I was never a big fan of watching sports. I was always a “tomboy” growing up-playing basketball in my alley with the basketball hoop that my brother made for me. I wanted to be in the WNBA and be just like Rebecca Lobo. So instead of sitting around watching sports, I would rather play them.

But throughout high school, after my childhood tomboy stage was long gone, I played soccer to stay in shape. I was able to get a nice tan, and my teammates were a lot of fun. At times, I would get hurt and have to watch from the sidelines. Not the same experience at all.

On Sept. 25, I finally went to a Chicago Fire game. I say finally because my boyfriend had wanted to take me for the past couple of months. Aside from playing in high school, I don’t consider myself the biggest fan of soccer. Convincing me this time around wasn’t too difficult when he said the Chicago Fire was playing against the Galaxy, the team David Beckham plays for.

I was really thrilled on the night of the game; just picturing Beckham running around in front of me made me smile. I secretly wished our seats were close enough to see his stunning body and maybe make some eye contact.

As we walked to our seats, I felt my heart beating faster. I was right behind the goal. I started looking around our section. My boyfriend had warned me about all the noise and how our seats would be in the “cheerleading” section. The die-hard fans who paint their faces and shout throughout the whole game were there. A guy sitting a couple of benches down was wearing a yellow wrestler’s mask-­at a soccer game? I wondered if he was a real wrestler hiding his secret identity. Kids were wearing their Chicago Fire jerseys and pumping up for the game with long balloons that made a drum sound when they were hit together.

I didn’t even get to sit down before the cheering began. A guy climbed a ladder in front of us to face us, and my boyfriend told me, “It’s like our conductor, he tells us what to chant!” There was the conductor-sweat dripping from his forehead, donning a Fire scarf around his neck and drinking water to get his voice ready for what was to come.

I stood there for a couple of minutes trying to take it all in. Kids, women, men and teenagers were all shouting as loud as they could, jumping up and down as if there was no tomorrow. Bodies hitting bodies, sweaty faces, clapping, everyone was cheering-and the game hadn’t even started.

After the kick-off, the chants became more familiar as I found myself singing along to a chant that repeated “Fire ’til I die.” Those chants are catchier than I thought; I didn’t know I was going to become a die-hard fan within the first hour of being there. Our adrenaline grew 10 times more when the Fire scored the first goal. I felt like I had won the biggest prize in the world as I jumped up and down giving high-fives to strangers.

I became a fan that night. It was hard for their enthusiasm not to rub off on me. I found myself looking at our pudgy, unattractive conductor more than at Beckham. Watching the game was not a dreadful experience at all. Maybe I was a “tomboy” growing up, but after this game I realized that watching sports are just as exciting as playing them.