Coming from the country of soccer is wonderful. From Zimbabwe to Vanuatu, you can be sure that your nationality will be instantly recognized – even loved – by the people you talk to. And that admiration will be instantly transferred to you.

Coming from the country of soccer is horrible. Especially if the wounds of defeat are still gushing blood. Or if, like me, you understand piddles about sport.

Then you have to confront conversations that look like this:

“Ah, Brazil! Ronaldo, Ronaldinho!”

“…Yes…(forced smile)”

You will be called upon to opine on Dunga’s performance as a coach. On the reasons for your country’s loss. You’ll be asked detailed analyses of the playing styles of Europe versus Latin America.

So what’s the best strategy to sneak away with elegance? Parrot Roberto’s explanations? Confess my ignorance and indifference and risk being seen as mad? Possibly break a few hearts?

I know! From now on, I’m no longer Brazilian.

“Hello, where you from?”

“Me, I’m from Canada!”

“Ahhh! Canada! Carlos Hernandez!”

“Sorry? Carlos Hernandez?”

“Yes, Carlos Hernandez! Football!”

(confused grimace)

“Oh, no, sorry, sorry, mister! Carlos Hernandez from Mexico!”*

I deserve it.

*Actual dialog with a taxi driver in Surabaya, East Java.