The Israeli Davis Cup team is taking on Sweden this weekend in front of an empty arena in Malmo. No spectators were allowed in because anti-Israeli protesters threatened to disrupt the match. Of course, not being inside did not deter the angry mob. They stormed the arena, threw rocks, bottles and firecrackers at police and generally made a giant mess of things in the street. Because tennis players run the world, I guess?

Anyway, Sweden leads 2-1 after the sides split two five-set singles matches and then the Swedes pulled off a tough win in the doubles match. So some good tennis being played there, but no one can see it because they're blinded by rage.

Anti-Israel protest staged at Sweden tennis match [Reuters]
Clashes in Sweden at Israel match [BBC]
Sweden wins doubles, leads Israel 2-1 in Davis Cup [AP]

It's a good thing that Mel Gibson didn't wander into Kinsale Tavern this past weekend looking for a pint of Fosters, because Ol' Braveheart would have left with a Star of David tattooed on his forehead and a half pound of creamed herring shoved up his ass. Yes, this was the wrong weekend to piss off the Soccer Jews.

Never mind controlling the media and Hollywood; that's child's play. For a few glorious days, we had our swarthy hands clutched around the throat of the disbelieving soccer world.

It started early Saturday morning when in the 85th minute of the United States' 1-0 win over South Africa, Jonathan Bornstein replaced Benny Feilhaber. Jew for Jew, straight up. When was the last time that happened in any American sport, let alone soccer? Only Simmons can tell us whether Gabe Kapler ever went in for Kevin Youkilis, and he's obviously still nursing his wounds after New England lost to Houston in the MLS final that I joined all of you in not watching.

Then in an upset that no doubt made Vladimir Putin want to poison the taps at Kinsale (but won me a few shekels at 6-1 odds), Israel upset heavily favored Russia 2-1 to save England from elimination in the European Championships — at least until Wednesday, when the Three Lions find a way to lose to Croatia .

The final matzo ball in this soup was dropped yesterday afternoon when Israeli midfielder Dori Arad - who comes from legendary soccer genes (Mine! He's a cousin on my mother's side, but I'm not biased) — took UConn to the Promised Land (No. 1 in the country) after his two goals gave the Huskies a 2-1 victory over Notre Dame and the Big East championship.

"Let's face it, we are the Chosen Ones, " exulted Relegation Zone Mikey, forgetting for the moment that he is a Tottenham fan. "Deal with it."

Not everyone can, of course. The English, for instance, still think they're owed for a little thing called 1948, and all last week the land that gave us Shylock was convinced that Israel would sell them out. Frankly, I wish we had, because England doesn't deserve their good luck. They are a crap team with a clown for a manager who, with Israel winning, was spared one final jolt of the electric cattle prod that the British tabloids were holding to his ball sack.

With England's Euro fate hinging on the result, Kinsale was packed with Brits who otherwise would sooner line up to be circumcised than watch a game between Russians and Israelis. When, just before kickoff, the camera panned to a shot of Chelsea's gazillionaire Russian owner Roman Abramovich smiling in the stands, the Brits in the bar all started shouting that the fix was in.

The theory goes something like this. Ambramovich is already subsidizing the salary of Russia's coach Gus Hiddink and was prepared to offer the Israel players money, a couple of oil wells and All You Can Eat At The Natalie Portman Buffet to lay down their boots and let the Russians waltz into Euro. The theory was further bolstered by the following factors :

a) Israel had nothing to play for, having been eliminated in their last game;
b) they were missing their best player Yossi Benayoun, who was injured;
c) they were grateful to Hiddink's brother who helped save Jewish families from the Holocaust.

No one seemed to remember two things:

a) Ambramovich is a Jew and something of an Israel groupie, even plucking his current butt-boychick coach Avram Grant from its ranks;
b ) The Israelis relish proving the world wrong.

Of course, none of this mattered when, in the 92nd minute with the game tied at 1-1, Barda, who had scored Israel's first goal, released substitute Omar Golan with a seeing-eye ball that bisected the Russian offside trap. As Golan cooly beat both the keeper and the conspiracy theorists — Goooooooolaaaaaaan! — Kinsale burst into song. This wasn't the usual boozy chorus of "God Save The Queen," but one that I had never before heard in an Irish pub. Yes, they were singing "Hava Nagila."

Imagine how much more pleasant my weekend would have been if only I had heeded Osama's plea and converted to Islam. Normally I listen to my fellow Gunners — and Bin Laden is a well-documented supporter of Arsenal — but in this case I like alcohol too much, and I haven't had a thing for virgins since 2005.

Believe me, I thought about it. With the Days of Atonement nearly upon us, it would have gotten me out of 24 hours of fasting (OK, seven), and I won't have to repent for all the sins I have committed against MLS and David Beckham.

But remaining true to my tribe made watching England open up a can of whup-tuchus with a 3-0 beatdown of Israel that much more painful, to say nothing of the $20 Setanta shook us down for at Kinsale Tavern. After all, when it comes down to choosing between the British and Yiddish, I vote with my foreskin — or what's left of it.

Not that I gave Yossi's Posse much of a chance against the cortisone-injected toes of Gerrard and Terry plus the withering pace of Wright-Phillips who was subbing for the busted, rusting chassis that is Beckham. It's one thing to hold England to a scoreless draw in Tel Aviv, as Israel heroically did in the first leg of their Euro qualifier, but it's asking an awful lot to expect a similar miracle at Wembley where the baying, flag-waving Brits act as if it's still 1966.

But, sweet Moses, did Israel have to make it so easy for England, the same England, I might add, that couldn't score a goal against Macefuckindonia? Did they have to play so cluelessly and tentatively that they made Owen and Heskey look like Ronaldo and Ronaldinho instead of a couple of guys who last lit it up against Argentina in 1998? I know Jews don't like to exert themselves on the Sabbath, but how could three Israeli defenders allow Owen to spin like a dreidel in the box and smash in that second goal unmolested? Mercifully, I didn't get to see the first goal because just as Joe Cole curled the ball toward Wright-Phillips — who was as wide open as the Negev desert — Setanta lost the transmission. "That's what happens," said my friend British Brad, as riot police used tear gas to quell all the rowdy fans at Kinsale screaming for a refund, "when you put a TV company in the hands of the Irish rather than the Jews."

Unlike me, British Brad was torn between rooting for his tribesmen or the country of his birth to run up the score, because that morning he had put down five pounds at 12-1 for England to win 4-0. When Micah Richard powered in a free header in the 66th minute, thanks to Owen barging into the Israeli keeper, BB actually looked like he might salvage something from this wretched morning other than the three Guinnesses he had consumed by noon. Me, I took a small measure of delight from watching Benayoun, otherwise useless all game, crunch into his club teammate Gerrard, a tackle that could be heard all the way in Liverpool .. where Rafa Benitez was pulling out the hairs from his chiney, chin, chin, as he agonized over Stevie G's damaged toe. When Gerrard hobbled off, Benayoun must have been hoping that he had improved his chances of getting some more playing time in Liverpool's crowded midfield.

Minutes later, Owen dribbled around the keeper and was about to make British Brad $100 richer when an Israeli defender slid in at the last second to clear the ball off the line. "It's OK," said a forlorn BB, "I still have enough money to last me the rest of my life. So long as I don't buy anything."

In every man's life, there comes a time when he has to choose sides. Bud or Miller. Emmitt Smith or Mario Lopez. Gay or straight ... we've all been there. But this weekend I faced the most agonizing choice in the history of my soccer fandom. That's right: England vs. Israel.

In other words, the British vs. the Yiddish. Where do I even begin to tell you how divided my loyalties were? For one thing, I was watching the game with my father, who still wants to believe that Rex Grossman is a Jew. And for that matter, David Eckstein, too. It hardly matters that he raised me to be a sick Arsenal fan. Not that they have any English players.

Still, I have steadfastly suffered through England's shite years (approximately the last 40) and have obsessively followed the fortunes of Rooney, Gerrard, Lampard and the rest of the overpaid, underperforming wankers on a weekly basis. Why, I ask my father, should I now forsake the Lion for Zion?

"Because it's the biggest match ever on Israeli soil, " my father explained, "and last I checked you were Jewish."

"It's not like even all of Israel's players are members of the tribe, " I argued, pointing to the stocky black teenager Toto Tomuz wearing the white and blue. "You never know," my father said, "they used to say the same thing about Sammy Davis Jr."

(more after the jump)

Jewish or not, Toto scared the bejeesus out of England— at least for the first 10 minutes. A 19-year-old Nigerian-born striker whose parents emigrated to the Promised Land when he was three years old, Toto twice wriggled his way behind the England defense only to put the ball wide. "If he had scored, " my father said, somewhat deliriously, "he would have had a lifetime seat at our seder table."

You could forgive my father's euphoria. Though they were both tied with seven points in their qualifying group for the European Championships, the gulf between England and Israel in skill, strength and salaries was as wide as the West Bank. But for those glorious opening minutes, Israel forgot that they hadn't qualified for any major tournament since 1970 and went for the throat. With West Ham's Yossi Benayoun orchestrating the attack, Israel pushed forward, stoked by the deafening chants of 42,000 fans who were in a particularly buoyant mood, given the tension in their country. Perhaps they were celebrating the recent news that Hooters was opening a branch this summer in Tel Aviv.

Of course, it was only a matter of time until England's nerves settled, and they cranked up their offense. And what an offense it was! A slow, deliberate buildup that could put you to sleep before they crossed the midfield line. With Israel packing 10 men behind the ball and turning their penalty area into an impregnable fortress, England opted to hoof speculative balls down the left flank to Aaron Lennon or over the top to Andy Johnson. England's latest tactical genius Steve McLaren had counted on Lennon's and Johnson's speed to burn the Israelis, but aside from a few nervous moments Israel's stout defense was equal to the challenge. Bolton's Ben Haim did particularly heroic work in front of goal, essentially turning Rooney into his bee-yatch and causing the England striker to lose his legendary sangfroid. Rooney and Ben Haim exchanged trash talk and shoves, but the Israeli hard man left the field with his swingers intact.

England's reputation, however, was in tatters, as the game ended in a double bagel 0-0, marking the fourth consecutive match in which England has failed to score and causing their supporters in the crowd to serenade McClaren with a chorus of "What a load of rubbish." Of course, it could have been worse. As Pino Zahavi, Israel's answer to Scott Boras, predicted before the game, "If England stumbles in Israel ... they will drink McClaren's blood."

Well, each to his own. My father and I celebrated Israel's moral victory by drinking a couple of Stellas and making a date for yesterday's U.S.—Ecuador friendly in which Benny Feilhaber was making his first start for the national team.

Go, you Yids!