Unfortunately, we could not wrestle away previous soccer mom David Hirshey from his other "job" even though we offered him a drum full of mustache balm and unreleased nude photos of Pele to continue with us. The man simply wouldn't budge. No fear, though, because your weekly footie fix will be filled by Michael Bertin, "Precious Roy" from Unprofessional Foul. Greet him warmly.My predecessor hasn't been shot (not yet anyway) and I don't even have a Gawker login, but yes, as of now I am in control here. Hey, there's a scarcity of moments in life when it's appropriate to pull an Al Haig. So, I'll be taking over Deadspin soccer duties from David Hirshey. It's a big yarmulke to fill but I'm not worried because I'm not Jewish. I am, however, also a Gunner. And to the disappointment of my Catholic parents — it's okay, they're used to it — I feel a deeper spiritual connection to that North London club than I do to any deity. Look, if Jesus ever leads a side to an undefeated run through the whole of a Premiership season, then I might reevaluate my stance. Until then, my Sunday mornings belong to Arsene Wenger. It's really not all that different from church anyway. There's singing involved and the old guy running the show has a thing for young boys. Point being: I'll be biased. And unrepentantly so. So, save for the 'stache and the fact that I can't offer you a book deal, you're not likely to notice much difference. That's the goal at least (Thank you, I'll be here until May). Anyway, tomorrow begins the EPL season (suck it, Barclays). For the initiated, the relief is like getting an ice cream sandwich and a hand job. For the rest of you—9-8 without goalies—it's just something people in other countries enjoy, like pernod or Rowan Atkinson movies. But I'm not going to try to convert you. There's no need. The other "football" is also about to start; and clearly you're content with your NFL and the abundance of games it gives its fans. Sixteen. Wow. How generous of Der Goodell. No wonder you people face paint for draft day. Bet your girlfriends mark the calendar for sex in early April knowing that you'll have wood at the release of the upcoming season schedule. United played about 60 matches last year en route to winning the EPL and the Champions League (and seeing how they topped the table by all of two points, every last one of them mattered). Then for fun, half of the players spent their summer in their national team colors vying for the European Championship. Oh wait, never mind. Half their team is English. But every week matters in the NFL and there's drama in every game. Right. Last year the league had, what, one dominant linear story line—can the Pats go 19-0?—with maybe one subplot—will a Barbie doll derail the Cowboys? They weren't even sophisticated questions as the answers were "no" and "yes" respectively. And this year's narrative has been preordained as nightmare Peter King rewrite of a Charlie Kaufmann script with Brett Favre in the role of Malkovich (Favre, Favre? Favre!). Let's see, with the Prem, the league title chase is augmented by three concurrent cup competitions. There are five or six spots in Europe up for grabs as well as the battle on the bottom of the table to avoid the drop. That's just the on-field drama. Any owners in the NFL alleged human rights abusers and fugitives from international justice possibly fighting extradition while also fighting for a playoff spot (or, in this case, a UEFA Cup spot)? Jerry Jones might be an egomaniacal prick, but by comparison some of the EPL owners make him look as interesting as a fluorescent lamp. They also make him look poor. The Premiership even has its equivalent of the Cincinnati Bengals. He's called Joey Barton. Don't get me wrong. I love football almost as much as I love fútbol. In fact my irrational emotional attachment to Arsenal is matched only by my slightly less irrational emotional attachment to what happens to my alma mater on Saturdays in the fall. But there's a reason 6 billion people love this game and we Americans don't, and it's not because we're smarter (See: Upton, Caitlin). I have only a vague idea what that reason might be but, sleep loss notwithstanding—Arsenal kicks at like 7 am my time tomorrow—you think we'd find a way to force ourselves to enjoy the beautiful game if only because it means that, by noon on a weekend, you can either be done with your sports viewing for the day or be drunk. Or both. Michael Bertin can be reached at mbertin@gmail.com