By RYAN E. SMITH

BLADE STAFF WRITER

 

So there I was in Berlin, a group of guys in fake mohawks to my right and a man wearing the German flag and face paint to my left.

 

They were screaming. I was screaming. The other 300,000 people around us were screaming.

 

I was ready to watch some soccer.

 

I mean, football.

 

I mean, soccer.

 

Whatever you call it, it was incredible.

 

The World Cup is upon us, and while most Americans may not understand what the big deal is, the rest of the globe is going absolutely bonkers.

 

What other word can you use when 300,000 people - singing and dancing and flush with excitement - crowd the streets to watch a first-round game between Germany and Costa Rica taking place hundreds of miles away in Munich?

 

I certainly didn't expect it.

 

I'm American and Americans don't care about soccer. Sure, we followed it a little in 1994 when the U.S. hosted the event and we even cheered a bit but we didn't get it - all this running and kicking and no scoring.

 

I happened to be in Germany on vacation earlier this month, and figured it was a good chance to see what all the fuss was about. When I learned that the city had closed off the street in front of the famous Brandenburg Gate, I knew that's where I had to be.

 

Everything momentous happens at Brandenburg Gate. It's where President Reagan emplored Mikhail Gorbachev to "tear down this wall." It's where President Kennedy visited in 1963.

 

So naturally it was where Berliners - and everyone else on the planet, it seemed- wanted to watch the World Cup.

Brandenberg was easy to find: it was the giant gate with the giant soccer ball out front and an enormous JumboTron on the other side.

 

Even though it was a Friday, the streets filled up hours before the 6 p.m. game, flooded with flag-waving Germans rooting for the home team and international soccer refugees from Brazil, Mexico, Italy, everywhere. Fans who couldn't get tickets to games poured into the city and its streets.

 

They wore fake mohawks, fake afros, fake pigtails, cowboy hats, soccer-ball hats, jester hats, spiked World War I helmets. All in their national colors. Many of them were draped in their country's flags. One man came with flares that he set off with every German score.

 

It was impossible not to get caught up in the excitement. The air vibrated with all the cheers.

 

Oh, and everyone stood. For the whole game.

 

When everyone joined together to sing the German national anthem, I got chills. When Germany scored, my eardrums nearly burst.

 

Still, the question remained: Why the big deal?

 

I figured I should have some idea, having played soccer for seven years when I was a youngster. (I was the one with the cool, white cleats and the G.I. Joe socks.) But I've never really cared to watch the sport on television. It seems slow and, well, boring.

 

The more I watched in Germany, though, the more I got wrapped up in it. The ball didn't end up in the net very often, but every corner kick, every pass, was a chance for the crowd to get excited. Somehow they managed to pass that enthusiasm on to me.

 

Before long, I could see the strategy as the teams poked and prodded the defense looking for weakness. I could appreciate the grace of the ball-handlers as they juked and jived with their feet while running at full speed.

 

That said, I can't explain why everyone else in the world is so wild for the sport, and I probably couldn't convince you even if I did. But after watching three World Cup matches during four days in Berlin, I can say it was an amazing, invigorating experience.

 

I have never been to a sporting event that compared - not sitting with more than 110,000 people at Michigan Stadium for a big game, not being on campus at Michigan State when the Spartans won the NCAA men's basketball championship a few years back.

 

This was global. It was everywhere. Every person in the street wore his team jersey or flag. Every restaurant had a special television showing the game.

 

People stood on the sidewalks, peering in at businesses' TVs. Strangers from Croatia and Brazil embraced at a city fountain, taking pictures and smiling and waving with unadulterated joy.

 

Everyone - men, women and children - was watching.

 

When that first game was over, I decided to walk the nearly hour-long trip back to the hostel where I was staying. When I got there, people were still singing, still honking their horns in victory, still dancing in the streets. It was as if they'd won the Super Bowl, not some first-round game in which they were the overwhelming favorite.

 

Even if I couldn't understand their love, it was hard not to appreciate it.

 

Which means, after all this, I made sure to check out the next American game, right?

 

Well, I wanted to watch it ... but there were souvenirs to buy, museums to visit, things to do.

 

Maybe next time?