Some sports spread to every corner of the globe; others are destined to remain confined to a few locales. Why? What factors determine a sport’s international reach?

The Indonesian island of Sumbawa is the ideal spot for a comparative study. In one morning there I participated in the world’s most popular sport and then witnessed a sporting event unlikely ever to extend beyond rural Asia.

I arrived by cruise ship from Bali. The ship anchored in a bay, and the passengers were laboriously decanted to shore in a small launch. I was among the first to make landfall. While waiting for the others to arrive for our bus tour, I ambled over to watch a group of boys playing soccer on a scrap of wasteland. Whether by invitation or presumption, I was soon actively involved in the game.

Soccer is played in every country of the world. The only requirement is a ball — which I have seen made from plastic bags bundled together with string. The rules are universally understood. The playing field can be almost anywhere, indoors or outdoors, flat or hilly. The goals can be improvised with piles of clothing, mounds of leaf litter or, in Sumbawa, conveniently spaced palm trees.

When I boarded the bus, I was breathless and sweaty. But the bonds of sporting friendship had been forged. The young soccer players waved me off as the tour bus headed inland.

We reached an idyllic village of stilted wooden houses set among rice paddies. A large crowd drawn from neighboring villages gathered around one of the paddies, waiting for us. We tourists were the guests of honor. “Now we will see buffalo racing,” said our local guide nonchalantly. It was a sport new to all of us, but then, none of us had visited Sumbawa before.

The basic requirements for Sumbawan buffalo racing are somewhat specialized. First, of course, you need a bunch of water buffaloes. The arena is a waterlogged paddy field. Pairs of buffaloes are harnessed to a rickety wooden sled upon which a young farmer will stand for the duration of the race, steering and whipping the animals as they galumph through the knee-deep muddy water.

It seemed straightforward, but there was an odd twist. The village chief waded through the water carrying a two-foot wooden doll dressed in traditional costume. With ceremonial reverence, he planted the doll at one end of the paddy. As the action unfolded, it became apparent the goal of each buffalo team was to knock the doll over.

The races began. The crowd roared as the buffalo sleds kicked up curtains of water. In the shadows behind the crowd, local bets were surreptitiously taken on the outcome of each race.

I chatted with a villager who explained there was a practical purpose to this unique sport. Hooves and sleds were turning over the mud, preparing the paddy for the next crop.

Buffalo racing is a memorable spectacle. I loved every exhilarating minute, though I firmly resisted the offer to have a go myself. What was the point? I knew I would be departing Sumbawa that afternoon.

On subsequent travels, I have occasionally encountered water buffaloes. Sometimes I have been in paddy fields. Now and again, I have seen wooden plows similar to the racing sleds. And I have browsed Indonesian dolls for sale in airport souvenir shops. But the only time all the necessary ingredients for buffalo racing aligned was on that morning in Sumbawa.

As a sport, it occupies a cultural and geographic cul-de-sac, whereas a simple soccer ball offers a world of possibilities.