FRIDAY, JUNE 21, 2002, 4:24 A.M. — I write this from the pit of despond. Outside, the dawn is gouging its rosy fingers into my eye sockets. The early birds are twittering like idiots. A new day arrives, bringing with it its bag of blunt surgical instruments ... Sorry. Moments like this tend to invite the worst kind of prose: overreaching, overwrought, subpar. What was it Churchill said when the Luftwaffe launched its first searing attack on London? Ah, yes: "What the fuck was that?" But this time it’s not the Germans. It’s the Brazilians. And this time they won.

England are out of the World Cup. This is not a happy development. There will be the beating of breasts in Newcastle, the gnashing of teeth in Leeds, the wailing of lost souls in the darkest regions of Kent. Here in Boston, there is only silence. Except for those damn birds, who seem to be engaging in some sort of mass demonstration. Don’t they have worms to catch or something? Meanwhile, the irritating twang of the American commentator continues to resonate: "Eyengiland owenly heyeve theyemselves to blayme." No wonder so many people hate this fucking country.

Sorry again. Truly. The irritating American commentator was right. England only have themselves to blame. The match, in life-flashing-before-the-eyes terms, went: England go 1-0 up thanks to a nippy little goal from the nippy little Michael Owen; moments before half time, the stylish David Beckham skips over the ball (stylishly, I might add) when he should have kicked it, and the Brazilians trip lightly through a leaden English defense and score; minutes after half time, they score again with a beautiful free kick; they have a man sent off; doesn’t matter; we’re rubbish; the final whistle blows; 2-1.

Hope is a funny thing. It can make you cling to all sorts of odd beliefs: the laws of physics might bend just this once, the rules of the game might not apply, the flow of time might somehow be halted: nah, that truck isn’t really about to hit me; nah, that wasn’t the final whistle — couldn’t have been — there’s still another 35 seconds left on the clock — plenty of time to score a goal — come on, Ref! Ref! Come on! Peeeep! Unbelievable.

And don’t even start with that it’s-only-a-game crap. It’s much more than only a game. A victory in a game of this magnitude is an omen, a sign that something is with you — the Force, the gods, something. It’s like hitting big on the blackjack table, only multiplied by tens of millions of people. But we didn’t hit. No we didn’t. This morning, an entire nation slapped its head as a Jack turned up with a 12 showing. And this has implications far larger than a lost stake or an exit from the world’s biggest sporting competition. It says all is not right with the world. It says: losers.

Ah, well. I still have the US, which, in a few hours, will go up against the Germans. I can root for the American team. USA! USA! Right. It’s weird how something like a game of football can eke out deep-seated personal truths. For instance, I have written a piece for next week’s Phoenix that follows my progression from alienated English émigré to integrated American resident. The piece explores my growing realization, especially in the weeks following September 11, that I have become more American than I ever imagined I could be. "The terrorists," I write, "had done those awful things to us."

I still believe this. As far as the struggle with anti-American forces goes, I am deeply committed to the US. I still respond to Euro bellyaching ("Ze Amereecans are zo arrogant") by saying things like, "If it wasn’t for America, you’d all be sitting around eating Bratwurstschnitzel right now." And yet, as the World Cup drew near, I found myself saying, "We really have a chance this year," and "You probably won’t make it past the first round." By we, I meant England. By you, I meant the US. And now we — England — are out of it and you — America — still have it all to play for, and I’m absolutely gutted. Still, come 7:30 I’ll be cheering on the US team. You’ve got to, haven’t you. After all, they’re playing the bloody Germans.

N.B. After this piece was filed, the US lost to Germany 1-0. So, er, come on, Senegal.