In a shroud of economic doom and gloom, it is nice to have a sporting distraction from afar, someone requiring an effort to follow, a weekly purpose and repository for hope and glory and old-fashioned athletic triumph. It is not much bother, really, because US soccer fans are accustomed to hunting down pubs with the right satellite service or paying for their own dish to receive Fox Soccer Channel, Gol TV and Setanta pay-per-view feeds.

Yes, Clint's middle name is Drew, and Fulham lead the league in draws, and Americans hate kiss-your-sister ties of any kind in their athletic competitions. But Dempsey's excellence against the mighty Chelsea provided a nice bookend for a year. The sight of the shirtless Clint sprinting behind the goal in celebration was a genuine thrill. It caused a drowsy, post-holiday American to rise from his sacred couch and send his voice skyward, filled with pure exultation.

Decades ago in these United States, the name Dempsey was emblematic of a certain Irish-heritage boxer hailing from Manassa, Colorado. We have a new Dempsey, and he's keeping a venerable London football club in mid-table with his on-field vigour, and for that I thank him.