A West Coast World Cup road trip
I am standing inside perhaps the most sophisticated stadium ever built: a magnificent, latticed half-dome of white steel and trillion-pixel megascreens, bent over a football pitch so green it looks iced. And I am watching my least favorite sport on Earth: American football. As I guzzle citrus beer, the players take their 683rd strategic break in the ninth quarter to bring on the seventh specialist kicker for the XY-red-zone-whatever, while the crowd, unconcerned, shovels $18 hot dogs into their faces because no one has yet told them when, precisely, to cheer. So why am I here? Because next year this same stadium will throb with a very different crowd. Real