SOCCER WHISTLE WET IN WEE HOURS.

Byline: TOM HOFFARTH

HERMOSA BEACH - The magic ends. The dream unfinished. Another goal for another day.

Yet, if you scan this stuffy sports bar early Friday morn at the conclusion of the U.S.' painful 1-0 loss to Germany in the World Cup quarters, there might be more people upset that the woman with the white towel and pencil in her hair hasn't been back yet with that Bloody Mary because, darn it, it's past 6 a.m. and it's their constitutional right to be served alcohol again today.

Actually, you shoulda been at this soccer haven, Besties, a few hours earlier, when the Brits were agonizing over their loss to the Brazilians.

The place was shoulder to shoulder with smelly, yelly Limeys, chanting incessantly about ``En-gu-LOOND ... En-gu-LOOND'' as they pounded the tables with their pint glasses, apparently convinced the blokes playing keepaway with the ball on the giant TVs could actually hear 'em across the Pacific.

For them, it all came to a tearful end about 1:30 a.m., immediately followed by the ``last call'' call from the overworked guy in the Umbro shirt behind the bar.

Wait a minute. This is a renowned soccer establishment. What about us who want to stay to watch the U.S.-Germany game in a couple of hours?

Talk as you walk, pal.

It was no idle threat. They were definitely closing up at 2 - albeit temporarily - or as soon as the weepy, wobbly wankers were sent off into the alley outside to light up more cigarettes and compare tattoos.

So now the red, white and blue bandwagoners had a wee bit of a problem, and it was more than just shaking this annoyingly inherited English accent.

How do you kill two hours in the middle of the night around here?

For the U.S. soccer team, this quarterfinal match was uncharted territory. For the fans, it was uncharted hours of coherency.

Go home and the temptation to sleep might be too great.

There was a doughnut shop open down the way. Again, catastrophic consequences lurked there.

Shuffle over to the 7-Eleven and all you would do is freak out the guy behind the counter as you end up reading all the magazines on the rack - even Oprah - and then start experimenting with new concoctions at the Slurpee machine. Way too weird.

Besides, there was a padlock on the beer cooler.

So it's no shock you ended up back in your car, seat reclined, CD player on and listening to the soundtrack of ``Corky Romano.''

Don't ask.

At last, the noise of a street sweeper indicated there was life again outside the fogged-up windows. Yup, time to get back in there and show 'em what we've got.

For a $10 cover charge, Besties let folks stagger back in at 4 a.m., promising they'd be served an ``English grill'' breakfast and all the coffee they could down.

It was the Besties of times. It was the worst of times. Ever eat cold baked beans, funky English sausage and half-cooked bacon before your vital digestive organs are fully functional?

Again, don't ask.

By kickoff, about three dozen were parked in front of the TV sets. It would grow to about 80.

The room was sedate, full of nervousness. Complete opposite of hours earlier.

One guy tried to start a chant of ``U-S-A.'' Another responded with ``Girls-Gone-Wild,'' a reference to the infomercial that for some reason was playing on one wall monitor. At least that kept some focused.

A few we recognized from the previous crowd. They looked remarkably different. Let's just say, remarkably lucid.

``The body rebounds better for some than others,'' noted the guy sitting at our table.

The waitress came by for a drink order. Sorry, can't serve booze between 2 and 6 a.m.

It was game on at this point, so that quirk in the law was set aside. Coffee, strong and black, and make it snappy. There's business to attend to.

Donovan on a breakaway. Miss.

Another chance. Blocked.

A great shot. What, no handball call?

Germany scores. All the air is suddenly sucked out of the room. Coffee is necessary to continue.

No need to rehash the rest of it. No one was complaining about the refs. Polite applause when Cobi Jones and Earnie Stewart came in.

With the final whistle, the run was done. And some had not yet been served their cold plate of food, so they felt compelled to stay. Not a smart move.

The longest night was over. Yet the longest day of the year - the summer solstice - was just starting.

At least the lock was off the cooler at 7-Eleven. Oh, thank heaven.

``It was a great ride, a great game to watch,'' said one guy as he climbed into his car and drove off into the morning gloom.

It was a German-made car, of course.