It’s almost upon us. Five days from today, the most eagerly-anticipated event in the history of sports will commence. This event is often credited with uniting the whole world in peace and harmony, fueled by a common love for the greatest sport there ever was, the greatest sport there ever will be – The Beautiful Game.
Of course, when I say the “whole world” (don’t give me that confounded look, you imbecile. I speak of the reference in the third sentence of the above paragraph) I mean everyone but the glorious country of the United States of America, aka Uncle Sam, aka I-don’t-give-two-fucks-about-you-if-you-aren’t-a-Caucasian-American. If you are one of those new-age idiots who get distracted by long sentences devoid of grammatical errors, the following pictorial representation will make it simpler for you:
It’s not that they don’t like football – Hell, they absolutely adore it. The problem lies in the fact that this “football” they love isn’t the football WE love. It’s a game that’s mostly played with the hands, helmets, shoulder pads and 24-pack abs, by guys that make Leonidas look like a 12-year old Boy Scout. And did I mention that the “ball” in this game looks like a pig’s bladder on steroids? It even has a white patch on one side where you can see the cut they made to open the bladder up and sewed it back on.
To avoid confusion, and because Americans are too cool to use ANYTHING that’s used anywhere else in the world, they call OUR football, “soccer”. This word is right up there in the ‘Confuse Everyone Else Chart’ with gallons, miles, Farenheit, yards, and such other tosh. The other day, my GPS stopped working in the middle of a drive to an acquaintance’s house, and I was forced to stop and ask a friendly neighborhood gentleman for directions. “Make this left, go straight for a 100 yards, and make a right”, he said. I had no conception of what a yard was. AT ALL. Next thing I know, I’m leaving the beautiful state of Indiana behind, with a sign that said ‘Welcome to Ohio’…
Anyway, I digress. Where was I? Oh yes, ‘soccer’. Soccer is a pansy sport, the ‘Muricans say. It’s for girls and ‘feminine boys’. Which is ironic to a fault, because another sport the Americans love is basketball. It’s ironic, because as far as I know (and I may be wrong), you aren’t officially allowed to tackle using your body in basketball. Yes, you read it right. The only way to stop an opponent is to knock the ball out of his hands. I once tried playing it with some American friends here. This 6’3 200-pound friend of mine tried edging past me, when my ‘soccer instincts’ kicked in, and I gave him a good old-fashioned shoulder push. Perfectly legitimate soccer move, right? Well, not in basketball, apparently. My meager 6’1 155-pound frame sent him flying across the court, and he yelled “foouull”. Yes, soccer is a pansy sport.
I mean, what the deuce? On the one hand, the 7’5 American footballers, breastfed by Hercules himself, can clobber each other to death, while a basketball player goes into a shocked-induced coma when his opponent’s shoulder blade brushes against his vagina? Hell yes, soccer is indeed a “pansy” sport.
Picture 2 shows you what Americans think of the “world”. For example, they have a game called baseball, which is something they invented because they loved cricket when they heard about it, but couldn’t grasp the concept of bouncing a ball before hitting it. The final of the annual intra-American tournament of this sport is called the ‘World Series’. Yes, only American clubs participate. If this isn’t overwhelming proof that most Americans don’t believe in the existence of a world outside their own country, I don’t know what is.
As you must’ve guessed, it’s tough being a ‘soccer’ fan in the US. However, there are rare silver linings.
A sports bar hosted the Champions League final two weeks ago with great aplomb, setting up special screens and rearranging their seating style. While 60% of the crowd was European and Asian, there were a healthy number of Americans. And these weren’t just bandwagon supporters, who wanted to spend a lazy Saturday afternoon watching a ‘pansy sport’. They knew their stuff.
Recently, a friend of mine texted me saying she wants to “watch the Soccer World Cup with me”, so that I could explain the rules to her while watching it. When I didn’t show too much enthusiasm for this noble endeavor, she enticed me further by slyly adding “I’ll buy you drinks..” While the thought of explaining the finer nuances of football to a gorgeous blonde while being drunk on a fine Belgian Wheat can knock the stuffing out of any lover of the Beautiful Game, I’m willing to look at the positives here: she wanted to learn.
I’ve forged some of the best friendships of my life through football, and I’m happy to report that that is the case with two of my best American friends as well. Both die-hard Gooners, just like me. Indianapolis has a new soccer team, called the Indy Eleven. And surprisingly, almost all of their initial games have been sold-out. Yes, some Americans are starting to take the sport seriously. Things are looking good.
During the World Cup, I’m going to be sitting in an American bar, proudly sporting my Germany jersey. The best I can hope for is that there will be lots of Americans around who care so much about the Beautiful Game that they will want to bash me up after Germany thrashes the US in their Group Stage game.
While we may be centuries away from convincing America to do things the “right way”(Use the Metric system. Eat with the knife in your right hand, and the fork in your left. Stop spelling ‘doughnut’ as ‘donut’, etc), the new-found interest in soccer is definitely a huge positive. I sincerely hope this is here to stay, and that it does not fade away like the trough of a wave after Germany have been crowned World Champions.
