For the weeks that the World Cup was broadcast on American television I vowed to purge my soul of American sports (and the worst excesses of the Lebron circus - though I confess I was suckered into watching “The Decision”) and to join my brothers and sisters from all over the world who would stay rooted to their television sets (whether at home or before those giant screens in the piazzas) and who clutched their heads (in operatic despair) at every missed shot and kissed each other on both cheeks (in operatic glee) for every goal made in the world’s version of “the beautiful game” - which most Americans are both clueless about and proudly indifferent.

I was one of the few who used to watch the old Cosmos when they played in New York (my uncle visited from Germany around that time and drooled over Beckenbauer and he became my favorite player on the team) and I wanted to recapture some of that youthful folly.

And I suppose because I came to American when I was seven (and mostly attended Greek parochial schools) a part of me still held allegiance to the Old World and all its customs and when Americans derided soccer (“Not much happens”…Uh, and baseball?...”Just guys running around”…Uh, and football?) I usually took issue and became a contrarian.

So I became a contrarian now and in the midst of the Lebron coronation I proudly DVR’d every match my set could hold and set my watch by South African time. I tried to keep up with the blizzard of insights and statistics provided by the international bevy of commentators (but gave up with Liverpool legend Steve McManaman, who had the long hair of an English bad boy but the accent of every Beatle multiplied) and I tried to get excited over the big matches (once I knew which the big matches were).

I cheered on Greece (Hey, they were European champs! I vaguely remembered) and hoped they would perform a miracle and pull Greece out of its economic and social doldrums. No such luck.

I cheered on the U.S. and even listened to the play-by-play on the radio and hoped Landon Donovan would be the star of these games and help them overcome the robbery of the officiating (I was sure the horrendous officiating would only make the team’s comeback more thrilling - Do you believe in miracles!). No such luck and the air came out my balloon pretty much after the U.S. lost to Ghana.

But then I hoped Ghana would become the Cinderella team for host Africa and cheered on their match with Uruguay (where is Uruguay, anyway?). No such luck. Ridiculous penalty kicks.

I thought Germany would be a juggernaut. No such luck.

I cheered for The Netherlands in the final because they had bombed three times in their history and I always root for the underdog.

No suck luck.

So it was a disappointing Cup for me, vague though my expectations were. But I got to see people cry and kiss each other and hug and drop to their knees and say thankful prayers to heaven (and that was just the players - how often do you see Kobe Bryant doing that?). And I got to see players escorted onto the field by children, and hardened-strikers and “keepers” - (don’t you say goalies) - mouthing along to national anthems I never heard of. And I got to see the glories of South Africa and the miracle of a country emerging from the ashes of apartheid, and the gaudy colors and costumes of proud nations from around the world, and now will forever imagine every match sounding like a vuvuzela swarm of bees.

It was a thrill and a privilege sharing this with the world and feel I have renewed my claim as a citizen of the world.

Dimitri C. Michalakis