My title itself commits an egregiously jingoistic foul. I'll take a yellow card, a penalty for an error akin to a national avoidance of the metric system, the temporary rejection of "French" as an adjective, or a history of snubbing tea. I won't refer to the sport by its logical, globally-preferred title. I'll suffer the snubs and call it "soccer" so that everyone within earshot knows I'm not talking about Roger Goodell's pad parade. I run the risk of eye rolling from my more cosmopolitan contemporaries, but I am and have always been a red-blooded American who can distinguish his arugula sprigs from his rocket.
My attraction to soccer is relatively young and largely attributed to my wife, brother, and brother-in-law. As my personality continues to stray from its roots in Pop Warner and high school football culture, though, I also see my mannerisms, tastes, and behaviors more connected to the enormous family of soccer supporters. Despite my own ignorance of fundamental facets of the sport, I'm often initially mistaken for a player in some circles because of my smallish frame and style of clothing. In only 5 years, however, a network of players and fans have helped educate and expose me to much of the sport's bedrock traditions and quirky idiosyncrasies. I've since read literature, surveyed European leagues, closely followed regional tournaments, taken part in supporting the rise of Major League Soccer in the states, and, unbelievably, attended a World Cup in Africa.
I've also found myself embroiled in the debate over the fate of soccer in America. Much of this discussion focuses on how the sport can meld with and adapt to the landscape of a saturated American sports market. Yet, as I came to believe last night in Stanford Stadium as the New York Red Bulls battled the "home" team San Jose Earthquakes, much of the problem with soccer in America seems to be America itself.
Take, for example, the fact that professional soccer games in the states are still played in stadiums designed, quite ironically I might add, for football. Players in last night's match directed the ball across heavy turf, through blades of grass spray painted green to hide the collegiate yard markers. The Quakes, a representative of a surprisingly fervent Bay Area fan base, have no permanent pitch to call their own. This is not unique in Major League Soccer.
Another troubling aspect of last night's match: Many supporters lack, well, an understanding of the term "support." The many families, footers, and tailgaters who clustered amid the eucalyptus groves for pregame festivities notwithstanding, many seats sat cold well into the announcement of the lineups and the procession of teams. Perhaps it reflected the privilege characteristic of a city like Palo Alto (we actually saw a restaurant dedicated specifically to hummus despite no clear dietary or regional need), but the late arrival--merely ten minutes of expendable American nonchalance--meant a lot in a game that saw its first goal in the seventh minute. And once these groups arrived, strangely, many seemed to lack a basic understanding of how sports institutions organize and classify seating. All around us, the dapperest of spectators quibbled over the labeling of aisles, seats, and sections, while the rest of us tried to find a view of the ongoing match.
My biggest concern over the place of soccer in America, however, reflects the way game's organization conflicts with an American sports culture obstinately entrenched in its heavily-marketed, heavily-ritualized, yet somehow whimsical mentality of competition-as-pastime.
Take organization, for starters. Soccer, whether you know it or not, is comprised of two, uninterrupted forty-five minute halves. There are no timeouts, no commercial interruptions, and no stoppages for substitutions. The clock rolls. If time is wasted, the referee determines a degree of (arguably artificially decided) stoppage time, which is added to the end of the half. This design promotes, in my eyes, two very acceptable football behaviors: support and sustenance. Without the built-in TV timeouts, pitching or inning changes, or punt-return producing commercials, soccer is conditioned to provide the typical human body with the space and time it needs to thrive. After your pre-match eating, drinking, socializing, and ball kicking, you can wisely use the restroom, sing your anthem, and settle in for roughly 47 minutes of regionally-specific, energetic-yet-tastefully-restrained fanaticism. In that span, you are encouraged to shout, chant, cry, gesticulate, and bemoan the universe before you. You expel the energy stores you collected outside the stadium during the process, and after the whistle sounds, you stop. The football gods then allow 15 minutes to repeat some pre-game behaviors and rituals while the action has subsided, which allows you prepare for another 45ish minutes of support. Then, it ends, and you celebrate, discuss, reflect, or take it to a pub.
Unless, of course, you take your American sports habits along with you as you explore what MLS matches have to offer your American sports pallet. In this instance, as I learned last night, you show up a little late, get up to use the bathroom in the 23rd minute, then buy your buddy a hotdog and some garlic fries in the 38th (which seemed confusing at 8:15 pm, by the way). You follow the exodus into the aisles at halftime--who cares why, since it's more acceptable--only to return in the 53rd minute, buy cotton candy from a vendor (why are vendors even an option during play?) in the 68th minute, and leave to beat the traffic in the 84th. While it might just seem like sport to you--you did wear your Henry jersey only to cheer for each San Jose goal--I find your reliance on the fundamental American sports experience as a drag on so many's desire to enjoy soccer--er, football--in the way it was meant to be enjoyed.
I, along with fans far more dedicated and experienced than myself, can't force the national sport's landscape to carve out a patch of grass for professional soccer. But like those fans, I don't see a need to set a place for it at the proverbial table. "The beautiful game" isn't characteristic of anything in the American narrative. I don't write this in order to qualify America as ugly, only to point out this conflict is perhaps more indicative of a positive trend. Ever the optimistic entrepreneurs, Americans have a knack for making commodities out of habits, passions, or a preferences. Thus, it seems logical and savvy for these budding sports franchises and organizations to strive for ways to make soccer more appealing to an American market.
But football isn't American. And while many would argue that this forced translation is essential to the success of the sport in the states, it remains a global game, and it should be aloud to speak its native tongue.
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