If you’re a soccer fan, or one of the hundreds of millions of people around the globe who have been watching the World Cup these past two weeks … thank you. I love you. You’re my people.

But this story is not for you.

This story is for the person who has not yet had the good fortune of being exposed to soccer on a local or international scale. The person who doesn’t “get” the game yet, or understand why people would wake up at all hours of the night to watch two countries they’ve never visited square-off against one another. Or even the person who downright dislikes the game. That’s okay. We’re cool. I understand that just because it’s the world’s most popular sport doesn’t mean it’s for everyone. But before you go back to reading about the Broncos or the Rockies, I’d like to offer you something. A perspective. My perspective. I want to tell you why this tournament matters.

Growing up in Dakar, Senegal, on the edge of poverty, soccer was the only thing my friends and I really had to look forward to. We played barefoot on dirt, using rocks as goals and rags covered in plastic bags as balls. I remember one day our “ball” was in tatters and falling apart so my mom came out and gave us one of her kitchen cloths so that we could patch the ball back together and keep playing.

There was no structure. No clubs. No minivans. No orange slices and Capri Suns. Just a bunch of kids, smiling, chasing a ball and pretending to be names on backs of jerseys that were too expensive to own. We didn’t dream of playing professionally. That idea was crazy — unfathomable. We just dreamed of playing on grass, in cleats, together. That would have been enough.

Then the 2002 World Cup happened. I was 10 years old and it changed my life.

In Dakar — well, the whole country really — when the Senegalese National Team plays, everything shuts down. Soccer is religion there. I know that might sound cliché. You’ve probably heard people say that before. But in this country of 15 million people on the western-most edge of the African continent … it’s true. Everyone stops what they’re doing to watch. The roads are empty. The stores are closed.

The team itself is known as The Lions of Teranga. In Wolof, the national language of Senegal, “Teranga” means a peaceful, welcoming place. A paradise of sorts. And the Lions, our national soccer team, protect that paradise — and all who inhabit it.

It’s a tall order, perhaps. A lot to ask of a soccer team. But that year — 2002 — when the Lions qualified for their first-ever World Cup, they were up to the task.

Going in to the tournament, the country was ecstatic. Buzzing. Electric. Our squad had talent and a couple of well-known names, but little was expected, especially after the draw when we were put in to a group with Denmark, former world champions Uruguay, and the defending champions — and former Colonists of Senegal — France.

The odds seemed insurmountable. We were just hoping to be competitive. Yet in the opening match against France, played in Seoul, South Korea, the Lions of Teranga shocked the world. Every Senegalese person remembers where they were that day. The day the Lions beat the defending champions 1-0. The day they put us on the map.

I’ll never forget it.

Surrounded by friends and family, it was on that day — May 31, 2002 — that we were given hope. Hope that if we worked hard enough, that if we wanted it bad enough, we could become professionals too. We no longer aspired just to find a patch of grass and some new cleats, but rather something more. To be the best versions of ourselves. To be like them.

I was reminded of that day on Tuesday, when the Lions of Teranga roared again. It has taken 16 years for our national team to qualify for another World Cup, and once again, our team shocked the world, beating Poland 2-1 in Moscow and capturing headlines around the world.

So next time you walk past a television screen and a World Cup game is on, don’t dismiss it. Consider for a second that somewhere, in a place like Dakar, a young kid surrounded by his friends and family, honing his skills on dirt fields with balls made of his mother’s kitchen cloths, is watching too. And is being inspired to achieve something he never thought possible.

And who knows, maybe one day you will know his name. Maybe he’ll play for your local team. Maybe he’ll write a column in your newspaper.

That’s the power of the World Cup.

Dominique Badji is a striker for the Colorado Rapids.