It was hard not to crack a half-smile this past Monday as I, along with 25,000 fans at the Home Depot Center and likely millions more viewing on TV, watched visiting Real Madrid put on a soccer clinic against the host LA Galaxy.

Sure, the final score read just 2-0 in favor of the visiting Los Galacticos (whatever that means), but the play on the field told a different story, one that portrayed another humbling reminder of just how far the United States still has to go in soccer to catch up with the rest of the futbol-loving globe.

Clearly, the gutsy Galaxy squad, which can’t be slighted for its effort, was overmatched from the get-go, agreeing to play a “friendly match” vs. the cream of the world’s soccer crop and against a handful of players who were winning World Cups when many Galaxy players were still on US developmental teams. And oh, that guy David Beckham.

The fluid, almost poetic-like play of Real Madrid players such as Roberto Carlos, Zindine Zidane (prounced ze-dan, zedane), Figo, and yes, even Beckham, made the aggressive but rigid style of the Galaxy seem even more futile.

Yes, the MLS representatives kept the game close with tough defense and even a couple nearmisses at the net, but the sellout event was just another opportunity for Los Angeles’ large foreign-born population to enjoy a snicker at the natives’ expense.

But, honestly, I’m glad the game was played.

I know what the rare matchup meant to Southern California soccer enthusiasts, especially those who knew the historic background of the Madrid club. The fan-fare and ticket sales alone were a testament to the growing popularity of the world’s biggest sport, and the play of the host team gave some cause for positive thinking.

Still, past experiences with the America vs. the Rest of the World soccer gap keeps me from truly being happy with what I saw Monday night, if only because it drums up difficult memories—memories forever branded in my subconscious of when I learned the true meaning of helplessness.

The year was 1994 and I was living with my family in Riyadh, the capital city of Saudi Arabia— or what many Americans refer to as “that country in the Middle East with lots of oil where we fought the Gulf War.” That’s only partially true (the war was actually fought mainly in Kuwait and Iraq), but to thousand of American families like my own, the largest city in the Arabian peninsula was much more than that.

While living there from ‘93‘96, I attended school at the Saudi Arabian International School-Riyadh (SAIS-R), which was one of a family of schools set up in the country to educate Americans and other nationalities that wanted an American education.

Aside from the walls and guards surrounding it, and a ban on coed P.E. classes, SAIS-R, which housed grades K-9 in two separate campuses, was like any other American private school, except that the student body was truly international, with students representing nations on six out of the seven continents.

We learned English, U.S. history, science and math. We had lunch hour and even a short recess; and when classes let out, those who chose to, competed in sports.

The school’s sports calendar was broken up into four seasons: volleyball, softball, basketball and soccer. First their would be an intramural season when teams from the school would play each other; then there would be an all-school team selection; then those one or two teams would compete against other schools from across Saudi Arabia in an “all-kingdom” event.

Having felt fairly confident in my performance in both softball and basketball, filling final roster spots along with mostly other Americans, I decided to give soccer a go.

Having played the game most of my classmates called ‘futbol’ while growing up, I figured my athleticism and competitive nature would at least allow me to hold my own against players from countries like Nigeria, Uruguay, Sweden, Norway, Denmark, Lebanon, South Korea, Brazil and others.

I was horribly wrong.

It took about five minutes into the first game of the intramural season to see I was badly out of my element—and my league. Try as I might to use the basics taught to me at my local YMCA, I continually felt like a Chevy Nova trying to drag race a Dodge Viper.

The same kids that I had mocked for not knowing what “three seconds in the key” meant were now running circles around me and making me feel downright inept. “Ha, ha. Soccer he calls it,” they laughed as the ball was taken from me again and again.

I mean I knew how to kick, pass, dribble and score—but not like they did. Not even close.

So say what you will about how well the Galaxy played Monday night and how far American soccer has come—as far as I’m concerned—it still has a way to go.

Until I can turn on my TV and see the kind of soccer I saw from Real Madrid and know I’m watching the best the world has to offer—professional soccer will never be truly at home in my heart.

At least watching Beckham score no goals and go out with a hamstring injury midway through the second period at least made the Galaxy loss easier to cope with.

Geez, I’m got to get over this Posh Spice thing.