Fight for What's Right. Fight for Your Life.

I'm going to yell at the television today. Like a senile cat lady watching Family Feud re-runs (Richard Dawson years). I can't help it. It's not just the World Cup itself, although that would normally be damn well enough. John Wooden, the last honest man in all of sports passed on, and world has been burning in the white hot lava fire of rebirth ever since. Tuberville might have finally hit 88 mph and corrected his national championship resume. Mitch Mustain hitched a ride with a skateboard and Delorean bumper grab and could once again reunite with Capt. Gustav Malzahn Nemo. Big Baby is a legitimate post-season NBA player. Texas is now all but part of the Pacific coast, for Christ's sake.

The plates have collided. Somebody crossed the streams. And this frenzy has all built into the pleasant hum of a thousand dying emus and the World Cup starting up in frickin Africa. In this time of continental shift, the only thing left is for the United States to feel the power of love and dial it back to 1950 for a win over the Brits at their own game.

Everything I know about South Africa, I learned from watching Lethal Weapon 2. So naturally, I assume all the people in charge look like Hans from the Mighty Ducks. They are assisted by Aryan women and all financial transactions are conducted with a swift Busey roundhouse to the back of the head solid gold Krugerrand in the manner that God and Ron Paul intended. However, apparently a few things have changed since Riggs and Murtaugh ended apartheid and my "See Sun City" brochure may no longer be an accurate representation of the country.

The first modern day developing world World Cup gives a certain air of unpredictability. It doesn't feel quite right. The plates are shifting again, and this thing might not be entirely stable. And when the ground starts shaking, there's no better opportunity for the chess club champion to grab the prom queen, find a structurally sound doorway and go at it like the walls are about to come down.

If I had written this 6 days ago, I would have told you this-- we have absolutely no shot. The problems that were there at the beginning of qualifying two years ago are still there. We can't hold possession. We have trouble with creativity on the attack. Robbie Findley doesn't have the ability to move laterally. But most of all, our defense is a disorganized mess.

God love Jay DeMerritt. He's a hard-nosed, scrappy player who clearly loves the game, but he directs the defense like a Viking horde chasing a chicken. I don't even know what that means, but it's a mental image that seems to fit. No shortage of bloodlust or aggression, but just a mob-style pile of dust, flailing feet, facial hair and Tim Howard, our Tourette's-inflicted goalie, screaming wild obscenities in the background. Australia is not a good team. They probably won't make it out of their group play, but if they had had Wayne Rooney on loan for our game, they would've put six goals on us. We have some skill in some key places, but on the whole, our squad doesn't stack up to a world class side. In a stagnant world, we don't have a chance.

But, man. A lot's happened since last Saturday morning and today's world is anything but stagnant. And when times seem their most uncertain, there's no better opportunity to take something that you normally wouldn't have.

Later the same day of the Australia game, I sat in Levon Helm's house, drank a fifth of whiskey and heard the man sing Rag, Mama Rag. Shit happens in America. Beautiful, amazing shit. Glory, glory hallelujah. On the ride home the next day, two things rang in my head-- the dull bells of brown liquor hangover and the pounding drum of foolish pride.

Since then, I've awoken every morning to blaring James Brown and gone to bed to the Taps of the Top Gun theme, and it's built.

We're America. We're going to fucking win. We're going to cockpunch those limey bastards, and we're going to do it because of, not in spite of, our being completely outclassed. They're the pedigree. The royalty. The world soccer aristocracy. And just like the monarchy of old, they've collapsed under the weight of their own crown, thin bloodline and irrational belief in the power of one set of genetics. We're the muts. Clint Dempsey learned the game from the illegal immigrant children who played in the street in front of his Texas trailer park. Jozy Altidore is a the Jersey-born son of Haitian immigrants. Jose Torres scalped Eric Estrada for good luck and hasn't looked back since. Herculez Gomez has two z's in his name. These are our boys, and if you don't see us in them, you need to turn off Glenn Beck and really look at the history of who we are. We're team Zissou. Klaus used to be a bus driver. Wolodarsky was a substitute teacher. We're a pack of strays.

How does that add up to victory? Fuck if I know, but I believe it does. So, crank up the patriotic rock of your choice (except for Lee Greenwood, who is a war profiteer, child molester and Dutch football supporter), crack open two cans of exceptionally cold, incredibly affordable and unrepentenly mediocre beer, smack them together and poor them down your face. Gameday's come to June for one month, and month only, we here at the Sons of Caine are proud to be with the Yanks.