It's About America

When my son went to a World Cup “friendly” soccer match over in Tampa several months ago; I told him to have a good time. He responded, “It’s not about me, it’s about America.” While I laud his patriotism, let me make a couple of things clear.

First; I don’t have any idea what a “friendly” match is; are there “unfriendly matches? Taken in context, I’d assume a “friendly” match means the outcome has no bearing on anything. Now “anything” could mean a multitude of things, none of which I’ll venture a guess as to its significance.

Second; what I know about soccer, or what I cared about soccer up until this past year, wouldn’t fill a Nyquil dosage cap. The minuscule amount I do know I learned in gym class annually reinforced each fall since sixth grade. It’s a damn good thing a quiz was given on what knowledge of “the beautiful game” I retained, because I probably would’ve consciously erased all information out of disinterest, kinda like I did with any subject having to do with math.

Whenever I engaged in the play of the game, I held my own but no more. My limited unsheer athletic ability allowed me to not embarrass myself. In the summer before my senior year of high school, I once played goalie well enough in a pick up game to have several members of the team who played that day remark, I may want to try my hand at it when school reconvened in the fall. It would help me get in shape for basketball they said. I could cover more goal area due to my height and wingspan they said. I’d be given a better opportunity because I was a senior they said. I said no.

Since that time my interest in soccer has waned if that was humanly possible. I found the game boring due to the lack of scoring. What I saw was a slower version of hockey without the fighting played on grass instead of ice. The lack of physical confrontations appealed to me, the larger expanse of area in which to play did not.
I could not understand how thousands of people could watch live and on television, a soccer match for ninety minutes –plus stoppage time- (I won’t get into that) and have the game end in a tie. I saw a similarity in holding a bridge tournament at these very same venues. And for an added thrill, have the players run around while the opposing two member team tries to stop the other from playing a trick at the table set up in the center of the field. I had a hard time differentiating what the difference was in terms of excitement.

I thought I was becoming a quasi-fan when the North American Soccer League formed. Led by the jewel of the league, the New York Cosmos; they played their games a mere forty-five minute drive from my home. The team was loaded with every imaginable global star. Gorgio Chinaglia from Italy, Franz Beckenbauer from Germany, and Pele all were on the Cosmos roster. If soccer can make it there, it can make it anywhere, or so thought the league hierarchy when they bet on the Cosmos to stir America’s interest in the game the rest of the world favored over all others. Sad to say, even Ralph Lauren designed uniforms couldn’t save the league once the international stars careers came to an end. While soccer flourished elsewhere, in America it became the game you could sign your kid up for as part of their socialization process.

Sure, some of these kids went on to greater things in the game of soccer, but they did it in other countries. Tony Meiola and Claudio Reyna became stars. Both hailed from New Jersey. I followed their careers because their exploits found their way into local sports sections. Aside from them, I’d be hard pressed to name any other past American soccer prodigies.

What makes this phenomenon of my disinterest in soccer all the more inexplicable, is my insatiable appetite for sports in general. Even what I deem to be secondary sports like boxing and horse racing hold a certain appeal. Soccer never made it to that category until the last twelve months.

Eight years ago, my step-son and my son followed the World Cup; a complex conflagration of qualifying games and tournaments…I think; the importance of which knows no limitations in terms of National pride. Men are murdered, riots erupt, death threats abound, and family members are kidnapped, all due to some transgression by a player, coach, or referee.

I did not care about the World Cup eight years ago and refused to gain any interest though prodded by both my son and step-son. They tried to engage me in a conversation about what a wonderful and exciting game soccer is; I yawned. They’d go on about how the rest of the world views the sport; I’d say “good for them.” The World Cup came and went. While my son was getting up in the middle of the night to watch a game between Saudi Arabia and Whogivesashitastan; I’d sleep blissfully, and await the baseball results in the morning paper.

Four years ago, I feigned interest, occasionally storing a nugget or two of insignificant information garnered to recall at precisely the appropriate moment were the subject of the World Cup be brought up. Again, the hours my son would keep to watch each tournament game no matter how obscure the participants. He’d teach about rules that I was unfamiliar with. He tell me of player strengths and weaknesses. I could even be enticed to watch a minute or two if he was watching on the living room TV and not in the confines of his bedroom. I saw France’s Zedane headbutt an Italian player at the very worst moment. I read about it the next day. Oh my God, I said to myself; I know another player’s name from the last decade other than Diego Maradonna. That may have been the pivotal instant that my interest in World Cup soccer was altered forever.

I read the account of the final in that week’s Sports Illustrated and wondered how a player could make such a monumentally bad decision at the worst possible time. How could he let his team down? His country for Christ sake, and with so much at stake! Four years later everything changed for me.
I watched qualifying matches with my son. He got me interested in some other Cup, and I watched those matches where the USA was a participant. He bought a team jersey, I bought into International soccer. Once the USA qualified for the World Cup, I was on board. My son didn’t need to sell it anymore; I would watch albeit only the USA games.

On game days I flew the Stars and Stripes outside my front door. I made time in my schedule so I wouldn’t miss a match. I squirmed when things didn’t go Team USA’s way. I rejoiced when they scored a goal. I was thrilled when we tied England. I was irate when a referee virtually took a win from our grasp due to a phantom infraction. I revel in announcer Ian Darke’s eloquent depiction of play.

The man can sure turn a phrase. He uses words like “clever,” and “crafty” to describe a player’s abilities. The hyperbole used endears me to the game rather than stir my notions of cynicism. In soccer, he does not say “the tying goal,” but rather “the equalizer.” He expressed “outrage” at the referee’s incompetency; he being “a completely neutral observer from England.” It wasn’t just the picture of the action he painted that intrigued and delighted me; the culture surrounding FIFA (Fédération Internationale de Football Association) soccer also enthralls.

The seemingly arbitrary nature of some of the referee’s calls reminds me of the NBA. The unwritten rule that this type of behavior is acceptable does not. There is no disciplinary action taken by FIFA. A team cannot, and does not protest the game. The Federation is tight lipped prompting one Scottish journalist to observe, “It’s great the Americans are complaining. They don’t know any different. Maybe now something will be done (About poor refereeing).”

The incessant buzzing of the vuvuzelas at every match in South Africa is both charming to a point, and incredibly annoying. They are distinctive to the host country, but it sounds as if thousands of baritone bees are circling a hive.
I think it’s wild that North Korea hired Chinese men and women to be paid “fans.” It seems that the North Korean government wasn’t feeling really confident about the motives behind anyone requesting travel visas. They vehemently deny this is true, except these North Korean “fans” have to be prompted when to cheer for their country’s team.

I think it’s wild that to show you are truly American, several fans have dressed up as Elvis impersonators showing how truly American they were. I’m sure I don’t have to explain “Elvis who” based upon his iconic global recognition.

I think it’s bizarre that players get looks of incredulity when, in their and the announcers mind, they “just missed” an opportunity to score a goal. Granted, it would take at least three other events to happen precisely just for the chance, but I guess they believe something I see as remote.

I like that the team captains exchange jerseys at the end of each game. I like that my country is playing in the most prestigious soccer tournament in the world.

Today I flew the flag; USA was playing Algeria in an elimination match. For over ninety minutes I wondered if the Americans were going to get the opportunity to advance to the next round. Time and again chances for goals were denied. One such scoring prospect caused Ian Darke to exclaim, “Maybe in another time, in a parallel universe, the ball would have bounced off the goalie’s leg and into the net, but not this day.” Another goal was waved off by the referee on a bad call.

England, who is also in the same group as the USA, took a 1-0 lead over the Slovenian team. If the final scored remained that way, and the USA match ended in a stalemate, the Americans would be heading home. However, four minutes (another arbitrary referee decision) of “stoppage time” was added. In the very first minute, Landon Donovan, the team’s most recognizable player, scored the games lone goal. Alone in my living room I howled cries of triumph! We not only were moving on to the next round, but we won our group for the first time since 1930; the year of the first World Cup.

My son apologized last week for getting me involved in following World Cup soccer. No need, even though I still have not come far enough along to call it futbol. Like he said, "It’s not about me, it’s about America.” Thanks Cory.