A good friend of mine convinced me to enter his March Madness-style World Cup pick 'em tournament a couple of weeks ago. For ten bucks I figured, what the heck! Maybe a little buy-in, a little skin in the game, is what boorish Amer'cans (yes, I'm talkin' about me here) need to finally grasp the beautiful game.

So I dutifully paid up, tuned in and zoned out.

South Africa v. Mexico. Gotta be a barn-burner, right? The pride of the host nation against the grace and creativity of our neighbors to the south.

Problem was, everybody forgot to bring the matches.

The barn? No burning.

The score? 1-1.

Yaaayyyy, soccer.

Game 2, gotta be better. Game 1 was all about the jitters, the South African team playing not to lose, the Mexican team playing, I don't know, not to be the team that made the host nation sad. Or something soccerly.

But game 2! Ah ha! France v. Uruguay! The French, a romantic, beautiful people, in love with the sport as much as themselves, the country that gave us the head-butt heard 'round the world, vs. a tiny nation about the size of Washington state, whose natural resources, according to the CIA's World Factbook, include, "arable land, hydropower, minor minerals," and, here it comes, "fish."

Classic David vs. Goliath match-up, one of the World Cup's specialities: when David wins, everybody wins; when Goliath wins, it's a total trouncing, bloody and brutal, so again, everybody wins.

Except, and I was detecting a pattern here, nobody won.

Hell, nobody even scored. 0-0.

Thanks again, France.

Thank goodness the Cup organizers had only scheduled two games that first day. Much more excitement like this, I'd have needed to get my overfed, bailed out American butt off the couch.

Snore.

The next day, the Americans finally got to kicking the roundball and, through the grace of God and Robert Green, managed to not only not embarrass themselves but to throw an entire nation into a psychological funk. The Brits still haven't recovered and if they don't make it out of this round of group play, you can bet your Union Jack jammies that a small island nation somewhere to the east of us will be drowning its collective sorrows in pint after pint of tepid tapsauce.

Some other teams played as well, but my interest was waning. Not gonna lie to you.

But wait! I had money on this thing! Skin in the game, I reminded myself! Giddy like a schoolgirl I fired up the old interwebs and made my way to our tournament page. I could feel my pulse picking up, my hands getting clammy, that little tightening in my stomach as I dared to dream that I could be in first place when I knew I had as much right to that as....

But wait. What do I see?

(And no, she wasn't comin' back to me...)

There was no movement whatsoever amongst the people who'd signed up. None. Not a jostle. Not a jockey. Not a surge. Not a plunge.

Nothing.

Nobody even had a point. It was zeroes across the board.

Life, cruelly, imitating "art."

Oh no, my good friend let me know, after I'd called him, hung up, controlled my breathing, called him again, unclenched my fist, controlled my breathing, swept up the crushed and shattered remnants of my phone, controlled my breathing again, and emailed him to find out, politely, just what the holy sweet jumpin' Jehoshaphat was going on with his tourney, nobody gets any points until after the group stage.

Which is like two weeks after the stupid thing starts. Awesome.

Some skin in the game....

More like skin in my zipper.

The rest of the world can keep their stupid game.

And my ten bucks.

Also floating around the bag....

Strasmus-time came early to D.C. Couldn't be happier for the Nats. Too bad Strasburg's first coming has coincided with the Nats going into the tank. Here's hoping they crawl out of it. Be too bad if Riggles kids decided to pack it in early. Something tells me they won't. I think they liked winning early in the season just a little too much.

John Wall should be wearing a Wizard's cap sometime this Thursday. Here's hoping Mr. Leonsis applies the lessons he's learned with the Caps to the Wiz and builds a playoff contender from the ground up. Except, you know, with some defense sprinkled in, just for kicks.

Speaking of defense, is Haynesworth still holding his breath like a three-year-old having a tantrum? Really? If he wants to throw a fit, fine, that's the right of every overpaid, overindulged, overcoddled, gazillionaire athlete out there, but please... Bring some joy and creativity to it! Come on out to practice and watch from the sidelines. I don't think anyone's using those little tent things that Vinny and the Danny had made up for last year's training camps.

And here's to all the dads out there. I hope your kids are as unfreakinglyunbelievablyamzainglyawesome as mine is.

Oh, and forget that thing about the ten bucks.

I want mine back.