That soccer goal's big, you know that? Put one human in front of it, and that human looks inconsequential. Forget how seldom the ball gets all the way to the net and think for a second about standing in front of that goal, the hopes and fears and fate of your whole soccer-crazed country on your normal-sized back.

Then think about standing there during a World Cup shootout. The game's tied, and it's just you, the ball and that big-ass goal. This is no way to decide an international sporting event of this magnitude, but what can you do about it? You've just got to keep moving, keep anticipating, and hope you're right.

	Make it -- they name a city after you. Miss it -- even you're grandchilden will be hated.

We tend to overstate pressure in sports. We talk about the pressure of coming off the bench or the pressure of pinch-hitting or the pressure of having to decide whether to pull your starter in the eighth inning of a one-run game.

But to the appreciative but non-obsessed viewer, this seems like the real thing. Pitching in the ninth inning of a World Series game, standing at the free throw line down a point, running a crossing pattern in the final minute with your team down a score -- I don't think any of those compare to the pressure of a guy standing in front of that goal, trying to read somebody's mind with his whole country sitting there clenching its teeth and balling its fists.

You do it right, you get your own statue. You blow it, look out. And the way it looks from here, your fate is almost completely beyond your control.

This Week's List

One more really tough spot in the sports world: Being paired with Tiger for the final round, and having to deal with the galleries and goofballs and, of course, the aura.

America is learning what my owl friends and I have known for years: Soccer, not just for the diurnal anymore.

More information than we need to know, and we know it between just about every inning: Rafael Palmeiro takes batting practice, infield practice and Viagra.

I hope I'm not being too harsh on our newest national icon, but it seems every feature I read on this guy can be distilled into one sentence: Luis Castillo, just oblivious (to be kind) enough -- and talented enough -- to make a run at Rose or Joe D.

What Luis is doing to channel DiMag: He's signing all kinds of bats and balls, locking them up so they're worth more after he's dead; he's treating his closest friends with deepest suspicion; he's letting someone else pick up the check.

The big question: Is there a Gene Garber waiting out there, ready to throw four changeups off the plate?

Meanwhile, in the National League East: Skip Caray thinks we just might do it again this year.

Or maybe it's because the American sports fan has had enough of the greedy, overpaid, pharmaceutically enhanced athletes and yearns for the days of a more meritorious system that demands accountability from players and owners alike: Baseball says it's the international Internet voting that has Tsuyoshi (.246 with all that power) Shinjo fifth among National League outfielders.

What do you give something that has everything?: Title IX turns 30.

Here's a lesson for all of us -- brevity is the soul of language, or something like that: After being brutalized by the Devil Rays for 7 runs in 2 2/3 innings Tuesday, Giants starter Livan Hernandez said, "You saw what happened. I throw the ball, everybody hit it."

Just for the heck of it: Eddie Kasko.

He's the guy who chooses the moment right before dinner to regale guests with stories of his favorite gastro-intestinal disorders: U.S. backup goalie Kasey Keller chose Wednesday as the day he tell the Orlando Sentinel all his complaints about his role on the team.

Feel-good story of the year: Cardinals righthander Jason Simontacchi.

Just because it's still funny, more than three months later: Operation Shutdown.

He's the keynote speaker this year for the distinguished Joe Charbonneau Lecture Series: Ben Grieve, who has done less with more than just about anybody.

Just my lucky day, I guess: I'd been on the Internet for no more than 10 minutes the other day and I'd already won so many cruises and gifts I lost track.

And not only that: I got a screamin' deal on some life insurance.

The untold story of the Oakland A's revival: Everyone knew it was a matter of time before Hatteberg got hot.

And finally, pretend you've committed a heinous crime and are presented with the opportunity to choose one of two fates: 1) two weeks of watching the Monster Unopened Packs commercial ("Hundreds, hundreds, hundreds") on continuous loop, or; 2) two weeks of watching Sergio Garcia stand over the ball and never, ever hit it.

Tim Keown is a senior writer for ESPN The Magazine. E-mail him at tim.keown@espnmag.com.