Sunday around the world, the once-every-four-years biggest-futball-game-in-history will be played before the eyes of the planet.

Two national squads will take the field: Germany and Argentina.

I first met Argentina when my son was assigned his freshman roommate in college. We shook hands. Ignacio, Iggy, was second-generation Argentine in this country. In the homeland of his mother, Isabel, their generations drew reins back to the first Spanish riders. Since that first meeting in the dorm, Iggy has become family. I have never visited Argentina. From Ignacio, his three brothers and Isabel, I know Argentina to be a country of warm feelings, large laughs and lasting attachments. It is a land I am proud to be related to, and a far country I hope one day to visit.

I was part German from the day I was born. My Mom’s Mother’s Mother, my Great Grandmother, left Germany for Minnesota and a new life among the rolling farmlands and growing cities. She spoke little of the old country, and I can feel her sadness in my eyes, but she was a determined lady with many sons and daughters who made a new life for their many sons and daughters and have been friends and family to many in their many lives. I have visited Germany. It is a land I am proud to be related to, and a far country I hope again one day to visit.

In their ways, the players facing each other on Sunday are my players. They are my teams. They are part of me. I shall watch with great attention, I shall applaud and clap for each outstanding play, I shall worry and follow each mis-step, and when the game is over, I shall stand, salute the victor, sadly bow to the vanquished and welcome both home as family.

To the World Cup,

Grandpa Jim