I am totally and utterly lost. Three months ago I boarded a plane in Dublin, Ireland bound for San Francisco and I left behind the most important thing in my life.

For fourteen weeks now I’ve tried to pick up what remains of my shattered existence and piece my soul back together. Every single morning since then, I’ve woken up crying: cursing life or cursing myself. Perhaps if I brought my family or my girlfriend with me from Ireland it would have been easier.

But I doubt it. This void is too big to be filled by love. I turned my back on the sport I love.

Consoling myself with the thought that ‘the Americans have embraced football (or ‘soccer’ if you really must) to their collective bosoms.

They’ve been to the last two World Cups. They’ve been crap …but they’ve been there. I got slowly onto the plane and tried to hold back the tears.

In reality, I was under no illusions of American football/soccer knowledge – I knew I was going to hell.

“Are you scared of flying?” the hostess asked kindly. “It’s on TV there right? They’ll show some right? Won’t they? They’ll show some, won’t they?” She avoided me for the next fourteen hours.

I thought I could handle it at first. I found a bar in Sacramento that was showing English football matches on a Saturday. ‘If I can see one game a week that will keep me going,’ I reasoned. One week at a time. I can do this. In the first game that I saw my beloved Liverpool lost. ‘That’s okay,’ I thought, ‘I’ll just have to find another bar…this one is obviously jinxed.’ My plight started to get more desperate. I am underage. I couldn’t get into many pubs. Anyway, the matches were starting at seven in the morning and even an Irishman didn’t fancy going into a pub that early. I needed a hit. Just one game and I’d be okay. I would last until Christmas. Just one more game.

The US were playing Guatemala.

“Two world powers,” according to NBC. I laughed. But I was hooked. The commentary was terrible.

Advertisements kept springing up on the right-hand corner of the screen and annoying me. But I was hooked. The game was quite simply awful. Then someone scored.

“Goooooooooaaaaaaaaaallllllllllll” yelled the South American commentator. I turned off the TV, sweat was rolling down my face. ‘Please God,’ I cried, ‘let me see a decent game.’

The next day an Irish priest phoned to say that he had a recording of the Holland-Ireland World Cup qualifier from earlier that month, if I wanted it. Some people said that this was a sign but I don’t know. I mean the tape was of terrible quality and slightly off-speed which meant that the commentator turned into Alvin from the Chipmonks.

The VHS quality was poor but the game itself was excellent stuff. I’ve watched it four times since.

It helps dull the pain and the aching. I didn’t know how low I could stoop until that US-Guatemala game. But I’m taking one day at a time now and trying to keep myself together. I know that football controls me and I’ve accepted that. I’m trying to move on. I’m also trying to move home.