At 5:30, I have the distinct pleasure of smoking an American Spirit and walking to my apartment instead of cramming into the Taurus for a rage filled drive down the bayshore littered with tourists and their gaping jaws. On a day like today, I like to detour a mile or two and do my best impersonation of a child molesting hobo; strolling alone in sunglasses, scruff beard and flip flops through the parks on the beachfront. When I saw a group of virile teenagers playing soccer, I started reflecting on the odd spectacle of the World Cup.

I’m not what you would call a soccer brand evangelist. In fact, I’ve lobbed my share of terrible “lol wusses” jokes through the years. But I’ve mellowed. It’s a sport, like any other sport, where teams compete, cheat and deal with incompetent refs and overbearing fans. Over the past weeks, I’ve taken a liking to the game.

This speaks to a larger point- The Church of Sport. When I reflect on my life, my favorite memories seem to revolve around a few core subjects:

• Playing sports
• Wimminz
• Beer
• Some combination of the three

Worshipping at the Church of Sport isn’t about bowing on one knee before your idol of Bo Schembechler and referring to awesome baseball parks as cathedrals. It doesn’t have anything to do with team or rivalry or wins or losses. It’s about the zen and joy of engaging in athletics – be it solo or in a team. To me, watching athletes compete is the true appeal of sport. Not second guessing their tactical decisions or lording my teams victory over your team. The tactics, strategy, stats, rivalry and record are second to the spectacle of humans simply playing a game, and playing it well.

Years from now, when the Church of Sport is an officially sanctioned religion by the major countries of the world and we hold our services on Saturday afternoons, playing the games of the world with our friends and colleagues and sharing beers afterward on a journey toward enlightment, they will make a documentary. It will be called 6/23. The film will tell the story of the day the Church was truly born.

America is not a soccer nation. Perhaps it never will be. But on 6/23, it seemed like anybody who was remotely cool got a little caught up. This is the power of sport. No matter how alien or hostile to the very core of a nation a sport may be, it can overcome all obstacles and grab you. The determination and will of both America and Algeria made the country actually care about the outcome. To the disappointment of Rick Reilly and that asshole at the bar who won’t shut up, people were actually, really sincerely cheering for the American soccer team.

Fresh in the wake, two guys that most of the country has never heard of began a march towards death from exhaustion at Wimbledon. It’s the first round, nobody knows them, and nobody will remember them in six months. But this morning, it was a bigger small talk conversation than the weather. “Hey – how about that tennis match??!” – “Crazy!” – “Alright, well I’ll see ya at lunch!”. It was a day of sports talk – and not sportz talk radio. If you jumped into a conversation crying about the substitution patterns of US Soccer, people just stared. This is my heaven.

I wrote this post in my head in about 5 minutes. As I was walking home from the beach, I noticed that I’d started kicking a pinecone down the street. I’ve played less than 15 minutes of soccer in my life, and my coordination is suspect, so it was less than graceful. But it felt good. Immediately, I could sense the appeal of the game. Once again, sport conquers all.

So this Saturday, I hope you enjoy America vs. Ghana. But if you are going to be the guy at the bar who feels the need to remind everyone, for the 30th time in a month, that you don’t like soccer because they are divers or whiners or there are ties or whatever your reason – just keep it to yourself. The Church doesn’t care. We see beauty in every game.