Full disclosure: I neither like nor understand soccer, which I find narcoleptic. In the name of public safety, soccer matches should come with a warning: “Do not drive or operate heavy equipment for at least two hours after watching a soccer match.” The pace of the game is glacial. It’s a Gerald Ford speech on grass without the thrills. (For our younger readers, former President Ford was a fine man and a patriot. But his monotone speaking style could put a leprechaun to sleep on St. Patrick’s Day.)
I’m not an unkind person. I understand that the sports people like and attend to are the ones they grew up with. Soccer fans are entitled to their enthusiasms, and many are sound in other ways. But this hasn’t stopped me from having a bit of harmless fun at the expense of the game some eccentrics insist on calling “the beautiful game.” In print over the years I’ve referred to soccer as the metric system of sports, and a game for people who visited Europe or South America once and should have stayed there.
For those, like me, who can keep their passion for soccer pretty well under control, the World Cup ends on July 19. I looked it up.
In the ’90s I was editor of a state-wide publication in Florida. My assistant editor had played soccer in college and regularly regaled me with what he took to be the charms of the game. He once informed me that, “More people in the world play soccer than any other game.” I informed him that, “They play it so they don’t have to watch it.”
My friend and colleague also insisted there was a groundswell of interest in soccer among Americans, though I could detect none. After work one day while the World Cup was underway, we went to a local sports bar for a restorative. The place was packed. Every seat taken. The dozen or so TV sets on the walls were all tuned to soccer, which the patrons were absorbed in. “See,” my friend said, “Americans are interested in soccer.” I urged my friend to step away from the door and said, “You think so? Watch this.” I walked to the center of the room and yelled, at the top of my lungs INMAGRACION!! Within 10 seconds the room was cleared. We chose a seat and asked the beer-tender to switch the TVs to the baseball game. Which he happily did.
For all this, there appears to be a level of interest in the World Cup games here now, including among some Americanos. Whether the locals have been converted to the game or are just interested in being involved in an event, is not clear. Probably a good measure of both. I hope all these folks have a good time. There are already reports that visitors from abroad have been pleased with the gracious way Americans have welcomed and treated them. And they seem to like American restaurants and bars. Let’s hope these good vibes continue, and that no terrorists attempt to use a game site to make some twisted point.
I’m surprised that after a long life of zero-interest in futbol, I find I have a favorite team in the tournament. That would be Scotland. I don’t know the name of a single player on the team, or what the team’s prospects are. But Scotland’s fans, here in large numbers to witness their team’s first World Cup appearance in 28 years, surely know how to party. In Boston for their first games, the team’s fans essentially drank all the available beer in Boston’s famous saloons with names like the Boston Taproom, Hennessy’s Bar, the White Bull Tavern et al. If reports from my New England sources are to be believed, there isn‘t a bottle of Sam Adams available north of New Haven.
And this so-called Tartan Army managed to drink, party, and have a great time without feeling the need to destroy a single police car or to torch a single school bus. Perhaps when the tournament is done and dusted the team could stop by New York City on its way back to the auld sod to help instruct some of the ferals there on how to celebrate joyously rather than destructively.
Only a couple of wee nits to pick with the Tartans. Some of the guys are wearing kilts, which could be confusing and disappointing to some of Boston’s skirt-chasers. And some are playing bagpipes, which Robin Williams once described as making the sound of a cat being forced into non-consensual sex.
For those, like me, who can keep their passion for soccer pretty well under control, the World Cup ends on July 19. I looked it up. I won’t miss the games. But I’m sure I would have enjoyed partying with the Tartan Army. This even though Scots are hard enough to understand when they’re sober. Some things don’t need translation. Alas, Scotland lost to Morocco Saturday evening. Doubtless some of the Tartans would be crying in their beer, if there were any left.
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