He had followed his club since its barren early days, back when it was a few hundred fans in Peoria and nothing else. Then came a new name, a stadium in the desert and a superstar. But now it was an hour before the USL Cup Final — the biggest game in Phoenix Rising’ FC’s young history — and Damon Twist couldn’t be there.

The final fell on a Thursday night in Louisville, 1,500 miles and hundreds of dollars away. He couldn’t justify the trip.

He thought about watching the game at home. It was on ESPN2, after all. But fandom often follows routine, so Twist spent the hours before kickoff in the Rising’s gravel parking lot, doing what he had all season: Sipping a coozie-covered beer as his wife grilled bags of Wingstop and his young kids kicked at a tiny soccer ball.

“You make fun of me for tailgating a game that doesn’t exist,” he said to a stranger who stopped by. “But there’s something about this team and the community they’ve built that makes us come out here.”

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The Twist family tailgate was the only one in the lot. But hundreds of cars surrounded their minivan, each one bringing fans to watch Thursday’s cup final in the Rising’s empty stadium, where the club set up one concession stand and two inflatable projection screens. A team employee’s computer streamed the game onto each one.

It was the closest anybody could get to being there in person.

“We’ve been a little sleepy soccer team for I don’t know how long,” said Dayna Klecak, who said she’s been a Rising fan for the past three seasons. She balanced two beers in one hand and pointed at the stands with the other. They were almost full. “I don’t know how many minor-league teams can do this.”

At least a thousand Rising fans came to watch a game that was being nationally broadcast. They wore their jerseys, sang their songs and gathered in the most hopeful of sports beliefs: That 90 minutes of singing and support could somehow change the fate of a soccer game, even from halfway across the country.

“Even though they’re not here, they’re aware of our presence,” said Kelley McCarthy, a season ticket holder who came to watch with her husband.

So they came in bunches. At first, a team employee heard there would be a thousand people, then it was two thousand, and then she lost track. It was so many that the pizza tent ran out of everything but cheese slices. Families spread blankets on the cool grass. The two supporters’ groups — The Red Fury and Los Bandidos — filled the front row of the west grandstand.

“You guys understand what we’re here for, correct?” Crash Gladys, a local sports radio host, yelled into a microphone before kickoff.

The crowd cheered its approval.

“Is that a big ol’ W?” she asked.

More cheers.

“So that’s what we’re gonna do tonight,” said Crash’s co-host, Kenny Sargent. “We’re gonna watch a championship game between Louisville City FC…” He paused. Out came a few boos. “And OUR PHOENIX RISING!”

The game couldn’t match his excitement.

It was a cold night in Louisville, a brisk 43 degrees in a stadium where few road teams ever found victory. Both teams appeared tight. The crowd in Phoenix saw little to cheer. The Red Fury sang, and Los Bandidos fired their smoke bomb, but there wasn’t much else. A ripple filled the stands when Didier Drogba — the legendary player-slash-owner who was playing his final professional game — stood over a free kick, but the goalkeeper batted it away, and the first half ended without a goal.

“Are we having fun?” Crash asked at halftime. “This game is nerve-wracking. Who’s as nervous as I am?”

This time, few people cheered.

“Why so quiet?” asked another announcer, a man named Rico.

“They’re nervous!” Crash yelled.

Maybe it was the breeze that brought a chill over the stadium, or the leftover fumes from a spray-paint mural painted on the field. Or maybe it was the reminder that one good half could give Phoenix Rising a title in just its third year of existence.

The second half started much like the first. Both teams played tight. Both crowds — the one shivering in Kentucky and the one in 70-degree Arizona — stifled themselves. “Don’t jinx it,” one fan told another, scolding her friend for predicting a win. Tension hung over the stadium.

Then, disaster.

A ball bounced around Phoenix’s penalty box, touching every player but clinging to nobody, until it landed in the back of the net. Louisville City took the lead. In Phoenix, hands clasped onto heads. Mouths hung open. The constant chants took a brief pause.

And on the screen, ESPN2 replayed the goal. Normally there’s no video board at the Rising’s home stadium, but now the once-hopeful fans had no choice but to watch the goal on replay, over and over, a reminder of the moment that doomed their team’s season.

But there was still time left. After a minute’s break, the Red Fury beat their drum again. There was beer to drink, pizza to finish and 30 minutes of soccer left to play.

Then there were 20, and Phoenix hadn’t scored.

Then 10.

Five minutes.

The realization seemed to come all at once: Tonight, their team wasn’t good enough.

Still, they watched. Fans crowded around each other, pressing closer to the screen. Few people spoke, but the supporters kept singing. Time ticked away. On the screen, the Rising flailed toward the goal.

Then, all at once, a gust of wind hit the stadium. The two screens bulged and billowed, twisting against themselves. In the 90th minute, a rope that stuck the left screen into the ground shook itself loose. A man jumped from his chair and ran toward the waving inflatable, trying to keep it upright, but he was too late. The left screen collapsed.

Fans on the field didn’t miss a moment. Some pulled out iPhones and called up a stream. Most sprinted to the other side of the field, cramming against each other, watching the final seconds tick away. Their team needed one more goal. But the screen was still rippling. The same man ran to the second screen, grabbed the rope and pulled it tight. The screen stayed upright.

Now there was a minute left. The fans chanted louder, louder, louder, trying somehow to force their energy onto a field 1,500 miles away. Then they were silent. On a faraway field, the referee blew two blasts of his whistle. Those stands filled with purple-and-gold smoke. Louisville’s bench stormed onto the field. The Phoenix players trudged off the field.

Then the man let go, and the second screen fell to the ground.