It's almost upon us, folks. Can't you just smell it all around us, a spicy, international aroma which assaults the senses like a opaque cloud of Drakkar Noir wofting off two dozen quaffed, manscaped Portuguese men?
That's right. It's the FIFA World Cup. Time to break out your red, white and blue face paint and your weird, knit USA scarves. Where do you get those things, anyway?
Four years ago, I regarded soccer much the same way I regarded dubstep--I was content to leave it to the hipsters and the immigrants. But I'm nothing if I'm not a nationalist, and like it or not I rose in the small hours of the morning with my futbolphile of a younger brother to cheer on my country. If I could do it for archery or curling, why not soccer? Little did I know that by the time the national treasure formerly known as Landon Donovan was busy burying the go-ahead goal in the back of Algeria's net in stoppage time, I'd already be hooked. Real talk, though-- that replay still gives me the heeby-jeebies.
Turns out, I went through something of a personal transformation during the 2010 World Cup. I like to think I became a little more open-minded, a little more accepting. I've devoted countless, irretrievable hours to the FIFA's 12, 13, and 14 for the Xbox. I've opened up my heart and let soccer in.
Four years is a slow, slow burn, but this time I'm ready. I'm pumped. The US is almost certainly doomed, but our chances weren't super to begin with. LD isn't even going to be there, after all. But who cares? There are still a host of compelling story lines outside the 50 states.
Will Neymar finally tell us his last name?
Will Cristiano Ronaldo play naked to distract his opponents? And will this backfire by distracting all of his flamboyant teammates?
Who will Luis Suarez bite first?
Will Hulk smash?
Get psyched, boys and girls. FIFA says turn down for what, and though I haven't yet figured out what that means, I still intend to waste most of my June in Brazil. Figuratively.
Thomas out.
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