Curaçao fans — many chanting, “Bai Kòrsou! Bai Kòrsou!” (go Curaçao) — cheer for their team in a World Cup match against the Ivory Coast at Philadelphia Stadium on June 25.

This summer, my family and I watched the World Cup from a sports bar at San Francisco International Airport, my parents’ couch in Maryland, a stadium in Philadelphia, an English pub in London and a flat in Mumbai, India. Every place celebrated differently. Yet everywhere I went, soccer offered the same invitation: to step briefly into someone else’s joy. 

Even though our family life already revolves around soccer (my boys, 9 and 12, play on San Francisco teams), I hadn’t anticipated just how swept up in World Cup fever we’d all become. 

During the group stage, we visited my parents in the Maryland town where I grew up and huddled around the television in their living room. My dad shared stories about playing soccer as a boy in Kolkata and growing up amid the fierce rivalries of Bengali football. My husband and children provided constant commentary and patiently explained the offside calls, which, despite watching game after game, my mother, sister and I still don’t quite understand. 

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In June, during the World Cup group stage, we plunked down several hundred dollars for four tickets to attend the game between Curaçao and Ivory Coast and drove three hours to Philadelphia. 

It felt........

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