Well, folks, there’s no avoiding it now: We’re in the thick of the World Cup.

For weeks we’ve been seeing the signs — co-workers stumbling back from two-hour lunches that started at 10:15 a.m., their breath heavy with IPA funk, their necks draped with busy scarves that make an appearance only every four years, like jingoistic cicadas.

You may not know some of your co-workers’ last names, but now you know exactly how Danish they are. The World Cup turns people into missionaries for their own 23andMe results.

I used to let the whole thing annoy me, you know, the way that entitled people get annoyed by good things that simply aren’t designed for them.

I grew up as a fat kid who never set foot on a soccer (football!) field (pitch!), and much like the roller coasters I was too chubby to ride, soccer was stupid, I decided, and the World Cup being the most soccer thing possible was therefore the most stupid thing possible.