I've been missing in action in 2007. 

Soccer Orb's readership, vast only in my feverish dreams, has by now dwindled to one or two faithful souls.  I should apologize, but...it hasn't been possible to write about the beautiful game lately.  You see, the title of this post isn't referring to the hopes of the Manchester United faithful during Sunday's late collapse at the Emirates, or to my soul's trajectory after I comprehended the surreal headline about the Chicago Fire's failed attempt to acquire Zinedine Zidane.  It has nothing to do with soccer.

The story of my soccer amnesia begins with, well, a non-story.  Last month I read a well-received literary novel that had been given to me as a birthday gift.  It is best described as about four hundred pages of self-indulgent, overreaching drivel.  The writing was as loaded with useless adornment as a rococo chandelier and the narrative itself was as tenuous as one of Mrs. David Beckham's twig-like arms.  Get the picture? 

In despair, I cast about for a well-told tale that was worthy of our beautiful language. I announced that my quest for a real story might even take me to the cold and distant territory of—gasp—science fiction. Then I remembered that a friend of The Girl's had recommended a fantasy trilogy that he believed was better than the Harry Potter series.  She hadn't tried it yet, since college students never have time to read any interesting books, so she couldn't offer her opinion.  My mind is ever so slightly ajar when it comes to fantasy, though my experience with this genre consists of only The Hobbit and the first Harry Potter.  I realized that it was time to expand my literary horizons.  If my mind proved insufficiently flexible to accept the conventions of the fantasy genre, then I could always seek comfort in an English murder mystery.

So I picked up Philip Pullman's The Golden Compass (published as Northern Lights in the UK).  I knew within the first few pages that I would have a hard time putting it down, so I bought the second and third books--The Subtle Knife and The Amber Spyglass--before I was halfway through the first.  I finished the trilogy last night, reluctantly.

What's so compelling about this story that even the news of the Spice Boy's imminent arrival in La-La Land couldn't drag me away from it? 

Fortunately, I don't have to answer that in detail, as this blog is devoted to sport.  But the essence of the plot is simple:  there's a battle between good & evil, and it is an old story, told with an audacious and mysterious twist.  Pullman's characters, who are combatants in a struggle that they can't fully understand until the end, are unforgettable. Mostly, though, it's what they learn about themselves and life itself that was so seductive and, for me, affirming.  Not to mention Philip Pullman's world view, which gladdens my heart because it tells me that I am neither alone nor entirely crazy. 

And now I can return to my habitual heresy—life as an American woman who is a football fan. 

Try as I might, I can't conjure up anything original or insightful to say about David Beckham's move to the Los Angeles Galaxy. 

I've started and deleted about ten different posts, not one of them longer than two sentences.  I suppose that I'm underwhelmed because the prospect of a Beckham-Galaxy merger has been around for a while.  Becks stated long ago that he wouldn't mind ending his career in America, he's got a youth academy in California, and--not to get too icky here--didn't he and Posh impose the name Brooklyn on their firstborn because the little lad was, er, made there?  Or was that just idle Fleet Street speculation?

The title of this post is not meant to suggest that soccer's muse--Podaspheria--is entirely indifferent to bringing David Beckham to America.  I suspect that she views it as a good thing.  I doubt that anyone in these United States can plead ignorance of yesterday's news, and any publicity for Major League Soccer is good publicity, right? 

But the big news of January 11, 2007 obscured a less-reported story from January 10, 2007:  Clint Dempsey was granted a work permit by the powers that be and will soon be suiting up for Fulham in the English Premier League.  Supremely talented, Dempsey was the only scorer for the US in the 2006 World Cup (recall that our goal against Italy was an own goal).  He was aching to depart MLS months ago, eager to test himself against the big boys in Europe.  And while many American soccer fans are sorry that our league is losing Dempsey, most acknowledge that it will serve US interests best in the long run.

What will bring a smile to Podaspheria's face?  If David Beckham's presence in MLS means that someday the Dempseys, Beasleys, McBrides, and Howards won't need to make a trip across the pond to find an appreciative audience for their talents.