I have watched a lot of World Cups from a lot of couches, and I cannot remember one that felt this honest. Two weeks in, the giants are sweating, the minnows are smiling, and a 40 year old goalkeeper from a group of islands off West Africa has done more for my faith in football than any of the favourites. This is the World Cup of the little guy. And living at the bottom of the world, following a country ranked 85th in it, I am loving every minute.

Cape Verde, Vozinha, and the best 0-0 of my life

Let me set the scene. Spain, the reigning European champions, ranked second on the planet, the same nation that won the whole thing in 2010, lined up in Atlanta against Cape Verde, a debutant ranked 67th. Spain had 27 shots. Twenty seven. And they could not score one. Their keeper for the night might as well have brought a deck chair, because at the other end Vozinha, 40 years old and playing his first ever World Cup match, made seven saves and turned a football pitch into a fortress. Final score 0-0, and I promise you it was the most thrilling goalless draw I have seen in years.

That is not a fluke. That is the whole tournament so far. Eight of the first sixteen matches ended in a draw. Japan went toe to toe with the Netherlands and got a 2-2. Brazil, my old envy, could only manage 1-1 with Morocco. The pattern is everywhere: the teams that were supposed to walk through this thing are getting their ankles bitten, and the so called small teams are refusing to read the script.

And then, of course, there is us

New Zealand went into this World Cup as the lowest ranked team of all 48. Dead last on paper. And what did the All Whites do? They went 2-0 up on Iran, a side ranked 20th, with Elijah Just scoring twice, in the seventh minute and again just before the hour. Iran clawed it back to 2-2 through Rezaeian and Mohebbi, and yes, leaving with a draw instead of a win still stings a little. But sit with the bigger picture: the bottom seed in the entire competition walked off the pitch with a point and a standing ovation, having outplayed a team three rungs above them for long stretches. I screamed at my screen like it was a Colo-Colo derby.

Why this hits different from down here

I grew up inside South American football, where the romance of the underdog is sacred but the big teams usually still win. Part of me has spent years rolling my eyes at the idea that anyone outside the usual suspects could really do damage at a World Cup. This tournament is quietly dismantling that cynicism, and I am grateful for it. When Cape Verde holds Spain, when New Zealand troubles Iran, the whole sport opens up. It tells every kid kicking a ball on a wet field in Christchurch or a dusty pitch in Praia that the gap is not as wide as the rankings pretend. That is the version of football I fell in love with, and it does not happen often enough.

There is a lesson in it for the snobs too, and I include my younger self in that. We spend so long talking about superstars and squad depth and market value that we forget the actual game is decided by a keeper standing tall, a defender throwing his body in front of a shot, a striker who runs until his lungs give out. Cape Verde did not have more talent than Spain. They had more want. You cannot buy that in a transfer window.

What it all means for Monday

Here is the beautiful part for us: Group G is dead level. All four teams sit on a single point after the first round, with New Zealand and Iran sharing their 2-2 and Belgium and Egypt cancelling each other out 1-1. Belgium face Iran next, but the one circled on my calendar is the All Whites against Egypt on Monday at 1pm NZT, free on TVNZ 1 and TVNZ+. In a group this tight, with this much chaos already loose in the tournament, a New Zealand win does not just keep us alive. It would make us genuine contenders to get out of the group, and right now, who is brave enough to say that is impossible?

Two weeks ago I would have called that wishful thinking from a homesick hincha. Today, after watching what Cape Verde and a dozen other supposed nobodies have done, I am calling it a plan. Bring on Monday. The little guys are running this World Cup, and for once, we are one of them.