As the signature, skull-numbing drone of the vuvuzela fades, and Spain collectively nurses its massive hangover after days of rioja-swilling glee, we are all left to wonder: what next?
For a month, we all watched as the world’s best players played its most popular game on the world’s biggest stage… it supplied us with a steady stream of entertainment (and a steadily growing admiration for Paul, the clairvoyant octopus who correctly predicted 100% of matches). In this country, we took an uncharacteristically keen interest in the event–from Team USA’s unlikely tie with England (when was the last time a tie engendered so much national pride?) to the swell of joy expressed after Landon Donovan’s goal, we were united in our full-throated support of our team.
On the field… and off, of course. There was the aforementioned Mr. Donovan’s alleged love child–the announcement of which was impeccably timed for maximum tabloid effect. And the discovery of Clint Dempsey as an aspiring freestyler.
But of course, we can’t even come close to the devotion felt towards soccer in other parts of the world. Every member of the Spanish team will be treated as a hero for the rest of their lives? And there is a special agony in the Netherlands’ defeat: a Dutch porn star had promised oral sex to all of her Twitter followers had her homeland in fact won the final match.
This kind of stuff just doesn’t happen every day.
So now what?
