The omens are bad when I land in Charlotte. Having not rained for weeks, the heavens have opened and the plane touches down in the middle of a storm. Itโs chaos at the airport, with flights being delayed and cancelled. In the taxi to my hotel, fire engines hurtle past in the opposite direction: a house has been struck by lightning.
Itโs an inauspicious start, but it wonโt stop me falling asleep as soon as my head touches the pillow. The jet leg is finally easing off. Itโs the first time Iโve slept properly in days. I wake up to a clear blue sky and a sunny morning. After the scorching fever dream of Vegas, itโs a relief to be somewhere โnormalโ. Walking into a food market downtown โ or uptown, as they call it here โ Iโm overjoyed to hear โHow Soon Is Now?โ by The Smiths playing on the speakers. Sometimes all you need to relax is a good nightโs sleep and a song about going to a club on your own, failing to pull, and returning home to have a nice big cry. Thereโs a bar in the market with a beer fridge covered in stickers. I give the bartender a TSB Marcelo Bielsa sticker to add to the collection. He inspects it, bemused, and leaves it to one side.
Iโm staying a twenty-minute tram journey from uptown, in what just so happens to be Charlotteโs brewery district. The night before Uruguay play Colombia, I sample the local delicacies and watch the other semi-final โ Leo Messiโs Argentina vs Jesse Marschโs Canada. Apologies to any Canadian readers, I have nothing against your country, but when Marsch appears on screen singing the national anthem I make a note on my phone: โI hope they get fucking battered.โ
The game is laughably reminiscent of watching Marschโs Leeds. Canada start brightly, miss a half chance, then go 1-0 down after being undone by a straightforward pass down the middle of the pitch. Marsch walks off the pitch at half-time raging at the referee and, as Messi scores to double Argentinaโs lead after the break, continues unravelling on the touchline.
To Jesseโs credit, heโs clearly got his ideas across quickly โ whenever an Argentina player gets the ball in their own half, four Canada players charge at them and, if theyโre lucky enough not to be passed around, commit needless fouls as petulant as their manager. Former Leeds flirt Rodrigo de Paul is more than happy to accept the second option as the game nears its end, buying free-kick after free-kick, fluttering his eyelashes towards us once more by telling Marsch he yaps too much. Jesse is eventually booked on the sideline and is widely praised online afterwards for showing so much passion, but those of us who know the truth will always recognise he really is just Neil Warnock with a German phrasebook.
Rodrigo De Paul y su cruce con el DT Jesse Marsch en pleno Argentina – Canadรก. pic.twitter.com/W4TkVSvaag
โ TyC Sports (@TyCSports) July 10, 2024
On the morning of Uruguayโs match, I have a coffee with a Leeds fan called Will who lives in Charlotte. Heโs from Tennessee originally but moved here to study and never left. Ironically, Will has Jesse Marsch to blame for his love of Leeds. He always wanted a European club to follow, so Leeds hiring an American manager and signing American players like Tyler Adams and Brenden Aaronson made his decision for him. โIt was weird seeing Marsch with Canada and thinking, โHeโs one of the reasons I started supporting Leeds, but heโs also a dick,โโ he says. Marsch might have gone, but Will is loyal to a fault. Heโs stuck with us through relegation and a play-off final defeat โ which coincided with the first meet up of a new Charlotte Whites supportersโ group โ and hopes to one day take his newborn son to Elland Road. โSupporting Tennessee is just like supporting Leeds,โ he says. โYouโre just waiting to be kicked between the legs.โ
Itโs around 10am when I walk into the city centre and past the Bank of America stadium, where the semi-final is going to be held that night. Colombia fans are already setting up stalls selling shirts and sombreros. A big group of Colombians are gathering outside a hotel next to the ground playing drums and singing songs. One kneels down in the middle of the road and kisses the concrete. I walk past quickly, hoping they donโt notice my Marcelo Bielsa t-shirt.
Thereโs the small matter of Englandโs semi-final with Netherlands first, and I meet up with another local Leeds fan, Tony, for a beer before kick off. Heโs wearing a Leeds United t-shirt to make it easier to spot him and, like Will, moved to Charlotte and never left after falling in love with the place. He started following Leeds in the late nineties, experiencing all the ups and downs from across the Atlantic โ the highs of the Champions League and the lows of League One. The appointment of Bielsa made it all worthwhile. Heโs even started coaching his eight-year-old sonโs soccer team, and since all he knows about coaching comes from what heโs read about Bielsa, theyโre going all out attack and not caring if they lose 6-2.
When Tony has to go back to work, I move on to a bar next door for the England game. The street is rammed with Colombia fans, who are jokingly booing anyone brave enough to wear a Uruguay shirt whenever they walk past, but the bar is full of expat England fans. There are two brothers sitting at the bar. They have American accents but were born in England and grew up for a time in Germany, near a small town where my grandma and her family were raised called Celle. Itโs the first time Iโve felt a buzz following England all summer, at least until a lad draped in a St Georgeโs cross wearing a Burberry bucket hat and sunglasses indoors starts leading the usual repertoire of songs about sniffing gear and the RAF of England shooting down ten German bombers. The brothers stare at the bottom of their pints, and I join them. Given who is playing in the city tonight, I wonder if the England fans have ever heard the Half Man Half Biscuit song, โWhat made Colombia famousโฆ has made a prick out of you.โ
Still, none of that is Gareth Southgate or Ollie Watkinsโ fault, and I stumble out of the bar delirious from the late winner. Charlotte is overrun with Colombia fans. There are yellow shirts everywhere. People are barbequing meat and selling beer out of coolboxes on the street. As I get closer to the stadium, the sulfuric smell of flares gets stronger. A stand is emblazoned in huge lettering with the slogan, โKeep Pounding.โ There are tens of thousands of Colombia fans already outside, singing, dancing, trying to buy tickets, and rushing to celebrate their heroes as the team bus arrives. Itโs the maddest pre-match experience Iโve ever been a part of. Whenever I cross paths with lonely souls in blue, I mutter โvamos Uruguayโ and receive relieved smiles and thumbs up in return for indulging my dirty little secret.
The stadium has a fittingly South American style for the occasion. There is no roof; the rows of seats simply stop where the sky starts. If it wasnโt for the Bank of America office blocks looming even higher behind one of the stands or the cup holder in front of my seat, I could be in Buenos Aires. Iโm sitting up in the gods, and as the ground fills up I can spot two blocks of Uruguay fans. The rest has been taken over by Colombia supporters, with the odd blue shirt dotted around, no doubt trying their best to keep a low profile. The Uruguayan national anthem is respectfully observed. The Colombian national anthem is belted out with a roar that belongs in a colosseum.

If Bielsa pulls this off, it should go down as one of his most famous wins. Colombia are unbeaten in a record-equalling 27 games. Uruguay are missing half their defence from the quarter-final win over Brazil โ Barcelonaโs Ronald Araujo is injured and Nahitan Nandez of Atletico Madrid is suspended. Bielsa restructures his team like only he does: ladies and gentleman, Uruguay will be playing three-three-fucking-one-three.
As soon as Uruguay touch the ball, the whistles and boos from the stands are deafening. Liverpool striker Darwin Nunez is tasked with dragging Uruguay up the pitch and helping them get a foothold in the game. Itโs easy to see why Bielsa is so enamoured with him. He plays like Pat Bamford with a ponytail, scrapping for every ball, stealing it from defenders, and missing three big chances in the first half hour. After his second miss, a supporter wearing a Leeds away shirt flashes on screen, his head in his hands. If Marschโs Canada played with all the stupidity of Marschโs Leeds, Bielsaโs Uruguay are playing with all the vulnerabilities of Bielsaโs Leeds: their striker canโt score, their midfielder gets injured, their goalkeeper looks nervous, and towards the end of the first half Colombia score from a corner. Of course they fucking do.
Bielsa tells his players to calm down as they kick it straight out of play. Just before the break, theyโre given a lifeline. As the teams wrestle for the ball following a foul, Colombiaโs Daniel Munoz elbows Manuel Ugarte and is sent off. Bielsa makes two subs at half-time. Itโs a case of attack, attack, attack, but the second half is the perfect illustration of why anyone who wants to be a referee is a weirdo. Colombia play every trick in the book to kill time, chasing after the ref and screaming at him when he doesnโt let them while the crowd chant โhijo de puta โ son of a bitchโ.
With twenty minutes remaining, Bielsa calls for Luis Suarez from the bench โ heโs 37 years old and has played a total of eight minutes at the tournament. It feels like bringing Izzy Brown on in the play-off semi-final against Derby. Everyone wearing a yellow shirt in the stadium, young and old, unites in giving him the middle finger. Suarez doesnโt have to wait long to get a chance, but his shot hits the post. Iโm squirming in my seat, finding it difficult to hide my frustration. Luis Sinisterra comes on for Colombia, and the more Uruguay push forward in desperation, the more chances Colombia create on the break. Somehow, they conspire to miss them all, even when Uruguayโs goalkeeper has rushed forward to join the attack at a set-piece.
As the referee blows the final whistle, I escape the hail of pints being thrown by celebrating Colombia fans and head straight for the concourse. I miss the fighting in the stands, where Darwin Nunez steams in swinging punches as trouble kicks off around the Uruguay playersโ families and friends, and instead catch a small pocket of fans scrapping between themselves on the way out. An older Uruguay supporter tries to get involved and is immediately caught by a punch that sends him staggering backwards and onto his arse.
Itโs a wild night that belongs in the Wild West rather than the East Coast. Colombia are destined for the final in Miami, while Bielsa and Uruguay have to settle for a third-place play-off against Marschโs Canada back in Charlotte. Apologies to any Canadian readers, I have nothing against your country, but I hope they get fucking battered. โฌข