There was nothing different about that night. It started out like all the rest. I was forty-five minutes late for dinner with my girlfriends in the East Village. I had spent the day shopping at Bloomingdale's and was excited to debut my latest Marc Jacob's buy. As I entered the bustling French restaurant, the girls had already polished off a bottle of wine and I needed to catch up fast. The waitress quickly poured me a dry Riesling and as I lifted the glass to my lips and took my first sip, the wine rushed down my spine like a cold chill...

"I couldn't get over that match this morning! Granted I was hung-over from Friday night, but nothing was going to prevent me from watching England take their first game in the World Cup! David Beckham can bend it like he can bend his girlfriend! Bollocks, did you see that shot? I swear I was on the phone with my boyfriend screaming 'Oley!' at 9:30 this morning! Which reminds me, I can't stay out too late, Serbia is playing in the morning and I can't miss it."

Um...excuse me? Did I sit down at the wrong table? Aren't these my tragically hip and Euro-centric New York girlfriends who spend their time at film festivals and planning their next vacation to Nepal? Aren't these the girls who I can recite my latest humbling dating experience to or get advice on how to make the most out of the back of a cab? More importantly, aren't these the girls who I normally blow off on a Saturday because I'm the one suffering in front of a television watching my game go in to overtime?

It was one of the few times in my life I came in to a sports conversation and had absolutely nothing to say. To make matters worse, these were my girlfriends, the ones I never have to impress with my sports prowess. Here I was, excited to dish about the hot date I had that lasted until 3AM on Wednesday night and all they wanted to talk about was soccer?! What was the world coming to?

Wine. I needed more wine and a chance to clear my head. It was just soccer, I know soccer! I grew up in the soccer capital of the Midwest and spent countless road trips watching my cousins play soccer in college. I know who Pele and David Beckham are...I can do this...I can fake this sports conversation...maybe.

"Yea ladies, that game between Trinidad and Sweden was amazing! Too bad they're out of the competition with that tied-game."

<Silence>

(FYI- a tie in World Cup soccer isn't like a tie in most sports.) Who knew that a tie will earn you "one point" and a win will earn you "three points?" Needless to say, I learned this fact real fast on Saturday night. In fact, I learned a lot about soccer that night.

My girlfriends, who are more up-to-speed with the latest fashions at the Conde Nast organization and peace-keeping efforts at the U.N., informed me what "bend-it like Beckham" really means, who the favorites are in the FIFA World Cup, and explained the rivalries that exist between different English and world teams. Basically I felt like an ignorant American for being so clueless when it came to a game so globally important.

It's funny to watch the tables turn on you. Normally I am the one explaining the significance of this game or that, and last weekend, I was the one getting a lesson in sports from the most unlikely of teachers. To top it off, even my fashionista friend had a special jersey designed for her World Cup viewing pleasure. Yes, that's what it has come to...designer jerseys.

It seems that all of New York has caught on to the World Cup fever. My local dive bar has soccer-themed happy hour. Joggers have cast aside their NY RoadRunner shirts for soccer jerseys in Central Park. Pick-up games between "team Mexico" and "team Dominican Republic" are frequent in city parks. Even at Bloomingdale's the customers were standing in line talking about the games. It seems everywhere I go World Cup is on the brain.

To be completely honest, I have even found myself watching it on television and reading articles in the Times to remain up to speed. (And also to never find myself in that humbling place of looking like an idiot who has no clue.) Since the US lost their match in grand fashion, it's hard for me to get emotionally embedded in the games. (Maybe if I was Brazilian or German I could go out and buy one of their snazzy jerseys and cheer for them.) But what I've loved the most from witnessing the World Cup is the sense of nationalism that the games have ignited in football fans. Living in New York, people are proud of their heritage and I have to say it's been fascinating to see the mix of cultures that have come out to support their home team.

The World Cup is more than just soccer. It's about national pride. On the other hand, it also seems to be about the flashy colorful jerseys, the crazy hairstyles, wild tattoos, ravenous fans, and the drop-dead sexy men who run around the field for 90 minutes like maniacs and then rip off their shirts to show the world their six-pack abs. I can dig it!