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The World Cup of soccer has begun, but if you have even one hard-core soccer head in your life, you already knew that.

I fall into the category of fans known by American football fans, and our wives, as Sick In The Head. (The politically correct term is footballitis, as coined by Adidas in TV ads for the last world cup.)

I contracted footballitis in 1974 as a nine-year-old living in Scotland and have been a carrier ever since. My South Louisiana-born family had moved there a few years earlier. The United States didn’t qualify that year, but Scotland did. And Scotland is mad for its soccer.

I remember sitting in front of our Marconiphone-brand television with my younger brother, Tim, marveling at the brilliant green grass, the bright uniforms (we called them strips) and the incredible level of play. By the end of the month-long tournament, Tim and I were jumping with cheers or slumping in disappointment, just like the players.

After each game, we would go out and play one-on-one in our back yard, emulating our favorite teams. We even observed protocol—my mom said she once saw us standing at attention singing the British national anthem.

I commentated the action, bad announcer-style, as we pushed the ball up and down our small pitch, pretending each touch was a pass to another player.

“Danny McGrain passes to Kenny Dalglish!” I’d dramatically exclaim. “Dalglish is making a run now, he’s about to shoot—he shoots! But oh no! It’s saved by Emerson the Brazilian keeper!” Then Tim would roll the ball out to himself and start his patient attack the other way.

For us, the countries were just teams. All we needed to know was Holland wore orange; Brazil wore yellow; and Italy wore blue.

We returned home to Louisiana in 1979 and have watched the tournement on TV ever since.

For the 2002 World Cup, my wife was pregnant with our daughter. The tournament was played in Asia, so the games were aired live in the middle of the night. That didn’t stop us from inviting our Soccer Freak Friends over at 3 a.m. to watch the big games.

Our neighbors must have thought us nuts. I know my wife thought I was. One night, I accidentally woke her from a dead sleep with a good thump to the head. She asked what the hell was I doing? In my half-awake state, I said something like, “I was dreaming it was a penalty, and I saved it.”

Talk about your footballitis.

The World Cup runs until July 9. This time around, I may have to sleep on the couch.