My guts are frothing, having become the localized host for my indescribable rage. I reject, fully, the notion that the game "evens out" or that "one call does not define ninety minutes." In the World Cup, in this moment, with so much on the line and the sheer epicness of the comeback teetering over the edge of amazing, it simply does.


If the United States had played up to their capabilities in the first half, there might be no need to lambaste a Malian with every breath I can muster (breathing is difficult and a touch erratic at the moment). Even now, typing, a stream of expletives is firing from my lungs in the direction of Koman Coulibaly as if he himself houses a cell of conscienceless terrorists. YOU FUCKING INCOMPETENT BASTARD. Bradley got things wrong, as so many of us did (Torres? Nice player, but did not seem ready), and the team fell asleep twice in one of the most disappointing first halves they've played in a long time. And yes, I'm aware that the recency effect is in play, and I don't care; everyone, to a man, knew what this game meant and how difficult it would be. To have a two goal hole mawing at halftime was beyond reprehensible.


And then the second half. Donovan grabbing the game by the scrotum and yanking momentum his, and the Americans' way. The coaster, returning to the crest of the hill from a valley of despair, clicking along, seeming to arrest when I most needed it to climb. It was much too slow for my liking, inch by inch, ball back to Howard then out, while the clock spun faster and faster like a display in the worst time machine ever built, the U.S. banging their heads into walls time after time as if they enjoyed it. Please sir, may I have another ball to nowhere over the top. GOOCH! WHAT THE FUCK WAS THAT?


Quit though, there was none. Stretched, the defense desperately held on while the attack rolled stutter-stop towards the Slovenia goal. A close miss here. A poor touch there...it all built up to the point that my fragile psyche was sure there wasn't another goal in it, that the Yanks would crumble pathetically to the ground, that the World Cup was over and I would step back from the thronged mass of invested fans standing on the ropes thousands of miles away to take up my role as disenchanted observer in the back of the mob. How 'bout those Germans, eh?


GOAL. What? Where? How? BRADLEY! MICHAEL FUCKING BRADLEY the man who so often arrives at the right time gets on the end of something Altidore did (did he do anything else? I can't remember) and pulls us level and the team is going bonkers and I'm jumping up and down and my two-year son is sure I'm insane. You'd be jealous of my vertical.


That.


For the moment, for what it was, it was unbelievable. From no hope to sure we could win it in a mere second, all because Bradley knows how to slide and hit a ball at the same time. Surely he falls asleep dreaming of hitting bounders in from his ass.


But get at it now, don't stop, it's all there, we have this. Slovenia is reeling now and good teams press their advantage. Choke back the adrenalin, but don't waste it - put it right back into your game, channeled towards that rectangular opening beckoning to eat another Jabulani. The enemy's gate is down.


Free kick. From where Donovan likes it. If he gets it over the wall, this is tailor-made for his right foot. Back post, like we practiced, just in front of the keeper. Make it count, because there may not be many more, and with everyone pushed up, our goal-poaching sharks smelling blood in the water, the time to strike is now. Was I sure of it? Of course not. But I let myself believe for a moment that it was there.


You know the rest, and I'm too spent to relive it. That happened. Koman Coulibaly happened. Stolen, no balance, no fairness. Poor from the start was the man from Mali, who somehow conceived to give an American a yellow card when the ball STRUCK HIM IN THE FACE. Don't tell me Dempsey should have been sent off and so it's karma. Don't tell me eight years ago or six years ago or blubberty five years ago a call went for the Americans and this makes up for it. Bullshit. Utter. Bullshit.


I leave you now with something from the maginificent Brian Phillips of Run of Play fame. Brian scrapped a post he was working on for Dirty Tackle's World Cup coverage and was kind enough to send it along when I asked to see it. He's a better writer than me, this better captures everything we're feeling, and I thank him for letting me post it here.

***
Incompetent Lunatic Pours Gasoline on Justice, Lights Match

Then, watching justice burn, he scrunches up his brow, puts his whistle to his lips, and calls a foul on justice. You know. For obstructing the fire.

Obviously, minutes after the match, tempers are high, and we should all probably take a minute to calm down before we say anything we might regret. Nevertheless, with all caution and restraint, I think it's safe to say that THIS IS THE WORST THING THAT HAS EVER HAPPENED AND GIANT SHEETS OF FIRE RAINING DOWN FROM THE SKY ON THE HEAD OF KOMAN COULIBALY COULD NOT PUT TO RIGHTS THE STAIN HE HAS INFLICTED ON THE FABRIC OF ALL THAT IS GOOD IN THE UNIVERSE AND THOUSAND-MILE-HIGH BOLTS OF LIGHTNING SMASHING THE ENTIRE CITY OF ZURICH TO THE GROUND CANNOT MAKE UP FOR THE CRIME FIFA HAS COMMITTED IN ASSIGNING HIM TO THE WORLD CUP AND IF YOU ARE BEING SWALLOWED BY A FANGED BEAST RISING UP FROM THE BOWELS OF THE SEA THEN YOU HAD BETTER BE CAREFUL NOT TO BE SPEARED BY HIS FANGS OR THIS REFEREE WILL SAY YOU FOULED HIM AND DISALLOW YOUR GOAL AND...

Well, you get the idea. That's not going too far, right?


Vent. Do it.