And So Begins Our Summer Without The World Cup

Something horrible happened to me this weekend. As soon as the Champions League final between Liverpool and Real Madrid ended, I looked out the open window and noticed what a beautiful spring day it was. Seventy-five degrees and sunny, and a heaviness to the air that promised more heat and sun in the weeks to follow. A breeze blew in through the window, and as the smell of flowers and fresh cut grass filled my nose, a wonderful, involuntary thought took hold of my mind: Oh hell yeah, it’s almost time for the World Cup.