​Joy is perhaps one of the most vulnerable states we can inhabit. It is an unmediated emotion—distinct from anger, which often masks pain, or even a deep sense of care. Revealing unfiltered joy is profoundly exposing. Hegemonic masculinity affords men little room to experience joy and pleasure outside sexual contexts, along with the vulnerability that accompanies them: we rarely witness men truly giddy. Yet this FIFA World Cup has granted men permission to feel joy and giddiness in a way that feels both rare and meaningful.
As the underdog Norway readies to face England in a quarterfinal in Miami on Saturday, clips of Norway fans’ Viking row—whether in stadiums or in public spaces like Times Square—have circulated widely online. Each fresh viral moment seems to capture a distinct strand of joy. Consider Scots descending on America in kilts, singing “No Scotland, No Party” to the rhythm of The White Stripes’ “Seven Nation Army” wherever they roam; Egyptians dancing through the streets of Vancouver to celebrate their team’s victory over New Zealand; Brazilian fans (alongside some Mexican fans) stepping away from celebrations of their triumph over Japan to console a Japanese supporter in tears, sheltering him as he cried before rallying his cheers. Then there is the Democratic Republic of Congo superfan who captivated the globe by paying homage to the country’s first president, Patrice Lumumba, standing as an unflinching statue of the leader at Congo matches—an act that anchors joy in a history of anticolonial resistance.
Most of these viral moments of joy and pleasure center men, mirroring the roughly 70/30 male-to-female viewership split of World Cup audiences in the U.S. and in many other regions. The atmosphere has been almost tactile. A friend highlighted how, during a trip on Boston’s T, men ran through stations with flags like superhero capes, shaking off restraint with the exuberance of sugar-charged children at recess. I felt the same surge walking through the city, watching crowds of Scots in kilts celebrate and dance together. I felt it in a sports bar, where strangers who began the match as strangers ended up as friends, with arms slung over shoulders and voices united in song.
Beyond the sheer beauty of joy and pleasure as ends in themselves, it is crucial to place these moments within a broader sociopolitical and ideological frame. They remind us that joy is a core component of a liberation ethic. Perhaps there are few images more potent in this regard than a fan who, in a surge of happiness, becomes a living statue of Lumumba—an act that binds personal delight to a collective memory of resistance and possibility. The question then becomes: what might we accomplish if we embraced a politics of pleasure, especially as communities endure long histories of oppression? As adrienne maree brown asks, what would it mean to align with a pleasure politics—an orientation toward joy that sustains us as we survive and resist over the long term?