I had forgotten about the time change and the hour that I thought we'd have before the game vaporized. We checked in and raced to the Mexican restaurant, where the likelihood of the game playing would be high.

My husband dropped me off to verify if TVs were playing the game. There were and there were others with green jerseys like what all of us in the car were wearing. Before I sprinted back to the car, I caught sight of a woman with flowers crowning her hair and a swirling skirt, bouncing a small green-jerseyed baby. Perfect.

We were on a road trip and a friend of mine from high school joined us as we watched. Across the bar where we sat, an Asian man had taken the baby, now dangling in a carrier. The man was wearing the jersey of the opposing team. And here we all were, at a bar, at the southern border of the United States, hoping that men on a field could put a ball in a net.

I breathlessly caught my friend up to one of the stories, that a player who had scored during the open games had been previously felled by a skull injury. "And what did he score with," I asked," with a header!"

My friend, not a sports fan, said he hadn't known I was so into soccer. I told him I was into football every four years, and that at the start of these games, I realized that my only team fan club shirt was so old that it only had four stars.

"Oh, so you're an Easter and Christmas type soccer fan," he teased. But he's right; I am. But I'm here for the stories, like the small nations making their first appearance or slightly larger ones coming back after decades of being able to qualify. It's hearing about the Scots drinking Boston dry or the Congo asking their superfan who poses like a statue of their former president to be a part of the official delegation.

It's also unfortunately hearing stories about how one of the host countries has denied entry or asked players to leave the country between games. But try as they might, hate cannot stop the beauty of the game.

We vacillate back to other stories to try and regain hope that good prevails, with dozens of videos of cultural exchanges. South Koreans getting kissed on the cheek. Germans marveling at a Waffle House. Norwegians basking in the sun on a practice field. It's a joke that in nine months, there may be more kids born who might swap their shirts depending on who's playing.

We have mostly gentle teasing in our house, especially during these early rounds. "We might make it through to the very end," speculates my husband hopefully and I'll reply, "Then we'll treat you kindly and offer you second place."

We pick up a few stragglers to our hearts as the games progress, cheering for the middle-aged goalie becoming a fortress and who cried in sheer relief at the end of the game. The island team that came up against a Goliath and still managed to throw their rock into the net. There's humanity at its core, that endurance and teamwork can still make a difference and that loyalty can bring both elation and heartache.

Cassie McClure is a writer, millennial, and unapologetic fan of the Oxford comma. She can be contacted at [email protected]. To learn more about Cassie McClure and read features by other Creators Syndicate writers and cartoonists, visit the Creators Syndicate website at www.creators.com.

Photo credit: Emilio Garcia at Unsplash