I was diagnosed with a terrible disease Saturday. I will be forced to live with it for the rest of my life. Symptoms started appearing in late June, but I shrugged them off. I knew it afflicted millions in other countries, but I thought I, as an American was safe. I was wrong.

I have World Cup Fever.

It came on slowly, with a few games here and there. Maybe I'd sit down with a couple of friends and some beer and watch the U.S. play; it was strictly recreational stuff. Then both games on a given afternoon, even the ones that were broadcast in Spanish on Univision. I rationalized that I was just tuning in to hear Andres Cantor's famous howl of "Gooooooool!" I didn't have a problem. I could have turned off the set anytime I wanted.

Then came the fourth of July, the epic match between the U.S. and Brazil. I scheduled my day around it. And I was crushed when we lost. But I was still in my kitchen, and after the game was over I participated in the vaunted American summer activity of watching fireworks. I was beginning to recover; after all the U.S. was out, so how could the tournament hold my interest?

Last Friday, a friend asked if I wanted to go see the quarter-final game between Italy and Spain on Saturday. He didn't have tickets, he had no idea if we would be able to get any at a reasonable price, and we had to get up at about 8 to get down there. I agreed.

This should have been a warning signal.

We arrived in Foxboro to the sound of drums. Drums on top of cars. Drums along the streets. Drums on people's backs. More drums than I have ever seen assembled in one place.

And the colors. The green, white and red of "Forza Italia" and the red and yellow of Spain. Circles of people chanting songs that they all knew by heart. Cries of "Baggio" (the star Italian striker) were met in kind by total strangers. Some fans taunted each other playfully, while others gathered in circles to discuss what the strategies of the two European powerhouses should be that day.

A coffin bearing the flag of Spain was carried around by Italian fans. A Spanish flag measuring more than 40 feet across was carried by a legion of Spaniards. Cowbells peppered the ears along with the occasional air horn. It was not 10 in the morning, a full two hours before kickoff.

The two sides were eager to adopt fans of the unlucky nations such as Greece, Argentina and South Korea. Face paint was available in either set of colors for anyone who asked.

The emotions defy comparison to any American sporting event. The national pride of the competing sides is at stake. Coaches and players who lose key matches frequently retire just hours afterwards. Sadly, people are killed for their mistakes on the field. And those who succeed become national heroes forever with a flick of an ankle.

The Cup only happens every four years. There are no "threepeats," the game has never stagnated to the point where one man or team could dominate three straight championships. Some players play for three cups, others for just two, and for many the Cup is truly a once in a lifetime opportunity.

Fans remember every single game every single goal of their teams tenure in America, however short or long it may be. Their team is their life, their consuming passion.

But some are not convinced. It's easy to see why American sportswriters are so hard on the Cup; it requires them to work. Recycling the tired old cliches about great pitching winning pennants won't work here. The teams are truly teams-you can't profile quarterbacks and forget about the O-line.

It's even hard to get the players to dispense standard quotes such as "one game at a time" and "I'm happy to be here," because few of them speak your language or have ever heard of your paper.