My original plan was to spend tonight tossing crates of English tea into the Channel Islands Harbor while setting Wham! albums ablaze with environmentally friendly lighter fluid.

During the past few weeks, I’d meticulously trained my mind to believe that Saturday’s World Cup mega-match between England and USA was my generation’s Battle of Bunker Hill.

History, I assume, will refer to it as the Rumble at Royal Bafokeng.

With thoughts of Revolutionary War 2.0 dancing through my head, I refused to speak to my loving mother because she had, several years back, married an Englishman.

I read over and over about Joe Gaetjens’ goal in the 1950 World Cup—the one that helped the Americans stun the Brits 1-0 in Brazil—and I always shed a tear.

More history lessons followed.

I learned that the Americans and Brits have only faced each other eight times since the shocker in South America, with England winning seven of those contests, most by blowout.

All of the post-1950 matches, including America’s 2-0 victory in 1993, were friendlies.

The bottom line, in my mind, is that when it’s really on the line, on the world’s biggest stage for soccer, the scoreboard still reads USA 1, England 0. That’s comforting.

I was back in combat mode when a waiter at the local breakfast house asked me if I wanted an English muffin with my morning meal. I told him to make it French toast.

It was impressive that in such a short period of time I’d trained myself to be an anti-England soccer machine. As the week began, I was more than ready for battle.

Then I made a tactical error.

Attempting to be a credible reporter, I decided, on Tuesday, to take a trip to the Crown & Anchor restaurant and pub in Thousand Oaks. I’d been there for an assignment before, during the 2006 World Cup, so I knew the landscape.

This place is England all the way. Enemy territory, for certain, but the hottest spot for World Cup action in the Conejo Valley.

Not to seem out of place, I ordered a Boddingtons on tap, because that’s what they like to drink across the Pond. What was I going to do, ask for a dandelion and burdock?

With an autographed Wayne Rooney jersey stationed nearby, I perused the menu.

Shepherd’s pie? Nope. Steak and kidney pie? Probably not. Bangers and mash? Please.

I ordered a hamburger with American cheese, also known as a cheeseburger. It sent a message.

The owner, Ged Peel, was around. When he walked over to my table, I figured he’d strongarm me to get me to leave his establishment. I was yearning for him to tell me to go back to America where I belonged.

But it turns out Peel is actually a pretty good guy—impossible to believe in my current state of mind, but true nonetheless. We rapped about his soccer memorabilia, USA vs. England and other sports-related topics.

On the subject of the big match, Peel said English fans, in general, have a “50/50 feeling” with “some worried and some confident.”

Impressed by his honesty, I mumbled something about them having no chance at all, but made sure he couldn’t hear me.

At one point someone brought me a piece of cake. It’s all pub locals and me, and they let me in on the birthday fun even though I’m an American. That was pretty cool. I was becoming soft.

Next thing you know we’re all laughing and joking. I was getting caught up in the mix. Pretty soon I had my name on the guest list for Saturday’s match. These were my new best friends.

And then the waitress, the English one with the curly locks, said something about the “crazy American” soccer fans, and I snapped back into reality.

Were these kind folks really my friends? Was the cake tampered with? What day was it? So many questions, so few answers.

My mind began to race, and I knew it was time to bail.

I gathered myself and headed toward the door. “Go America!” I yelled, loud and proud.

Just like that, I was gone, but I will be back, and I’m bringing an American army with me.

Stephen Dorman is the Acorn’s sports editor.