Robbie Findley

I was en route home from South Africa yesterday—and still haven’t made it to D.C.; I’m sipping a Jamba Juice and typing in the lovely JetBlue terminal at JFK—so I still haven’t seen all 120 minutes of USA-Ghana. The last 30, however, I did catch during a short layover in Dubai. I was drained, the U.S. seemed drained. Maybe it was sitting in a quiet airport lounge, listening to play by play in Arabic, with just a couple of American fans in a small group around a flat screen.

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USA! USA! USA!

Well, I'm not sure how I'm going to be able to work after that.  But why mess with the morning's workless streak? (Actually I'm at a panel discussion, where chin-tugging will hopefully calm me down.) The most exciting match of the tournament by far. Add it to the growing pantheon of courageous U.S. ties.  (I await the day when my most precious memories of U.S. soccer aren't just spiritual triumphs.) I certainly had a bad feeling entering the second half and had already begun writing an angry blog post in my head.

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