Did you know that Tyrone Hill went to Xavier? Or that Mookie Wilson faced a 3-2 count against Calvin Schiraldi before slapping that grounder between Bill Buckner’s legs? Did you know that even though Jim Kelly never won a ring, he still has the highest all-time Super Bowl quarterback rating?

Well I didn’t, at least until this summer. I was here in the D of C, working, living in Nevils with a motley bunch of hooligans. Never before, and never again, will a group of such people come together for an extended period. And it just happened that we all liked sports. We liked sports a lot.

And so, back in June, we were sitting around watching the NBA Finals, and it all began to leak out. Some of us were good friends already, but we all became partners-in-crime as the summer progressed. Well, maybe not “partners-in-crime” per se, but rather “partners-in-sitting-around-watching-2 Minute Drill-while-eating-Pasta-Roni.”

As one friend, whom we’ll call “Ted,” remarked to me this summer, “You just gotta watch sports and chill, and eventually you’ll figure out who actually gives a shit about you.”

(Another friend, a former Voice Sports guru himself whom we will call “Hunter,” remarked to me on AOL the same day, “I like soccer precisely because it is unpopular in United States.” I thought that was funny.)

Yeah, so back to the Finals. People would filter in and out of our apartment, and while watching Iverson trample Tyronn Lue (during game one at least), we would re-live memories of basketball past, and eat.

“Mike, do you remember when Reggie Miller busted that game winner in game four of the 1996 Eastern finals?”

“No.”

“Mike, why is it called Chicken Madness?”

“I don’t know that shit.”

Those early weeks gave way to baseball, and nights watching Braves-Reds, Diamondbacks-Giants, perhaps Pirates-Brewers. Jon Miller owes us his career. During these games and trips through Burleith alleys afterwards, a peculiar young chap?we’ll call him “Octopus”?would flavor our evenings with questionable baseball trivia.

“Did you know that Mike Schmidt is the only player to hit 500 home runs but never a triple?” he asked while wearing a ratty Dodgers cap.

“Are you sure about that, man?”

“Yeah, of course.”

Then there was the NBA Draft, by far the best sporting event of the summer. Where do they get these suits? Is Kedrick Brown really the second coming? Does Knicks management know that Eric Chenowith will be the NBA equivalent of Richard Grieco?

Some friends wanted to go to a party in Burleith that night, but I refused to leave for three reasons: Boumtje, Boumtje and Satterfield. Ruben was finally picked by the Blazers at 50, finally giving the Western conference an answer to Shaq.

Just kidding.

And so I sat for 15 more minutes, waiting for my favorite player in this year’s crop, Kenny Satterfield, to be picked. Best guard in the draft, straight up. We can argue about this if you want. I was wearing my old Danny Fortson Cincinnati jersey for moral support, and then they called his name. The Mavs? Eh, well at least Kenny has cooler hair than Steve Nash. I wept.

That’s what the summer was like. We’d all get way too worked up about sports. “Ted” and I actually went on eBay looking for Matt Hasselbeck jerseys. Matt Hasselbeck! Who does that?

I remember one night in July when my roommate, a waiter at Martin’s Tavern who shall be known as “Matt,” returned from work and announced that he had just waited on Trajan Langdon. I jumped up and down in excitement. I don’t really know why anyone would get so excited over such a marginal athlete. He sucks now. Duke sucks, too.

In short, girlfriends were annoyed, stats were spewed, and Peter Gammons was worshipped way too much for a guy who looks like a bed-ridden grandmother. ‘Twas the summer of 2001. It will never happen again.

I mean, c’mon. The Twins?

On Saturday afternoon, instead of spending the day recovering from a night of partying or getting ahead in my school work, I found myself getting ready and getting energized for something far more important, a soccer match. No, I wasn’t going to play ball up on Kehoe, and I wasn’t going to the U.S. World Cup qualifier at RFK stadium, either. I was going to watch a soccer game being played half way across the World with a bunch of drunk Englishmen, at a sketchy bar called “The Rock” in downtown D.C.

Last Saturday, for those who don’t follow the sport, there was an important World Cup qualifying match featuring England and Germany, that had huge ramifications on who will eventually make the World Cup, which is being held this summer in South Korea and Japan. The outcome of the game would mean crucial points in deciding who went on and who stayed home, and I wasn’t going to miss it.

To give some background, my father, Tony, is from England, and while I have grown up loving American sports, I still follow soccer (or “football,” to use the proper term) quite avidly. Football, as I will call the sport from here on out, is the most exciting sport to watch in the world. There is nothing like being at a football match, surrounded by almost 100,000 fans, who all sleep, eat and breathe the sport. As in love with baseball and basketball as I am, there is simply nothing like the energy that one feels at a football match outside of the United States. Sports fans in the States simply pale in comparison with the fans outside the United States because they take the outcome of sporting matches personally. People in other countries sometimes kill each other, literally, due to the outcome of a game. I don’t mean to glorify violence at all, but that’s the true meaning of “die-hard.”

Anyway, there I was, surrounded by hundreds of fans, in a crowded bar on a Saturday afternoon. There were the crazy English fans, who were singing the British national anthem at the top of their lungs. There were the German fans, who were equally loud, but outnumbered; and finally there were people like me: American fans, who had come out in full force to show their support for which ever team they had allegiance to and were just hoping to avoid getting hurt. One thing all of the groups had in common, however, is that they were all about five beers in by the time I got there, and they were all screaming and dancing even though the game hadn’t even started. It was pretty exciting.

As I walked deeper into the bar, I was being pushed back and forth by the crowd. I got high fives from a few England fans and a few dirty looks from some German fans who saw that I was wearing my England jersey, but that didn’t phase me. I began to wonder: had all of these people had gotten here? I was almost positive that no one else knew about this bar. It was in the middle of nowhere, squeezed in a small alley of a small block on the outskirts of Chinatown, but it was as packed as any bar in England.

As I found a seat, at the end of a pool table on the third floor, two cute British chicks came up to me and asked if I would take their photo. I did of course, and as a reward they each gave me a kiss on the cheek. My day had already been made and the game hadn’t even started! Then, as I heard a hush fall over the crowd, the big-screen TVs came on. “Live from Germany, it’s the 2001 World Cup Qualifiers. Are you ready?” The game had begun.

As quickly as the match started, it seemed as if all was lost. Germany scored just six minutes into the game off a beautiful shot from Carsten Jancker that just squeaked by English goal tender David Seamen. Already, the English squad would have to come from behind against a European soccer powerhouse who had not lost a World Cup qualifier in Germany in over a decade. The crowd, mostly English supporters, immediately fell quiet and shouts of “Bloody wankers” could be heard from the far corners of the bar. Things looked grim, but I still believed.

For many like myself who did not give up hope, cheers soon followed disappointment as moments later, England scored to tie the game on a great shot by young footballer Michael Owen. The place erupted. It was pandemonium,with people hugging people they didn’t know, throwing fists into the air and spitting out beer as they screamed chants. Others gave silent prayers in the corners, thanking God they had not payed the $20 cover charge for nothing. The game was on.

The first half ticked away for what seemed like an eternity, but then right before half time, English striker Steven Gerard scored from 25 yards out on a fantastic shot that gave England the lead for good. The bar once again erupted, and I was buried in a mound of sweaty drunken Englishmen, for the second time that afternoon. They may have smelled, but it was OK, because now we were not just fans, we were brothers, and we needed to root our team on to victory.

Things continued to go well that afternoon and England went on to win 5-1 and to secure themselves at least a good shot at making the World Cup (which I have tickets to). I couldn’t believe that on a Saturday afternoon, while most in the D.C. area were setting off for brunch, I was being crushed in a mound of crazy football hooligans, but I wouldn’t have wanted to spend it any other way. If the intensity at this small bar could be so great, I can’t wait until I get to Korea, where I’m sure the games will be 10 times more intense. Until then, I will try my best to make it to “The Rock” as England marches forward into the World Cup. Long live sport!

On Saturday afternoon, instead of spending the day recovering from a night of partying or getting ahead in my school work, I found myself getting ready and getting energized for something far more important, a soccer match. No, I wasn’t going to play ball up on Kehoe, and I wasn’t going to the U.S. World Cup qualifier at RFK stadium, either. I was going to watch a soccer game being played half way across the World with a bunch of drunk Englishmen, at a sketchy bar called “The Rock” in downtown D.C.

Last Saturday, for those who don’t follow the sport, there was an important World Cup qualifying match featuring England and Germany, that had huge ramifications on who will eventually make the World Cup, which is being held this summer in South Korea and Japan. The outcome of the game would mean crucial points in deciding who went on and who stayed home, and I wasn’t going to miss it.

To give some background, my father, Tony, is from England, and while I have grown up loving American sports, I still follow soccer (or “football,” to use the proper term) quite avidly. Football, as I will call the sport from here on out, is the most exciting sport to watch in the world. There is nothing like being at a football match, surrounded by almost 100,000 fans, who all sleep, eat and breathe the sport. As in love with baseball and basketball as I am, there is simply nothing like the energy that one feels at a football match outside of the United States. Sports fans in the States simply pale in comparison with the fans outside the United States because they take the outcome of sporting matches personally. People in other countries sometimes kill each other, literally, due to the outcome of a game. I don’t mean to glorify violence at all, but that’s the true meaning of “die-hard.”

Anyway, there I was, surrounded by hundreds of fans, in a crowded bar on a Saturday afternoon. There were the crazy English fans, who were singing the British national anthem at the top of their lungs. There were the German fans, who were equally loud, but outnumbered; and finally there were people like me: American fans, who had come out in full force to show their support for which ever team they had allegiance to and were just hoping to avoid getting hurt. One thing all of the groups had in common, however, is that they were all about five beers in by the time I got there, and they were all screaming and dancing even though the game hadn’t even started. It was pretty exciting.

As I walked deeper into the bar, I was being pushed back and forth by the crowd. I got high fives from a few England fans and a few dirty looks from some German fans who saw that I was wearing my England jersey, but that didn’t phase me. I began to wonder: had all of these people had gotten here? I was almost positive that no one else knew about this bar. It was in the middle of nowhere, squeezed in a small alley of a small block on the outskirts of Chinatown, but it was as packed as any bar in England.

As I found a seat, at the end of a pool table on the third floor, two cute British chicks came up to me and asked if I would take their photo. I did of course, and as a reward they each gave me a kiss on the cheek. My day had already been made and the game hadn’t even started! Then, as I heard a hush fall over the crowd, the big-screen TVs came on. “Live from Germany, it’s the 2001 World Cup Qualifiers. Are you ready?” The game had begun.

As quickly as the match started, it seemed as if all was lost. Germany scored just six minutes into the game off a beautiful shot from Carsten Jancker that just squeaked by English goal tender David Seamen. Already, the English squad would have to come from behind against a European soccer powerhouse who had not lost a World Cup qualifier in Germany in over a decade. The crowd, mostly English supporters, immediately fell quiet and shouts of “Bloody wankers” could be heard from the far corners of the bar. Things looked grim, but I still believed.

For many like myself who did not give up hope, cheers soon followed disappointment as moments later, England scored to tie the game on a great shot by young footballer Michael Owen. The place erupted. It was pandemonium,with people hugging people they didn’t know, throwing fists into the air and spitting out beer as they screamed chants. Others gave silent prayers in the corners, thanking God they had not payed the $20 cover charge for nothing. The game was on.

The first half ticked away for what seemed like an eternity, but then right before half time, English striker Steven Gerard scored from 25 yards out on a fantastic shot that gave England the lead for good. The bar once again erupted, and I was buried in a mound of sweaty drunken Englishmen, for the second time that afternoon. They may have smelled, but it was OK, because now we were not just fans, we were brothers, and we needed to root our team on to victory.

Things continued to go well that afternoon and England went on to win 5-1 and to secure themselves at least a good shot at making the World Cup (which I have tickets to). I couldn’t believe that on a Saturday afternoon, while most in the D.C. area were setting off for brunch, I was being crushed in a mound of crazy football hooligans, but I wouldn’t have wanted to spend it any other way. If the intensity at this small bar could be so great, I can’t wait until I get to Korea, where I’m sure the games will be 10 times more intense. Until then, I will try my best to make it to “The Rock” as England marches forward into the World Cup. Long live sport!