Welcome to Heartbreak: Yanks' Stellar Ride Comes Crashing Down

It's easy to pigeonhole a player, team, or coach into something that's completely unfair and subjective.

Two matches in this now polished-off 2009 Confederations Cup, the United States were fish in a barrel. Nothing went right and no vivacious turnaround seemed anywhere in sight.

The heart of a champion prevailed deep within the souls of the Stars & Stripes, and the world was their stage.

Sadly, as is so often seen, all good things come to an end—some sooner than others.

Clint Dempsey couldn't fight them back.

Tears, strolling down his face, he, alongside an entire country dealt with terminal reality.

It wasn't just in sight, it was within reaching distance, too. 45 minutes of all-out defending and stellar attacking saw the Americans right through to a 2-0 lead at half. The Samba dancing was quelled.

Social networking sites such as Facebook and Twitter were clouded with updates from fans worldwide.

Every major sports medium had the Yanks at the helm of the news world.

46 minutes in, the Brazilians, resilient in their demeanor and swagger made note that they would have no spot in this would-be fairytale ending.

They made sure Cinderella's pumpkin carriage would not make it to the ball on time—in fact, they assured the carriage would end up wheel-less and floundering as the clock struck midnight.

Three second-half goals from the Selecao and a flurry of missed-marks, poor-passing and mind-baffling coaching formations and substitutions erased what would have been football pandemonium worldwide.

Could you imagine Dunga, Kaka, Robinho and Co., heading back to Rio with a collection of silver spoons for medals.

A loss to the Americans? In the elitist world of soccer, the Brazilians would have ended up on the cartoon page of the local newspapers, most likely with an over-sized dunce cap, placed rightly on the head of the overly-charismatic Dunga.

The half-time speech must have been one hell of a show.

The Americans vanished. The exciting and wondrous play of the first half was now just a distant dream.

Tim Howard's Kryptonite ran out. Dempsey and Landon Donovan were gassed. And with each dispossession, with each give away, with each run made down the right or left flank, the U.S., strong in their will to prove the world wrong, couldn't mobilize.

They couldn't stop the Green and Yellow from swiftly attacking, wave after wave.

It's unfortunate, too. Really, it is.

Those who defy American soccer and relish in making a public mockery of it will have their shots. They will make jokes, continuing on about how soccer is akin to women's beach volleyball or billiards.

They will have their continuous moment in the sun—after all, it's usually the same old suspects that recycle their jokes more than their dress style.

The veracity of this tale is the not that the U.S. seemingly "choked" when it mattered the most. That's not how it goes.

This is not basketball. There is no Kobe or LeBron that can spout off 18 straight points.

It's 11 players, flowing as one, abrupt and hasty in attack—it's the best players in the world, forming the quintessential wave of determination and readiness.

The storyline will always be remembered, not of the Brazilians waltzing away with the gold, but the story of the Americans. The second-placers will be forever remembered as the one thing most noteworthy of this tournament.

But, cute and determinative stories aside as Donovan basically put it as he addressed the microphone post-match, with tears in his eyes, the minuscule American attacker delivered the summary. 

"We're at the point where we just don't want respect," he mumbled. "We want to win."

Therein lies the reality of things. The U.S., stubborn in its resolve and fortitude, had this game in the books. Almost as Stevie Wonder would have put it: signed, sealed, nearly—delivered.

Critics worldwide will forever remember this memorable run by this crew of essential "no-namers" who dethroned the Spaniards and were 45 minutes from dousing the soccer world with gasoline.

The positive steps were made, yes.

Notching up against the best players on planet earth helps out the cause; it helps out for the future and for the only one that truly matters, now 384 days from now in South Africa.

Manager Bob Bradley, headstrong in his own right, coached 2 1/2 matches with straight-brilliance.

The second-half was more than a nightmare. It was an out-coached clinic. The same team we saw against the Egyptians, La Roja and 45 minutes worth of flawless play against the Brazilians was nowhere to be found on the field.

The United States was suddenly playing not to lose. Against the team as merciless and lethal as the Samba boys, that is a death sentence—and surely, the execution was carried out.

What was even more troubling and confounding was Bradley's subs after Luis Fabiano embraced his second-half brace in the 74th minute.

Sacha Kljestan cemented his performance of being the worst U.S. player in this tournament with constant giveaways, ghostly passes to go along with his red card against Brazil in the group stages. Jonathan Bornstein, all what seems to be 5'7" and 140 lbs., enters for Jozy Altidore.

Bradley's confidence in his bench was as conservative as a party being hosted by Anne Coulter and Sean Hannity.

It's evident that Bradley has his troops affirmed and has their trust, but just the same as any other sport, you must have the faith in those who can come off the pine and contribute.

Kljestan, Bornstein and the most confusing continual sub of them all, Conor Casey, did nothing to help out the cause—in fact, they often were retractors.

There comes certain times where team must gamble, introduce a wild card into the mix. Freddy Adu and Jose Francisco Torres, two of the most-talented players on the U.S. roster did not see the field.

Not one second of playing time.

It's hard to imagine this squad or any player wanting to make an impact or earn playing time being able to do so under such ridiculous calls. Top-flight competition breeds top-flight play.

Does Bradley really expect Bornstein to contribute to an attack that had been free-flowing for 40 straight minutes?

Is Bornstein going to flash brilliance like Adu?

Is Casey, going to score the equalizing goal?

No.

With the success, comes great responsibility. The Americans have captured the looks of their own countrymen and those worldwide.

It will be easy for the archetypal sports columnists in the larger metro areas to preach the "cute" factor. That this run was fun, but don't hold your breath.The easy way out. In the world of sports, cynicism has the least amount of standing room in soccer.

It's the beautiful game. It's the world's game. The Brazilians' samba dances and eloquent smiles are why we watch.

As awards were handed out, Tim Howard, calmly walked up the stairs, and received his Golden Gloves award.

He fought hard to tattoo a counterfeit smile for the cameras.

Dempsey was a different story. He lost it. His heart, shattered. Multiple shots acclaimed the Fulham midfielder as inconsolable. He raised his Bronze Ball trophy and stepped away, only to be returning to pick up silver medals with his face soaked in tears. 

Dwight Howard told the media, after his Orlando Magic fell to the Los Angeles Lakers, that he had to watch Kobe Bryant and his teammates raise the championship. For motivation. To know the elation of what it means to be on top of the world, albeit for one moment of time.

The looks on the faces of Howard, Dempsey, Donovan and Oguchi Onyewu spelled it out.

They want to win, at any cost. But for the time being, this  reoccurring sting should provide the necessary motivation for the big one.

Countdown: 384 days.

384 days to turn despondency into euphoria.

This, a throbbing, yet mandatory step will be seen as a juxtaposed growing pain a year from now.