Growing up with a European father causes a small child to believe that there is only one sport in this world: football (soccer). March Madness was March Sanity; the Super Bowl was an unobserved event; our World Series participation ended when my father asked my mother how many points a home run was worth. Naturally, I began playing the game shortly after I realized legs were meant for walking and stopped only after my junior year in college. Lazy Saturday mornings were spent watching Dennis Bergkamp lead the Dutch national team, or David Beckham's set plays continue to befuddle opposing players. To me, that was home.
Today, I share the couch with my husband, captivated by the 3-3 Germany versus Ukraine friendly. My husband, born to American parents, grew up watching every sporting event I didn't. Soccer was as foreign to him as marrying a Yankee. He has recently taken an enthusiastic interest in all things soccer: the English Premier League, Bundesliga, the Dutch national team, figuring out the ins-and-outs of a game I fell in love with at an early age. Watching him taking the time to learn and appreciate something so special to me warms my heart. To me, this is home.