The ball hit the net, and the U.S. was alive again. Now, I saw Michael, running toward the corner flag, celebrating. And, for a second, I thought of a Christmas morning, close to 20 years ago, and Michael shooting on me, his Uncle Jeff, in my parents’ front yard. He was decked out, from head to toe, in the new soccer kit that had been under the tree a few moments before. He was so full of joy. And there he was. Scoring a goal in the World Cup. And there I was. In the stands. At the game. Screaming. Crying.