Wide right. Are there two more magical words in the English language aside from perhaps open bar? But for a New York Giants fan and Chelsea-hater, wide right is a thing of poetic beauty. First Scott Norwood misses from 47 yards against the Big Blue in the '91 Super Bowl and now John Terry misses from 12 yards against ManU in yesterday's Champions League final.

Of course, there are differences. When Norwood planted his foot, the rain wasn't lashing down, turning the field into a watery bog. And to the best of my knowledge ol' Scotty wasn't an arrogant, bullying dick who tried to intimidate referees and parked his car in spaces reserved for the handicapped because he couldn't be bothered to drive his Bentley to the lot across the street.

So, please, spare me the tears for England's Brave John Terry. Yes, he's a warrior who, in the last two months, has shrugged off a dislocated shoulder and a broken foot to soldier on for club and country. And yes, he is a defensive collossus who yesterday saved a sure goal in overtime when he contorted his body to get his head on Ryan Giggs point-blank shot. But as far as I'm concerned Terry's tragic slip couldn't have happenned to a nicer guy.

To me, he is the gleaming hood ornament of a Chelsea team that feels titles are their divine right because they are all international superstars who make more money than God . But less than Roman Ambramovich.
So yesterday, in the packed and boisterous bar of Playwright's Tavern, my Champions League watering hole, I rooted against Chelsea openly, loudly, and unapologetically. It's not that I , an insufferable Arsenal fan, love ManU—flying pizzas, anyone?—but to me, they are the lesser of two evils . Sort of like if I were watching Hitler and Stalin go at it in the Octagon, my money's on Big Joe.

So,yes, I was cheering for ManU in public and have been hearing ever since that I'm no longer worthy of wearing my Arsenal thong. But if being branded a traitor means that Chelsea had its heart ripped out yesterday in front of a billion people, then I say bring it on. You Duke and UNC fans know what I'm talking about. Or, as my friend Will Blythe says, to hate like this is to be happy forever.

Inspiring me in my temporary ManU affection was my friend Robert Lewis, a lawyer and star striker for Maccabi Manhattan, who makes Leitch look like a Cardinals bandwagon jumper when it comes to pimping for your team. Lewis not only brought along a small set of speakers that he set up on the bar to blare the actual recording of his beloved United winning their last Champions League title in 1999 , he was wearing the same vintage ManU jersey he first sported 18 years ago — when he was 12

But Lewis's was by no means the tightest jersey in the bar yesterday. That honor belonged to the late shift bartender who started slinging shots with a black halter top that was stuffed with what I assumed were overinflated soccer balls. But I digress.

This was the kind of game that could make footy fans out of Lupica, Kornheiser, and Daulerio , the Holy Trinity of soccer bashers. It had everything you could ask for: drama ( Ronaldo missing, Terry slipping, Van der Saar saving), controversy (Drogba being sent off for his bitch slap on Vidic); moments of genius (Rooney's 60 yard diagonal ball from deep in his own half to the foot of Ronaldo on the edge of the Chelsea penalty area); moments of high hilarity (Ronaldo kissing the ball before taking his penalty kick, then doing his ridiculous stutter-step approach, and telegraphing his shot so that Cech could save it ); shots that hit the post (Drogba's howitzer in the 78th minute); shots that hit the crossbar (Lampard's rocket in the second minute of extra-time); bloodied noses (Scholes, courtesy of Makelele's elbow) ; a near brawl (Vidic going after Drogba to show why the United fans chant "Serbia, it rhymes with murdera " ); acrobatic saves (Cech parrying Tevez's bullet header in the first half); and the comforting sight of a Russian oligarch who poured a billion of his petrol dollars into assembling a band of high-priced mercenaries realizing he couldn't buy the prize he most coveted and covering his eyes with his hands during the shootout.

How fitting that the Chelsea player who would ultimately miss the decisive penalty would be the well-traveled (this was his eighth club and and he is surely on his way to his ninth any day now) hired gun Nicolas Anelka, whom Abramovich bought for $30 million in mid-season for his Midas goal-scoring touch. The sulky Frenchman repaid the owner's faith with a whopping two goals in his 23 appearances for the Blues. Is it any wonder that when he stepped up to take the PK yesterday, he looked almost indifferent as if this was just another payday and win or lose he was going to cash his fat check.

It was , as the cliche goes, a game of two halves plus, of course, one leg-cramping, lung-busting overtime, not to mention the sphincter-tightening shootout. With Ronaldo dancing past Essien with arrogant ease on the flank and then outleaping him to power in a header, United were at their swashbuckling best for the first forty five minutes and should have been up 3-0. Instead they were tied 1-1 after Chelsea took advantage of a lucky deflection and a slip by Van Der Saar for Lampard to score what ESPN's Tommy Smyth astutely summed up as "a very important goal."

Chelsea began to impose their physical style in the second half with Lampard, Ballack and Makelele owning the midfield and driving the Blues forward. Drogba, however, could not break free of Vidic or Ferdinand who velcro'ed themselves to the big Ivorian and grappled for every ball. The game was on a knife's edge of tipping over into outright mayhem as it lurched into extra-time and it was five minutes from penalties when Drogba finally revealed himself to be even more of a woman than Ronaldo. Squaring up to Vidic, he thought better of it and caressed the defender's cheek with an open hand. It was no more than a love tap and yet it was enough for the referee to send him off. Considering that this was probably the last we'll ever see of Drogba in a Chelsea shirt, you'd think he' d want to go out on a high note. At least Zidane head-butted that motherfucker Matterazzi to the turf.

But Drogba's blow won't even have wobbled the knees of David Archuleta.

Would Drogba have made a difference in penalty kicks? Possibly. He might have replaced Terry in the rotation and not let the trophy fall off his foot. But it did. And so today, I celebrate not ManU's victory but Chelsea's soul-crushing failure to buy their way to two championships in the space of a week.

As for that Octagon between Stalin and Hitler, the Gunners and I will be ready to kick the shit out of them both next year.

Clint Dempsey couldn't understand what I was doing standing at the edge of the Fulham pitch, shivering like Jack Bauer after a bout of waterboarding in a Chinese prison, and, frankly neither could I.

"All the way from New York, huh?" said Dempsey as a doctor amputated my big toe that had long ago lost all circulation from the artic winds that whipped around Craven Cottage in the gathering dusk.

I had come to London Thursday to spend 48 hours getting my game face on—think Danny DeVito on The View—for Arsenal's epic collision with ManU when word burbled up from the sludge of my Guinness-soaked brain that the Deuce was back in town and ready to rock the Prem. Thanks to Deadspin's growing reputation as the Drinking Fan's Guide to British football, I was able to cadge a credential—if not a pint!—in Fulham's press room. There, I ran into Brian Glanville or "the Man from The Sunday Times" as the awed Fulham flack referred to him. I asked him why Fulham was so sweet on American players—McBride, Bocanegra, and now Dempsey.

"They're cheap, they're available and they speak the language," explained the eminence gris of British soccer writers. Here he paused a beat. "Unlike, say, Beckham." Oh the English are having a jolly olde time with Becks' decision to forsake the Premiership—he was reportedly wooed by Tottenham and Bolton—for the MLS. "He has given up grownup football for filthy American lucre," is how Glanville sees it.

Which makes Dempsey's four million dollar leap across the pond in the other direction all the more interesting. He is arriving in England at a time when mocking American soccer appears to be the country's SECOND favorite sport. "Obviously the level is higher and the speed of play is faster than in the MLS," Dempsey said after being blooded in the Premiership for the final 13 minutes of Fulham's 1-1 draw with Spurs. "It's more comparable to the World Cup."

Ah, the World Cup where Dempsey emerged from the wreckage as the one American player whose reputation was actually enhanced. His venomously struck goal against Ghana all but screamed "Hello, my name is Clint Dempsey and I am ready to leave MLS."

It took seven months of byzantine negotiations for MLS to part with their most valuable export but all that was forgotten when the public address announcer at Craven Cottage blared "Coming on for Moritz Volz, number 23 Clint Dempsey."

As Dempsey ran out onto the field, a chant went up in the north end of the stadium. :U-S-A, U-S-A" . Dempsey has heard the chant before, of course, but this was different. This wasn't Uncle Sam's Army serenading him but a bunch of hardbitten Englishmen who pride themselves on having invented the game and need to be convinced that Americans have any business playing it.

"That was cool," said Dempsey of the chanting. "It helped me get the jitters out." Dempsey knows how to play only one way—balls out—and within seconds of coming on, he was launching himself into tackles with his usual abandon. In the 83rd minute he won a 50-50 ball deep in the Fulham end by sliding into Spurs striker Robbie Keane. Both went down in a tangle of legs but Dempsey emerged with the ball and advanced upfield before executing a cheeky backheel to Michael Brown who thumped a pass into the box. The ball fell to McBride and his volley hit a Spurs defender in the hand. When Montella converted the penalty, Fulham led 1-0 and Dempsey had the satisfaction of knowing he had started the move resulting in the goal.

"It's nice that two Americans were involved in the goal," Dempsey said afterwards. "But I'm not looking at it that way. I just want to get fully fit and contribute. Considering that I haven't played since November, it felt good to get a runout."

So determined is Dempsey to get back into shape he ran windsprints for half an hour after the game. When he finally walked off the field, he looked like your typical English pro, his body covered with sweat, grime, and cleat marks.

Will he be composing a rap in honor of his Premiership debut?

"No," he smiled. "I'm retired from rapping. I just want to focus on soccer and chillin'."

The Deuce is loose in London. Respect.