As morning light creeps into Brit's front windows and pints of Guinness slide across the bar, eager soccer fans scramble for seats.

It's 8 a.m. on a recent Saturday and one of the year's most anticipated European soccer matches is just underway at the downtown pub -- via satellite, of course.

Few bars in the Twin Cities party this hard this early. But European soccer (sorry, "football") just brings something beastly out of its rabid followers.

Brit's, and a few other bars such as the Local, are capitalizing on this fervor by opening their doors at a time when most other bars are still recovering from the previous night. For these superfans, this is the next best thing to being in the stadium, especially when the game is between two bitter rivals: Manchester United and Liverpool.

The hour might be early, but nobody seems that interested in eating breakfast.

"Beer is my breakfast," one guy tells me.

Just under 200 people have filled Brit's lower level -- a rousing number by 8 a.m. standards. Across the Atlantic, more than 75,000 fans are in attendance and about 200 million are watching worldwide.

Brit's offers live telecasts of European soccer games every week, but only the big ones air this early. Soccer violence and hooliganism in the United Kingdom have forced officials to move these games out of prime time and into the afternoon. Our five-hour time difference means the games are shown really early here.

By the time Manchester scores the game's first goal, Brit's is vibrating with excitement. Many in the crowd are wearing replica jerseys of their favorite players.

Marlon Ferrey, 48, is wearing one of his 11 Liverpool jerseys, plus red Liverpool sneakers. During the week, he works for Latino nonprofit Centro. Today, watching the game is "like going to church," he said.

Ferrey won't sit still for the next 90 minutes -- he'll pace, he'll jump, he'll nervously nibble on his knitted Liverpool scarf.

"I have to stand," Ferrey said. "I can't sit down!"

United nations

Ferrey is the leader of a Minneapolis-based Liverpool fan club, which has 71 members. (Their blog is at lfcmpls.blogspot.com.) The group is a good representation of Brit's overall audience: a sprinkling of British expats with a truly international crowd.

At one point I'm standing with four members of Ferrey's Liverpool crew, each from a different dot on the map: Kenya, India, Northern Ireland and Nicaragua (his home country).

The Kenyan, Mike Maina, 34, is a credit analyst who's been a Liverpool fan since he was 12. Soccer's international appeal never surprises him.

"We're all talking the same language," he said.

While their language is soccer, it can sometimes be a vulgar one. Just the sight of Manchester's players walking onto the field compelled Ferrey to blurt out "Wankers!" -- a genteel response compared with European soccer etiquette.

"Here in America, it's more mellow. Here, it's just banter -- we're not hooligans," he said. "In England, you couldn't put the two teams' supporters in the same pub. It would be deadly."

That's not to say the fans at Brit's don't get over the top. The Liverpool fan club's most vocal member is, incidentally, a London native. With his team mounting an impressive comeback, Ricc Scott, a burly cryptographer with a dreadlocked ponytail, proceeded to give Manchester fans an earful.

"Ricc is very loud," Ferrey said. "People from other teams hate him. I'm proud to have him in the club."

Winners and losers

By 9:30 a.m., it's clear Liverpool is going to pull off a 4-1 thrashing of Manchester. Ferrey and his buddies hug and begin singing their team's anthem, some of which can't be printed.

The place is packed with customers, but Brit's manager, Joe Okell, looks glum. He's a lifelong "Red," which is what Manchester fans call themselves.

"I was born and raised in Manchester, so this is horrible," he said. "My dad was a Red, his dad was a Red, so I didn't have a choice."

Munya Tirivepi, 21, has cheered for Manchester since his youth in Zimbabwe. Embarrassed by the drubbing, he took off his jersey more than an hour earlier. "This is the worst day of my life," he said.

With the jubilation of victory still ringing in their ears, I ask the Liverpool posse what they're going to do now. It's only 9:45 a.m. and the sun is still rising in the sky.

They look at me as if I'm stupid.

"We're going to drink and celebrate," Scott says. "A two-day bender!"

thorgen@startribune.com • 612-673-7909