I don't watch soccer, but it's impossible not to feel that something big is going on in Spain today. It's in the air (like love), on the streets, and in the snack and beer aisles at supermarkets. No one was in the produce aisle this morning, by the way, so I took advantage of it and picked up a few heads of lettuce.

What's with soccer, people? No, don't try to explain. I've lived with soccer buffs, so I know the symptoms all too well. Before the match, it's all about the excitement. You see flurries of people rushing around like zombies on steroids, hurrying off to who knows where. They have enough energy to power a small city. It's passion, they say.

During the match, strange things happen, too. First, under no circumstances are you allowed to walk, crawl, or even slither between the TV and the couch if you value your life. Your loved ones undergo some sort of mutation, turning into something like Gremlins after they've been fed past midnight. You can almost see the little crests on top of their heads, and there are Cheetos all over the floor.

As the end of the match approaches, I cross my fingers and pray to the god of soccer (Messi, I think that's his name): "Please, please, for the love of all that's holy, no extra time!"

With three hours left until kickoff, I'd just like to wish everyone good luck, and may the best team win,but , just so you know, I'm rooting for Iceland. Hú!

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