Time's Up: Bob Bradley's One-Way Ticket to Perdition

It's time to read between the lines, U.S. Soccer zealots.

What turned into the "summer of soccer" in this country came to such an anticlimactic end that it nearly rivaled Michael Bay's atrocity of a Transformers sequel.

What started with such a chaotic hullabaloo in San Jose, Costa Rica ended with the same script in Mexico City.

This Stars & Stripes squad is good. They're damn good. Probably the best in the history of the Federation. So, after such a Jekyll-and-Hyde type summer that would antagonize Ron Artest's off his prescription meds, where does this team go?

They have the best goalkeeper in the world—they do.

The "golden boy" is finally reaching that upper-echelon that so many envisioned him after a breakout performance now seven years ago.

And most prevalently, a youth movement that has started to produce more ready prospects than the Los Angeles Angels of Anaheim farm system.

Well, almost.

The uncontainable issue? It's that itch at the middle of one's back that can't seem to be reached. The same old song and dance that Sam's Army cannot zip their mouths shut on.

The hot seat has officially reached "sizzling" status for manager Bob Bradley. Not to confuse sizzling with hot, fiery, or burning, it's so hot that it's starting to become somewhat of a topic of comedy.

I'm sure Sunil Gulati doesn't get it. He thinks that Bradley bested the best team in the world in South Africa (wrong summer, though) and Gulati would be correct in his assumptions. Bradley's squad also beat—wait, excuse me, should've beat—Brazil in what was the Federation's first international tourney final.

They choked.

A reoccurring theme of this entire "summer of soccer", a three month explosion of media attention, worldwide praise, and most notably, criminal letdowns.

You remember Clint Dempsey accepting whatever Sepp Blatter sheepishly handed off to the Fulham midfielder.

He was broken.

He had taken it all in, the pride of his country and those doubters—those who proceed to pelt the Yanks with batteries, douse them in urine during corners, and threaten the lives of them and their families and shake the stadium to the point of 6.5 on the Richter scale—he wanted a piece of cake.

This is the best team to ever don the Stars & Stripes. Without a doubt.

The excess of overseas success, mixed in with rising stars in the MLS, proved to show the world that those touchdown scoring, home-run hitting, 3-point shooting Americans can play the world's game, too.

It's no fluke, either.

Clint Dempsey is one of the best players taking the field at the Pompey, while Tim Howard has been dubbed as the "eventual best in the world" during his rising efforts at Goodison Park with Everton.

Hell, even the pride of Manchester, New Hampshire, the meteoric Charlie Davies, notched two goals coming on as a second half sub in his second appearance with Sochaux in the French Ligue.

Then, there's the youngsters.

There's Jozy. There's Freddy. There's Jose. There's Stuart.

There's also soon-to-be newcomers Edgar Castillo and Jermaine Jones.

It's turning into a circus of versatile talent and background stories.

Unfortunately, Bradley clearly isn't the guy to handle and guide this squad to international success.

Bradley's tactics are very 1998. He likes to play so much defense that he hopes the opposing team provides an inch to maybe, perhaps, hopefully, oh-dear-lord-can-we-please-score-a-goal turns into a foot.

It worked in the first nine minutes in Azteca. Donovan, having played 90 minutes at Azteca while carrying the H1N1 flu virus, found the speedster Davies, and he stamped his spot in the starting 11.

Or, maybe he did.

Bradley, like the man he succeeded, Bruce Arena, has recently began to fall in love with veterans at key positions.

Could Brian Ching have shrugged off Joan Capdevila like a rag doll the same as Jozy Altidore did?

Could Steve Cherundolo provided the necessary speed, athleticism, and movement up front to provide two tournament-saving assists?

And, lastly, as much as he's done for the Federation, Carlos Bocanegra seems to be done at the national team level. Sure, he's taking in his time at Rennes in France, but 30-year-old cannot play the outside back position against the likes of Brazil or even Mexico or Costa Rica.

Bradley has the tools to play with in order to succeed at the international level, yet he, along with the entire Federation, seems to be content with playing it safe.

Yeah, playing it safe worked against Spain, but that didn't come without the best defensive performance in the history of United States soccer.

It didn't work against Brazil—not even up 2-0 with 45 minutes to go. Nor did it work against Mexico, a team that needed a point so bad, boss Javier Aguirre said after the match that it was a good day to celebrate and drink a few tequilas.

You think Bob would bring that sort of swagger to the Federation?

Bob can't even manage a to wear a suit and tie, let alone implement swagger and fire into this group of universally talented Americans.

He did his job for a few years and he did it well. He groomed some players, beat Mexico—at home—and played it safe.

There's a cause for concern when superior players such as Dempsey, Altidore, and even Jose Francisco Torres and Freddy Adu aren't channeled into the right path to showcase their extreme talents for their national team.

I bet Fulham supporters, who see Dempsey's efforts notch a difference each and every match, make a mockery of Bradley.

Dempsey was a ghost in Mexico City. Really.

As for Torres, Adu, and the other up-and-comers, they say Bradley's "system" doesn't fit to their style of play.

Bradley has no "style" of play. He hopes and prays the opposing team doesn't get hot—like they did in San Jose or at Giants Stadium in the Gold Cup Final.

Although they seemed polar opposites a few years back, Bradley and Arena are morphing into the same confounding and juxtaposing force that gets the Federation good, but not great results.

Bradley is lucky his players bailed him out in a flawless 3-0 win against Egypt in the last stage of group play in the Confederations Cup, or else we would be having a different topic to grumble and grouse about.

The difference between the U.S. and those continual successful national teams worldwide is the no-nonsense approach.

Remember when Jurgen Klinsmann was canned after he nearly took his native Germany to the World Cup Finals in 2006?

Sven-Goran Erikkson didn't even last a whole year with El Tri.

Now, we say thank you to Bob, and we appreciate all that you've done. You helped us beat Mexico a few times, we snapped Spain's streak at 35, and gave us a bulldog in your son, Michael.

It's time to move on, and it doesn't matter if the 2010 is less than a year away.

If Gulati is comfortable with another piss-poor performance with the whole world watching, maybe his hot seat should start to sizzle a bit.

Let's not get too ahead of ourselves.

Let's take it one step at a time.