Olé, Olé, Olé, Olé, we are the champions

My only memory of playing soccer is being a tubby, baby-fat-cursed 6-year-old—slow as hell—who hated running and ultimately quit the sport for something less cardio-intensive. Like He-Man.

In that sense, I’m very American. But I’m also kinda Euro.

Consider my team of choice for World Cup 2010: France. I’ll be rooting for the frogs—who have no chance in hell, right?—because I still feel bad about Zinedine Zidane’s 2006 meltdown. What can I do; I like übertalented loose canons with a fondness for trash talk and head-butting. Allez les bleus!

Anyway, Zidane’s retired, but I’ll still be taking my frog fanaticism to Streets of London Pub, 1804 J Street in Midtown, on Friday morning at 11 a.m. for the France-Uruguay match. And then, on Saturday, I’ll sport a different red, white and blue, for the Americans, as they wipe out 50-plus million Englanders’ hopes for the cup with an assured victory over Wayne Rooney and Co.

Then later in the day, I’ll cross the river for Raley Field, where San Jose Earthquakes will take on Chivas USA in the Sacramento Cup. Not quite the World Cup—but does having our own soccer goblet at least finally qualify us as world class? Anyway, exhibition-soccer kudos and winning dishware are cool, but I prefer using mugs for beer guzzling. And there will be beer—which probably will just resurrect the ol’ baby fat, right, Frenchie? Dommage.