Sony Jumbotron

There we were jammed on to Spring Street in the 26th minute, watching the Adidas-sponsored Jumbotron, along with I don't know, 5,000 other soccer fans, when the screen went black. We all waited for it to spark back on. Nothing. A guy with glasses and a headset climbed onto the thing and made an inaudible announcement, versions of which were passed through the crowd: There were too many people in the street, they hadn't counted on this crowd, it was considered a danger, the police had ordered it shut down.

At least that was the word on the street, as we sprinted for cabs to watch the game elsewhere.

And throughout the rest of the game, ESPN offered us shots of City Hall Plaza in Boston, crammed with what looked to be 20,000 fans. I know, everyone loves Bloomberg. But does the city have to be so goddamn efficient all the time?

Nevermind the Olympian bollocks—New York rocks. Right? After the city's Olympic fortunes flagged in the wee hours this morning, a dispirited throng of Olympians, sleepy members of the press corps, and bid junkies were still milling around the Jumbotron screen at Rockefeller Center like so many miserable moths. In an attempt to salvage the mood—and to celebrate what might have been their Best Gig Ever—the members of a local indie rock band called The Din strutted and hollered like therapists for the damned. "We're down, but we're not out!" called Matty Pritchard, the group's flaxen-haired lead singer. When he isn't on stage, Mr. Pritchard works as an assistant to Jay Kriegel, the executive director of NYC2012. For a rocker whose day job had just quit him, he looked unnervingly peppy. "Smile! C'mon!" he whooped. Though Mr. Pritchard leapt about and punched the air with a fervor peculiar to unsigned musicians and soccer moms, the mood wasn't catching. The dwindling crowd stood on a soggy patch of sod, where a painted-on Olympic logo was dissolving slowly under footprints and mud. His bandmates launched into a song called "Crack That Bell." Halfway through, he brought his hands together above his head. Group clap, anyone? Anyone...? As the guitar struck up a closing riff, Mr. Pritchard gave it one more shot. "Come on, this one's about New York City!" he declared. "And we didn't write it." —Jessica Bruder  read more »