Adoption Papers.

I met a lot of great U.S. fans hailing from all over America. I met a lot of great Ghana fans, but none of them Ghanaian. Such is the nature of football when the tournament teams remaining represent a continent and not just a country. That said, you won't find many America supporters shifting their allegiances to Mexico now that the U.S. Men's National Team finds itself knocked out of the World Cup Finals.

After a 3-hour van ride, a peanut butter and jelly sandwich on rye, a trek through a dirt parking lot (over six carefully counted mounds), onto a stadium bus transfer, and through a series of fences, we found ourselves back in Royal Bafokeng Stadium in Rustenburg for our last match of the trip. We spent some time at another friendly beer garden, tried our hands at ticket scalping, and endured the bandwagon Black Star fans before eventually finding our seats.

After only the third call of "quarter final tickets," we met Matthew, who hails from Mount Shasta, California. Matthew is in South Africa for a month-long internship, where his job is to drive soccer fans to their World Cup matches. Matthew, a new soccer convert due largely in part to the timing of this internship, unknowingly stumbled into the luckiest transaction in U.S. soccer history.

Scanning this beer garden photo, you'll see a homemade anti-Donovan shirt worn by a man in a green and yellow wig. The front of this Algeria fan's shirt says "Ghana's Newest Fans."

The fortune I felt at realizing our seating location is written all over my face.

We sat shockingly close, a mere three rows from the track bordering the pitch. We chatted up the man feeding the Jabulani balls to the players for throw-ins.

We sang. We cheered. We booed. The fans to our right were a veritable jukebox of nationally-focused rock songs. They worked with "Livin' on a Prayer," "Born in the U.S.A.," some unsuccessful Queen songs, and a nice little chant to the beat of a White Stripes' song. We watched Ghana take advantage of its two chances while the U.S. couldn't capitalize on countless. As the Black Stars hit the pitch, rode stretchers to the sidelines, and helped us vex our chances at a comeback, the feeling grew increasingly dire.

You saw me on television, likely mouthing an expletive that sums up the moment better than any writing I could do here and now. (This particular image was sent to me by a former student via Facebook. We are not Facebook friends, but he went out of his way to take a picture, search me out on the site, and send it with a heartwarming message. It's the most work he's ever done for me, come to think of it.)

Saddened by missed opportunities and surrounded by a large crowd relishing in the U.S. loss more than the Black Star victory, we retraced our steps through the throng of fans and locals selling an eclectic array of junk. We waited for another transfer bus while fans argued over how a queue works. We sat under another bunch of fans who'd adopted the Black Star, arrived at our van before any other members of our group, and then sat some more. A four hour trip to back to Jo'burg, through a mass exodus down two-lane roads, clogged highways, and three toll stops in non-reclining seats, and I'm rehashing it in the 4-o'clock hour before trying to get to sleep.