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Part Three of a Series on American Style

*As the U.S. National Team attempts to qualify for the World Cup in 2010, I will write a series of pieces concentrating on the style, or lack of it, of American soccer. See the other two here and here.

Watching the U.S. play Italy in the Confederations Cup made glaring all the differences we already knew existed between the two teams. Where Italian touches were deft and calm, the Americans’ were heavy and hurried. The U.S. booted the ball out of the back to nobody. It coughed the ball up in midfield. It couldn’t hold it on attack for long enough to get any meaningful numbers going forward.

Italy is style incarnate. Describing the nature of this style seems redundant because it plays with a style so pure that it’s self-evident. It’s obsidian glass, as natural and clear as it is mysterious, as delicate as it is lethal when sharpened.

Andrea Pirlo gave a snapshot of Italy’s class when he created its third and final goal. A pirouette along the sideline eluded Jay DeMerit before Pirlo glided to the endline and floated a left-footed chip over the American defense to an onrushing Guiseppe Rossi, who spiked the ball into the net.

The U.S. showed flashes of its ability, making a few penetrating counterattacks while frustrating Italy with defensive pressure when the two teams played with equal men. And it had a good excuse for playing defensively after losing Ricardo Clarke to a red card. But too much of the team’s play seemed forced and desperate, squirming underneath the approaching shadow of Italy’s refined point. For fans of U.S. soccer, all of this is expected. We swallow it like we do our morning medications, out of habit and necessity. What else can we do?

The U.S. is a “build-it-yourself” rocket dad ordered for us when we were eight. Despite what we imagine, the parts don’t have the right hinges and bends to fit together like they do in the pamphlet. We have too many of one screw, not enough of another. Plastic snaps under pressure. Still, we hold out hope that this rocket will fly before the summer’s out, no matter how many replacement parts we need to order and how much duct tape we need. It’d better, goddammit. But when? How? How much can we guard our hope before it crumbles along with our expectations?

What’s getting better – not just with the current crop of American players but in the last twenty years? We can attribute much of the team’s stagnation to Bob Bradley’s experimenting with personnel and tactics. He’s still looking for the right mixture. This takes time to sort out; there are lots of combinations to try. But I’m starting to worry that the team is too volatile, with too many question marks and too much repair required, for it to turn into anything solid and functional a year from now.

Meantime, the South African vuvuzelas make the stadiums sound fuller than they really are. They create a hum like a giant hornet’s nest, the gathering pressure of frustration and nervousness and fear. These are the last motivators that the U.S. team needs, the last emotions that create a useful and powerful style. But the team is right in the middle of it. What is it made of?◊

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