As I try to recover from the PTSD induced by the Czechs’ manhandling—and banish fantasies of a vengeful, blood-crazed mob meeting the US team at the airport—I found the ultimate rarity: a Euro-journalist offering half-decent insight on American soccer. Of course, the lengthy debate in the comments section only reinforces my arrogant-out-of-touch-media bias to the effect that most people should be allowed nowhere near a keyboard.
In other news: While the festivities turned grim very early, Portland’s Bakery Bar is a pretty decent place to watch a match. A full house of knowledgeable (if understandably subdued) fans had to resort to gallows humor early on (“Keller’s calling for it! See Keller! See Keller!”). The staff could work out a more efficient system for coping with rushes at the counter. But the jammer I polished off just before the first Czech goal ruined my appetite was quite good.