To understand Kafka, one need only visit Prague in the summertime.
Prague is very proud of Kafka; he's on nearly as many T-shirts and posters and coasters as the Golem of Prague (though not nearly so many as the Czech World Cup team, of course – that would be a travesty). They even have a Kafka Museum here.
I didn't go there. Click to continue reading...

The trip is more than half over, and so far at this World Cup we've seen relatively little soccer.
But we've seen a shitload of train stations. And trains. Trains, trains, trains.
Thanks to the baffling intricacies and inconsistencies of the FIFA and U.S. Soccer ticketing procedures, AC had booked and prepaid our hotels before we got tickets to the USA v. Click to continue reading...

The trams from the stadium back into Gelsenkirchen were a joke. They were running one train every five minutes, with two or three cars with a capacity of 30 people each, with 52,000 people to move. Every tram was bulging at the seams with human cargo, like an entire school of tuna had managed to stuff itself into a single can.
We opted to walk to the local "Fanzone," which are large cordoned-off areas with diamond vision screens set up in each of the host cities, where fans can get together and watch the games. Click to continue reading...

Yesterday was a very bad day for American soccer. We were hammered 3-0 by the Czech Republic, and they deserved every goal they got.
But it was a good day for the American soccer fan.
Yes, we were all disappointed at the team's slow play and lack of creativity, and I assure you that by the mid-second half the fans in the stands were every bit as critical as you were, and debate the U. Click to continue reading...

So far, the rowdiest visitors to Germany are . . . well, the Germans.
At the moment, one day before Cologne hosts its first match, Portugal v. Angola, the town is a bit like the Monday before Mardi Gras at, say, 4:00 p.m. It's not so much rowdy; it's more like bursting with the potential for rowdiness.
Great gaggles of fans in red Portugal shirts are wandering through the streets of the Alstadt (Old City) with open beer bottles clutched in their fists, toasting the flak-jacketed platoons of Polizei. Click to continue reading...

The troops have landed!!
Or at least one troop. AC saw fit to fly British Airways, which means I have a two-hour wait for him to arrive. I won't bore you with the arcane and convoluted series of contingency plans we came up with in case we couldn't find each other. The fact is I'm sitting outside his gate, sipping on my third Binding lager. Click to continue reading...

D-Day is here at last!!
My wife drove me to the airport this morning. I'm sure our conversation reflected thousand, perhaps hundreds of thousands, going on all over the world this week.
"TIVO the good games for me," I implored. "Just in case I miss something. Or in case I'm too drunk to remember. Especially the games I'm going to. Click to continue reading...

The bad news is everywhere you look.
Iran is pressing ahead with the development of nuclear weapons in defiance of the world community. Oil prices are surging. There is mass genocide in Darfur. Tom Cruise and Katie Holmes are spawning a child.
Please God, make it stop!
Fortunately (or so we've been told), professional sports offer pleasant sanctuary from the harsh realities of daily living. Click to continue reading...

This was a bad weekend for the soccer world.
Most important, soccer fans the world over lost the opportunity to see Wayne Rooney light up soccer's biggest stage at the World Cup. Hacked down by Paulo Ferreira from behind near the end of Manchester United's dismal 3-0 defeat at Chelsea – the slightest touch on the ball saving Ferreira from seeing red, I have no doubt – Rooney broke a bone in his foot that will force him to miss at least England's group stage matches in Germany, and possibly the entire tournament. Click to continue reading...

Sometimes ignorance is a good thing.
In the context of what I'm about to write, maybe ignorance is a bit strong of a word. No, I suppose I'm talking more about that kind of liberating youthful inexperience and naïveté that allows, say, a six-year old to immediately seize upon an obvious solution to a problem that has perplexed dozens of adults whose minds have been burdened by years of Sunday school, two for one happy hours, and listening to their parents. Click to continue reading...

There isn't a twelve step program for this, but there should be.
I've just learned that I've scored one of the most coveted tickets in the world of sport. Check that, one of the most coveted tickets in the history of sport. That's right; two seats to watch the US of A play Italy in a first round World Cup match in Kaiserslautern, Germany on June 17. Click to continue reading...

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. Click to continue reading...

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.

Click to continue reading...

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.

Click to continue reading...

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.

Click to continue reading...