Harties Cribs

USA Past The Guard House : USA vs Algeria

In rough visual metaphor, the United States has systematically been denied access to that which we desired most, the elimination rounds. I've alleged it's a FIFA conspiracy, some combination of edicts from higher-ups, shitty side-line refs and a US team that seemed to be snake bit on the deepest of levels.

On our second day here, Nate and I tried to walk past the guard house to play golf near the defensible, largely white, former-Boer compound where we are staying. We were denied. They did not like the cut of our jib. We were, in short, shady. (No doubt our scraggly World Cup beards did not help.) On our third day, with a tee-time in hand, we drove a car through that house with full sanction of all the angry, security-minded people inside. We went past the guard house.

Two days later, Landon Donovan turned redeemer and kicked a soccer ball through the net and into the elimination round. The atmosphere in the stadium was not indescribable, but it certainly exceeded the pathetic limits of the English language. We descended into yelps and cries and shudders as the US knocked on the door without finding pay dirt. It was only a South African boy, no more than 10, who continued to assure us, "It's coming; it's coming." When Donovan delivered, I turned to his mother and I screamed, while pointing at him, "You did this! You did this!" In 2006, Ghana hexed us a thing we couldn't understand and were barely prepared for. In 2010, we went past the guard house; in 2010 we would not be denied.

Past The Guard House; We hit the links

On Saturday, Nate and I took a quick jaunt up the road to the golf course. We reached the guard house and asked, quite politely, if we could continue to the course. False. That was not possible. We were quite suspicious. We should return to from where whence we came. We were, at the very least, hurt. (Nate: "Pissed!")



On Sunday, we secured ourselves a tee time. This time with a ride, a car, and tucked in shirts to communicate the degree to which we were serious and not, I repeat, NOT the shady characters our facial hair might indicate. We played a hell of a round with Noah lacing drives upwards of 280 meters which roughly translates to the distance between here and New York. Huge. Nate, ironing out a low fade, even flirted with a draw, shot an 89 on the most challenging course in northern South Africa. I struggled to let myself have fun and then stormed down the back nine and sent the course a message. On a course playing 7,200 yards, and a few less meters, our threesome survived the southern winter, shot the lights out and refused to lose.