ESPN, of course, played a key role in shaping this modern landscape. Things were a lot simpler three decades ago, and there was space available in the general consciousness for a popular gonzo-soccer league in the late 1970's. So this entity has built a multi-million dollar monster month to sell soccer in America, but it must defeat another monster... one it itself created long ago! This is the second-reel twist of several Toho creature-features, many of the films shown on Mystery Science Theater 3000, and the Iraq War.

The soccer monster has a tough job. It has to win over a public that has become fat and spoiled and entitled, a nation of experts on Every Single Sport. Any game has to "show something" to be relevant. From early indications, the counter-approach to this mindset has been this: a.) "everyone else thinks this is important and so should you," b.) an appeal to U.S.-vs.-them �bernationalism, and c.) the comparison of the Beautiful Game's elements to known American quantities (the Yankees of, the Kobe Bryant of, etc.).

My first Beautiful experience came 18 years ago, in Barcelona. The Olympic tournament that year was weakened and diluted by FIFA rules, and only players under the age of 23 could participate. So, as like with many recent Games, the dominant teams were non-traditional footballing nations. Poland, for instance, ripped through the group stage and and destroyed Australia in the semifinals, 6-1. In the gold medal game, the Poles encountered host nation Spain, which had fielded a squad with such an air-tight defense that it hadn't allowed a single goal.

I watched the game with some ex-pats. There's a little ex-pat dance that goes on at the Olympics among Americans. Finally, when I admitted that I was from Oregon and not Canada, I settled into a quick and temporary friendship with a guy in a Barca shirt that had attended the University of Washington (so we connected via the extended granfalloon of the Pac-10). He'd been living in Spain on a rotating visa for two years. Our little group of English speakers was surrounded by chanting and singing Spanish fans, there on the eve of the Closing Ceremony.

When Poland finally pierced the Spanish defense for a goal just before the half, the break was all nervous silence, a sustained, low-level electric shock that covered the crowd like a superconductive static blanket. At some point, U-Dub Barca Guy gave me the most succinct and direct explanation of football I've ever heard.

"It's really simple," he said. "The tactics and formations are really easy to pick up, you don't need an advanced education to tell the difference between a 4-4-2 and a 5-4-1. For that reason, there's a lot of room, a lot of space to fill. You can fill that space by thinking about the individual players and their tendencies, or singing and dancing and drinking. Most of the time, I remember where I was and who I was with more than I remember scores. Of course, the drinking part has a lot to do with that."

The second half was wide open, back and forth, long careening open runs in both directions. Spain drew even, then scored a second, but Poland tied it again a few minutes later. With the Olympic gold medal on the line, with a late-arriving Juan Carlos, King of Spain, in attendance, the last 15 minutes were three hours long, though the clock kept ticking. Finally, in the last minute, a man named Kiko sliced the ball past the Polish keeper, and everything exploded. Red and gold everywhere, one last great victory before the rest of the world went back home. Everyone was crying. I was crying. And drunk. Towards the end of the Olympics, the nervous system is so overloaded that a cup of coffee can make one cry, which happened later.

Back in America, I never found people to watch soccer with, at least not in that way. That's why it didn't stick for me. There were people who talked a lot of "soccer talk" in smug little clubs (some of whom I heard from with defensive rants after I wrote this), but that didn't seem like any fun. As I proceeded through my 20's and 30's, I ended up with a series of disconnected fragments: the Manchester City shirt I bought in England, the crema Universitario headband I received with a tearful abrazo as I left Peru, the unrequited crush (another one) on a pretty French girl in college who wore a green and white Saint-Etienne knit cap during the winter. All of this was just so many fits and starts, never added up to a lifelong love of the game.

I watched the England-United States 2010 World Cup match at a local bar-slash-grill here in Pawtucket, Rhode Island, one with a canvas sign in front with a man's face covered with flags promising "all the games." (Even though the place actually opens at 11 a.m. every morning.) I set up camp in the bar section, under the two television sets, with my minor-league baseball buddy, as potential soccer converts filed in. Most of them were there for the Red Sox game. In the corner, a booth with four US National Team superfans. One had a Landon Donovan jersey and a New England Revolution ballcap on.

This was anthropology for me. Sipping on my Diet Coke through a bendy straw, stuck in the middle, I watched as the folks at the bar made small efforts to find a way into the action. Anti-British sentiment was the easy hook (a "BP sucks!" chant was attempted). Xenophobia soon gave way to its close cousins homophobia and racism, and stock populist arguments about no scoring and ties and all that goddamn diving. All the while, the superfans made loud noises at every opportunity, and talked in world-isms like "good result" and "caps." Dissonance all around. My friend made an excuse, left at halftime, and we caught up later at the PawSox game. (Indeed, dear reader, while I've drawn up this scene as a typical American two-party system, the majority in attendance were too busy eating food and talking amongst themselves to pick a side.)

I know there are people in the United States who love soccer for its own sake, who can see past wall-to-wall coverage and pretty shoe campaigns that emphasize superstars over collective effort. There are MLS fan sections, immigrants clutching to a piece of the old land, those who watched each and every U.S. team friendly and qualifier, the diehards who split $200 pay-per-view tournament packages with their friends and roommates. They don't need my approval, but I salute them. Maybe I'll fall in with some of these folks someday.

They also don't need ESPN's hearts-and-minds campaign. The company has an interest in breaking through this three-decade American sports glut, to clear out space on the menu for soccer. But only to enhance the value of their soccer rights holdings, like the MLS and Saturday morning English Premier League matches. And it's using the same blunt object it used in that horrible arena football campaign: money.

ESPN is operating with a toolbox full of hammers, no fasteners or adhesives. It attempts to cultivate a soccer relationship between individuals and their television sets, not one to another. Football, to play or watch, serves as a glue that binds family and friends and communities and countries. It inspires simple scenes like this, in which someone flies to a footballing country just to watch the games on TV with a beloved friend. It is the world's chosen cure for loneliness.

And I'm telling you, once again, it's just too late for us.