Gelsenkirchen, Germany. Five hours before the opening kick for Team USA.

I don't care what you say. I'm convinced that all these national songs the Czechs keep singing are actually just collections of noises that follow a set meoldic pattern, and that no real words are being enunciated.

"Rah ya boo booh, nah nah, HEY HEY! Rah na na na bee bee, bah bah, HEY HEY!"

This Texan don't speak no Czech, but he knows that these guys are just drunk and trying to make everyone think they have spirit.

Myself, Hunter, Chase, Drew, Jamison and Robbie ... we can't come back with anything except to sing the theme song from "The Fresh Prince of Bel Air." That and a nice little chant I heard last night from a pair of Ohio State meat heads, directed at some belligerent Brits:

"If it wasn't for the YANKS, we'd all be speaking GERMAN!!!"

True dat, my friends. True dat.

But since our lovely hosts, who continue to speak German even after going 0-for-2 on European landmass domination, wouldn't really appreciate hearing that one too much, we try to reference "Da Ali G Show" instead.

"U-S-and-A! U-S-and-A!"

It just sounds funnier to say it like Borat, everyone's favorite fake Kazakh, but the meaning is still the same: The Yanks are going on a rampage tonight, and there ain't enough Czechs and Balances in the world to stop us from showing the world who the real Republic is.

If this was a story about baseball, football, basketball or pretty much any other sport that I watch more than once every four years, I'd go on to talk about the actual players who I think will show me something tonight. But this is soccer, a sport I played for 14 straight years, but a sport that I neglect more than my car's engine, 4,000 miles after its most recent Jiffy Lube sojourn.

Outside of Landon Donovan, DeMarcus Beasley, Kasey Keller, Bobby Convey, Somethingsomething Enyewu, Claudio Reyna and Brian McBride, I couldn't name one player on the U.S. side.

As for our opponents, who weren't on the cover of the SI I bought in Newark, they remain a complete mystery to me -- but they still suck. I know the obvious two: Pavel Nedved (was this guy not in the NHL in the lat 90's??) and Milan Baros. And then I'm spent, aside from the too-good-to-be-true rumor that the Czech goalie has a surname of Cech (pronounced Czech). If it's not a lie, expect a pun-making frenzy in the headlines of competing English language newspapers tomorrow.

"Football" is a funny thing. In 95% of the world, it is sport -- that's why Euros refuse to add an 's' to their general term for competitive athletic activity. The Beautiful Game, besides having the best marketing phrase since DeBeers convinced us all the Diamonds are Forever, is living proof that men don't have to be lumberjacks to be men.

So you like to gel your hair before exercising? Fine, as long as you've got some punch in that left foot. And your friends tell me that you tend to act like a little girl when you get a boo boo on the field. But if you can run for 90 minutes, you're fit enough for me.

Because the rest of the world sees masculinity as faux-hawks, Capri pants and Gucci sunglasses, 281ers, Californians and South Floridians would feel right at home on the streets of Germany this month.

Maybe THIS is where I could finally test out my prototype for an idea that is going to make me a rich man someday. Even though I hear that Jack Bauer is himself sporting a S.A.M.P. (Socially Acceptable Man Purse), the idea of an entire line of S.A.M.P.s hasn't generated too much interest in Texas, even though every guy secretly wishes it were socially acceptable to carry a small bag capable of holding phones, money, cameras and hackey sacks when he leaves the house.

But these Eurotrash soccer lovers aren't gonna be able to resist the idea of it. And once that happens, it's only a matter of time before the rage hops the pond, and the S.A.M.P. makes me a Bill-y-onnaire.

Nearly five hours to kickoff, it's only a matter of time before I get dressed for success in preparation for my first ever international sporting event. American flag bandana, American flag cape ... and a six-foot hot dog suit are what I'm wearing to the game.

This is a story of six friends, all recently graduated from UVa, who came to Germany together to celebrate the end of an era. Five of us bought tickets to the opener, and the sixth, Robbie, stumbled home this morning at 10 a.m., broke, drunk and tired, and armed with a mysterious free ticket given to him at a bar by his new British friend -- whose name Robbie cannot remember. (Robbie is now sleeping in his room, and may just snooze through the game entirely).

But not all of our comrades could make the journey overseas, the most glaring absence standing at six-feet, five-inches tall.

Tom Kuklinski, a.k.a. TK, a.k.a. Naked Tom, a.k.a. Tall Tom, a.k.a. Crazy Tom, a.k.a. E-School Tom, a.ka. Big Purple ... a.k.a. Hot Dog Man. He answers to them all. And because my right-hand man from all UVa sports couldn't make the trip with us, I'm pourin' one out for my homey today when I put on his famous foam suit with the felt mustard stripe winding down the center.

I'm about five inches shorter than Hot Dog Man, which will make me look more like a real hot dog, and less like a hot dog with two Popsicle sticks shoved into one end of the frank. After I post this, I'm taking a shower, brushing my teeth, and getting my dog on.

Then I'm hitting the streets of Gelsenkirchen, where a party is sure to await.

And finally, I will see what it's like to be TK, if only for a day.

The suit made the trip all the way across the Atlantic with me as a memorial not only to Tom, but to all my Virginia boys who couldn't be here. Wes, Dave, Bino, Ruby, Yea I Know Sully, Jamaar...this dog's for you guys.

So watch for me on ESPN, or ABC, or whatever channel is covering it in America. I'm giving 50-50 odds that I get some face time.

Until then, let's go U-S-and-A. It is niiiiiiiiiiice.

(Gotta watch Da Ali G if you're trying to understand that last sentence).