"... And as you rise above the fear-lines in his brow
You look down hear the sound of the faces in the crowd"
Kaiserslautern, Germany, June 16, 2006 -- If there's ever a Mike Cardillo Hall of Fame, this day is a first ballot inductee. It was the day the United States played Italy in the 2006 World Cup.
The streets of the southwestern German town were full of revelers. Despite losing to the dread Czech's 3-0 four days earlier the mood was festive, fun. The booze of all different fruit, hops and fermentations was flowing, profusely.
For whatever reason I kept walking in this big loop. The best way I could gauge that time passed was that these four, I presume Italians, had this big bucket of I don't know. Maybe it was wine, or sangria or grappa or Iberian moonshine. Who knows. What struck me -- beside their Centurion helmets -- were the four straws sticking out the jug which they used to drink. And as the day (and heat) wore on the four souls kept slipping deeper into the cups, eventually one was simply sleeping on the cobblestones.
Not too far from this scene I ran across three teen aged Germans. Can't remember why, but I struck up a conversation. From what I recall they did not like the 'big clubs' like Bayern or Schalke.
Then out of nowhere, this one, skinny punker (for lack of a better term) tried to climb a street pole and began to frenziedly sing...
"Walk on...Walk on...Walk on...with hope in your hearts..."
__________________
Connecticut USA, June 2004 -- Czech Republic 3, Netherlands 2. Yes, it was a just a Group Stage game at Euro 2004 in Portugal, but this was one of those games that leaves a deep impression on you. Wild, end-to-end stuff. World class players, etc.
Vladimír Šmicer scoring an 88th minute winner.
It was a beautiful, early summer day and me and Suppe were holed up like in a cave watching his game at his home in Milford. Crazy, no?
Little did I know at the time that in a lot of ways this game would end up being the white rabbit I chased down the hole of soccer madness.
__________________
All my life I guess I've been a soccer fan.
I was about nine when my dad took me to watch Italy play Portugal in an exhibition at the Yale Bowl in New Haven, Conn. Unfortunately it poured that day so I can't recall anything.
Soon after came Italia 1990, which I dutifully watched, despite the dull, foul-plagued games. My father, a youth coach at the time, even tried to show some games to our team. You can guess how that played out with a group of Kool-Aid guzzling fifth graders.
From there I did my best to follow the game. Obviously USA 1994 was a banner event, culminating with Roberto Baggio's penalty kick miss vs. Brasil at the Rose Bowl. Then there was the disgrace better known as France 1998, which was rectified by the greatness of South Korea/Japan 2002.
In that time I tried watching the occasional MLS game, too.
Thanks to the Internet I tried to keep up with things. But it wasn't easy, especially for an American.
The stars finally aligned during that year of our Lord A.D. 2004.
First, I took a job where I worked nights, which loomed large. Second, I started getting Fox Sports World on television. Quickly I got the fever. (And, no, cowbells couldn't cure it.)
Pretty soon soccer took over my life.
I'd wake at all sorts of weird hours to watch games on the weekend. I'd arrange doing errands around midweek EPL and Champions League afternoon fixtures.
I went to book stores and libraries to read up on the history of the game. In Kelly Bundy-like fashion, knowledge like who is the fifth best team in Belgium began to replace important things like, say, the quadratic equation.
Simply, I tried to ingest as much information on the sport as I could.
During this time, I'll admit, I developed an affinity for Chelsea. My rationale was I liked most of their players (think Terry, Lampard, etc.) and they were fun to watch. It was easy to get wrapped up in a team gunning for their first league title in 50 years, regardless of all the rubles thrown around by a certain Russian oligarch. Remember, this was 2004/05.
Eventually I came to my senses and realized I couldn't root for Chelsea. I would be a total hypocrite front-runner. Let's equate it to someone being duped by the spell of 'the Others' on 'Lost' with Jose Mourihno in the Benjamin Linus role, sans Burberry scarf, of course.
Yes, I still in fact own an Arjen Robben Chelsea shirt, which I won in a contest. Originally it was supposed to be a Steven Gerrard Liverpool No. 8 shirt, but when I recieved the package it was an XXXL Liverpool shirt without the numbering. So I sent it back, decided on the Robben shirt and that was that. (Haven't worn it in close to two years, honest.)
Oh yes, Liverpool.
During this crazy, soccer-obsessed year in my life Liverpool made it's magical run to the 2005 Champions League title. What got me was the quarterfinal matchup between Liverpool and Juventus. Naturally, there was some history in this one, as with the terrible Heysel disaster from the 1980s. (Mentioned in passing in 'Amongst the Thugs')
I'm not going to front and say I know anything about that dark day, which helped reinforce the poor stereotype that all soccer fans are hooligans that still lingers in a lot of newsrooms in America to this day. All I know is that with my brief knowledge of the incident made so I got goosebumps when ESPN actually decided to show a little bit of the crowd at halftime. Dare I say the pale and pasty Scouse faces singing their hearts out nearly choked me up.
Where in America do you see a display of this magnitude? Fans support their team, but to this extent? Sometimes I still can't wrap my brain around it. "You'll Never Walk Alone" has that sort of power.
Watch yourself.
A couple weeks later Liverpool pulled off the miracle in Istanbul against AC Milan. For me, this was the most remarkable, amazing, crazy (pick your adjective) game I'd ever seen. I think I was on a high from it for days. Gerrard with the Cup was even my desktop background for a couple weeks.
At this point I was like those people clinging to the top of the Titanic as it tipped into the ocean. I was that close to taking the plunge in committing myself to the Reds.
But I just couldn't do it. I couldn't. (Note: I have no problem with others doing this. It's a personal choice.)
I didn't want to be like a lot of people in America and worldwide that jumped onto the Anfield express that night. I could brush up on the moustaches of Graeme Souness, Kenny Daglish et al. through books and tapes, but it wouldn't be genuine. Shit, I didn't even hate Everton.
In those brief two or three months were I purported to be a Chelsea fan in the back of my mind I always worried what would happen if I ran into a 'real' fan. About the best thing I could muster would be saying I became a fan because I was a big Gianfranco Zola fan. It would be a lie, but might save me a beating.
There are only say, four teams I truly care about as a fan. The Detroit Tigers, the New York Jets, UConn basketball and the US Men's National Team. I've never been able even chose an MLS team to support.
The reason I can't throw my support behind Liverpool or Chelsea or almost any other team in the world is that, to me, it's not fair to the real fans. The fans that grew up with the team. The fans that are there on a week-in, week-out basis, through thick and through thin.
Bandwagon jumpers are some of my biggest enemies in life. To become one, like an 'Other' wouldn't be right. It just wouldn't.
And for better or worse, with globalization, television, etc. football has gone from a regional sport to a worldwide monster. With big clubs like Manchester United or Baracelona you have supporters groups ranging from Seattle to Shanghai.
Part of me loves this, but part of me feels bad for the 'punters' that have their club's shield tattooed on their breast. The ones that travel to away games.
What would they think of me as a fan?
So, as if can guess if you read this space on a regular basis, I simply love the sport. Certain players and teams have the proverbial, 'soft spot' in my heart like Celtic, Blackburn Rovers, Fulham and this year Sheffield United.
I love the intrigue. I love the craziness. I love just about everything...except a club I can call my own.
__________________
"Fearlessly the idiot faced the crowd, smiling
Emotionless the magistrate turns 'round, frowning
and who's the fool who wears the crown
Go down in your own way ...."
You look down hear the sound of the faces in the crowd"
-- 'Fearless' -- Pink Floyd
Kaiserslautern, Germany, June 16, 2006 -- If there's ever a Mike Cardillo Hall of Fame, this day is a first ballot inductee. It was the day the United States played Italy in the 2006 World Cup.
The streets of the southwestern German town were full of revelers. Despite losing to the dread Czech's 3-0 four days earlier the mood was festive, fun. The booze of all different fruit, hops and fermentations was flowing, profusely.
For whatever reason I kept walking in this big loop. The best way I could gauge that time passed was that these four, I presume Italians, had this big bucket of I don't know. Maybe it was wine, or sangria or grappa or Iberian moonshine. Who knows. What struck me -- beside their Centurion helmets -- were the four straws sticking out the jug which they used to drink. And as the day (and heat) wore on the four souls kept slipping deeper into the cups, eventually one was simply sleeping on the cobblestones.
Not too far from this scene I ran across three teen aged Germans. Can't remember why, but I struck up a conversation. From what I recall they did not like the 'big clubs' like Bayern or Schalke.
Then out of nowhere, this one, skinny punker (for lack of a better term) tried to climb a street pole and began to frenziedly sing...
"Walk on...Walk on...Walk on...with hope in your hearts..."
Connecticut USA, June 2004 -- Czech Republic 3, Netherlands 2. Yes, it was a just a Group Stage game at Euro 2004 in Portugal, but this was one of those games that leaves a deep impression on you. Wild, end-to-end stuff. World class players, etc.
Vladimír Šmicer scoring an 88th minute winner.
It was a beautiful, early summer day and me and Suppe were holed up like in a cave watching his game at his home in Milford. Crazy, no?
Little did I know at the time that in a lot of ways this game would end up being the white rabbit I chased down the hole of soccer madness.
All my life I guess I've been a soccer fan.
I was about nine when my dad took me to watch Italy play Portugal in an exhibition at the Yale Bowl in New Haven, Conn. Unfortunately it poured that day so I can't recall anything.
Soon after came Italia 1990, which I dutifully watched, despite the dull, foul-plagued games. My father, a youth coach at the time, even tried to show some games to our team. You can guess how that played out with a group of Kool-Aid guzzling fifth graders.
From there I did my best to follow the game. Obviously USA 1994 was a banner event, culminating with Roberto Baggio's penalty kick miss vs. Brasil at the Rose Bowl. Then there was the disgrace better known as France 1998, which was rectified by the greatness of South Korea/Japan 2002.
In that time I tried watching the occasional MLS game, too.
Thanks to the Internet I tried to keep up with things. But it wasn't easy, especially for an American.
The stars finally aligned during that year of our Lord A.D. 2004.
First, I took a job where I worked nights, which loomed large. Second, I started getting Fox Sports World on television. Quickly I got the fever. (And, no, cowbells couldn't cure it.)
Pretty soon soccer took over my life.
I'd wake at all sorts of weird hours to watch games on the weekend. I'd arrange doing errands around midweek EPL and Champions League afternoon fixtures.
I went to book stores and libraries to read up on the history of the game. In Kelly Bundy-like fashion, knowledge like who is the fifth best team in Belgium began to replace important things like, say, the quadratic equation.
Simply, I tried to ingest as much information on the sport as I could.
During this time, I'll admit, I developed an affinity for Chelsea. My rationale was I liked most of their players (think Terry, Lampard, etc.) and they were fun to watch. It was easy to get wrapped up in a team gunning for their first league title in 50 years, regardless of all the rubles thrown around by a certain Russian oligarch. Remember, this was 2004/05.
Eventually I came to my senses and realized I couldn't root for Chelsea. I would be a total hypocrite front-runner. Let's equate it to someone being duped by the spell of 'the Others' on 'Lost' with Jose Mourihno in the Benjamin Linus role, sans Burberry scarf, of course.
Yes, I still in fact own an Arjen Robben Chelsea shirt, which I won in a contest. Originally it was supposed to be a Steven Gerrard Liverpool No. 8 shirt, but when I recieved the package it was an XXXL Liverpool shirt without the numbering. So I sent it back, decided on the Robben shirt and that was that. (Haven't worn it in close to two years, honest.)
Oh yes, Liverpool.
During this crazy, soccer-obsessed year in my life Liverpool made it's magical run to the 2005 Champions League title. What got me was the quarterfinal matchup between Liverpool and Juventus. Naturally, there was some history in this one, as with the terrible Heysel disaster from the 1980s. (Mentioned in passing in 'Amongst the Thugs')
I'm not going to front and say I know anything about that dark day, which helped reinforce the poor stereotype that all soccer fans are hooligans that still lingers in a lot of newsrooms in America to this day. All I know is that with my brief knowledge of the incident made so I got goosebumps when ESPN actually decided to show a little bit of the crowd at halftime. Dare I say the pale and pasty Scouse faces singing their hearts out nearly choked me up.
Where in America do you see a display of this magnitude? Fans support their team, but to this extent? Sometimes I still can't wrap my brain around it. "You'll Never Walk Alone" has that sort of power.
Watch yourself.
A couple weeks later Liverpool pulled off the miracle in Istanbul against AC Milan. For me, this was the most remarkable, amazing, crazy (pick your adjective) game I'd ever seen. I think I was on a high from it for days. Gerrard with the Cup was even my desktop background for a couple weeks.
At this point I was like those people clinging to the top of the Titanic as it tipped into the ocean. I was that close to taking the plunge in committing myself to the Reds.
But I just couldn't do it. I couldn't. (Note: I have no problem with others doing this. It's a personal choice.)
I didn't want to be like a lot of people in America and worldwide that jumped onto the Anfield express that night. I could brush up on the moustaches of Graeme Souness, Kenny Daglish et al. through books and tapes, but it wouldn't be genuine. Shit, I didn't even hate Everton.
In those brief two or three months were I purported to be a Chelsea fan in the back of my mind I always worried what would happen if I ran into a 'real' fan. About the best thing I could muster would be saying I became a fan because I was a big Gianfranco Zola fan. It would be a lie, but might save me a beating.
There are only say, four teams I truly care about as a fan. The Detroit Tigers, the New York Jets, UConn basketball and the US Men's National Team. I've never been able even chose an MLS team to support.
The reason I can't throw my support behind Liverpool or Chelsea or almost any other team in the world is that, to me, it's not fair to the real fans. The fans that grew up with the team. The fans that are there on a week-in, week-out basis, through thick and through thin.
Bandwagon jumpers are some of my biggest enemies in life. To become one, like an 'Other' wouldn't be right. It just wouldn't.
And for better or worse, with globalization, television, etc. football has gone from a regional sport to a worldwide monster. With big clubs like Manchester United or Baracelona you have supporters groups ranging from Seattle to Shanghai.
Part of me loves this, but part of me feels bad for the 'punters' that have their club's shield tattooed on their breast. The ones that travel to away games.
What would they think of me as a fan?
So, as if can guess if you read this space on a regular basis, I simply love the sport. Certain players and teams have the proverbial, 'soft spot' in my heart like Celtic, Blackburn Rovers, Fulham and this year Sheffield United.
I love the intrigue. I love the craziness. I love just about everything...except a club I can call my own.
"Fearlessly the idiot faced the crowd, smiling
Emotionless the magistrate turns 'round, frowning
and who's the fool who wears the crown
Go down in your own way ...."
Labels: Soccer
Great post. As always, I enjoy the blog. Thanks for writing it.
this started off slowly but culminated superbly and mirrored my own thoughts on many an occasion, answered questions of why i rooted for zidane's france instead of my genial italy this past year, why i chose fulham for my fifa 07 franchise, and why i wear yankee hats to red bull games. well done!
- emre's colloquialisms