Inside Men: USA vs Slovenia [6.18.10]

In line for the bathroom after 45-minutes of uninspired play from the US, the mood was, to be blunt, negative. Fans related stories of other shocking US failures. I called it the worst half in USA soccer history. Nate insisted, "We just need a cheapy." Iran '98 made the list as maybe the worst moment beyond the three-quarters of an hour of lifeless play we had just witnessed. So we got four beers and went back to our seats, three rows into the second deck. In rough percentage, of these four beers, only two would survive the first five minutes of the second half.

Our thoughts were numerous. We were one half away from being World Cup DOA. I thought of Andrew, already booked and partially en route, coming to see a team that played so poorly and left him with tickets to a group game with no meaning, mathematical or emotional. We thought of our fans, the amount of travel and income spent to come see these boys, wear these colors, and yell these three letters. I was certainly out of line to call this the "Worst Half In Soccer History"; but I wasn't that far off. This is what it feels like to die at a World Cup.


[National Anthem @ Ellis Park]

Where no grass grew, life emerged; from the bleakest shroud of death, new birth arose; Landon Donovan kicked a soccer ball a million fucking miles-per-hour at the face of the Slovenian keeper. 18-hours later, watching on replay, it was clear the keeper ducked from the vicious angle and velocity of the strike. At the time, Nate and I placed our beers out of harms way, jumped in each others' arms and felt our hearts beat for the first time all afternoon. We were notified by the people behind us that a river of suds were flowing down the row and onto the feet of the people beneath us. Our beers, supposedly safe, had been destroyed in the fire. Luckily, a young American family, they loved our antics. We hugged again. In short, we got emotional.

The game settled in and our section exploded into chants of "U-S-A!" Still down a goal, we were still effectively dead. Until Michael Bradley erupted from midfield, streaked on an Altidore header and poked the pelota into the top of the net. Like a human set of heart paddles, in the 82-minute, Michael Bradley gave our Cup a chance. Michael Bradley gave Silver a meaningful game against Algeria. After England's disaster in the late-game, Michael Bradley gave us control of our own destiny again. Nate and I embraced, draped the stars-and-bars over us and were brought to the brink of human emotion.

This, of course, does not address the highway robbery from the official that turned three points in one. But, in time, the Edu should-have-been goal, fades, or perhaps becomes a non-negotiable reality. We were robbed. It sucked. The English, limey-shit behind us in the stadium told us that an American player, "must have been 10 yards offsides." We didn't buy it. "That's a shit call," we said. Nate almost lost it. I held him back.

The comeback was the story. We stared death in the face and, frankly, blinked. But the blink came with a second-half full of beers (sort of) and two key subs that would make a world of difference. We walked from the stadium exhausted and emotional. We were not winners but we had survived. We were not entirely alive, but we certainly were not dead, hearts full and absolutely beating.