When did everyone else have to like everything we like? And why does every person, place or thing have to be “polarizing?”

I’m inspired to ask these questions almost every day, unfortunately, but they’re at the forefront this summer as we all develop our personal physical and emotional reactions to World Cup fever.

The world’s game christened its tournament this past week. Like the Olympic Games and presidential elections that unfold precisely as often, World Cup soccer triggers the full spectrum of reactions on the give-a-darn meter.

Some love. Some like. Some would rather watch mold grow inside a Petri dish.

In a perfect world, that’s where this would end, and all of us would live happily after ever, embracing our individuality all the way. You remember individuality? When people were allowed to have opinions? That was so cool.

But no. Now we must convert, or condemn, or do something in between that will allow us to get the last word and compensate for whatever shortcoming is hamstringing our miserable life.

It’s not enough to love or loathe soccer. Or hockey. Or auto racing. Or televised golf. Or extreme sports. Or anything else that doesn’t fall under the umbrella of the traditional Big Three. Now we use proselytizing tactics that would make some religious cults blush.

I knew the World Cup was starting Thursday, even though it customarily would have next-to-no impact on my everyday existence. I knew this in part because ESPN crams everything in which it has a vested interest up our nasal cavity at every point in the 24-hour news cycle. It also was inescapable, however, because the worshippers and haters all emerged from their bunkers with guns blazing.

Yes, at one time in my career I might have been a guilty party. It’s oh-so-tempting to play the contrarian and jab the futbol crowd for its fanatical feelings about a game in which a goal is scored roughly every 82 minutes of running time. Labeling them elitists would be too easy, and their electronic retorts would prove my point.

These days I back away from such fish-in-a-barrel fun. It’s not that I have mellowed. It’s that deep down, I enjoy and respect the game.

The people who play and coach soccer at the youth level are my friends, and I appreciate that they allow me into their circle every autumn. Few elements of my job are more enjoyable than planting a lawn chair at midfield on a sun-drenched September afternoon and following the bouncing ball.

What’s the difference? A vested interest. If a soccer game involves people from Monmouth, Jay, Livermore Falls, Dixfield, Turner, Lewiston, Auburn, Strong or some other community that I know and love, it gives me an emotional attachment. It’s the way falling in love is supposed to be. The more that you get to know somebody, the more beautiful they become.

But sitting on my couch at high noon when it’s 88 degrees outside to watch Cameroon and Mexico play to a 1-1 tie? I truly would rather spend that time reading a textbook about nuclear physics. I would argue that’s the centrist position. And it used to be OK. I certainly wouldn’t presume to bully anyone who is transfixed on such a significant athletic and social event, and I would expect the same courtesy toward my lack of passion.

I’ve battled the same foolishness over an I-can-take-it-or-leave-it attitude toward hockey. Give me a high school game at any time of the season or give me a college or pro game in the playoffs. Otherwise, I’ll pass. It does nothing for me.

Respect the game? Heck, yes. Drop everything for it? Goodness, no.

What I don’t understand are the people who look at me like I have three heads because of this preference. Many of whom, all the while, can’t accept my claim that being inside the 130-degree cockpit of a car and exercising a surgeon’s hand-eye coordination for four almost uninterrupted hours is a sport.

That’s the great thing about America, especially an America that has cable, satellite and wireless Internet almost everywhere. We have options. We all get to choose what we dig.

Hopefully without being treated like a second-class citizen for what we do or don’t.

Kalle Oakes is a staff columnist. His email is koakes@sunjournal.com. Follow him on Twitter @Oaksie72.

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