Make no mistake about it: to my fellow Trinidadians the World Cup draw which puts them in the same group as England is the stuff of dreams.
I'll be doing it because it would be wonderful beyond belief to be a part of the swelling pride of a country of one and a half million people at being given such a place on the international stage. It's impossible to explain or to exaggerate how my compatriots feel about this. But let me try.
When Dwight Yorke and his team beat Bahrain 1-0 in Bahrain, having failed to do so in the home leg the previous week, the islands went into a convulsion of joy. The Prime Minister declared a public holiday and asked the entire population to make their way to the airport to greet the conquering heroes on their return.
I don't know how all that turned out. I've made that journey on countless occasions and if people did try to do as they were asked, the traffic chaos would have lasted for weeks. But I'm sure that those who couldn't make it were happy to line the route into Port of Spain to cheer the boys on their way.
Long before that game against Bahrain, the excitement had spread to Trinidadians living in London. On the evening of the match several hundred of them took over the Three Kings pub in south-west London. A Trinidad government minister, who just managed to squeeze his way into the crush, told me he'd never seen anything like this in his life. When T&T, as it's often called, scored in the dying minutes of the game, the noise was like a volcano erupting.
I should have made an early confession: having lived in England now for more than half my life, I've lost touch with the vast body of West Indian sport. Occasionally, flicking idly through the sport channels, I come across a passing reference to the Trinidadian netball team, and ages ago I remember trying to keep tabs on a couple of Trinidadian and Jamaican tennis players.
Of course, following the fortunes and, more frequently these days, the disasters of West Indian cricket, is programmed into our DNA. I have occasionally encountered West Indians in Moscow or North Africa who do fascinating jobs but want to talk about nothing else. I was in Beirut some years ago when India beat the West Indies to win the cricket World Cup. There had been a massive car bomb in the city centre that day and, knowing that if my mother heard the news she might be concerned about my safety, I called her in Port of Spain to assure her that I was fine. I never got a word in about the situation in Beirut. My mother's only response to my call was about the indignity of the West Indies losing to India.
Indeed, in the 1950s, when Dr Eric Williams championed the cause of West Indian self-determination, he referred to the fact that a few years earlier the West Indies had beaten the England cricket team for the first time. He went on to say: 'If we could beat the mother country at cricket, surely we can govern ourselves?' That kind of logic might seem curious now, but I remember what a powerful force it was back then.
Football, though, is an entirely different matter. West Indian cricketers have town squares and streets named after them. Taxi drivers in Port of Spain will proudly point out the Brian Lara Promenade in the heart of the city and his impressive hilltop house overlooking the Queen's Park Savannah, given to him by the government of Trinidad and Tobago.
There are no such monuments to footballers, although there is a small soccer stadium in Tobago that bears Dwight Yorke's name. My more historically minded Trinidadian friends might prove me wrong on this, but the only local footballer of note I can remember from when I lived there is Joey Gonsalves, who was talked about as a world-class goalkeeper.
But that's about it, and when, two World Cups ago, T&T failed to qualify for the final stages of the competition, a palpable wave of disappointment engulfed the nation. They had come so close. They needed only a draw against the US at home. But the Americans put paid to that little dream with a lone goal that still features in many a Trinidadian nightmare to this day.
This time they're in and playing with the big boys. Forget Sweden and Paraguay. Trinis, as they're fondly called throughout the region, will stop work for the matches against them, but the one that will really matter will be the clash with England.
Even now, travel agents are probably being overrun by Trinis, at home and abroad, who have never been to a football match, seeking tickets to Germany. Trinis are looking forward to the England game with the passion and crazy anticipation they reserve for the bacchanal that is their Carnival. And should the team manage to survive for even 20 minutes without conceding a hatful of goals, the president will probably give every player the Trinity Cross, the country's highest award.
I had been toying with the idea of going to Germany to watch a few games and trying to arrange it so that I could be there when England, Germany, Holland, France and Italy play. I was also planning to keep an eye on Ghana, where my son-in-law was born and where his parents still live.
Yesterday's draw altered my priorities dramatically. Deep down I know precisely how the encounter is likely to turn out. But sport is for dreamers and for those who put a small wager on the improbable. That's why I shall be there when T&T takes on Sven's team - and shall be cheering my countrymen on to unprecedented glory.