I can remember the exact moment when I became a soccer fan. For the 2006 World Cup match between the U.S. and Italy I’d gone to Rice Village with friends to watch.

I couldn’t have named two U.S. players, but going to watch the game in a public place, presumably joined by the city’s Euros, Africans, and South Americans, sounded like a pleasantly cosmopolitan way to spend the afternoon.

I planned to watch from the comfort of my favorite Village sports-watching hangout, Brian O’Neill’s, and was both surprised and annoyed when I arrived a few minutes before kickoff to find the bar packed. My little group had to retreat to Little Woodrow’s next door. I groused as we sat at one of the picnic tables. Brian O’Neill’s was filled with real fans, sporting their official Italian and U.S. jerseys, while at Little Woodrow’s I had to ask them to first turn on the game, and then to turn up the sound.

It didn’t make me feel very cosmopolitan. And I was expecting the game itself to be boring. After all, it was soccer.

Then something happened. When Italy scored first, I was surprised to find myself yelling at the screen. A feeling of sports patriotism came over me, something that I hadn’t felt since the intense competitions between the United States and the USSR during the Cold War Olympiads. I’ve never been able to get emotionally involved in our various basketball Dream Teams. After all, if they don’t screw up, they ought to win.

But soccer was different — we were the underdogs.

Then, after the U.S. tied the game (I didn’t learn to say “equalized” until later) on an absurd Italian own goal, Italian midfielder Daniele De Rossi struck — literally. While competing for a header with U.S. striker Brian McBride, De Rossi blasted his elbow into McBride’s face, leaving the Yank soaked in blood.

I understand now how absurd my reaction was, but …I hadn’t known soccer could make you bleed.

Now I wanted Italian blood, De Rossi’s blood, and the rather mild sounding ‘match’ turned passionate for me. De Rossi was sent off (not that the two are necessarily linked, but De Rossi’s father-in-law, an apparent mobster, was killed in a Mafia hit two years ago), but then two Americans were sent off as well.

The contest became an epic struggle of nine against ten, and when it ended a 1-1 draw, I left Woodrow’s feeling completely drained.

And hooked. I was still jealous of the Brian O’Neill’s crowd with their jerseys and organized cheers, and was determined to watch as many contests with the in-crowd as I could. I moved around town: A German restaurant for Germany-Poland. A Mexican restaurant for Mexico-Argentina. It was an incredible sports-watching experience, and it came just at the time when I was beginning to sour on baseball.

Houston becomes ... exotic!

Houston has seldom seemed a more compelling place than it did that month or so. It was like taking a world tour while sitting still, as the various peoples rotated through our bars. The Brian O’Neill’s crowd for the Germany-Argentina quarterfinal was half German and half South American.

The Germans (my ancestral people) chanted "Deutschland! Deutschland!" as the thrilling match reached its climax, and I felt like I was in a parallel Houston, the exotic city of my dreams.

For the Italy-France final (I was 100 percent down with France), I was again at Brian O’Neill’s (or B.O., as my 12-year-old son and I call the bar now) with my crowd. It was quite a day in Houston, as well as in Germany where the final was played.

Lightning struck a Village-area transformer just before kickoff and the bar’s electricity went off. The Italians and the French scattered to their Plan B bars while we ran around looking for a TV. The power loss seemed to roll, and one Village bar after another lost power. We’d made our way to Hans’ Bier Haus by the time Zidane Zidane famously (infamously?) caved in an Italian defender’s chest with a head butt and was sent off, sealing France’s defeat.

Soccer really was a window to a different world. What American athlete would allow himself to be thrown out of a world championship game because a defender claimed biblical knowledge of his sister?

Four-year wait

So, I was hooked on the World Cup, and have been more or less counting the days till this year’s event ever since. But what about soccer itself, without the epic World Cup context?

I signed up for the Fox Soccer Channel and GolTV and began watching the English Premiere League and Spain’s La Liga. To my gratification, I discovered the league games were actually played at a higher level than the World Cup. Soccer is the ultimate team game, and, naturally, year-round teams play it better.

So I became a Johnny-come-very-lately Barcelona fan (I know, not very original), and tried to establish a bond with Arsenal. I bought a Dynamo jersey and occasionally took my place in the cheap seats at Robertson Stadium.

I’ll probably never be a very knowledgeable fan. Given the fact that the game has no timeouts, and that only three substitutions are allowed per match, I still don’t quite know what the coach does during the game. But you don’t have to be an expert to enjoy it. Like me you can just ooh and ahh over the fancy dribbles, tight passes, curling kicks, and diving saves.

And, above all, over the highly theatrical fan participation. Soccer fans are not called ‘supporters’ for nothing.

Win, lose, or draw, that England-U.S. match this Saturday should be quite something. The wait is almost over.