Feels like the fiiiirst time... Feels like the very first time.

As I jubilantly jumped in the air, my beer soaked through the shirt I had been wearing for the last 48 hours, and likely everyone packed close to me in the bar's standing room only crowd. "God damn draft beers!"

Did the 'Skins just lock up a playoff berth? Had my beloved Terps knocked off yet another #1 from the State of North Carolina?

Surprisingly, no. I was alone at a pub in Dublin watching huge underdog USA and eventual champs Italy battle it out in World Cup 2006. DaMarcus Beasley had just seemingly scored a go-ahead goal to put my people up 2-1 in a crazy game that had seen 3 red cards and a horrific bloody face. For the briefest of moments, it looked like The Land Of The Free had finally arrived, and, more importantly, the crazy Italian chicks standing right in front of the closest TV weren't going to have so much to sing about. Down a man, with only 9 men on the field (kind of a big deal), somehow we had set the table for a monumental victory. The folks around me would just have to deal with the drops of Guinness pouring down on them from above as if the heavens too had joined in my celebration.

Unfortunately, the goal was disallowed on a bogus offside call (one of the more miserable calls to go against a JMFS supported squad), and my 6 euro beer had been wasted in vain. Although the game ended in a draw and the American's cup run ended in disappointment, this game and this moment became the measuring stick against which all other soccer watching experiences would be measured.

As I jogged to Summer's in Arlington to watch Liverpool's season opener at Sunderland, I allowed myself to believe that perhaps today would be a day as memorable as as that June day in the Motherland.

I entered and quietly found myself a seat at the bar. To my surprise, I found Summer's filled with fans in red jerseys similar to mine, except by filled I meant just enough for a rousing game of sharks and minnows. "No big deal," I thought. Determined to make the best of it, I ordered the largest Guinness available and a burger, which were both delicious.

Seated at the bar next to me were two things I had yet to encounter at a bar while watching soccer. First, the "middle aged American male soccer fan." If you're looking for a good acupuncturist, you're gonna prefer to take the advice from some guy fresh off the boat that greets you with a "Herro" eating General Tso's. If you were looking for your ideal stranger offering soccer insights, ideally you'd find former footballer turned actor Vinnie Jones, near the bottom of the list would be, at first glance, the guy sitting next to me. Hypocritical? Considering that I too will fit this description some day, yes. Although this guy did exceed my expectations for standard soccer chit chat, the experience was not getting off on the right foot.

Second, and more entertaining than the somewhat boring game we were watching, was the "soccer game date." Sitting right next to my aging friend was an American girl and what appeared to be her date, an Englishman sporting a red Liverpool scarf. An otherwise innocuous pair, what sparked my interest was that although he didn't seem to be saying anything that should have interested her ("Actually [Fernando Torres] scored more goals than any player ever has in their first year in the premier league" for example) she ate it up and asked for seconds. Clearly, she was all over the accent. I wondered how absurd his comments could have been without turning her off. "I once was a roadie for Ace of Base!"? "I'm a founding member of Arlington's Jelly of the Month Club. This month is peach!"? It kept me interested during a particularly boring an uneventful game.

Just as I thought my first game as a Liverpool fan would end in a bland scoreless draw, my Reds sprang to life. Alonso slipped a ball through to Torres, who settled the ball and drilled it into the back of the net. All 15 of us jumped to our feet and yelled/clapped. "Hooray!" Fernando's epic shot stood out as the lone highlight in a lame game, and, as opposed to my previous experience, it counted.

As Torres, Gerrard, and all the rest of the gang celebrated on the pitch, it was the Liverpool fans that made me realize I made the right choice. All of a sudden the bar came to life, I ordered another beer, and the cameraman scanned the crowd as the away fans erupted at the sudden turn of fortune. As expected, they sang songs for their hero. Much to my new friends' appreciation, this time they stayed dry and my celebratory beer successfully found it's way into my stomach.