Dre Bly is on a mission. During the offseason, he fumed while doubters dismissed his Denver Broncos.

“Nobody gave us a chance,” Bly says, his voice rising. “We’re going to shock the world.”

Hate to tell you this, Dre, but the world is impossible to shock.

Most of the world doesn’t care about you or the Broncos or the NFL.

The NFL has, no doubt, conquered America. The NFL has failed miserably in its conquest of the world.

NFL Europa, the league’s attempt to march into Europe, went belly up in 2007. Football is beloved … within the borders of the U.S.

Elsewhere? Not so much.

During three weeks in Beijing last month, I saw endless evidence of the NBA’s global success.

There were Carmelo Anthony jerseys, Paul Pierce jerseys, Steve Nash jerseys and, most of all, Kobe Bryant jerseys.

A massive statue of Shaquille O’Neal looms over – or maybe protects – the entrance to a Beijing amusement park.

Dozens of Chinese hoopsters battle each night on downtown courts constructed by Nike.

Basketball ranks as America’s great sports export. Everywhere I’ve traveled – and I’ve been to a few remote corners – basketball has been there, waiting for me.

I was standing at a streetcar stop in Athens in 2004 when a group of a half-dozen Chinese college students joined me.

After discovering we all spoke English, the students wanted to talk about the NBA, and that’s all they wanted to talk about.

They talked in hushed, awed tones about NBA stars. They laughed when I suggested China will someday tangle with the U.S. for world supremacy. In basketball, that is.

Football is America’s game. Our nation all but shuts down on autumn Sundays while brother, sister, mom and dad gather round the TV set to eat and drink while savoring NFL action.

But if you need to escape the NFL’s clutches, hop on a plane and head overseas. You’ll be there; football won’t.

In Beijing, I never went a day without seeing an NBA jersey. And I never saw any sign – a jersey, a hat, anything – the NFL existed.

The rest of the world struggles to understand football. It’s complicated, with strange formations and blitz schemes.

Soccer and basketball – the world’s games – are simple in their essence. Football is full of rewards, once you decipher it, but until then it’s demanding and confusing.

And violent.

A typical Broncos fan just laughs when listening to coach Mike Shanahan describe rookie Spencer Larsen’s tackle in Sunday’s win over New Orleans.

“That’s the hardest hit I’ve ever seen in the National Football League,” Shanahan said. “It looked like he decapitated his head.” Shanahan was admiring Larsen’s good work. In the NFL, delivering a near-decapitation means you’re a quality employee.

I understand Shanahan’s view. I’ve been watching – and enjoying – vicious football hits for much of my life.

I watch grainy images of the Bears’ Dick Butkus mauling frightened running backs.

To an American football fan, these sanctioned assaults are thrilling, even uplifting.

To the rest of the world, this choreographed barbarity is shocking. And not in the way Bly is talking about.