The great divide between two cultures could be easily seen on a chilly June winter's day in Cordoba, Argentina, as a North American family was getting to know a South American family on an open field of a city park.

The North American family brought a football; the South American family a futbol. Each ball was a perfect symbol of the sports lunacy that exists in each country, and seeing that we were in the midst of the World Cup, every Argentine's passion for the game had reached a fever pitch.

The North American family, which included my four children, two of them daughters, were throwing the football around. My daughters, both good athletes, were throwing tight spirals and holding their own with their brothers in catching and throwing.

The South American family, which included my younger daughter's fiancé, were showing great precision as they kicked the futbol around.

When the families traded balls, that's when the fun started. It became obvious that the North Americans had no skill with their feet, and Argentines no ability to use their arms.

We kicked the futbol with no velocity and little accuracy, and they threw a football with more wobble than a drunken sailor.

The unlikely meeting between these two families had its beginning last year when my daughter was finishing up her degree at the National University of Córdoba and met a young Argentine man in a political science class. The two fell in love and ultimately set a June 18 wedding, the dead of winter in the southern hemisphere.

That this would happen to be during the World Cup was icing on the cake to a most joyous event.

"Argentina is a melting pot, just like the United States," an Argentine businessman told me in a barber shop. "After World War II, a flood of Italians immigrated, joining a significant population of Spanish and French. When the World Cup is on, we are all Argentines. After it is over, we resume being Italians, Spanish and French."

The streets are awash with vendors selling the powder blue and white soccer jerseys, flags, horns, silly hats and other paraphernalia connected to the Argentine team, which is ranked behind Spain and Brazil to win the Cup.

"The whole town comes to a stop when Argentina plays," a waiter in a cafe tells me.

Having to find out for myself, I arrange to have my future son-in-law take me and my family to a cafe for the national team's 8 a.m. game against South Korea. I am wearing a recently purchased jersey with the number 9 on it.

We begin to panic as two cafes prove to be too crowded. We finally squeeze into an establishment where we were able to finagle a table for our party of seven.

Crowds, including men with ties and suits on, gather outside the cafe windows to view the match. I find out that no one, inside our out, ever budges.

It's apparent that the team's star, Lionel Messi, is a magician with the ball, but on this day, Gonzalo Higuain — number 9 — scores three goals to fuel a 4-1 Argentina win.

I proudly point to the number 9 on my jersey, proclaiming that it is due to my presence that Argentina has been victorious. I'm undaunted when it is pointed out to me that it is a jersey that is worn by the national tennis team.

When soccer began to be popular in the United States, I claimed that it was a communist plot to divert the attention of our children from the real U.S. sports — baseball, basketball and football.

My attitude has been largely expunged while covering high school soccer here in Valencia County.

But my trip to Argentina washed away any remnants my jingoistic behavior.

The fact that I can root for teams from the United States and Argentina is evidence that this wonderful sport is the only sport that can claim to have rabid interest worldwide.

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