Bruce's Belly has a terrific post up about the potential pitfalls of "experience." I'm not sure that's the most accurate word for it, but basically his point is that sometimes players subconsciously put arbitrary limits on their abilities. Players get accustomed to their expected role and are no longer capable of taking the imaginative leap necessary to attempt the audacious--a diving header, a 30-yard volley, a back-heel pass.

I think this theory gets to my problem with Josh Wolff. You can say a lot of nice things about him as a player. And they're all true. Wolff is quick and skilled on the ball. He consistently puts himself in good spots on the field. His timing on runs is impeccable.

So why am I so adamant that he doesn't belong on the national team? Or at least not in the starting lineup? It's his lack of hunger, imagination, and audacity. Wolff plays not to make mistakes. He plays scared. He plays like he's trying to impress a premiership coach, not like he's willing to sacrifice sight in one or both eyes to get the ball into the back of the net.

The beauty of the national team under Bruce Arena is that they have no fear. They have an arrogance about them, a swagger. They're not going to bow down before the traditional soccer powers. Four years ago when the U.S. squad walked out on the field against Portugal (picked by many to win the whole tournament), they were probably the only 11 people on the planet who truly believed that they would triumph in that game.

Wolff doesn't share that fearlesness. Or at least he doesn't play like it. That's why he shouldn't be on the team.

Start Nagadoches.

The poor Indomitable Drinky Crows have been outscored 13-2 in our first three games of the outdoor season. Pure misery. Unfortunately I am undoubtedly a large part of the problem. But as team manager I can not be ousted. I'm sure that the rest of the team will be relieved when I depart for Germany. This is, in part, the missive that I sent out to the other Drinky Crows this afternoon:

Comrades,

We suck. This will not be tolerated anymore. If things don't improve contracts will be terminated. Appendages may be removed. We have long admired the personnel practices of Uday Hussein (or was that Qusay?) while in charge of the Iraqi national team.

To try and right matters we have hired an "advisor" from Cote D'Ivoire, Bakari Gbagbo. He will be visting each of your homes in the coming days and suggesting ways in which you might improve your pre-match preparations. For instance, he may advise that you take a bath in water treated with various potions, and then invite you to make a wish in the ear of a pigeon. This proved extremely successful for Cote D'Ivoire during the 1984 African Nations Cup. At Mr. Gbagbo's behest we have already buried one chicken behind each goal at Fort Snelling. We appreciate your cooperation.

I recently purchased this book that Turnipseed pointed out, The Thinking Fan's Guide to the World Cup. It's edited by Sean Wilsey and Matt Weiland, and contains essays about each participating country by a talented, eclectic group of writers. John Lanchester on Brazil, for instance. William Finnegan on Portugal. I'm looking forward to reading it after I've finished with Twin Cities Noir.

But the other day when it arrived I couldn't help at least peeking at the preface and introduction. Unfortunately it's not a promising start. I can almost forgive Wilsey, the author of the introduction, for bizarrely claiming that America's hopes rest on young Freddy Adu. It's a ridiculously erroneous assertion and one that no one with even passing knowledge of the U.S. team (let alone the editor of a supposedly learned volume about the world's greatest sporting extravaganza) would make. But I could get over that.

Wilsey's unpardonable sin, though, is this assanine statement:

There are irritating fans: "USA! USA! USA!" (Blessedly few.)

To compound matters, Mr. Wilsey, who lives in NYC (last time I checked part of the horrid USA), goes on to describe how he went about choosing which team to cheer for during previous world cups. Now I'm no Toby-Keith-stick-an-American-boot-up-their-turbaned-asses jingo, but the whole point of the World Cup is national passion. You don't get to choose which country to cheer for any more than you get to choose your mother. It's too late dude. You were born here. You live here. Cheer for the USA. Or don't cheer at all. Or move to Togo. Those are the only options.

Then when I didn't think it possible for Mr. Wilsey to lower himself any further in my estimation, he goes on to describe how during the 1990 World Cup he decided to cheer for Italy. Now anyone with more than three brain cells knows that Italy produces the most loathsome species of soccer players on the planet. The whole nation is afflicted with some rare genetic disorder that causes them to immediately begin flopping around on the ground in faux-agony as soon as they step onto a soccer pitch. They're an insult to the game. Plus they're corrupt. How anyone could possible choose to cheer for such a team when not bound to by the misfortune of birth is inexplicable.

I'm afraid it's going to be a highly annoying World Cup for Mr. Wilsey. Because there aren't going to be "blessedly few" USA supporters in Germany. There's going to be a hell of a lot of us. And we're going to make a glorious racket. But don't worry. We'll come up with something a lot more interesting than USA! USA! USA! to sing.

Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha!

Barring incarceration or death from bird flu, I'm going to Germany.

(And no, that Budweisser can did not come with the tickets.)

The playoffs for Premiership promotion began today. Preston North End v. Leeds United. My only real interest in this match is Eddie Lewis. The superb U.S. left-side midfielder/defender, who seems to just get better with age, played for Preston last season. He seemingly had a fine campaign (his third for the team), making 40 appearances and scoring four goals. The squad finished fifth in the table, but had their Premiership dreams dashed by West Ham United.

Then in the offseason, for reasons I've never understood, Preston let Lewis walk on a free transfer. He ended up at Leeds and seems to have had a crackling season. (I haven't gotten sufficiently insane to order Setanta yet, so I don't get to watch these games.) He's scored six goals, but more importantly seems to fire in a half-dozen crackerjack crosses every game. Leeds finished 5th in the table (up from 14th the previous year) and desperately needs to earn a promotion spot because of the team's perilous financial state.

So who does Leeds end up squaring off against in the first round of the playoffs? Preston naturally. And who scored the game-tying goal today on a "superb" 74th-minute free kick? Eddie Lewis naturally.

Foolish, foolish Preston. The game ended 1-1. Let's hope Leeds can finish the job on Monday at home.