I'm devastatingly nervous. If I wanted to, I'm sure I could belch butterflies. My mind is spinning, my leg won't stop moving of its own accord, and I've got a nasty case of ADD. It's a wonder I can type these words.
Naturally, this is all the World Cup's fault. It's a menace, really, causing me to lose sleep and hair, happening so many thousand miles away, often while I'm chained to a desk, taunting me with its coming magnificence. The United States is playing on Saturday, in case you didn't know, and the match is only the most important thing to happen to American soccer in the history of ever. With it comes a requisite amount stress.
Well, maybe the bit about importance is a touch hyperbolic, but nevertheless, the stress is very real. I'm totally stressed to the max.
It's not what you think, though. It's not the self-imposed fan stress, the kind that comes with the buildup to a big game and is really just about hope and fear battling it out inside my head. Am I nervous about U.S. v. England? Of course. Part of me really believes the Americans can "shock the world" again. Another part of me is certain we're not ready, that the defense won't hold up, and that someone will do something stupid and we'll be down a man in the first half.
Crap. Too much jinxing. EVERYTHING WILL BE FINE.
No, this isn't that kind of stress. At least not most of it. This stress comes from the fact that, no matter the outcome, I'm going to have to write something. I'm almost positive it won't do the game justice.
That's not to say I won't try. But think about it for a moment; if the U.S. loses, the World Cup is far from over, but the disappointment will be palpable. It's easy to intellectually recognize that winning would be a wonderful bonus but isn't necessary to advancing in the tournament or indicative that the team isn't good enough to do so; properly framing my feelings after such a result is an entirely different story. Will it be morose? Depressing? Reactive and full of Chicken Little babbling that this team is terrible, that Bradley botched the job, that such-and-such a player failed miserably and should be shot? Or can I balance the disappointment with relatively even-handed assessment of their play and subsequent chances against Algeria and Slovenia?
And what if they win? Good lord, I'll be boiling over with joy to the point of incoherence; writing about a U.S. victory over England would be fraught with danger, the tendency towards hyperbole and poetic nonsense at critical levels. I may even be unable to resist the pull and forge ahead, my flowery and verbose natural style boring every single one of you to tears. There exists a very real possibility that I could spit something out that fails to capture the proper tone and tenor or reads like a soccer love letter rather than a quality piece of writing at what would be a seminal moment in American soccer history.
The goals, they were like beautiful shooting stars, streaking through the air as if propelled by the gods themselves...
Oof.
Stressed man, stressed. The emotional investment is illogical. The hopeful trepidation is maddening, and the anticipation (less than 50 hours now) isn't helping.
Let's just get this damn thing over with. Whatever comes out comes out.
End of therapy. Excuse the ramblings of a mad man.
