On any given day at Paly, you might see two or three students wearing jerseys most American sports fanatics won’t be able to place. Brightly colored, with unfamiliar sponsors adorning them and foreign names on the back, these jerseys are the markings of a true football (no, not soccer) fan.

I have two. One is blue with red and white writing, number 12 on the back. It’s the jersey of French international Thierry Henry. The other is purple, the jersey of Real Madrid captain and Spanish superstar Raul Gonzalez. The most common reaction to both of these jerseys is, “Who are they? Oh, one of your soccer players.”

The American apathy towards football is understandable. Games are shown only infrequently, mostly during school hours, or on the Spanish channels, squeezed grudgingly between professional arm wrestling and basketball. Most people incorrectly consider it a girly sport, inhabited by the Beckhams of the world, or they associate it with AYSO.

I was among their number until this summer, my experience with the sport being primarily Bend it like Beckham and my younger sister’s infrequent practice sessions in the backyard. Then came the World Cup: games every day, and more passion, ability and pure, intense joy than any other sporting event on Earth. I watched France play Brazil at the insistence of a friend and fell in love – Zidane’s easy free kick to Henry’s perfect header.

Now I check online compulsively for scores and match outcomes and haunt YouTube for clips of my favorite players. I dream of going to Liverpool and Madrid. I grill my father’s European colleagues about their favorite clubs. My hard drive is full of pictures of my favorite players celebrating with their shirts off. (What can I say? I’m only human.)

So the next time you see a strange jersey, look at the name on the back. Write it down on your hand. When you get home, google it. You might be surprised by the raw athleticism and heart-breaking talent you discover. You, like the rest of the world, might fall in love with the beautiful game.