why i didn’t care about the world cup

      There I was ogling the chocolate cake and trying to plot my course to it through the gaggle of guests who must not have eaten since the last party my friend and editor Neil, and his smart wife, Carol, gave, and were therefore hovering at the food table like hungry Texans over a roadkill armadillo. Neil cornered me and asked, not even feigning innocence:

      "Are you into the World Cup?"

      If I had only thought to say

      "Yes, more than life itself"

      I could have weaseled out, but I told the truth:

      "Hardly at all, although I did watch some of one game but only because it was being shown at the bar where I was imbibing with my friend who doesn't give me assignments."

      Hearing the aversion to World Cup in my response, Neil pounced. Now I'm some 200 words into an assignment which, in order to be "timely" must be conceived, written, edited and posted while the quadrennial tournament, being watched by more Americans than watched the last episode of M*A*S*H, is going on right now.

      I was born and reared in Lynchburg, Virginia, which is relevant to my aversion to soccer. To put it simply, in the 1960s when I became somewhat conscious of where it was I was living, soccer didn't exist in Lynchburg, neither on playing fields, nor on TV. The schools did not recognize soccer as a recreational, intramural nor varsity sport.

      The leading store selling sports stuff, S.O. Fisher, did not carry soccer gear. The daily newspapers did not report soccer scores. The reason is simple and is a direct consequence of Lynchburg's largely conservative, xenophobic, and at that time, provincial population. If they heard of soccer at all, Lynchburgers had already concluded that soccer was a game played by godless communists in countries that refused to learn to speak English and play real football.

We interrupt this report to bring you the results of the World Cup final game: Spain defeats Argentina, 1 to 0. Not content to bore the world for 90 minutes, the only goal scored happened during the mysterious extra time which is appended to most soccer games because fans just can't get enough of beefy guys running up and down a field, not scoring or touching the ball with their hands.

      I need to wrap this up as readers of writingaboutourgeneration.com will be feverishly refreshing their screens to see what we have to say about the sporting event that has given them a good excuse to ignore everything else in their lives in order for them not to miss a minute, because who knows, that might be the minute when someone kicks the ball into the net for a score.