I'm standing on a sunny playing field in a corner of post industrial Kent, trying to take in the fact that what Im watching is a football revolution.
At Samphire Beach, a Japanese woman stands in front of Dover's white cliffs. It is 10 past seven on a Tuesday morning. Most people will be having breakfast or getting ready for a day at the office. Miyuki Fijita is swimming to France.
Ever since its non-league football team was drawn against Manchester United in the third round of the FA Cup back in December, this sleepy town where nothing ever happens has been temporarily roused. And it all comes down to identity.
Sheffield United's Peter Ndlovu is uncomfortable talking about Zimbabwe's politics. But many back home blame Leo Mugabe, the president's nephew, for the crisis engulfing Zimbabwean football.
It may look like a sewage works on a choppy day but in the glorious jargon of London 2012 this is an "early legacy".
It takes a rare man to make Alex Ferguson cry.
Only when his jab connects with my left cheek do I start to understand boxing.
With only two months before the team arrives in Australia, Kevin Pietersen is all washed up.
Why do the English fool themselves, again and again, into believing they can win? Might they actually enjoy it?
There are few more visceral mindgames for the competitor than swordplay, whose conventions and violent history seem so far removed from modern life.