A funny thing happened while we were sitting in the Minneapolis airport...

At the outset of this post, I have to apologize to two sets of (potential) readers of this blog. The first are those who we saw during our recent travels around the country. Those readers likely expect a post in which they play a more central role and may be disappointed that such a post isn't currently forthcoming. The second set of readers to whom an apology is due are those with rooting interests that diverge from those of yours truly (you know who you are). Not much that I can really say to those readers except to note that they have to grant us poor U.S. futbol fans some leniency to celebrate. And perhaps even to gloat a little bit.

On Wednesday during our trip back from Minneapolis, Teddy and I shared another one of those sublime father-child moments, like the one that I wrote about a month or so ago. A long background:

We were heading from Minneapolis back to D.C. on a flight that left at 5:00 PM with a 36 minute layover in Chicago. Based on our experience during the trip to Minneapolis, the short layover in O'Hare seemed problematic, to say the least. On the trip out, our early morning flight had a layover closer to one hour, but a delayed departure from National left us with only 30 minutes to make our connecting flight, so Abby took the kids to the next gate, while I waited (and waited, along with other frustrated people trying to make connecting flights in Chicago) for the stroller that we had gate checked. I ended up running through the American terminal with a car seat, stroller, and a couple of carry-on bags and just made the connecting flight to Minneapolis. Good thing too, because otherwise we may have missed a very important event in Minneapolis. But that's not the subject of this post.

To avoid an unpleasant experience on the way back to D.C., we called on Tuesday and were able to rebook our outgoing flight from Minneapolis for 3:50 PM. Beyond averting the stress of a short layover in Chicago (we kept the Chicago-D.C. leg the same), that rescheduling had two effects. First, it compelled us to return our rental car at the appropriate time, thereby avoiding late fees (geez, I'm so cheap). Second, it introduced the possibility that we'd be able find someplace in the airport to watch the U.S. play Spain in the Confederations Cup.

For those of you who aren't big futbol fans or haven't been following recent events, the Confederations Cup is a tournament that serves as an operational dress rehearsal for the next host of the World Cup, in this case South Africa. It pits the winners of a series of regional tournaments against one another in a competition that is a bit more prestigious and intense than a "friendly," but doesn't approach big tournaments like the World Cup or Euro Cup. The U.S. qualified based on its victory in the CONCACAF Gold Cup tournament, due to a great win over Mexico in Soldier Field two summers ago.

Unfortunately, the U.S. wasn't making a good showing in the group stage of the tournament. A 3-1 loss to Italy followed by a pathetic 3-0 loss to Brazil made it look like the U.S. would head home embarrassed, just as in the last World Cup where, I believe, we scored the fewest goals of any team. By the last game of the group stage, the U.S was technically still alive, but would have to beat Egypt by 3 goals while having Brazil beat Italy by 3. Unlikely.

I had pretty much written off the U.S., but while Abby and I were walking around the Gaslamp District in San Diego, where we had attended our second wedding in less than a week, I started to see clips on TVs in bars that we were passing that indicated that the U.S. may have pulled off an impressive victory over Egypt. As we weren't barhopping, despite being sans kids, we had to stop a few times to peer at the TVs, but I still couldn't make out the results. When we got back to our hotel, ESPN verified (after interminable baseball highlights - who cares about baseball anyway?!?!) that the U.S. had indeed beaten Egypt 3-0. And, even more amazing, Italy had lost 3-0 to Brazil! So, astonishingly, the U.S. had moved on to the semifinals.

Now, these things don't happen in American futbol. Other than the freak episode in which the U.S. advanced to the quarterfinals of the 2002 World Cup (and almost beat Germany to go to the semis), U.S. fans are accustomed to beating up weak CONCACAF teams like Trinidad & Tobago, but losing, often in pathetic fashion, anytime the U.S. plays a decent team. So this was a remarkable development. However, by advancing out of the group stage, the U.S. had the misfortune of facing Spain, the number one team in the world which had won Euro 2008, hadn't lost in 35 matches, and had won 15 straight. As I told Abby on Tuesday night, "It's great that they got there, but there's no way the U.S. beats Spain. No way. Absolutely no way."

Thus, the stage was set. The U.S. had beaten the odds to get a match-up with the best team in the world, while Abby, the kids, and I were arriving at the Minneapolis airport to return our car just as the game started. Of course, we still had to check in for our flight. After we checked our baggage, there were two security lines. As I eyed the more daunting of the two, I noticed that the Applebees near that security checkpoint was showing the game. Perhaps I'd be able to watch some of the game as we waited. After checking our bags, I pointed Abby and Teddy towards that line while I took Margaret to check on the score. Miraculously, the U.S. was up 1-0 with the first half winding down. I traipsed back to Abby with a big grin on my face and said, "The U.S. is up!" A guy behind us said, "Who's playing?" When I told him that the U.S. was beating Spain, he said, "Wow, that would be a pretty big upset, wouldn't it?" I just bobbed up and down.

As we wound our way through the line (completely missing the "family" line with no one in it that we could've used), the first half ended, and I figured that I'd be able to watch the second half somewhere near our gate. Once we got through security, I immediately took off towards our gate with Teddy in the stroller. The first place with TVs was a silly French-themed restaurant showing Wimbledon (not silly for being French-themed, but silly in its attempt to be French). Moving on, I found a "sports bar" right near our gate. Unfortunately, when I asked someone at the bar what they were showing, he said "CNN." "Are you looking for the game?," he asked, "Because I've asked them to change it, and they won't. I'm following the score on my cellphone." That wasn't quite what I was looking for, so Teddy and I ran back towards the security checkpoint where I'd noticed a Rock Bottom Brewery. We shot past Abby and Margaret, who were making their way towards the gate. As we passed them, I said, "We're going to find someplace to watch the game." It wasn't until we got to the bar that I noticed that I'd left my cellphone with Abby and that it might be a bit close to our departure time when the game ended.

But at least the bar had a few TVs tuned to the game. I grabbed a stool at the bar with a TV right in front of us, plopped Teddy on my lap, and ordered french fries for the boy and a Diet Coke for me (I figured that I had to order something, but couldn't order a beer without receiving even more glares for bringing my toddler into a bar.)

So there we were, in a Minneapolis airport bar, Teddy on my lap eating french fries and watching the U.S. defend a 1-0 lead against the best team in the world. A few other people in the bar were watching the game, but most were pretty clueless. Recognizing that I was a fan of sorts, they asked me silly questions like, "What is this, the World Cup?" Teddy just sat there eating his french fries while I bounced him around on my lap, full of nervous energy given the precarious lead. "Go go go," I'd yell as the U.S. moved the ball around. "Go go go," Teddy would parrot, leading people in the bar to grin at him. "Get it! Stop him!," I'd say. "Dop him!," Teddy would cry. Every once in a while, he would point at the TV and yell, "Baseball!" (baseball and basketball being his two favorite sports).

"No way they can keep this lead," I thought, especially as Spain started pressing. But then, BAM, Clint Dempsey scored a garbage goal to put the U.S. up 2-0. I yelled, started clapping, banged on the bar a few times, startling the bartender and the barflys around me, and started tossing Teddy up in the air. "Your dad is pretty excited," the fellow next to us said to Teddy. "That goal was huge! Huge!," I said to him. "Is it a big deal if the U.S. beats Spain?" he asked. I just jumped around while Teddy tried to grab his french fries.

Teddy and I spent the next 20 minutes at the bar bouncing around, hoping that the U.S. could hold its lead (especially after going a man down), and keeping an eye on the clock to ensure that we made our flight. When the game finally ended, we jumped up and down some more and hooted a bit (or at least I did) before running down the terminal to board our flight at which point we informed a disgruntled Abby about the outcome of the game.