Every time I watch Argentina play in the World Cup, I'm reminded of my dad.
When I was a little kid growing up in the San Fernando Valley, life was unpredictable, except for two things: On Saturday, we went to the Argentine Club, and when the World Cup came around, we cheered for the Argentine team.
Every four years, those two events were combined.
In the 1970s and 1980s, soccer wasn't easy to find on television, so if you wanted to watch the World Cup, you went to the Argentine Club. And, let me tell you, it was a party from start to finish.
The kids played in a small rec room, but it was difficult to focus on anything because the shouts and cheers coming from the main hall every time Argentina scored rattled the walls.
When we got older, my brother and I watched the games with our parents. We made Argentine flags. We ate empanadas. For a little while, we were Argentine.
Mostly, though, we saw our father as a happy man. Too often, he struggled to pay the bills, to fit into American society. Too often, he was stressed or unhappy. But when Maradona made a goal, suddenly, he was transported to the young boy he used to be, surrounded by his friends, and the country he missed.
So, it's not really surprising that I, as an adult, don't miss any of Argentina's games. It helps that our team has superstar Messi. Who doesn't enjoy watching him score?
But mostly, it's because, for ninety minutes, I remember my father at his happiest.