If there's one thing I can't stand, it's namedropping. So the only reasons I mention that I met the world-famous author Mr Garrison Keillor earlier this week are that: (1) Mr Keillor is from Minnesota; (2) this is a World Cup Year; and (3) Minnesota is where I watched the end of the last World Cup.
Correction. Minnesota is where I missed the end of the last World Cup, thanks to my friend Roger. We were staying with Roger and his lovely wife Zelma at the time and they had taken us upstate for the weekend. Then we had to get back to Minneapolis for some trivial reason or other (something about closing the sale of their house) and this happened to be on the Sunday.
I still remember the sinking feeling as we drove south on World Cup Final day, through towns with names like Moose Lake and Big Fork, searching the car-radio in vain for any mention of what was going on in California. And then Roger said: "Hey, look on the bright side, Frank - you'll enjoy next year's final even more."
He wasn't to know. Roger is a fan of "basketball" - which is a sport involving "hoops" and is quite popular in America, apparently. There are about 150 games in the regular basketball season and another 75 or so in the playoffs and then the "final" is seven games instead of one and then it's about time for another season.
So as patiently as I could, considering I was beating Roger over the head with his carjack, I explained that the soccer World Cup only happened every four years. The next one was "nineteen ninety eight," I said, for emphasis; and at the time 1998 seemed as distant a notion as, well, 2002.
You can measure your life in World Cups. The first one I remember is 1970 - innocent days when I didn't even understand the basic rules of football such as that "you always cheer for the team playing England". So in the game between England and Brazil - how I blush at the thought now! - I supported Bobby Moore and his men.
My older sisters, who knew nothing about football, except that you cheer for the team playing England, celebrated loudly when Jairzinho scored; while I - God, it's too embarrassing! - claimed he was offside. (I had no idea what offside was, but with the rat-like cunning you need when dealing with sisters, I knew it was something that would worry them a little).
Then there was West Germany in 1974. No England to not support: instead, the Dutch masters Cruyff and Neeskens and Johnny Rep. Four years older and wiser, with a dawning realisation that there was something seriously wrong with the contemporary hairstyles.
Argentina, 1978. Teenage years, a snowstorm of hormonal activity now inextricably connected to those great paper cascades before the home team's games. Still no England - would I ever get a chance to atone? Still no girlfriend, either.
1982: Adulthood, the discovery of selective memory. Refusing to accept that the current Brazilians were a patch on the great side we all cheered to victory back in 1970. A player called "Socrates?" Hah! Rejoicing at Paulo Rossi's sneaky Italian hat-trick.
The years begin to fly by: 1986, Maradona rips England's heart out; 1990, Ireland in Rome, national hysteria. 1994, Minnesota.
Roger was already in the sin bin, because our train journey out to the midwest had coincided with the semi-finals and I'd asked him to video-tape them. I mentioned this on arrival and Roger said the video machine was out of order, breaking this news as gently as though he were saying he was out of milk and would I mind my coffee black.
I took this setback well, apart from an uncontrollable facial tic which stayed with me for a couple of days. I even played along when Roger invited me to admire his poster of Michael Jordan, who is a basketball star, apparently. (He's famous because he can jump 12 feet in the air and can stay up there for eight seconds or something - so Roger says. Americans can be a bit innocent.)
And prospects were still looking good on the Sunday morning when we left the Lake Superior town of Grand Marais, where we'd had a few beers the night before in Clyde's Place (Hiya Clyde!) and shot some pool with Ed-the-Finnish-logger (Hi Ed!).
We had two hours of slack in the schedule on the way back. So we stopped in a bar where they had about 50 TV screens all showing a local baseball game and we asked if they could turn one of them over to the soccer and, with true midwestern hospitality, they turned them all over to the soccer.
And we were having a fine old time with the locals, explaining the rules of the game (except offside). Brazil were set to win the World Cup again after 24 years and all would be well with the world. I was happy and Roger was happy and everybody was happy and then we realised the game was heading for extra time.
We have a problem if it goes to extra time, haven't we, I said to Roger, and Roger said yes. And that's why, as the 1994 World Cup reached its climax, we were driving south, searching the radio in vain for a commentary.
It was the first time I missed the end of a World Cup Finals and I know that, had I been watching, it would never have gone to the travesty of a penalty shoot-out. I know if I'd been there, Romario would have scored a breath-taking winner worthy of a Brazilian World Cup. I just know that.
And if Romario is reading this, all I can say is: sorry, pal. But it was all Roger's fault.
Frank McNally interviews Garrison Keillor on Weekend 3