I confess that I’ve never been much of a patriot. In fact, it’s something that I’ve struggled with, guilt-ridden from the notion that I’m an undeserving jerk. As much as I’d love to be, I just never have felt an overwhelming sense of pride in my country.

Each year is the same parade of images: children waving flags, fantastic fireworks displays, faces painted with the familiar stripes. But instead of stirring some civic sentiment inside, I view it all from a detached, almost curious vantage point. It’s as if “these people” are celebrating something that I just don’t understand, like Yam Kippur or Kwanzaa. Even the Olympics never seem to distill a sense of American pride in me. (if we’re being brutally honest, I sometimes hope that the over-hyped, ridiculously profiled media darlings of the US don’t perform as expected).

This is not something that I’m pleased about. I know that I should be thanking every higher being for being born on this soil, with not a relative care or threat to my preservation. Even multiple trips to other countries has not made me further appreciate what I take for granted, 100% of the time. I’m a spoiled American who takes his freedom with a grain of salt.

Yet the only time that I’ve felt a rising sense of patriotism has been with the World Cup. And I had forgotten this until Saturday when watching the France vs. Brazil game (the first match I’ve been able to catch in years). An area of my life all but written out now, I used to live and breath soccer as a child. And the fact that the US was always the stepchild, the relentless underdogs of the international soccer scene stirred the most patriotic emotions I’ve ever experienced. Perhaps at the age of 10 I was confusing patriotism for merely “rooting for the underdog,” but I can vividly remember shutting my eyes tightly, praying that Alexi Lalas and Cobi Jones would deliver the country to international notoriety with their tenacity and determination.

So as I sigh, relaxing from a day not spent working, I can rest a bit easier knowing that I can at the very least acknowledge the idea of patriotism. Perhaps if I felt our country had something to prove, beyond the soccer pitch, I would pick up that flag next year. But I’m just not sure that I’m proud to be called an “American.”