The Odd Football

I'm not yet 50; I don't think I'm suffering from dementia. But if I'm not demented, then it must actually be true that 1) most Americans really are aware that the World Cup is happening, and 2) some Americans truly care about the results.

This is just plain weird.

Not necessarily bad, mind you. It's good that Americans show some awareness of what's going on in the rest of the world, I think, and actually, tho' I don't know much about it, soccer (aka everywhere else in the world "football") seems an interesting game: lots of action, genuine athleticism, and some truly lovely muscular calves. (Tho', sadly, as in basketball, the adoption of those baggy, knee-length shorts utterly ruins the butt viewing.)

But still, Americans and the World Cup, Americans and pro soccer--very weird.

I remember before we moved to Manchester (England) in 1999 being told that the first question we'd be asked was "Man U vs. Man City?" In other words, which football side do you support, Manchester United or Manchester City? Right, I thought. Like the Chicago Cubs vs. the White Sox. I get it.

Nope. I didn't. It's more like Cubs vs. Sox plus Catholic vs. Protestant plus East vs. West plus Man vs. Woman plus Serb vs. Croatian plus steak-lover vs. vegan. . . .

There simply is no way for an American to understand the passion that soccer--football--arouses in the rest of the world. Take the World Series and add the Super Bowl, the Final Four, the Stanley Cup, Wimbledon and the Master's, and then mix in, I dunno, every celebrity wedding over the past decade. That's the World Cup.

That's football. The real football.

We had no idea.

Before we moved to England. a very good English friend advised us to make sure we immersed Owen (then 8-years-old) in "football" culture. Of course lots of American kids play soccer, but Owen was never interested, and Keith and I, having watched little kids' sports teams wreak havoc on friends' families, were happy not to encourage it.

So we laughed and ignored the advice. Stupid, stupid, stupid.

Poor Owen. An 8-year-old boy in Manchester, England who knows nothing about soccer becomes immediately the object of intense curiosity, incomprehension, and outright contempt.

We did try--once we got to England and came to our senses, we did try. Brave little Owen tried. He signed up right away for a neighborhood football team. Before the first practice, I introduced myself to the two dad-coaches, and tried to explain that Owen knew nothing about this game. Oh, right, right, they smiled and assured me, "he'll luv it, luv." Until at some point in the next hour, the ball came within reach of Owen's confused foot, and he kicked it. Toward the opponent's goal. Afterwards, the two coaches came running up to me. One was simply speechless. The other gasped out, "He, he doesn't know the rules! He doesn't even know the rules!" Right, said I, I told you that. He's never seen or played football. And the two of them, really nice blokes, actually, just stared at me. What I was saying had no meaning; it simply did not compute. How could an 8-year-old boy NOT KNOW FOOTBALL?

He learned. We all learned. But still, when the boys' school decreed that all the children were to be delivered to the classroom at 7 am rather than the usual 9 am, so as not to disturb the teachers' viewing of the World Cup match (broadcast from Japan), we were the only parents who thought it slightly, you know, odd.

Sort of like the rest of the world views us, Americans, the U.S. You know, odd.