You want to know when I finally accepted that Americans could never fully embrace soccer the way they have the “Big 3″ American sports?
It was May 23, 2007 and I was wavering half drunk from a bar stool in Prague. The European Super Bowl of Soccer — the Champions League Final, Liverpool vs. AC Milan — was on TV. Even among the most passionate of soccer fans with whom I’d been drinking for some time in anticipation of the match, I still couldn’t get excited for what I was ultimately bearing witness to: a game of soccer.
It was then that I realized, If this didn’t do it for me, an inferior American league wouldn’t either. Say what you will about Beckham’s invasion (no, not you, ladies), but I don’t think he’ll get me off either… even if he does do it with that curve of his.
(Sorry, went too far with that last sexual innuendo).
Here’s my point, dude: I don’t think Americans are conditioned to handle a sport like soccer. It is two 90-minute halves of uninterrupted action, but the action is low-scoring and anti-climatic. I’ll avoid the cultural commentary, but will say this: Americans love excess and happy endings. A 0-0 tie that ends in a shoot-out just won’t cut it.
More to my point, I love Football/Basketball/Baseball because I was born into it. My fanaticism for these sports is by default, not by design. Call me shallow and marketable, but I’ve fallen for these sports because their respective leagues did the best to promote themselves. Is baseball tangibly more exciting than, say, Golf or Tennis? Then why is it exponentially more popular?
And now that I’ve sold my soul to the status quo, there’s no going back … and there can be no substitutes. Fall/Winter means Football; Winter/Spring means Basketball; and Spring/Summer/Fall means Baseball. Simple as that. I have no time for another sport. And my TV guide can prove it.
Don’t get me wrong — I am capable of embracing soccer to some extent. There were, after all, some outstanding plays in the game I watched: this one Brazilian bloke from Milan who goes by the name of Kaka juked a Liverpool lad out of his knickers on a breakaway and it was dazzling even to the untrained eye.
But then something and nothing happened. Another defender swooped in to break up the run and no one scored…again.
So here I sat, my buzz wearing off and the bar too packed for a fresh pint. No commercial breaks were on the horizon so I forced my attention back to the game. Why was it so hard for me to concentrate while the the bar patrons next to me — the same ones who were seen drinking from a shoe moments earlier — were so deeply focused on the game?
Months later, I sit in an American bar and gaze up at the enormous Plasma. It had taken me a trip to Europe to learn the value of American Sports. O cruel, needless misunderstanding! Two Bud-scented tears ran down my cheeks. But it was alright. Everything was alright. The struggle was finished. I loved the “Big 3″.
Yours in sport,
Winston Smith
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