Sunday was the day I had been waiting thirty days for. After a month of mostly not great soccer (which the commentators made very clear) it was finally time for the tournament to end. Sunday was the final between the host country France and the improbable finalist Portugal. Portugal had finished 3^rd in their group during the group stages and normally would not have advanced.

But, prior to this year’s Euro Cup, the field expanded to 24 teams which left space for some 3^rd place finishers to advance into the knockout rounds. They hardly deserved to be there, yet there they were.

Now, unless the US is playing in a match, I rarely have a rooting interest in the outcome of any soccer game. I may lean a little bit one way or another, but usually I just want to see a high quality game. One of the few things that will get me to pick a side in a game I don’t care about is a polarizing player to root for or against. And on Sunday, that player was Cristiano Ronaldo.

As one of the two best players in the world, Ronaldo is amazing to watch (understatement of the century). But something about him has always put me off. He’s a bit of a diva, and has a taste for theatricality on the field. So I was rooting against him, which meant rooting against Portugal.

Cheering for France was going to be easy. They were the better team, and they were the home team. Talent plus home-field advantage will usually take you the distance in any sport. Yet, as the game kicked off I felt as though I was rooting for the wrong team.

When Ronaldo went down with a pretty gruesome knee injury around the 18^th minute, I could almost feel the emotion through the screen. Agony was written on his face, more so about the fact that he wouldn’t be able to continue the match and less about the pain he was in.

But then, he hobbled over to the sideline with the training staff, and came back into the game. It was clear that he was hobbled and wasn’t going to be very effective, but he was going to give it a shot.

Two minutes later, as the announcers decided he was going to more of a burden to his team, Ronaldo went down again. Clearly distraught that his left knee could barely support the weight of his body, Ronaldo was essentially carried to the sideline by the training staff. But, to the dismay of the French fans, the staff was giving Ronaldo a left knee tape job as a last ditch effort to keep the Portuguese star playing in the most important game of his career.

And again, likely against the better judgement of the Portuguese staff and against the wishes of Ronaldo’s club team Real Madrid, he was back on the field.

And then he wasn’t. Down for a third time, the 25^th minute was the end of Ronaldo’s day. The second he hit the ground, everyone in the stadium knew it. Tears streamed down his face as his teammates and French opponents touched his head sending their best wishes to one of the game’s biggest stars. Then, he was carted out on a stretcher. Head in his hands, visibly broken at being removed from what could have been the biggest moment of his international career.

And just like that, Portugal was doomed. But, I was pulling for them. I, who 25 minutes earlier was almost giddy to see Ronaldo get crushed, was pulling for Portugal to overcome.

Not only was Portugal facing the tournament hosts, they were the worse team – even with Ronaldo on the field. Surely, there was no chance they could pull this one out now that he was off the field. But still, I couldn’t stop myself from giving the team my heart. Their emotion during the first 25 minutes had captured me.

And 84 minutes later, I was still glued to the screen during extra time when Eder, a Portuguese substitute, put one by the French goalkeeper and simultaneously sent me flying out of my chair in an animated flurry of fist pumps and 6’4” white guy dance moves.

That ended up being the only goal of the 120-minute elongated match, and it sealed the victory for the Portuguese. 1-0, they had taken down their Goliath. One simple soccer match motivated me to move from my seat, overcome with joy for a team I really couldn’t care less about.

And that, my friends, is the power of an underdog story.

An underdog story has immense power in American culture. That power is what makes us root for long-shot Portugal to beat France. It’s what makes us root for Appalachian State to beat Michigan in college football. It’s what makes us root for the Butler Bulldogs during their improbable back-to-back trips to the NCAA Championship in 2010 and 2011. It’s what makes us root for Dick Hoyt, who has pushed his disabled son Rick’s wheelchair through over 1,000 marathons and ironman triathlons (if you’ve never heard that story please click the hyperlink for some perspective on life).

At the same time, the underdog story is what makes us root against MLB’s New York Yankees and St Louis Cardinals. It’s what makes us root against the NHL’s Detroit Red Wings and Chicago Blackhawks. It’s what makes us root against NCAA football’s USC, Ohio State, and basically any team in the SEC. It’s what makes us root against the NFL’s Dallas Cowboys and New England Patriots (with my own personal exception to that last one, of course – Tom Brady = GOAT).

We love to see the big guys lose, and we love to see the little guys win. It gives us a sense of hope. It tells us that greatness is always achievable. It tells us that those with the softest voice in the room can have the biggest, loudest ideas. It tells us to never judge a book by its cover because anything or anyone has the power to surprise.

Underdogs speak to our souls in ways that move us. Through them, we learn that we don’t have to be the biggest or strongest to make a difference, and that every little bit of effort counts.

And with the differences that need to be made in this tumultuous, divisive time for us, Cristiano Ronaldo’s knee couldn’t have picked a better time to give out.