When I was growing up in Manchester — Northern England, rather than New England — soccer was a religion. Except its adherents were generally more devout. We called it football, of course, and we were either United or City. I was the former but lived so close to City’s Maine Road stadium I could keep track of the score by listening to the sound of the crowd.

My enthusiasm was so extreme that I spent many Friday evenings watching Stockport County, then languishing in the 4th Division. I played, too, and when I was dropped from the school team, I would turn up, uninvited, to be a substitute. Nearly everything was won by Liverpool, which was hated with a passion by United and City fans alike, but there was always the next season.