Enjoying the game of soccer is enough of a mountain for me to climb. But one thing I'll never get used to is the strange (dare I say queer?) language associated with international football, as if the sport exists in a parallel universe with its own mother tongue.
It all starts with those uber-refined, patrician British announcers calling the games (excuse me, matches), who sound as if they just completed a narration of "Brideshead Revisited" before putting on their game (er, match) caps.

I'm at Red Bulls headquarters in Secaucus and we have just been shown photos of Mr. Juan Pablo Angel sporting the Red Bulls uniform.

I'm at Red Bulls headquarters in Secaucus and we have just been shown photos of Mr. Juan Pablo Angel sporting the Red Bulls uniform.