Now I’m not one to complain, but right in the middle of a fine
baseball season, one replete with triple plays, perfect games and
a heckuva start by the defending champion New York Yankees,
somebody had to go and schedule the World Cup. Yes, the World
Cup; beloved around the globe for its pageantry, its passion and
it’s…I don’t know what else. Look, I couldn’t care less about
offending anyone when it comes to a mere difference in
preference; I am, after all, a conservative from Connecticut. And
I’ve often made the case for baseball as our national pastime,
only to be rebuked by those who prefer NFL football or NASCAR
racing.
But let me say at the outset: I hate soccer. I not only do
not desire to watch it, I wish that all soccer fields in my town
would be re-purposed as dog-walking facilities or, better yet,
returned to their former baseball diamond beauty. Now before I
hear the old argument that I know nothing about the game, let me
state up front that while dating a native of Italy who played on
a team here, I was compelled to waste my time watching soccer up
close and personally every Sunday for four years. I was also
forced to play on my junior high school team where my blazing
speed and lightning-quick reflexes were similarly squandered in
that same pointless pursuit.
So yes, I’m no stranger to soccer. But so-called World Cup
Fever is making me sick, as in an unwanted pestilence pervading
my existence. I cannot open a newspaper without gazing upon
images of crazed fans or tune into ESPN for baseball or
basketball scores without the droning of vuvuzelo horns ringing
in my ears. Some of my friends are trying hard to get in the
“spirit” of the thing. They guiltily sidle up to me and ask if I
watched so-and-so play whoever last night. After absorbing my
withering glance they are forced to admit that they too could
only take it for a few minutes or so before tuning in to
something more stimulating, like the local traffic and weather
channel.
And so I am not alone. There are others who, like me, have
a visceral dislike for soccer — call me xenophobic, I refuse to
call it football — because it is a microcosm for much that is
wrong with America. Why? Well, for one, I resent the way the game
has continually been foisted upon us as a way to point out our
lack of appreciation for the cultures of the rest of the world.
This of course is patently ridiculous, as we are and have always
been a Melting Pot for the best of the various ethnicities that
make up our beloved nation of immigrants. But we draw the line on
two subjects: our Constitution and our sports. These we do not
import; we export them.
The rest of the world complains because we, as one of the
planet’s greatest consumers of entertainment, don’t share their
love of the game. They especially cite this in our relationships
with Muslim countries as part of the reason why they hate us;
that we do not understand their hopes and joys. But what would
happen if we really did commit all our resources to the pursuit
of soccer excellence? Can you imagine if we employed our training
and technology, and most importantly, if our best athletes
forewent football, baseball, and basketball in order to take up…
soccer? The result, of course, would be more hate and resentment
as we would no doubt regularly apply vicious whippings to the
rest of the world.
So it’s bad enough that those of us who are bored by soccer
are, like George W. Bush, constantly vilified for being
intellectually incurious and un-nuanced, simply for our dislike
of something that enraptures the rest of the globe. But to make
matters worse, it’s become the preferred choice of parents —
don’t forget the use of the term “soccer moms” and its relation
to the reelection of Bill Clinton — as both a babysitting tool
and a self-esteem builder with none of those embarrassing
“tryouts” of their Little League memories. Every time I turn on
the World Cup and see the lads cavorting across the pitch, I’m
reminded of the kiddies who were only allowed to shag foul balls
for the ones who could actually play the game.
All this and more contributes to my abhorrence of soccer
and any and all attempts to make me warm up to a game that, at
best, leaves me cold. So go ahead you soccer lovers; have your
parties and whoop it up should your team ever score a goal. And
by all means blow your vuvuzelos, which sound like a nest of
buzzing hornets; a perfect metaphor for a game that William
Shakespeare might have called full of sound and fury, signifying
nothing.
