reception worthy of his winning goal, striking his signature shark pose to the backdrop of Henry Méndez’s El Tiburón blasted. The music was soon overtaken by the crowd’s viral refrain of “Ooooooh, Ferran.”
The final player to emerge was Spain’s captain, Rodri, accompanied by one of the tournament’s defining anthems: Gala’s Freed From Desire. Lamine Yamal ushered the squad into two lines, creating a tunnel Rodri danced through as his teammates cheered him on. The backbone of the Spanish team and winner of the Golden Ball, Rodri had just become the first man in history to win the World Cup, European Championship, Champions League, Premier League, and Ballon d’Or; football’s most prestigious individual honor. Rodri also famously maintains no public social media accounts, leaving supporters fewer opportunities to share their admiration with him directly. At Cibeles, they seized the moment, showering the captain with affection for both his commanding leadership of the team and the understated dignity with which he represents Spain.
Following his squad’s entrance, head coach Luis de la Fuente strode onto the stage hitting a double-bicep flex, perhaps a knowing nod to the breathless social media commentary that had crowned the 65-year-old the World Cup’s “most jacked coach.” Singing along to his Julio Iglesias entrance song, the players lifted him into the air. The team also made a point of honoring the staff behind their victory—from physical therapists and doctors to media professionals—as they formed a tunnel for them to walk through while greeting each person with rousing applause.
The celebration was punctuated by performances from Ana Mena and Lola Índigo and Shakira delivered a video message, praising the team for demonstrating what it means to work together, “with one mind and one heart.” The evening’s crowning anthem belonged to Spanish pop star Aitana. Her song Superestrella had become the Spanish team’s go-to track, blasting through stadiums and locker rooms after each victory. She performed wearing Spain’s white away jersey, freshly updated with that second star to mark the country’s second World Cup title. The shirt has already become a coveted fashion statement lately, selling out as supporters gravitated toward its minimal look. Adidas said its design drew inspiration from the literature of Spain’s Siglo de Oro, lending the jersey a sense of cultural specificity that extended its appeal beyond devoted football fans. By the tournament’s final days, even counterfeit versions sold by street vendors and tourist shops had become difficult to find.
Amid the music and delirious cheers, the celebration briefly softened as Álex Baena and Rodri asked the crowd to remember María Caamaño, a 13-year-old football superfan who died from Ewing sarcoma in April. Known as the Princesa Guerrera Futbolera, or the team’s “Warrior Princess,” María had become a beloved presence around La Selección, sharing messages of encouragement on social media from her hospital bed. The players dedicated their World Cup star to María, asking the crowd to applaud so that, as they put it, she might hear them from heaven.
Just when I thought the emotion could swell no further, the ceremony ended with the moment every young footballer dreams of. It is customary for the captain of the winning team to receive the trophy surrounded by his teammates, the squad crouching low and leaning inward in a final beat of anticipation before he lifts it above his head. The resulting image, all outstretched arms, ecstatic cheers, and swirling confetti, is among the most enduring in sport: a moment in which years of sacrifice and discipline culminate into pure, incandescent joy.
Around me, people began to cry, tears of release as much as celebration. Looking out across the plaza, I saw the images that had defined the day: children perched on shoulders, their eyes wide with wonder; grown men openly weeping; young girls lifting their hands toward the stage in the shape of a heart. The whole city seemed to be holding the trophy with them. I thought back to meeting Felipe in the parking lot of MetLife the day before. “We needed this.”
Cucurella’s wife, Claudia Rodríguez, told me that the most beautiful part of an unforgettable 24 hours had been experiencing the festivities at Cibeles. “I think all Spaniards are very happy to see Spain so united.” She described the atmosphere as a powerful reflection of the bond between La Roja and its supporters. They had “made us feel so close,” she said, “even though we were separated by so many kilometers.”
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That gratitude for the sense of unity was reflected in every conversation I had. “I think it means much more than a sporting triumph,” said Alex Saint, an actress, creator, and celebrity makeup artist who did Aitana’s glam for the evening. “Spain has shown itself to be a diverse and tolerant country that supports human rights above all else. Conveying that message, in whatever form it takes, feels to me like an invaluable beacon of hope.”
As spontaneous celebrations continued to pop up throughout the city, I followed the familiar thunder of drums, tributes to Manolo el del Bombo, the beloved Spanish fan who followed La Roja around the world for over forty years with his signature bass drum, becoming as recognizable in the stands as many of the players on the pitch. Manolo had died the previous year, but throughout the tournament, drummers at each Spanish match carried his legacy forward.
I trusted my ears to take me towards Chueca, where, around 2 a.m., I popped into LL Bar just as a drag queen started a rendition of the Macarena, prompting the jersey-wearing audience to join in. This was not an image I might have seen in recent years, according to Miguel Sanz Castedo, the director general of Turespaña, Spain’s head of tourism. Sanz Castedo said that what he loved most about this year’s World Cup was seeing so many more women, girls, and members of the LGBTQ+ community watching the matches and joining the celebrations. He credited the team with embodying the power of the collective, emphasizing collaboration over individual glory and inviting a broader audience into the sport. Football culture, he noted, has come a long way, even if there is still considerable ground left to cover. With this victory, Spain became the first nation in history to reign as both men’s and women’s world champions at the same time. “In the past in Spain, it felt like football was for the macho men,” Miguel said. “This time, it feels like it’s for everyone.”
At 3:30 a.m., I made a pit stop for a classic Madrileño dessert of chocolate con churros at the iconic 24-hour churcrería, Chocolatería San Ginés. On the walk back to my hotel, I noticed how many buildings and monuments had been illuminated in red and yellow. Car horns still echoed through the streets as people danced in circles, weaving around cleanup crews already hosing down the pavement and gathering debris with such efficiency that, by morning, there would be little trace that a parade of this scale had ever taken place. That, too, was a point of pride for many Spaniards: despite the intensity of the celebrations and millions in the streets, the night had unfolded free of violence or vandalism.
While the abundance of flags may feel familiar for a national team celebration elsewhere, it’s something noteworthy in Spain, according to my friend Ignacio de los Reyes, a reporter for The Bubble. “Waving the flag isn’t something people do here in the same way they would in the United States,” he said. “We simply don’t have the same relationship with our national symbols.” Spain’s history, he explained, has left many people wary of conspicuous displays of nationalism. During the World Cup, however, he sensed something shifting.
“We’re living through a moment where so many Spanish cultural figures are succeeding internationally. I think we’re showing the world that we’re creative, diverse, emotional, and also incredibly talented in the way we work and present ourselves. And now we’re doing the same through sport,” he noted. “That’s the kind of national pride I connect with. It’s not about feeling superior to anyone else. It’s about celebrating who we are becoming and seeing a more diverse, modern, and confident Spain reflected back at us.”
At 4:30 a.m., I finally crawled into bed at the Four Seasons, unable to tell whether the refrain of “!Yo soy Español, Español, Español!” was still reverberating outside or had simply lodged itself in my head. From the serenity of my room, I thought back over the previous 24 hours, and over the six weeks of the World Cup itself: the songs, the rituals, the tears, the fleeting moments when an entire stadium, street, or country seemed to move as one.
Spain had won a second star, but collectively, we all seemed to win so much more.
