So the World Cup is over. Italy won the low-scoring, tied, all-European finale in a penalty shootout. They managed this after needling the golden boy of French football into a self-destructive, pre-retirement implosion guaranteed to ensure that, despite a breathtaking career, he is destined to be remembered as a first degree chokemeister. Excitement, novelty and sportsmanship: it showcased all that is best about the beautiful game.

In truth, the sum-total of my World Cup television consumption was about twenty minutes. There were two reasons for this. First, as an American it's simply not in my blood. Everyone knows what happens to the American team in the World Cup, so there isn't generally much of an opportunity to root for my own team. We also don't have any international rivalry that fires us up. Maybe if North Korea or Osama Bin Laden fielded a team Americans would pay attention. But probably not. Nevertheless, I'm pretty internationalized and every time the tournament rolls around I try to whip up some enthusiasm. But about ten minutes into the opening round, as I'm watching two banana republics from opposite hemispheres duel with each other, I can already feel the ennui wrapping around me like cling-film. So I tell people, "I'll watch the elimination round". And then, "I'm waiting for the quarters." Followed by, "Well, you know, when the semis roll around I'll really get excited." And the inevitable, "The finals? Dude, I'm totally there." But at each stage I miraculously find something better to do.

This year, that something was sleep. I definitely watched more football when the World Cup was held in Korea and I was living in Singapore, just because it was easier to stumble onto the games by accident. In 1994 I actually went to two raucous Brazil games during the US World Cup. But with the tournament being held in Europe this year, it was a lost cause here in China. Best-case games started at 10 or 11 PM, often on weeknights. The really interesting ones tended to kick off at the comatose hour of 3:00 AM, when only pontianaks and the lounge lizards they prey on are awake. The blunt truth is that in the great television scheduling conflict between Europe, America and Asia, Asia gets the finger. A good friend of mine spent several nights crashing at my apartment to watch those pre-dawn games because I have a bigger TV and a nicer couch than she does. She actually woke herself up at 3:00 AM to watch these games. Mrs. Imagethief and I would check the results with her at breakfast.

Awkward timing aside, the tournament seemed to make a big splash in Beijing, even though the Chinese team wasn't invited to the party and proxy Asians Korea made an early exit (despite the motivating sex appeal of their fans). Every taxi driver I've met for the past month has been ready to spout forth with analysis on the games and the fortunes of the teams. Almost all of them indicated a preference for Germany, which I ascribed to home-team appeal, or Brazil, which is hard to argue with under any circumstances. Most were philosophical about China's lack of participation. The general sense was that as long as the Japanese weren't headed for the finals, it was OK. All claimed to have been watching the games pretty regularly.

I found the high rate of taxi driver viewership alarming. I have few illusions about taxis in Beijing, but one that I'd rather like to maintain is that the drivers, despite their often poor navigation and habit of making Speed Racer-style neck-snapping lane changes, are at least well rested and alert. Learning that the driver who is currently looking over his shoulder to talk to me also hasn't slept in thirty hours does not put me at ease. I hope there was something stronger than green tea in those jam jars.

 I didn't watch many games, but in the spirit of World Cup togetherness I did go out to play some court football with my friends at the Red Ball club on Gongti. If you've not been there, the Red Ball has two fenced-off, quarter-sized, astro-turfed football pitches. It's a great place for a little fast-paced four-on-four, although the black gravel they lay on the astro turf has an annoying habit of getting into your socks and etching the flesh from your ankle bones. It was there that I was reacquainted one the inevitable result of my American upbringing: I suck at football.

Someday, when the United States is Hispanic majority, I am sure that the US will field a truly world class football side. In fact, as far as I'm concerned, that is a good reason for essentially open immigration from Latin America (no Canadians, please -- we've already got hockey handled), and the people who want to build a wall along the southern border simply aren't thinking strategically. My hope is that the Latinization --if I may use that word-- of America will bring with it the street-level, working-class love of football that is necessary if a country is to ever really compete at the global level. As long as football --"soccer"-- remains a family-friendly, suburban American diversion for middle class schoolchildren who don't make their high school football or baseball teams, there is no hope.

I am a middle-class suburban American. I played one year of interscholastic soccer in middle school and one year of AYSO soccer in high school. I was a fullback, which is the high school soccer equivalent of right field, which is the baseball position in which they put kids who they hope will never, ever have to field a fly ball. I also played right field, but let's not dwell on that. The thing is, I am a clear product of American sandlot sports. While I am not great at football or baseball, I can actually field a ground ball and shag a fly into the outfield simply because of the countless hours spent playing "three flies up". I never played a moment of organized American football, but I can throw one forty yards because of all the sandlot and flag games I played over the years. That's the way it goes for Americans. But European --proper-- football? Forget it.

I was reminded of the tragic athletic cost of my birthright at this kick-around last week, which was heavily attended by Chinese, Australians and, yes, French people. All of them played with the journeyman comfort of people who, while not professional, had grown up kicking around a football (well, perhaps not the Australians). They dribbled with precision, made off-foot kicks, passed accurately, and shot on goal with finesse. I tripped over the ball, had it roll between my feet and, on one of the few occasions where I made solid contact with it, chipped it out of the court and into the al fresco restaurant tables next door.

But I had a good time anyway. There we were; four nationalities playing together in Beijing. And that's the charm of the game. I'll stand toe-to-toe with anyone and argue the entertainment merits of televised American football vs. European football. I'll wax poetic about the fun of a Saturday afternoon at the baseball park. But, the unpleasantness with Zidane aside, nothing brings people together like football. You can pretty much go to any remote, impoverished, pre-industrial corner of the world and stand a decent chance of stumbling into a pick-up game. And it warms my heart to know that, should I find myself in any of those backwaters, kicking it around with the locals, I'll still suck.