For an infinite and dimly lit moment, the bar is silent in the midst of celebratory uproar. The television pauses, the red‐white‐and ‐blue‐clad figures freeze mid jump, and Bavaria beer droplets hang poised in humid air. I scan the crowded barroom to capture the beautifully picturesque panorama of open mouthed cheers and raised shot glasses and hands touting the air in victory.

Victory, because the TV screen is a still shot of the toe of Borges´ cleat, pointed gracefully towards an airborne leather ball, which is stuck to the back of the Netherlands´ net like it belongs there. This is bigger than the 70 metres of green turf or the numbers flashing on a gauty scoreboard or the whole World Cup itself. This is our simultaneously deafening cheers mingling in an off key harmony on a beer stained ceiling. A harmony so electric it could light San José until the next Mundial del Fútbol.

The infinite moment passes. The music, the commentating, and the shouts and cheers resume. The ball falls to the turf and the beer droplets plunk onto sweat glazed forheads. It doesn´t really matter that in the end, we lost to the Netherlands in an exhaustive round of well-aimed penalty kicks, or that we won´t play in the finals this world cup. Because there is a certain patriotic pride that does not come from winning, but rather from being in a bar full of Ticos, cheering and hugging, at the moment that Borges scores. You can tell how proud they are to be Ticos. It makes me, the American student, proud too, just to be part of this ecclectic moment in a country so full of life.

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