Fans of the Netherlands’ national soccer team began arriving at The Mad Dog in the Fog pub at 8 a.m., an army of men and women dressed almost exclusively in orange.

They wore orange jerseys and orange drawstring shorts and tight-fitting orange tank tops with spaghetti straps. Over orange T-shirts they layered orange jackets and shiny orange sweatsuits and orange rugby shirts. And they accessorized. Orange ski caps. Orange scarves. Orange baseball caps. Orange ties. Orange bike bags. Heart-shaped orange pillows.

The first wave claimed seats directly in front of the largest of the Mad Dog’s six televisions. Immediately they redecorated. Someone draped the Netherlands’ red, white and blue flag over the Boddingtons beer ad beside the big screen. Another flag, this one featuring a faded team photo, dangled from a neighboring ad for Guinness. A man wearing an orange turtleneck stood on his chair and led his fellow supporters in a rowdy chant. It was an unmistakable sign: The latest soccer invasion of the Mad Dog was in full swing.

A small group of Italians walked in, sipping coffee and talking about wine. They had to move fast to find seats. Not a good seat, any seat. The Mad Dog shows just about every important international soccer match live, even if the games start just past dawn local time. Since American television networks rarely broadcast international matches that aren’t part of the Olympics or the World Cup (or don’t involve Brandi Chastain), the Mad Dog’s satellite feeds draw hordes of expats as well as passionate American fans. The place would be packed beyond fire-code capacity with chanting, screaming fans long before the kickoff time of 9 a.m. The Italians quickly slipped into seats behind the Dutch mob.

The satellite feed popped on screen, introduced by a soft piano riff. The Dutch chant leader stood, scanned the room, and screamed. “Who’s playing that f***ing piano?” He then stumbled to the bar and ordered a Heineken. He wasn’t the only one drinking. At the bar, where Carlsberg was going for a game-day special $2.50, lines were slightly longer than those at the coffee pot in the corner. It may have been a typically gray, foggy morning in San Francisco but, hey, it looked like a clear, beautiful evening in Amsterdam. Reason enough.

By 8:30 a.m., every seat was occupied. By 8:45, people were filling the Mad Dog the way water dams up: Bodies bumped against other bodies and every empty nook was being taken over, save the sliver of open space where tattooed bartenders poured pints and relayed orders for twiglets and veggie curry pasty. By the time the teams filed onto the pitch fans were lining the sidewalk, twisting their necks to get a glimpse of the game through the windows. The Netherlands’ players sang along with Het Wilhelmus, the Dutch national anthem, and so did most of their supporters. For a few seconds, at least. Unlike the French fans, who nail La Marseillaise, and the Brits who swagger through God Save the Queen, the Dutch fans forgot the words after one verse.

It was an omen. The Netherlands took control of the game but couldn’t finish. Frank de Boer and Patrick Kluivert both missed penalty kicks. The game went into overtime, scoreless. During the break, fans streamed outside and smoked cigarettes. Some ignored California’s no smoking law and lit up inside. A man at the bar tugged on his orange tie, wiped the sweat from his forehead and ordered another Heineken.

Italy’s defense stifled the Dutch attack during the 30 minutes of extra time, sending the match to penalty kicks. More cigarettes were lit and orange pillows were nervously caressed. The Dutch fans stomped their feet, bouncing the floor up and down. Empty glasses rattled along the bar.

Italy tallied twice. Holland missed twice. The crowd hushed, including the Italians. Holland finally scored, but the deficit couldn’t be overcome: Italy advanced. Their fans embraced. Dutch fans cursed and overturned chairs. An orange pillow zipped through the air.

Highlights of the match replayed on the big screen, but the Dutch fans didn’t stay to watch. They wandered outside, dazed and buzzed, onto Haight Street. The sun had broken through the early morning fog and, for a few extra seconds, the feeling they were somewhere other than San Francisco lingered.

Michael Yessis is the co-editor of World Hum.