In Retrospect: American English

It's now been seven days since I rose eagerly and pulled on my pyjamas for the beginning of South Africa 2010, and so much has happened in that time. I've spent the last week indulging in more football than is medically advisable, and I'm running the palpable risk of transforming myself into a dribbling heap incapable of even blinking in case I miss a stunning forty-yard screamer from some previously unknown one-goal wonder. But that doesn't stop me from heading off to Grad Bar on this fine sunny Friday for the clash between Slovenia and the United States. I have friends and classmates to meet, who are busy revelling in the good weather and taking full advantage of the bar's ongoing beer festival. I've mentioned previously the internationalism that permeates every level of Grad; this afternoon, it's not difficult to spot the dejected German faces after their pitiful defeat against Serbia. My mate Al (pictured) has already fallen foul of them as he made his way down to the bar, innocently oblivious as to the result of the match. The Fawltyesque exchange, in his words, went as follows:

AL: Alright chaps. What was the score?
THE TEUTONIC MASS: Fuck you.
PASSING ENGLISHMAN: Mate...don't mention the score.

Personally, I'm well up for a bit of gloating myself. A good number of the folks I'm meeting - including Al, as you may have surmised from the image - are cheering for the USA this afternoon, either through their actual nationality, parental allegiance, or a profound love of cars, democracy, and military operations of dubious legality. From an England perspective, a draw is the best outcome from this one, or perhaps a narrow US victory. Not that that's going to stop me from urging Slovenia to stuff them.

There's so much to shout about during a cracking first half. Valter Birsa's opening goal is a stunner that catches Tim Howard flat-footed, and in spite of a good spell of American pressure in response, the US can't seem to shift out of first gear for long enough to bag an equaliser. Then it all goes severely Cheech & Chong for the Yanks when a Slovenian counter-attack shortly before half-time sets Zlatan Ljubijankic up for a second goal, placed expertly past Howard into the bottom corner. Oops-a-daisy.

Of course, I'm not rubbing any of this in to the assembled transatlantics. Even after a couple of pints, words like "tinpot" and "utter and complete lack of any footballing history or tradition whatsoever" don't so much as cross my lips. I'm just congratulating myself on my magnanimity when the second half gets underway, and Landon Donovan decides he'd quite like to charge through on goal and blast a close-range scorcher into the roof of the net. This is just the beginning; like a small oil-rich state, the Slovenian goal is subjected to wave after wave of American attacks. To their credit, Slovenia aren't shy of bombing down the other end either, and out of nowhere the match becomes a real end-to-end battle with plenty of goalmouth action. The question is, can Slovenia hold on? They do admirably, and even come close to making the game safe, but ten minutes from time Donovan's long ball meets the head of Jozy Altidore, and Michael Bradley - the coach's son, of all people - is on hand to put it past the keeper. The reaction of the American fans in the crowd is incredible; you certainly can't accuse of them of not having passion for the game.

It's not over yet, either. Sensing a chance to snatch top spot in the group, the United States push forward again and win a free-kick on the edge of the box for their efforts. It's that Real American Hero Landon Donovan who floats it in, and amidst a crowd of players, Maurice Edu emerges to volley it into the roof of the net. But the referee's blown his whistle; he claims to have seen a foul by an American on a Slovenian defender. Given the number of Slovenians who were quite obviously shirt-pulling and physically holding back their American counterparts, I'm amazed he could even spot this solitary infringement. The US have just been jobbed out of a legitimate third goal, and they can't believe it. To be honest, nor can I.

My day of gloating inevitably comes back to haunt me later when England turn in an abject performance against Algeria in the evening, and I'm forced to three conclusions:

1) I am never, ever gloating about another team's misfortune again until I'm sure my own lot aren't going to royally choke.
2) If we fail to qualify from this group, I am becoming a citizen of Chile.
3) When it comes to England, there's no such thing as "easy". But then, we already knew that, didn't we?