You may have better soccer teams. You may have longer traditions of soccer excellence, a greater state commitment to developing a national team of World Cup championship quality, and bigger fanbases. You may even have better players, raised from birth to juggle a ball with their tiny fat infant feet and raised through adulthood with no other goal in mind other than, well, goals.
You may have all that, and a World Cup schedule that doesn't send you to the sweltering jungles of Manaus to play your group stage games. Whatever. You may have all that, but you do not have this leather vest.
Yes, you have Cristiano Ronaldo, three teenage Brazilians we've never heard of who will score five goals each, and Italian defenders capable of slide-tackling an elephant cleanly, sure. You have German efficiency, Argentine geniuses, and...um...Belgium. (They're good! No one's quite sure how, but they are!)
But hear this, rest of the world: you do not have this $69.99 of pure 1994 American greatness. Oh, you say that won't win us a thing on the field? That's because you haven't seen the back yet.
LEEEEEEEEEEEE GREENWOOD. You're wondering: where do I surrender, because my team cannot cope with the power of what appears to be Dr. Manhattan's penis flopped across four sizzling strips of bacon? The line forms at Clint Dempsey's front door, and there's gonna be a wait thirty-one teams deep, world. Take a number. Have a seat.