Dear Daily Princetonian:

Editor's Note: This is the second in a series of postcards that Daily Princetonian sports staff writers wrote about their experiences in the wide world of sports this summer. Keep reading through the next few weeks for more dispatches from across the country and around the world.

WASHINGTON, D.C. — This summer, I interned on the Hill in D.C. It was a great experience through and through, except for the World Cup. America's pathetic performance coupled with an Italian victory left me dejected.

Despite my sadness, though, I was still itching for some soccer. When my friend Alex got back home from Florida and asked me to go to a game between DC United and Celtic Scottish with him, I quickly agreed.

Before heading out for the game, I called Alex to see if he needed anything from Pentagon City. "Make sure you pick up a Scottish flag while you're out there," he said. I was confused. "Alex, we're supporting the American team aren't we?" He paused. "Oh, you'll see."

While riding the Orange Line out to the stadium, it was easy to see why Washington is called the "soccer capital of America." The car was decked out in red and black — the colors of the home DC United — and Freddy Adu and Christian Gomez jerseys were everywhere.

Halfway into the ride, a boy a few years our younger who was sitting behind us asked in a thick North English accent if we were going to the game. I suppose the English National Team jersey I was wearing might have tipped him off. He explained that he was on holiday from Leeds and while Celtic Scottish may not have been his favorite team, soccer was definitely his sport.

His local club, Leeds United, had been bouncing around the English soccer pyramid for a few years now. Even while playing in the lowly "Football League One" — the English equivalent of AA minor league baseball — the club had averaged over 30,000 in attendance per game. This came despite competing in the third division of English soccer and having a schedule more than twice as long as the NFL, a schedule that routinely included games on weekdays.

It was hard to think of an American team that could attract so many fans relative to its performance on the field.

The boy's list of "least favorite clubs" was extensive, covering both the "over-hyped" Manchester United and the "expensive" Arsenal. But his greatest contempt was reserved for local rivals Sheffield United and "any other team from Yorkshire really." The passion the boy showed for soccer, however, paled in comparison to the display from other fans I was soon to see in the stadium.

Walking into the stadium, I quickly realized why Alex had advised me to bring the Scottish flag. There were no Union Jacks. There weren't even St. Andrews' Crosses. There was the Tricolor — the Irish Tricolor — and nothing else. "They're the Scottish Catholic team," Alex explained. "Oh, I see," I replied. He then proceeded to explain the existence of such a strange phenomenon in staunchly Protestant Scotland.

The Protestant Reformation of the 16th century had gripped Scotland more tightly than anywhere else in Europe. Catholics were forced out of their homes. Students at Edinburgh University were executed for their traditional beliefs. By the end of the 18th century, Glasgow contained 39 Catholics and 43 anti-Catholic societies.

In the 19th century, however, a combination of natural disasters and economics precipitated a Catholic return. The potato blight and the demand for cheap labor from the Industrial Revolution resulted in the immigration of large numbers of Irish Catholics to Scotland. This was how Celtic Football Club (FC) was founded. Relying on fierce loyalty from their vocal fan base, the Catholic club managed to win four out of six Scottish championships — and the anger of local Protestants.

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Scottish loyalists were outraged at the club's open support for Irish — and even Scottish — separatism. Their anger, as supporters of the club today describe it, is comparable to the feelings felt by American conservatives in response to immigrant protesters flying the Mexican flag at rallies. As one Rangers supporter put it: "If a troop carrying the Queen's colors doesn't bring tears to your eyes, then f—- off!" These fans found solace in Rangers FC, the most successful Protestant club of the era and the rivalry of the two persists to this day as one of the world's fiercest.

I decided to test Alex's knowledge of history and the patience of the Celtic fans. At half time I walked up to a particularly vocal group of Celtic supporters carrying a large Irish flag. I went up to the leader of the group and asked "Hey, Glasgow is in Scotland, right?" He looked at me puzzled and responded "Well ...sure." "Shouldn't your flag be blue and white then?" I asked. His eyes got wide. He looked down at my shirt. "English bastard!" he cried. His friends turned on a dime. With the same horrified expression on their faces they cried the same in unison and pointed at me.

Apparently, Alex was right. Inadvertently, I had worn the most inflammatory jersey I could have. DC United meant nothing to them. England was everything.

As for the game itself? DC United demolished a Celtic team early in the preseason by the decisive score of 4-0. It was a solid statement for American soccer, and I got to see an excellent goal by Freddy Adu, which will hopefully mean a great deal some day.

That was all secondary, however, to the experience. Walking out of the stadium Alex remarked, "You know today's date, July 12th? It's Orange Day." I smiled. Even I knew what that meant. This game had meant more than I thought. —Daniel Maass