Lawrence.com

God Bless the U.S.A. I'm proud to be an American. Buy American made goods. Why am I so proud of my country? I just finished watching the U.S.A. soccer team defeat Costa Rica in a World Cup qualifier match at Arrowhead Stadium. Myself and 37,000 people went crazy when Josh Wolff touched in a ball to give our boys in red, white and blue a 1-0 victory and another 3 points to put our team in the driver's seat to qualify for the World Cup. And there's another reason why I'm proud of America: plastic bottles. But more on that later.

Mean streets of Kansas City

Kansas City caught a lot of heat when it was chosen as a location for a World Cup qualifier match. People didn't know if we were mean enough. With international soccer, all rules of hospitality are off. You want to put the opposition in the most hostile environment possible. For example, when the U.S. soccer team left our friendly home turf to play Colombia, the powers that be decided not to locate the game in the normal urban soccer stadium. Instead, they chose the most humid, remote, riot-prone jungle location possible. It was like 1,000 years ago some virgin-sacrificing king demanded a soccer field be built in Hell, and this was as near to that possibility as they could get.

They told everyone where the U.S. national team was staying, so in the streets in front of the hotel, the locals decided to have loud parties with the intent of denying the players sleep. I think the same method was used at Waco, and look where that got David Koresh. While the American players didn't burn up in the hotel, at the soccer field from Hell they had to dodge bags full of fluid being hurled at them � "fluid" my polite way of saying urine.

So when Kansas City was chosen as a location for a game, soccer fans across the nation had to ask, "Does the Kansas City area know anything about throwing their wiz?"

The truth is that Kansas City hardly acknowledges the Wiz, whoops, I mean the Wizards, our Major Soccer League championship team. Sure, the Wizards won the championship last year, but that still doesn't make your average red and white Zuma-pants wearing Chief's fan blink.

And that's why America is so beautiful. No, we may not be as hip to soccer as the rest of the world. No, we might not know that Ziplock bags are the best containers for urine missiles. But darn it, we can overcome the odds � just like when Rocky defeated Ivan Drago in Rocky IV � and host a raucous soccer game.

The gates opened at 4 p.m. at Arrowhead Stadium on a beautiful Wednesday, and by 4:15 p.m., the place was packed with tailgaters proud to keep their American flag a safe distance away from the barbecue flames. Puddy from "Seinfeld" may have given face-painters a bad rep, but on this day, if you weren't sporting some red, white and blue face paint, you might as well up and move to Switzerland.

If you pulled a Dos Equis or a Corona or even a Red Stripe from your cooler, you might get it cracked over your head. "Domestics or death" could have been a war chant in that parking lot.

The atmosphere was contagious and before I knew it, I went from my T-shirt and shorts to a face-painted, afro wig-wearing shirtless hooligan.

Tastes great, less cuts

I'm proud of America for Miller Lite in a plastic bottle. Sure, it cost $5.50 at the game for one, but it's the safe thing to do. I went to Mexico City a couple years ago to get a taste of this hostile soccer atmosphere up close. At one game, when the home team lost fair and square, the fans grew so agitated that they showered their Corona bottles down at the opposing team. The projectiles shattered against the concrete steps, providing a storm of glass for the players. That's the first time I've seen police officers in riot gear and toting big shields run onto the field with German shepherds ready to attack.

But in America, our plastic beer bottle isn't going to cut anyone. Nope, all it does is hurt your wallet. We may hate the opponent, but we won't hurt the opponent. In fact, we want to respect the opponent. It makes winning more enjoyable.

Somehow I was convinced along with the face paint to adorn my chest with a giant "U." We had roughly 15 guys partying together, yet the best we could come up with was "U.S.A." We could have spelled "BEAT COSTA RICA" or "WELCOME TO HELL" or "DON'T DO DRUGS" and guaranteed getting on TV, but instead we went small-minded.

I was a little slow getting to my seat at Arrowhead. So I made my buddies run around as just "S" and "A." When I finally showed up, I saw that our seats were right next to the largest concentration of Costa Rica fans in the stadium. Evidently they took offense at our short word, because our "A" had already been spit on before the game even started.

But by the end of the game, heck, we were taking pictures together. Once these Costa Ricans saw how many Spanish swear words we knew, we won their respect. And in a huge step forward in Costa Rica/America relations, I even agreed to pause the conversation with the Costa Rican in line at the port-a-potty to respectfully watch the president of Costa Rica drive by, defeated.

But then all diplomacy was lost when I took off running for my car. With my casual knowledge of Spanish, I thought I heard someone murmur something about another baggie from inside the port-a-potty. The Costa Ricans had lost, and they were pissed.