By Suzanne Sparrow Watson

Every few years, the world unites in a grand celebration of football. Or as we in the U.S. like to say, soccer. Half of Americans’ experience with soccer begins and ends with 7-year-olds on a field, clueless about the game but excited about the sliced oranges at the break. The other half thinks FIFA is a type of allergy medication. But this year, something magical is happening: the Tartan Army and other international fan groups are pouring into the U.S. for the World Cup, ready to turn American cities into temporary outposts of global football culture. And America had absolutely no idea what was coming.

The Brazilians arrived radiating sunshine, samba, and the kind of confidence that comes from supporting a team that actually wins things. They immediately attempted to teach Americans how to dance, only to discover that many locals move like malfunctioning shopping carts. The English fans, who are thrilled to discover cheeseburgers and Ranch Dressing, enjoyed explaining—loudly, repeatedly, and to anyone within a five‑mile radius—that this will be their year. (It will not be their year.) The Norwegians came loaded for bear, having posed for their teamphoto as vanquishing ancient Norsemen. They have done “the row” (as if in the boat) at the stadium and more ingeniously, sitting on the “up” escalator at the Boston airport. The Germans showed up with precision, efficiency, and laminated itineraries. They are the only fan group that reads the stadium rules in advance. They are also the only ones who will arrive at the match three hours early “just to be safe.” I have some German lineage and I can attest that this is true.

The Argentinians arrived with Messi flags, Messi shirts, Messi tattoos, and at least one person who has named their firstborn “Messi.” They are prepared for glory. They are also prepared to argue passionately with anyone who suggests another player might be better. And meanwhile, we Americans are trying our best. We’ve decorated stadiums with red, white, and blue. We’ve Googled “how to chant like Europeans.” We’ve even practiced saying “nil” instead of “zero,” though it still sounds like we’re ordering a latte. But we learn quickly. After the win against Australia the U.S. fans sang “Country Roads” in unison, and people who were there said it was the most unified they had felt since 9/11. I wish John Denver was alive to hear how healing his song has become.

But let’s face it, it’s the Scots who have stolen the show. The Tartan Army has been Scotland’s most enthusiastic export after whisky and passive-aggressive weather. They arrived in full tartan regalia, kilts swishing proudly in the breeze, armed with bagpipes, optimism, and a deep, ancestral understanding that their team may not win—but by heaven, they will out‑party everyone. As they say, “No Scotland, no party!” They discovered that American beer is often served cold. Despite this, they still drank Boston dry. Many bar owners said they’d had to make emergency orders, having significantly underestimated how much the average Scot can drink. They also learned that some statues in the U.S. are quite tall, making it hard to place a traffic cone upon the top of it (long story – look it up). But just to show how charming the Tartan Army is, in Providence, R.I. the city maintenance workers gave a lift to a Scotsman in their cherry picker so he could complete the mission.

We Americans quickly learned that the Tartan Army is loud, joyful, and unstoppable. They sing in the streets. They sing in the stadiums. They sing in hotel elevators, which is confusing for guests who thought they were stepping into a quiet ride to the lobby and instead find themselves in a mobile Highland ceilidh. And yet—Americans fell in love with them. Because the Tartan Army, like all great football fans, brings something the U.S. can’t resist: pure, unfiltered, wholehearted enthusiasm.

They also brought manners and grace. A woman bartender in a Boston restaurant was the only person on duty when hundreds of the Tartan Army entered. She worked as quickly as possible to get them all drinks. When her shift ended, she told a local news reporter that to a person, they were polite, respectful and fun. The Scots had a party in a Boston park with over 2,000 people. Only one maintenance worker was scheduled to work the next day (I’m beginning to think Boston didn’t realize that FIFA was in town). Anyway, he said the park was so clean when he came to work, he just had to pick up the bags of trash the Scots had piled up for him. Finally, the Tartan Army was so overwhelmed by the friendliness and warmth of the Americans that they donated $30,000 to local charities as a thank you for welcoming them. And then they collected more money, giving $10,000 to a children’s cancer charity, $6,500 to a program to teach kids how to play the bagpipes, and $10,000 to a program that teaches underprivileged kids to play soccer. The Tartan Army reminded everyone that sport isn’t just about winning. It’s about belonging. It’s about joy. It’s about wearing a kilt in 105‑degree heat because tradition matters more than comfort. They’ll go home sunburned, dehydrated, and hoarse from singing—but proud. Because they didn’t just come to watch football. They came to conquer America, and they did. With kilts and kindness.

And we learned something about ourselves in hosting all of the international fans. In 11 host cities across the U.S., foreign tourists and ordinary Americans have created diplomacy that puts professionals to shame. And we got the wake-up call we needed: we are not our politicians or the media. We are good-hearted people who have more in common than we have differences. We love to gather together, laugh and sing. Now we just need to figure out a national chant.