I’ve been watching this World Cup unfold, and one thing keeps running through my mind.

For the first time in my life, I’m going to buy a United States soccer jersey.

That probably doesn’t sound like much to most people, but for me, it says a lot.

I grew up in Chicago, where sports were part of our everyday lives. Dominique Wilkins was my guy, even though Michael Jordan owned the city. Walter Payton was still my favorite athlete, and football always felt like a realistic dream because my older brother was a college sensation. We argued about the Bears, the Bulls and the Cubs. Sports weren’t just entertainment, they were part of our culture.

Even though I followed the Chicago Fire during their championship years, soccer never grabbed me the same way. Looking back, I finally understand why.

It wasn’t because the game wasn’t exciting.

It wasn’t because Chicago didn’t have a successful club.

It was because I couldn’t see myself in it.

There weren’t Black American players who made me stop and think, “That could be me.” There wasn’t a story connecting my world to theirs. Soccer always felt like it was happening around me, never with me.

Ironically, it wasn’t America that made me fall in love with football.

It was Brazil.

Back in the mid-2000s, I had Brazilian friends who refused to let me keep disrespecting their sport. They didn’t try to convince me with statistics or trophies. They showed me the culture. They introduced me to the small-sided games played on neighborhood courts, where creativity mattered more than size and where flair wasn’t discouraged, it was celebrated. They showed me that football could be art.

Then I discovered Ronaldinho.

He wasn’t just an incredible footballer; he looked like he was having the time of his life. Every touch, every smile, every impossible pass made the game feel joyful. As a Black American raised around basketball courts, playground creativity and hip-hop culture, Ronaldinho was the first player who made football make sense to me.

Brazil also changed my perspective in another way. It’s one of the Blackest countries in the world outside of Africa, and watching the way football was embraced there made me realize this game had a cultural language I already understood. It wasn’t just about winning. It was expression. Community. Identity.

Then life brought me to Europe.

I’ve lived in Prague for more than thirteen years now, and Europe taught me something Brazil couldn’t.

Football isn’t just loved here.

It’s inherited.

Grandparents pass clubs down to their grandchildren. Parents raise children in club colors before they’re old enough to kick a ball. Entire neighborhoods build identities around football. Match day changes the rhythm of a city.

America has passion for sports.

Europe has culture around football.

Those are two very different things.

Watching this World Cup has made me think about something I’ve never seriously asked before.

Why hasn’t Black America embraced football the same way it embraced basketball, baseball or American football?

Historically, sports have represented more than games for many Black families. They’ve represented opportunity. They have been one of the few places where extraordinary talent could create generational wealth and open doors that otherwise remained closed. We’ve seen Black athletes transform basketball, football, baseball, track and field, tennis and golf, not simply by participating, but by changing how those sports are played, marketed and experienced.

So why hasn’t that happened with soccer?

I don’t think it’s because the talent isn’t there.

I think the better questions are these.

Has soccer ever truly been marketed to Black America?

Has the game ever felt accessible?

Has it become too expensive for working families to realistically pursue?

When youth soccer often requires club fees, travel, hotels, private coaching and thousands of dollars before a child even reaches the highest levels, how much talent never gets discovered?

Talent exists everywhere.

Opportunity does not.

That brings me to Alex Freeman.

When I first saw Alex Freeman’s name on the team sheet, I had to pause for a second. Freeman. Then I looked a little deeper and discovered he was from Plantation, Florida. As a Black American, I couldn’t help but smile at the symbolism. You couldn’t script something like that if you tried. Here is a young man whose surname literally represents freedom, born in a city named Plantation. If there was ever a football story that sounded like it belonged in a lost episode of The Boondocks, this might be it. Before he even kicks a ball, his story already has people talking.

But here’s the thing.

Alex Freeman isn’t why I’m buying my first USA soccer jersey.

He’s the reason I finally stopped and asked myself why I never bought one before.

Because Alex isn’t the story.

He’s the invitation.

He represents an opportunity for American soccer to tell a story that reaches people who may have never felt like this game belonged to them. Marketing has never been just about selling jerseys. It’s about selling imagination.

For nearly twenty years I’ve worked in marketing and branding. I’ve learned that people don’t buy products, they buy stories. Michael Jordan wasn’t simply selling basketball shoes. Tiger Woods wasn’t just selling golf. Serena and Venus Williams weren’t just winning tennis matches. They represented possibility.

Alex Freeman has the potential to represent possibility too.

Imagine a young Black kid in Chicago, Atlanta, Detroit, Houston or Baltimore seeing a USA jersey with FREEMAN across the back. Imagine learning that player comes from Plantation, Florida. That’s not just a football story.

That’s an American story.

Maybe Alex Freeman becomes a superstar.

Maybe he doesn’t.

That’s not really the point.

The point is that every movement begins with someone opening the door.

Maybe I’m wrong. Maybe twenty years from now nothing changes. Maybe soccer remains exactly where it is today in American culture. But if America ever decides to seriously invest in making football accessible to every neighborhood, every income level and every culture, I wouldn’t bet against the next generation changing the sport forever.

And if that day ever comes, maybe people will look back at players like Alex Freeman and realize they were never the whole story.

They were simply the invitation.