His sentences — if diagramed — would resemble etymological helixes, with thoughts on soccer twisted with strands of pop culture, literature, math and science. He cares little that some of those references are obscure, or even slightly incorrect.

After watching Messi thread a pass through a nearly invisible opening last season, Hudson posited that the Argentine could have found the Higgs boson “if they just asked him.” Assessing Gareth Bale’s work on the wing for Real Madrid, he announced, “He can usually get his angles down better than Archimedes, isosceles — any of those Greek lads.”

What many might not know is that Hudson creates all this in a closed ecosystem: the six-foot-by-eight-foot room where he and Schoen called the Madrid game holds a video monitor and the computers they consult during games and little else. The beIN control room is visible through a window, its staff members available through a door. But on Hudson’s side of the glass the TV screen frames the game. And that, he says, is all he needs.

There are no fans waving at him. There are none of the production meetings or on-camera stand-ups that he detests. The trappings of broadcasting mystify him. He has called a thousand or more games this way, a practice that is unusual in the United States but common in international soccer. He says the method helps him forge an intimate connection with viewers.

“All I want is the game,” Hudson said at his small house off a cul-de-sac in Fort Lauderdale. He has lived in the place for years, and it is decorated with the touch of the divorced, 58-year-old former professional athlete that he is: the brightest light is the glow from his 145-inch projection screen television, a possession as cherished as his two-and-a-half-foot-tall Lladró statue of Barcelona and Real Madrid players leaping for a ball.