There are plenty of reasons to resist the World Cup’s siren song. As a sport, soccer requires patience with slow builds and small tactical wins; like baseball, it requires an understanding that something is in fact happening when one’s eyes would tell one otherwise. Its highest levels of competition are a club of a few select nations competing for a prize, with the rest relegated to a sideshow or trying to scrape together as many skilled members of their diaspora who wound up in Western Europe as they can. (Looking at you, Morocco.) FIFA, the World Cup’s steward, is a corrupt, money-grubbing mess, and a mirror to too many international institutions. Ad breaks (err…“hydration” breaks) and an overstuffed, schmaltzy halftime show in the final were more signs of an unholy union between Gianni Infantino and profit at all costs. (At least Shakira still has it, and there were Muppets.) But yet here it was, addicting me for the past month, regular nightly viewing and a few half-vacation days locked in for key midafternoon matches. And once again, the World Cup delivered.

My enjoyment of soccer was built on late 00s FC Barcelona, a team that added a young star named Lionel Messi to the core of a dynastic Spanish national team that won two Euros and one World Cup between 2008 and 2012. Some people found that era Spain boring, but I was more often than not mesmerized. The dizzying passing rhythms revealed a deeper art, something I could watch and study and come to understand why exactly the world was so fond of this low-scoring sport. The skill and strategy were next level, and I understood, even then, that the likes of that dominant group would not come around often. I was thus quite pleased to see a World Cup final composed of a Spain group that seemed like worthy heirs to that 2010 era game-controlling force, plus Lionel Messi.

This Spain was more than a mere retread, though. After 2012, as their core aged, the Spanish passing really did become inane and lifeless, snuffed to death by any decent defense. As it so often is, Barcelona was the innovation lab for world fútbol, and Barça’s 2015 Champions League run took it all to another level: the dominant midfield was still there, but they combined it with lethal pace in the form of Messi, Luis Suárez, and Neymar. FC Barcelona literally went for broke with that group and is still rebuilding, but the lesson to the world was obvious: the old model of parking the bus, dominant for a long stretch of time, was no longer enough. Great teams now controlled the ball and won with pace. The 2024 Euro champion Spain exemplified this turn, with Nico Williams and Lamine Yamal adding the flashes of pace previously absent in Spanish soccer.

Those two were still working their way back to health from injuries in this World Cup, but it didn’t matter. The ball control was back at its classic levels, with Rodri and Dani Olmo and Pedri and Fabián Ruiz absolutely smothering all comers in the midfield, turning attacks back and beginning the metronomic passing that now defines a nation. Yamal wasn’t even Spain’s best teenager, a title that goes to defender Pau Cubarsí; the relentless fullbacks, Pedro Porro and David Cucurella, added to the firepower down the wings. Yamal did just enough to spark fears, Mikel Oyarzabal is a classic Spanish hardworking false-ish nine, and Williams found the flair to hit Ferran Torres with his headed back-pass to create a championship goal. They didn’t need superstar scorers because they would create chance after chance, and a few of them would eventually pop. The wealth of attacking options to keep up the pace and grind opponents into submission proved unassailable.

My lingering memory of Spain from this cup will be from the semifinal against favored France. Kylian Mbappé and company had looked like they could flatten anyone in their way to date, but the Spanish masterclass made one of the greatest assemblages of attacking talent in history look anemic. I would say “put it in the Louvre,” but the Prado is a more appropriate resting place for such a performance, or perhaps the Reina Sofía: this was sports as modern art, perfect tactics within a magisterial scheme of Luis de la Fuente, a man from the Rioja wine town of Haro, where I wandered through and saw his shrine last spring. This is sports at its absolute peak, the seamless system executed to perfection.

On the losing end of the championship were Argentina, the team of destiny times two, finding ways to escape time and again before the last ounce of Messi magic exhausted itself. Cape Verde, Egypt, Switzerland, England: no mater the caliber of their opponent, it went down to the wire, and each time, they found a way, usually through the feet of their longtime hero. If watching Spain invoked the awe of watching a perfect team, Messi invoked the awe of a peerless athlete, the best to ever do his thing, constrained by the march of time but able to adapt and still pull forth new moments of wonder. His late-stage evolution was a confirmation of greatness, an avoidance of fading into the night the way so many top players do, and he knew it. The emotion he showed this summer, both in victory and then in the final tears of defeat, sealed a pact between man and nation and destiny, and the rest of us were just privileged to watch.

Beyond Messi the Argentines were a step back from four years ago, less incisive and at times somewhat plodding, if not downright thuggish, as they were at the end of the final. The whole operation seemed to revolve around one man, and when the Spanish denied him the ball, they were left directionless. Four years ago they had an array of options; this time it felt like all the eggs were in one aging basket. And even if they had been more than Messi and a prayer, it still probably wouldn’t have been enough to breach Spain.

The familiar faces had a mixed record in North America. The Brazilians remain in the wilderness, learning that even expensive coaches cannot unlock their classic flair that they have abandoned, any lessons they take seemingly a decade behind the cutting edge. Joining them are the Germans, a long distance from the relentless force they were in the first 15 years of this century. The Brits blew a game against Argentina with a sorry retreat, but they continue a general crawl upward, and will be inspired to finally bust through when they host the Euros in 2028. France’s offensive dominance, impressive at it was, papered over some holes in back that the machine-like Spanish clinically exploited. US soccer generated hype and then produced the same reliable result, though the assemblage of talent continues to edge in the right direction.

What makes the World Cup magical are the spurts of randomness from around the whole world. Vozinha in goal for the remarkable Cape Verde; Erling Haaland and the Norwegians rowing their way past Brazil and into the quarterfinals. Swan songs for Cristiano Ronaldo and Luka Modric. Paraguay toppling Germany and the Swiss outlasting Colombia. The Mexicans turning Estadio Azteca into the greatest home field in sports, and the Brits finding a way to bunker down and win there. Armies of fans from across the globe descending upon North America, and, for all our international strife, a great carnival following suit. I would say we need more opportunities like this, but I’m not sure we should give FIFA any ideas, and there is a beauty in something happening only every four years that makes us wait.

So I will pour another glass of Rioja, enjoy the scenes from the parties in Madrid and Barcelona, and ponder what the future of this still young Spanish team might hold. I made a halfhearted play at tickets for this World Cup, but did not go; perhaps they will be somewhat less awful in a different country. And next time, the tournament’s primary host will be in my favorite country to visit. The wheels are already turning. Anyone else fancy a trip to Spain in 2030?