World Cup

I guess you don't really know someone until you've been with them four years, or at whichever point in the four year cycle the World Cup hits. For myself and G, it's been nearly two and a half years and until a week ago I had no idea the lengths he'd go to watch these soccer matches. I think Americans equate soccer to the activity their kids play after school and on weekends (think Soccer Mom) and at some point the kids outgrow soccer, so that we can all be free to obsess about the Red Sox, er, I mean baseball, in general.

Boston is a cosmopolitan city, so even those of us who barely know the difference between a soccer ball and a whiffle ball are forced to notice the proliferation of World Cup media as of late. A few years back I lived in a building with a large Brazilian ex-pat population...I first understood the true fanaticism of the games when Brazil finally won-- at 3 am.

At any rate, G showed his European background by making plans with his Irish friend to meet at the bar on Saturday morning at 9 am. He tried to get me to go, but I'd already determined I wasn't getting out of bed for anything short of a national emergency on Saturday morning. And in fact, when 8:45 did roll around (after a night of dinner out, followed by drinks for Evil Twin #1's pre-departure to Japan), and it was rainy, I was surprised at G's determination to make it to the bar.
So what did I do, as a good American, while G was off drinking Guiness and eating blood sausage? What any good American would do. I ate apple pie in bed.