I have difficulties concentrating, and occasionally I will have Tourette's-like outbursts of "Drogba!" or "Damn that Rooney!"
I have trouble sleeping regular hours, and wake fitfully from dreams, trying to dance the Samba.
My self diagnosis is that I have a low grade infection of World Cup Fever. Luckily, as a gringo, I have a natural national inoculation to the worst strains of the disease, which in other countries have been known to be fatal.
It starts tomorrow at 7 am Pacific time, when host South Africa meets Mexico. Nelson Mandela will be in attendance, and magical things happen sometimes when he is around, but it will take some mighty, mighty magic to stop El Tri (translation: The Three Colors) from kicking the hometown behinds of Bufana Bufana (translation: The Boys).
This, of course, is just my opinion. Let me give the last word to the great philosopher/policeman who ends the opening scene from Run, Lola, Run.
The ball is round.
The game lasts 90 minutes.
These are facts.
All the rest is just theory.
