While on vacation in Europe this summer, a man in Venice tried to explain soccer to me.

“We touch the ball with our feet only,” he said. “So why don’t you call it football? I do not understand you Americans.”

It’s a story we read every four years: Americans just don’t get the beautiful game. The World Cup, the undisputed Greatest Sporting Event on Earth, is the benchmark by which the rest of the world counts time.

In every shop and cafe in Italy, you’ll find a now-yellowing newspaper clipping of Fabio Cannavaro holding up the World Cup trophy. The image is ubiquitous.

It is Italy.

The Venetian was right, in a way. We don’t feel the same way about World Cup as much of the rest of the world does. We don’t stop our lives for it. It won’t heal us.

Since the collapse of the Greek economy, the rest of Europe has been waiting for the proverbial axe to drop again.

The uncertainty makes people tense; it wears on their faces when they read the paper in the morning.

Soccer, though, gives them hope. Tucked in between the headlines proclaiming bad news is a bright present: palettes of stickers, each a mugshot of every participant, from starter to scrub, in the World Cup. Every morning, children wake up all over the continent and rush to get their hands on the newest set. There’s something new to hope for in that paper even if its packaging bears bad news.

The rest of the world says that Americans can’t possibly feel the fervor of the World Cup. Maybe not. That feeling of hope, though?

That we understand.

—-

The tiny island of Murano, a 10-minute water bus ride from Venice, is like the inside of a kaleidoscope. The streets are lined with row upon row of glass shops, each straining under the weight of gaudy chandeliers. In the back rooms, the smell of sawdust and heat coat the air thick. You can pay a fee to watch molten sand molded into glass figurines.

Posted in the corner of one of these workrooms is an old newspaper clipping.

From it, a gang of young men look back with big, dewy Italian eyes. Some look solemn, others fresh off a hearty laugh.

They were the Murano club soccer team.

“Just kids,” reflects the storeroom manager with a gesture toward their photo.

The kids are grown now, the picture 30 years old. Some may labor on Murano, others perhaps moved away.

In cubicles and suits or glass shops and aprons, they all sometimes close their eyes and remember. That moment when they tugged on their jerseys for the first time; the first goal they scored; the drinks on the house that flowed and flowed and flowed after that first victory.

They were 20. Life was more than a never-ending succession of bills.

Then, the world caught up with them. The owner disbanded the team shortly after he began funding it, choosing instead to start what would become a more successful Venetian team.

But, for just a moment, the town of Murano was united behind a group of boys who, like glassmakers, made something pure and beautiful out of nothing.

—-

The World Cup looks the same wherever you are in Europe. The headlines and photos change from country to country, but the full metros of people reading the sports page don’t. Street vendors hawk 10 euro knockoff jerseys in every language. If France wins the World Cup, French electronic stores will practically give away flat screen TVs. If Spain wins, a major bank is offering to slash mortgage rates by a full percent.

When I was in Rome, I saw a six-year-old in a Spain jersey holding the hand of his father, also attired in the furious red of Espana. The boy looked up in wonder at the Colosseum and asked his father what this glorious human creation was. The father told him that long, long ago, Romans made castles and stadiums. Now, people from all over the world came to see the ruins. It was wonderful, yes, but not foreign.

“Exactamente como Espana,” his father said. Exactly like Spain, another country of ruins.

The two blots of crimson, hand in hand, curved down an ancient aisle in the blinding white sunshine, marveling at how big the world can be, and how familiar.

On Wednesday, the boy and his father will watch Spain launch its World Cup campaign. As their team weaves its way across the pitch, closer to triumph or defeat, they’ll shout “Vamos,” urging their squad on.

Across the border, over the seas, in the far corners of the world, an echo resounds.

Forza.

Allez.

Go.