How many more games do we have to tie or lose before we win the World Cup?—Keith Olbermann, ESPN
Every four years, come hell or high water—and this year it’s the latter in spades—a little outfit called the Federation Internationale de Football Association (FIFA, to you) gets a few guys together in some little corner of the world and holds a soccer tournament called the World Cup. Until now, nobody in this country really cared. “The World Cup—is that Tennis?” was a typical man-in-the-street reaction. Now, suddenly, thanks to ESPN’s blanket coverage and a better than average American team, everybody’s going gaga over soccer. In big cities all over the U.S., giant crowds are gathering in public squares to watch the games on ginormous television screens. Thousands of American fans have descended on all the venues in Brazil, closing bars and galumphing through the flooded streets to follow their team, vastly outnumbering supporters of the opposition for the first time ever. Casual viewers can speak knowledgably about heretofore obscure people like Jurgen Klinsmann, Clint Dempsey, Tim Howard and the injured Jozy Altidore, folks they knew nothing of two months ago.
What happened? Well, part of it is the wall-to-wall time frame of the games. I can come home from the gym, sit down to read my newspaper and, oh, flick on the TV for a little soccer background, looking up from the sports pages or the crossword puzzle every time the announcer’s voice picks up in decibels. The ubiquitous soccer games evolve into dependable old friends, always there to help relieve the boredom, the cat in your lap as you pursue some primary activity. Inevitably, you watch a little, then a bit more. You root for Northumberland to beat the snotty French and for anybody who plays those rotten Russians. It grows on you slowly, like moss on damp trees. And then, of course, there is the matter of patriotism.
I don’t know about you, but during the Olympic Games I find myself watching sports I would generally have utterly no interest in just because the U.S. national team is involved. Hey, turn on the TV, the Luge finals are on—we could get a bronze medal. We have a curling match today against that elite Canadian team—each sweeper will have to be at his best. Who do you think is the pair to beat in ice-dancing? There’s some of that with the World Cup, added to the extremely festive nature of the proceedings. And hell—who wouldn’t like a trip to Rio? But considering the enormous scope of its appeal (it’s a rare sport that is played in virtually every corner of the Earth), there must be something to be said for soccer itself.
Like most people in this country, I have never been much of a soccer fan. Oh, I tried. When the University of Florida decided to insert soccer into the women’s program, I went. I even browbeat my 85-year-old neighbor, Allen Morgan, into going with me. We sat there in a stupor for a couple of hours while absolutely nothing seemed to happen, slowly swinging our heads from left to right and back again. Finally, I looked over at the dozing octogenarian. “Sorry, Allen,” I admitted. “You should be!” he chastised, as we wended our way toward the car. We Americans are accustomed to sports which feature at least an occasional spate of scoring, a hint of offensive coordination, some points, for God’s sake. Soccer fans look at it differently. If you should have, say, a 7-5 result, the match has been a cataclysmic failure. Defenses have disintegrated into flailing nincompoops and the bumbling goalies might be found swinging from the nearest yardarms, whatever they are.
After countless hours of serious contemplation on the matter, I have come to the conclusion that soccer fans are more concerned than most of us with The Art Of The Deal. They revere the endless clever passing involved in the game, the extended attempts to thread the defensive needle and put the ball exactly where it needs to be for a rare goal strike. They are willing to tolerate the unending frustrations of errant passes, offsides, missed opportunities, all part of the game, to celebrate the occasional hysteria-inducing goal—even if it is the only goal they see that day.
What are we to think about such people? They are barely recognizable to us. They are, come to think of it, like the practitioners of tantric sex, willing to postpone satisfaction for an extremely long time to better appreciate the final orgasmic fireworks. They remind us of a character in an old college humor magazine joke. We’ll call him Ernie, the soccer fan. The joke:
Four guys were hanging around a bar, discussing their sexual adventures. Delayne, the youngest, boasted that he and his wife had sex “every dang night.” Rufus, a bit older, professed to enjoy carnal relations on a weekly basis. Dexter, long married, admitted embarrassedly that it was once a month for him. They turned to Ernie, the soccer fan, who had been very quiet but seemed in an unusually good mood. “How about you, Ernie?” they wanted to know. “How often do you have sex?”
“Well,” admitted Ernie, “I only have sex once a year.”
The others jumped up in consternation. “WHAT?!?” they demanded, in consort. “How is that possible? And if it is, how come you’re in such a fantastic mood?”
Ernie smiled calmly and answered, “Well, because….,” then jumped from his chair, right arm upraised, index finger pointed to the sky….”because TONIGHT’S THE NIGHT!!!”
Soccer fans. A bunch of Ernies.
Pele The Great
Ain’t That A Kick In The Head?
One of the good things about soccer is also one of the bad things. Because the games are generally low-scoring, the lesser team often remains in contention for an inordinate length of time, making for a more interesting and intense contest. On the other hand, an obviously superior team which deserves the victory, controlling the match and pummeling the underdog goalie with shot after shot, can be defeated by a few errant seconds and one lucky goal. This is what almost happened in the U.S. vs. Belgium match where the Europeans controlled the ball for roughly 80% of the contest, battering American goalie Tim (“Dartboard”) Howard with a barrage of bombs the likes of which have not been seen since Hirohito’s hijinks at Pearl Harbor. Dented but undaunted, Howard stopped shots with his arms, legs, stomach, head and telekinetic powers. The U.S. almost won with a last-second goal in regulation time, only succumbing 2-1 in the extra period. Had the Americans pulled it out, the result would have been the greatest travesty of justice since Rush Limbaugh got the color analyst job on Monday Night Football (or maybe that little O.J. gaffe, take your pick).
U.S. fans, an unrealistic lot, are celebrating the team’s World Cup effort (1 win, 1 tie, 2 losses) with cavalier abandon. You’d think Lindbergh had crossed the Atlantic. Somebody go and tell them that over one period of 215 MINUTES their team did not score a goal. I can drive over to the Gulf of Mexico, have a nice meal and drive back in 215 minutes. You can watch a double-feature movie in 215 minutes with time left over to go to the lobby for Jujubes. People can actually fly from Kansas City to Manitoba in 215 minutes.
U.S. soccer fans are quick to grumpiness. They will promptly point out how much the team has improved, failing to mention we were eliminated in exactly the same round last time and exhibited even less offense. You have to understand these people. Many of them are pseudo-intellectuals in search of a respectable sport to boost. If it’s acceptable in Europe, it’s okay with them. They are strangely remindful of the boosters of the sainted Lance Armstrong in his Tour du France glory days. Soccer’s time has come, they will tell you, before they retire to their warrens for another four years. The proof, as usual, is in the pudding. Average attendance for Major League Soccer, the premier professional league in the United States and Canada, was 18,608 for the nineteen teams in 2013, down just a smidge from 2012. And even that total is misleading by dint of the fact the Seattle Sounders drew an average of 44,038 people, the next highest being the 22,152 of the Los Angeles Galaxy.
We have seen all this soccer excitement before. WAAAY back in 1975, the New York Cosmos, acquired the Brazilian soccer star, Pele, who they had been attempting to sign since the team was created. Pele was by far the most famous player in the world, though in the sunset of his career. He signed on June 10 for a gong-ringing $1.4 million a year, an enormous wage for any athlete at that time. It was Pele who would finally bring soccer front and center in the United States, or so we were told. The Cosmos finished third that year in the North American Soccer League but subsequently won championships in 1977, 1978 and 1980. Cosmos attendance, the highest in the league, averaged over 40,000 in the late 1970s and a 1977 playoff game against the Fort Lauderdale Strikers drew 77,691, a record for American club soccer. One brief shining moment that was known as Camelot. After Pele’s retirement, the Cosmos declined. Attendance fell across the country, the NASL television deal was lost and the league folded in 1985. Soccer has never again risen to those halcyon days.
Inevitably, soccer will rise, just not as immediately as some wishful thinkers profess. It is a game played in school now, a sure-fire prelude to a more widespread interest by its practitioners and their families. College scholarships are presently offered for soccer (and even the dreadful lacrosse, played with invisible balls). The large influx of Hispanic people into the country will elevate the game even more. And despite their record, the current team has brought eyes to the game with their great spirit and undying efforts, limited as they may be.
And then, of course, we’ve got the lessons learned from professional wrestling, where great actors are at a premium. Soccer players have mastered the art of flopping to the earth in mortal pain, far exceeding the talents of their National Basketball Association brethren. In one recent game, a player was modestly tripped near the goal and shot to the ground as if he’d been felled by sniper fire. Combatants wailing and weeping in pain are routinely carried off on stretchers before worried and muted fans, only to bounce up when they reach the sidelines and quickly return to the games. It’s overkill at its worst, but it’s funny. Hey, and don’t forget—soccer now has its own version of Hannibal The Cannibal—Luis Suarez of Uruguay, who, if the mood strikes him, has been know to take a bite out of an opponent, ala the famed nipper Mike Tyson, ex-heavyweight boxing champ. Suarez, it should be pointed out, has been kind enough to leave body parts attached, unlike Tyson who preferred to take them with him. The next step is to let some of the more prominent trash-talkers have the microphone and, like the despised wrestler Killer Kowalski, complain to fans how filthy their home towns are or disparage a few nationalities. That should bring a few of them out to the pitch. It always filled the Boston Garden.
One more thing. It’s about this matter of “extra time.” This is a concept whose usefulness has expired. What kind of a major sport has a finishing time known only to one person in the universe? It’s a Mickey Mouse concept. It reminds me of the early days of the National Hockey League when, if a goalie for the visiting team was hurt, the home team was obliged to provide a substitute, usually one about 5-2 with very short arms. This sort of thing is not acceptable in big-time sports. I swear that I have seen soccer referees take cell phone calls from the wife reminding dad that the kids are waiting at school for their ride home. Eight minutes of extra time is reduced to three. And the team in the lead always stalls outrageously. Hangnail injuries last well into the night. Nobody does anything about it. It’s unacceptable. Let’s get it fixed, pronto. Oh, and one last suggestion. We need bands. Where are the bands? Where are the cheerleaders? Where are the silly mascots? Let’s get on with it, there’s work to be done! After all, in soccer we have goals. Or better yet, GOOOOOOAAALS!!!
Luis The Crocodile
That’s all, folks….
