The World Cup is Europe's Super Bowl. Naturally, I spent a good part of 2006 making fun of what the Euros call football. Why? Because it is my birth right as an American to ridicule other cultures. Admit it. Red state. Blue state. The one thing we all agree on is we all hate soccer.

We'll never admit it. Political correctness forces us to lie and say we like a sport where you get hit in the head with the ball repeatedly. It's like bran cereal, electric cars, and obscure Woody Allen movies that only fifteen old guys in New York City can relate to. The reason we don't speak up is nobody has the nerve to tell soccer moms they are enslaving this nation's children in service to a cruel sport which amounts to two hours of wind sprints punctuated by two or three glorious moments where something actually happens, usually by accident.

In the interest of fair time, and filling up blog space, I'd like to look at the other side of the argument. American football must seem insane to Europeans.

Start with the concept of the first down. We get wildly excited by a team moving the ball thirty feet. Stand at the back of your house and look at the front door. That's ten yards. You get four chances to navigate your way through the den. Look, there's a quick pass over by the end table for fifteen feet. A hole opens and a runner darts off tackle twelve feet to the coat rack. And then the big moment of excitement comes.

It's third and one and the front door is almost in sight. The field shrinks as twenty-two men, some of them the size of small kitchen appliances, jam into a 30 foot by 160 foot box. That leaves about 20 square feet, approximately the size of your typical office cubicle, for each man to cover.

Tension mounts. Will the Giants be able to move the ball forward thirty-six inches?

Eli Manning approaches the line. Unlike soccer, where the action is continuous, American football constantly stops and starts so quarterbacks can approach the line of scrimmage and randomly scream out numbers. To Europeans this must appear to be some sort of madness. On the other hand, these are people who believe Jerry Lewis is a genius.

At this point, Manning does the unthinkable. He places his hands underneath a rather large, unpleasant looking gentleman who is kneeling over the ball. Now, in most parts of the world this would be considered bad form. For example, if you did this in a pub in Ireland you'd likely lose blood. But in football it is the start of each play. The ball is passed backward this way approximately 120 times a game, emerging up through, out of, well never mind.

Thirty-six inches away from his goal Manning turns away to give the ball to another player. A proper rugby player would just plough forward like a man. Even a soccer player would just go on and take one for the team. But in football the quarterback is a delicate flower who must be preserved at all costs. He spins and gives the ball away to a larger player who has made a running start.

The offensive and defensive linemen, most too large to move anywhere in the short time span involved, mill about pushing and shoving each other. Looking for some small amount of space, the runner sees an eighteen inch opening and falls toward it, wrapped in the embrace of several New England players in an act not dissimilar to a mugging.

Is the goal achieved? Will the Giants move onward? We don't know.

A team of surveyors, who just happened by to watch the game, run onto the field carrying the tools of their trade. The chain is pulled out, a crowd gathers, some pointing one way and some the other. Men on the sidelines look on speaking into headphone mikes to other men somewhere else in the stadium. A hush falls over the crowd.

The verdict is rendered. The Giants have gained only twenty-nine feet, eleven inches in three downs. Several of the New England players begin to exult, pulling on their uniforms and pointing to themselves while skipping and yelling violently. The have accomplished the great task of having managed to stand in the place the runner fell down at.

Now, a decision must be made. Europeans, used to the German Army periodically gobbling up large portions of real estate in much shorter time than this, know the Giants must use their fourth try and continue possessing the ball.

The Giants, located 195 feet from the goal, send a completely new team of players on the field so that one of them can kick it away to the Patriots. The reason? The risk that New York might not execute a play which will enable them to gain one inch of ground, coupled with the fear of giving the ball over to New England 105 feet from the Giant goal.

But wait! What is this. The Giants coach, who in appearance is not unlike the character of Scrooge, has hurled a small red flag onto the field. He believes the officials did not properly recognize the spot where the Giant runner has fallen, and looks upward to a higher power.

The replay official.

This omnipotent judge, will spend the next four or five minutes watching video tape of a man falling down and make a guess as to where exactly the ball was located when the 6 guys mugged him.

"The ruling stands on the field". Of course it does. Who would admit on national television their colleagues made a mistake.

So, the Giants send in their punter.  In England a punter is a better, and betting by players is illegal in American football.  But in this case it's OK to be a punter and he kicks the ball 150 feet or so down the field to a New England player who waves his hand back and forth so the New York players won't hit him (which of course they would under any other circusmstance).

Just under two minutes of game time has passed.  On the other hand, you have at least two minutes to watch commercials for chips, dips, and Buicks.

Suddenly, soccer starts to make sense.