The ##

As you may have heard, America played in a sporting match today! Finding ourselves spread among God’s green, post-colonial earth, we thought we’d collect some dispatches. Our first is from downtown New York.

When, on Monday, I heard that the next world cup game was at 2:30 on a Saturday, I was excited. I knew we’d post up at some bar, preferably in the East Village, by noon and have a sweet seat to watch the games, and, who knows, maybe an extra spot next to me for the cutest blonde to wander in 5 minutes before the start.

We ended up descending from our 4th floor LES walk-up around noon, set on walking up 2nd ave in search of an open table at a bar with TVs. We eventually met some non-blogger friends at Finnerty’s, a rowdy bar where we had watched the 7th game of the NBA Finals.

The limited seating was already filled, drinks clearly having been served before noon. A lot of bros, a lot of American flags. I saw one guy with blue pants covered in white stars. Others were wearing flags as capes. It might have been my imagination, but I thought some of the more attractive women there were wearing American flag bikinis under their tank tops, ready for a wet and wild celebration.

We still had about two hours before the game started. A few people had brought in Subway to eat, so we claimed our standing room and went back to a cheap deli we had walked by for egg sandwiches and grilled cheeses. Grinning, we showed the bouncer our red stamps with our white deli bags in our other hands.

We found a ledge against a wall under a big flat-screen TV to eat at and bought $5 PBR tallboys to wash down our $3.50 sandwiches. The occasional “U!S!A!” chant came from the front of the bar. It was hot and sweaty already. The crowd was mostly 20-somethings, with plenty more bros than girls— probably 300 at that point. A bro got iced.

The bar’s loud PA system was blasting the likes of “American Woman” and Lady Gaga— America’s music. Once ESPN’s pregame analysis started in earnest, a bartender switched the audio over to the TV feed. We learned about the science of penalty kicks while we drank more. Any time anything representing Ghana came on the screen— flags, fans, presidents— the crowd started a raucous booing. People were getting drunk. By now we were all elbow to elbow.  

Eventually we all found our standing places and the game started rather unceremoniously with the drone of the zuzuvelas coming through clearly. We were only about 6 feet away from our hi-def flat-screen, and alas unfortunately in a natural walkway between the front and the back sections of the bar, meaning that whenever anyone wanted to go back and forth— to get another beer or pee one out— they had to get through us, which kind of sucked.

Ghana kicked one in like five minutes in. It took most of the energy out of the bar. We cruised on for 40 minutes, cheering for our corner kicks and almost any time goalie Tim Howard touched the ball. I was getting a little bored.

Then Donovan got that penalty kick, maybe the 60th minute, and even though I didn’t know what exactly it meant, I could tell it was something good from the crowd going ape-shit. We scored and the next 5 to 10 minutes approached the theoretical maximum fratmospheric pressure— tallboys were lassoed around, showering on everyone in a 20-foot radius. No one cared. When things settled down a little beer casually started dripping down from the ceiling.

Again things mellowed to a low chaos and we eventually went in to over time. No one left— there were still about 400 people in the bar. Ghana scored and I was constantly shifting my weight. I started thinking about this brunette that had been standing around us for a while.

She had that classic New England put-together look, poised and tactful. It was in her smile. Her face was tan and her eyes were bright. She didn’t ask for room and she drank beer. When the game ended a tall, big bro came over from a foot or two to her right and touched her shoulder more gently than I thought him capable.

We walked out across a floor covered in beer, sweat and dirt.

If the tribute doesn’t have you convinced, take the following YouTube clip as further proof.

Time for an exercise in logic. Diners are America. Jukeboxes are America. Boy scouts are America. Birth control is America. Onion rings are America (and best in the state — states are America). Not knowing how to paralell park is America. Drinking Coke through a straw is America. Entry-level jobs are America. Sarcasm is America. Going to the bathroom to get a gun is America. Ordering some for the table is America. And what song is playing throughout all this: Journey’s “Don’t Stop Believin’.”

Journey is America.

Go to a gas station and buy a fucking pack of cigarettes. No, you wont get lung cancer. Lung Cancer is a false societal construct. Get a lighter, too. Ask for the one with the American flag on it. If they’re already out of those, the only appropriate colors are red or blue. Got it? And buy Marlboros.  No foreign shit. That’s not real cigarettes. Camels? They’re from Egypt or something, so they’re for terrorists. Parliaments? Come on!? Does AMERICA have a fucking Parliament!? Maybe if they were called “Senates” or “House of Representatives” you could smoke them. But they’re not. They’re called Parliaments and they’re for commies. So you have your pack of Marlboro Reds. Note: you should be drinking a Budweiser while you’re doing this. Not a Bud Light, a Bud Fucking Heavy. What? You’re in a gas station? Open it in the fucking gas station. No one’s gonna bother you, because you just bought a pack of Marlboro Reds and you’re a bad ass mothafucka. Oh, and it should be a tall boy. So, you have your cigarettes. Pack it, and sorta look around like you don’t give a fuck BECAUSE YOU DON’T. Then pull the plastic wrap off, pull out the silver tab from inside, and drop it on the ground. Don’t you go putting it in the trash. You litter because littering is fuckin’ awesome. And don’t even THINK about recycling it. Recycling is for people who give a shit and you fucking don’t. Take out a cigarette and put it in your mouth. Notice the smell of that wonderful North Carolina tobacco. It smells like AMERICA doesn’t it? Yes it does. What? You’re in a gas station? Where smoking is illegal, not to mention insanely dangerous because of the high possibility that there’s flammable gas around you? Man up and smoke your cigarette. So spark up that lighter, put it near the end of your cigarette, and inhale for a second or two. Now exhale over your shoulder, not looking at anyone. This is when you come to the realization that you look FUCKIN SWEET and that everyone around wants to bang you/be you. Enjoy it. It feels good, doesn’t it? Yeah, it does.