Archive for category US Soccer
DON’T WRITE OFF THE U-17 NATIONAL TEAM YET
Posted by Cyrus Philbrick in Style, US Soccer on November 9th, 2009
This Might Be Obvious, But Seriously
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Much hype surrounded the talented U.S. U-17 national team during the Fifa World Cup in Nigeria. Ultimately, the team fell flat, losing in the round of 16 to a classier Italy side. And so the mumblings have started, gnawing into America’s rotten system of developing professional players. “Is the Academy system the best way to develop players?” “Is this crop of players grossly overrated?” “How can we continue to suck so bad?”
Before we start pouring gas on our 2022 chances, I just want to say, you know, back the hell off. The Americans disappointed big time, it’s true. Judging from the team’s qualifying results and all that I had read leading up to the tournament, I expected a buzz saw of an American attack to tear through the defenses of weak soccer nations like Malawai and UAE. This never happened. The U.S. squeaked by both countries with 1-0 wins and a goalkeeping error that would have been less embarrassing had the goalkeeper simply crapped his shorts.
Don't fire this man. Despite a poor showing in the World Cup, Wilmer Cabrera's young team showed glimpses of its attacking potential.
But even over the course of four sub-par performances, many in scorching African heat, Wilmer Cabrera’s young team showed qualities that I’ve never before seen in American white and blue. Primarily, they showed collective confidence on the ball, even in the defensive third. And although they failed to break down defenses, many players showed a heartening hunger to take defenders on, instead of simply winging blind American-brand (TM) crosses into the box. The goals never came, which is a shame. But you get the sense that on another day, or couple of days, they would have. Cabrera has his boys playing a forward-looking, positive and promising brand of soccer.
A number of players showed more than technical competence. 15-year-old Luis Gil was often brilliant. The spark of most American attacks, he sprayed deft passes all over the field and maneuvered out of clogged spaces with ease. And his midfield partnership with the pint-sized Marlon Duran often looked more refined than anything the senior U.S. national team has produced recently. Duran covered the backline with smart and vicious challenges. And he often kept attacks surging with linking passes.
Luis Gil, getting looks from Arsenal and others, apparently.
On defense, outside backs Tyler Pollack and Zachary Herold both looked more solid than most highly-rated college backs. Herold got roasted a few times by slick Italian attackers like Giacomo Baretta, Marco Fossati and Federico Carraro. But he was nails in the air and showed awesome recovery speed. Pollack might have been the most consistent American player all tournament. He stifled talented Italian and Spanish attackers while choosing opportune times to push forward. And I’m guessing that he turned the ball over fewer times than any other player on the American team. His composure consistently got the U.S. out of trouble in the defensive end and led to promising attacks.
Some other players struggled. But maybe us critics can forgive them a little considering some of them haven’t even started shaving yet. Jack McInerney never revealed the form that many of us expected of him as America’s most hyped attacking threat. Despite the two goals he scored, McInerney disappeared for large chunks of games, seemingly letting his turnovers and mistakes compound on top of one another.
Alex Shinsky, who announcers often confused with McInerney, also turned in a number of up and down performances. But he was more up than down. He dominated spells of games, including an entire half against Spain, carving up defenses with slick dribbling and relentless pace. His whining attitude looks the most harmful part of his game, as he often threw up his hands to teammates and wore a Ronaldo-like pout for not getting the ball exactly where he wanted it, when he wanted it.
Oh yeah, and goalkeeper Earl Edwards looked like a beast. Also encouraging for the national team’s future is that more players from this crop of U-17 national team players are making designs to play abroad. A few have already signed European contracts, preventing them from playing in Nigeria. Joseph Gyau and Charlie Renken signed Academy deals with Hoffenheim in Germany. And Sebastian Lletget moved this past summer to the famed West Ham Academy. And even after many disappointing individual performances in Nigeria, more moves will come.
So don’t give up just yet America. Our development system needs work. And this U-17 team, one of the most talented in years, grossly underperformed. But the team’s performance was still one to praise, however quietly, more for the way it tried to play than for any results.◊
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HARNESSING THE HEAT OF CLOSED-CIRCUITS
Posted by Cyrus Philbrick in Honduras, Style, US Soccer, World Cup Qualifying on October 13th, 2009
One Fan’s Reaction to Watching U.S.-Honduras Eighties-Style
I watch most U.S. national team games cloistered in my own soccer nerdom, hunched over a computer or slouched at a friend’s house where I can bitch freely about the team’s dry ideas and dire first touch. This is how a lot of us watch games. As a whole, U.S. fans are a nerdy and pessimistic bunch. We pick apart 1-0 wins over Trinidad & Tobago. We fear loud noises and confrontations at bars with Steelers fans over television-space. Saturday’s game against Honduras, however, forced us to come together with an energy and pride that we rarely exhibit.
Because FIFA gives television rights to the host nation of World Cup qualifiers, most Americans could watch the game against Honduras only at a joint willing to purchase Media World’s closed-circuit feed. In my Northern California neck of the woods only a few bars coughed up the bucks. Those older than me tell me that this is how they used to watch boxing matches and old U.S.-Mexico qualifiers. Anyways, I’m pretty sure it was a good gamble for the places that funded the game. I’ve heard conflicting estimates about the cost of the feed (ranging from $1,500 to $3,000), but even if the Irish pub (good old Danny Coyle’s) where I watched the game paid twice this I reckon it made more than enough to fund a few more Guinness posters. Paying $20 a head, U.S. fans packed the place to “capacity”, at easily over 300 people. Considering profits on drink prices, I expect the joint to unveil at least one fresh urinal in the coming months.
Danny Coyle's might hope for some more closed-circuit games
It was an impressive gathering of American soccer die hards. Over 100 late bastards couldn’t even make it inside. So they watched pressed up against the bar’s fogged glass windows. I don’t usually get sappy watching U.S. games, but I couldn’t help it. Here, I felt connected to the vibrating and illusive pulse of the game in this country. Maybe it was the alcohol, or the result, or the way we all watched the same grainy feed that played meaningless replays instead of live scoring opportunities, but we all felt the same simplified emotions. Here, confusing my neighbor’s beer with my own, we tended to agree, rare for fans of any team . We groaned collectively at Conor Casey’s start. We laughed and whooped at Casey’s goals, the first one of which he knocked in with the back of his keg-sized neck. We grunted at U.S. turnovers. We covered our faces before Carlos Pavon sent his 87th minute penalty kick over the bar.
As the clock ticked on, it slowly sank in. This is how much of the rest of the world watches games, not in the intellectual towers we construct for ourselves, but together, in a patriotic bliss that makes us forget our faults. We push under the pool table our sputtering relationships, our bills and our fears. And in our uniquely thick-skinned American way, we expunge our imperial guilt for helping to violate the human rights and economies of whatever third world country we’re playing. We root for our country in a game played on as level terms as our messed up history allows.
I don’t expect to watch a game in this way again. As we move through the 21st century, I imagine that World Cup qualifiers will only get easier to watch in the comfort of our own homes, even if we have to pay for them on an individual basis over the internet. But for once I was thankful for limited cable rights, although I felt bad for all those who missed the game and all the poor souls shivering outside the bar window. But inside we were the beating heart of U.S. soccer, too enraptured by the atmosphere and blunted by booze to think critically. “I’ll never question Bob Bradley again!” I will remember believing this. Pouring out of the bar, we steamed like severed heating pipes into the crisp San Francisco night.
Not that I’d like to watch every game like this. The magic would wear off. But I’d at least like to know that the option is out there. Anyone experience something similar? Horribly different? At the same bar? Where you the guy I accidentally elbowed in the face?◊
DEBATING DIFFERENT TYPES OF FANDOM
Posted by Cyrus Philbrick in Style, US Soccer, fandom on September 15th, 2009
Throughout my life I’ve been both types of fan, loyalist and leach, depending on the sport. There is logic and even romance in each. But as I age I’m attracted more and more to the latter, to the Chuck Klosterman sort of sports fandom that resembles musical taste – polygamous and fickle. I think this is common for a lot of modern sports fans, the mass consumers of entertainment that we are. But such anti-affiliation, although aesthetically pleasing and easy, undercuts some of the most fundamental aspects of fandom no matter how much it tries to objectify a sport.
The trend toward changeable fandom parallels social trends. Simon Kuper and Stefan Szymanski don’t say this explicitly, but seem to imply it in an extract from their new book, Why England Lose: And Other Curious Football Phenomena Explained. They show, using numbers that seem a little dubious, how loyalist fans (whom they call Hornby-types in reference to Nick Hornby’s classic Fever Pitch) are actually a rare breed in modern British society despite stubborn myths to the contrary. They suggest that modern mobility of place and class cause changing devotions. They also suggest that such mobility causes the myth of the Hornby-type to persist. Rootlessness prompts a reactive nostalgia, a desire for an authenticity and identity that isn’t there.
Like the authors say, “fandom is not a static condition but a process.” Changing affiliation can come as a natural part of our development. As impressionable youths we latch onto a team with all our starry-eyed might. We crave idols and identity and acceptance and a professional team overflows with these things. That, or our dads make sure that a certain baseball team came as part of our genetic code. So we are loyal, at least for a while. But as we grow, more mobile and more discerning about our tastes, we feel freer to change affiliations. We realize that rootless fandom is easier and a lot less painful than unconditional devotion. Our fandom depends on taste, on the style we relate to or the players we like. Or it depends on convenience, where we are and when. It depends on us, not on the randomized geography of birthplace or our father’s heavy-handed indoctrination via the bed sheets he bought for us on our fourth birthday. This is how I watch most soccer, free and easy. And I’ve always believed it has given me objectivity, more sensitivity to the nature of the game because I’m not biased to the trivialities of one team . It’s not necessarily about the result. I route for good soccer and the teams that play it.
I’ve tried to adopt many foreign teams over the years, not just for their aesthetics. As a kid I liked Nottingham Forest because it sounded like some sort of fantastical place where goals grew along with the moss and trees. Since 2004, I’ve routed for Manchester City, after I told a Manchunian friend that I would adopt City if he adopted my then hapless Boston Red Sox. I tried to convince myself of my City fandom. I always liked Claudio Reyna, I reasoned. I liked the way City were a second-fiddle team in a soccer mad city with a first rate fan base. I liked that they had history. I felt like I owed it to City after the Red Sox won the World Series. I still say I like them, mostly to piss off fans of the other Big Four teams, and to keep appeasing the Sports Gods. But it never felt authentic.
No matter which club I try to adopt, foreign or American, something is missing. What attachment do I have to a club thousands of miles away? How much do I really know about their history, their pain? It’s in these questions that the loyalists have us beat, even if their attachment traces back to time they spent watching a certain team with an otherwise negligent dad – especially if it traces back to this. There are old world values in unconditional loyalty. You love a team like you love a father or wife, in sickness and in health, alcoholism or betrayal. Sometimes you don’t even know why you love them. You just do. They chose you.
The only soccer team I’ve ever supported unconditionally has been the U.S. national team. It has been painful. Occasionally glorious, but mostly painful, even when we squeak out wins against Trinidad and Tobago. But I feel invested in my fandom, in my infinitesimal stake in the team. I know the team’s history, its faults and its potential for success. But most importantly, I know what it feels like to truly route for them, to be crushed and then hopeful, over and over. Such devotion, as foolish or false as it can be, ties us to our surroundings – to our neighbors, to the communities and countries where we live. Loyal fandom helps us pare down the swirling and infinite chaos of the world, even the soccer world, to something we can hold onto and make sense of, to one game at a time, to wins and losses. We can see and feel the game in a way that means something to us, or at least means more than its entertainment value.
I think this is what separates sports from art or other entertainment fields. Although fans obviously want to be entertained, sports rely on a different value system than say music. Competition, or the idea of winning and losing, lies at the heart of any sport’s worth. Although winning can serve as one function of entertainment, it also serves as a value system that functions separately from, often in opposition to, a game’s style or capacity to entertain – however much us unaffiliated wish it didn’t. As much as fans follow sports be entertained, we also watch to feel the ecstasy and despair and hatred that wins and losses cause. We can’t feel the drama of the sport fully unless we attach some sort of loyalty to our fandom. The more loyalty, the greater the payoff or the let down. Without loyalty we lose the fundamental aspect of investment (economic and emotional and physical) in the teams we follow. We get stadiums muted by shrugging critics with pursed lips, polite and ultimately feckless. We get lower highs and higher lows.
I’m as responsible for this as anyone. But I hope I’m not representative of of too big of a trend. Otherwise we’re turning into a society of squabbling philosophers who don’t know what it means to be xenophobic toward “other” people for no reason. And where’s the fun in that?◊
Thanks to fredorrarci for compiling the quality pieces that spurred this belated post.
A BEGINNER’S GUIDE TO U.S. SOCCER FANDOM
Posted by Cyrus Philbrick in Bob Bradley, CONCACAF, US Soccer on September 3rd, 2009
To all those who rode their first wave of U.S. soccer fandom into the hot Mexican dust, welcome! Brush that dirt off your coat. Hang it up. Stay awhile. And chin up for god sakes. It’s not that bad. I’m here to help you through it. There are just a few things you should know so you don’t make rookie blunders like buying an Eddie Johnson jersey or dislexifying Onyewu’s name.
1. As you see, we get to trade hands-behind-our-back gut punches with Mexico. It’s only fair, except we take punches in Mexico with both hands behind our back, and they take punches with only one hand behind theirs. Therefore you should always complain that they hit us with dirtier and louder and more painful shots. Because they do.
2. No matter how easy it seems to qualify for the World Cup, remain skeptical when asked about the U.S.’s prospects of doing so. Play up underrated third world competition: “I dunno, I mean teams without stable governments just have more to play for, you know.” We don’t want too many other continental confederations catching onto the fact that qualification in CONCACAF is structured like those End-of-Camp-Prizes where even the kid who threw a flaming poop pie at another cabin gets an award for his attitude. As much as the U.S. would benefit from a more difficult road to qualification, imagine qualifying once every twelve years, like Ireland or Romania do. Screw that!
3. Whenever we lose or tie you should question Bob Bradley’s lineup decisions. This goes for being a fan of any soccer team, but especially a Bob Bradley team. To do this, simply pick a few players who aren’t Donovan, Dempsey, Onyewu, or Howard, and then ask why Bradley played them. Try it for the Mexico loss. “Man, I don’t understand why he started Clark or DeMerrit or _____ . They’re ok, but they’re just not international quality.”
4. Brian Ching starts because he’s a good “target man”. He’s kind of like an NBA player that sets a really good screen, plays solid defense, and maybe can throw an accurate entry pass. Fundamentals are very very important, especially when trying to compete at the international level. Got it?
5. One way to look like you know what you’re talking about is to say, win or lose, that the U.S. would be better off if it hired a renowned international coach.
6. Also, when watching games with friends, you should say at least once a game that U.S. soccer needs to change its development structure “from the ground up.” You don’t need to provide any details about how to accomplish this. The only evidence you need is that the U.S. never wins any big games and hasn’t produced its own Pele yet. People will be in awe of your deep knowledge of the system’s flaws.
7. Oh, and if you really want to be a true national team fan, you should make sure that you know all the players on the U.S. team but nobody on any other CONCACAF team that we play. Except it’s OK to know that Blanco guy, and that tricky Gio-something-or-other on Mexico, our arch-rivals. But you’re not allowed to know or praise anyone else because then you might look too sympathetic. Refer to these players by number or racial epithet. Anytime a player on some third world team appears one of the best players on the field then it’s obviously a result of the U.S. playing so shitty by comparison. It’s way easier to criticize the U.S. players’ performances than learn and praise new names.
8. You should probably buy a “Soccer Wave” for your kids. These are really handy, because they like totally launch the ball back to you! If you can’t afford one of these revelations then you should settle for those precisely angled nets that bounce the ball back to you in the air. Just don’t let your kids pass the ball against a wall! It’s like, “where do we live? Rio?”
9. Never watch any MLS games. You will mysteriously get dumber about soccer.◊
ON FREDDY ADU’S REVISED POTENTIAL
Posted by Cyrus Philbrick in Freddy Adu, Style, US Soccer, World Cup on September 2nd, 2009
Maybe you had too much too fast. Maybe you had too much too fast.
Or just over played your part.
Nothin shakin on shakedown street. Used to be the heart of town.
Dont tell me this town aint got no heart. You just gotta poke around.
Freddy Adu was once pure potentiality. He was the savior of American soccer. He was the American Pele that would deliver the U.S. from the dark ages of soccer mediocrity. At 14, he signed a million dollar contract and played his first professional game. It’s safe to say he had a little too much hype too soon. Barely pubescent, he struggled in MLS, against men twice as strong and twice his age. He has fallen in and out of favor with the national team. He has bounced around Europe in search of the right club with which to ply his overblown trade. Some people speak of him as if he’s already gone, so paralyzed by hype’s glaring lights that he still looks like that underdeveloped 14 year old playing against properly developed men.
The hype has been rightfully toned down. But I still wonder how anyone can dismiss Adu, a barely-20-year-old still looking to latch onto the right club to get significant playing time and experience. Although he has struggled at the full international level and at high level European clubs, he has achieved consistently when playing against peers. Adu excelled at the 2003 U-17 and 2007 U-20 World Cups. In his three games at the 2008 Olympics, Adu scored four goals. Even with the U.S. National Team, Adu has shown glimpses of the sort of creative attacking abilities that the U.S. has never truly had. He has flare. He has touch. He has that electrifying element of unpredictability that American players historically lack. He draws us in under his spell until we’re ready to believe again. Then he turns back on himself one too many times, a child playing on a freeway, and he loses the ball to an onrushing defender. We all shake our heads. We get that sinking feeling that maybe he’s too flighty and too soft, that he can’t last against the big boys.
Despite all of Adu’s perceived failures, which were inevitable given his unrealistic expectations, it’s easy to forget his successes and how much potential he still has. A recent loan from Benfica to fellow Portuguese club Belenenses will give him another chance to dig in, to develop physically and mentally, to harden the tactical elements of his game, to work his way into the national team. Despite all the harsh criticism and dismissals Adu receives, many fans still invest their hopes in him. I’m one of them. We hope Belenenses is a good fit. We hope Adu will get playing time. We hope Adu will see significant time on the national team if he shows more consistency. We hope he can still change American soccer by becoming a fraction of that magnetizing player that he once promised. Somehow these hopes feel so much more natural and fair than the media-fueled hyperbole that warped our impressions of Adu from the start, which dislodged him from any realistic context and measurement of development.
Adu’s career has been a series of revised expectations. Maybe Adu’s abilities can dovetail with what are now more down-to-earth expectations. Maybe this will propel him forward. Maybe he has finally reached a place that lies sufficiently under the radar for him to play within himself.
Well, well, well – you can never tell.◊
AN ADULT’S LETTER TO ALEXI LALAS
Posted by Cyrus Philbrick in Alexi Lalas, Brazil, Confederations Cup, Maradona, US Soccer on August 27th, 2009
By Diego Maradona
Alexi,
What’s up you leather-faced buffoon? Last time I saw you I was probably putting the ball through your legs. Or blowing lines off your wife’s potatoes after your country banned me in ‘94. You’re lucky I didn’t get you on the field. Just kidding. Have we met before? I don’t remember. But an American kid with big dreams keeps emailing me to tell me you’re spewing garbage about American soccer on ESPN and something about a pod shell. He says you’re treating small soccer players worse than women. So I guess you want a war.
Or, I would want a war if you didn’t make me laugh all the time. Seriously, you’re a funny man on TV, which I respect. But men should not be funny all the time. That is for clowns. And clowns are mostly sad. So I just need to clear one thing up before I get started. Are you serious when you say that “size does matter in soccer and it’s mattering more and more”? Are you serious in saying that America needs bigger players to win? Are you really fucking serious and not just trying to entertain people and make me laugh? If you are not, like I hope, then you can stop reading now and we’ll pretend I never wrote this. But if you are, then it’s on man to man. (Hold on, while I get another drink).
I would look up at you like I look up at a tree, Alexi. It’s true. But I have balls as big as oceans that would sweep you away like dead wood. That is what matters in soccer, and life – not physical size. Strength is different than size. So let’s get that straight. Look at all the best players in the world of all time from any country. First off, myself. I probably come up your gut. Pele would come up to your chest. George Best was up to your neck. And Cruyff to your chin. Got it? Ok.
Now you say that players today are getting bigger and bigger. Maybe this is true. Today you have players like Kaka and Gerrard. You had Zidane. Fine. But they’re not good because of their size. They’re good because they’re good, maybe even despite their size. They’re good because they have the heart and mind and blood for the game. See, this is what I like so much about soccer. It’s such a human sport, unlike a lot of those you play in your country. You can’t tell who is a star by their appearance. You don’t need some kind of freakish body type to be good. You need to have it inside of you. We don’t have a name for it, but you dicks probably call it skill. And the skill matters most on the ground, where the game is played. If you don’t believe this, then I pity you.
Next you say Brazil is a big scary team, and that’s who America should be more like. I admit, Brazil is bigger than it has been before. But what are you smoking Alexi? Brazil isn’t that big. They’re still a bunch of sissies, like you’ll see on September 5th. You make me use numbers, and I fucking hate numbers. But my secretary sent me this:
Brazil’s roster for the Confederations Cup had an average height of (in your language) 5’11’’ and an average weight of 166 pounds. The USA’s roster, without your precious goalkeepers, had the same average height and weighed seven more pounds. You fatties! So you can stop talking about this like it’s the reason you lost. The biggest teams are all the ones from North Africa. And France is pretty big too. I don’t have to look this up. I just know. And these teams are Ok.
Have you seen my team Alexi? Have you seen Mascherano? El Jefecito. Tevez? El Apache. Have you seen my son-in-law? Have you seen fucking Messi, the one who you call “a dying breed”. Have you seen this little fucker! A dying breed? Me? Messi? We haven’t even started yet! I hope we get you country-club bitches in the World Cup.
I know you’re trying to sell soccer in America because that’s your job. But stop saying foolish things so I can focus on more important things than kicking your ass. Who’s the best player on your own national team Alexi? That’s what I thought.
Yours,
- Diego ◊
Translated by Cyrus Philbrick
“AZTECA BLUES”
Posted by Cyrus Philbrick in CONCACAF, Landon Donovan, Mexico, US Soccer, World Cup Qualifying on August 14th, 2009
By Landon Donovan
Touch down in Mexico City, this is gonna be a blast
Touch down in the Valley baby, this is gonna be a blast
Out on the open airstrip, breath of dying horse’s ass.
Tour Azteca at dusk now, this place is kinda scary
Tour Azteca’s big shadows, this place is kinda scary
In the slack air of the black top, I hope the hooker’s spare me.
Can’t get any sleep at night, back of my dome is bumpin
Can’t sleep in this air tonight, back of my dome is bumpin
Hotel walls are mighty thin, and hoes above me won’t stop thumpin.
Chorus
Tired and weary but we’re not gonna lose.
Just can’t shake these low down high-headed Azteca Blues.
On the field in the heat of day, sun like a yellow toe nail
On the field in the heat of noon, sun like a yellow toe nail
Crowd so loud and hot now, nobody gonna hear me wail.
Nice turn and Davies is through, how do you say ‘Hola Bitches’?
Nice turn and a Davies goal, how do you say “Hola Bitches’?
That didn’t last too long though, they’re shredding our ‘D’ to stitches.
They say I got some quick feet, but Mexicans might be quicker
They say I got some wheels, but Mexicans might be quicker.
Run after her all day, but the ball won’t let me lick ‘er
Chorus
We’re tied in the first half, but we’re not gonna lose
Just can’t shake these low down lead-footed Azteca Blues.
Bob says we need to keep the ball, but we keep giving it away
Bob says we need possession, but our backs keep giving it away
Might as well give em the match, cause we’ve plattered the fillet.
That goal was always comin, you can’t chase them forever.
That goal was always comin, you can’t chase them forever.
I’d kill to get one back, but my legs like rusty levers.
Now my stomach’s cramped, and my head’s a sweaty glue
Now I got the cramps bad, and my head’s a sweaty glue
I need some serious rest, plus Doc says I got the Swine Flu.
Chorus
Well we lost like I kinda always knew
Just can’t shake these low down snake-eyed Azteca Blues.◊
EMBARRASSED, SLIGHTLY
Posted by Cyrus Philbrick in Mexico, Style, US Soccer, World Cup Qualifying on August 11th, 2009
A Fictional Account of the U.S. Loss to Mexico in the Gold Cup Finals
Our team drank beers in afternoon light on the bleachers after a men’s league soccer game. Behind us, a Latino man stumbled out of the shadow of a tree. His calloused heels scraped the pavement through the holes in his sandals. He approached, humming and smiling.
“Wha happuh?” he said. His face was scabbed and tanned, like Texas dirt. His head cocked slowly from one side to another, as if water sloshed against the walls of his ears. “What happuh?”
“This is our beer,” another teammate said.
“Estados Unidos,” he said. “USA!” He raised his fist.
“OK buddy,” another teammate said.
““Que paso? Supposed to be dos a cero. Lo que paso?” The man stopped to laugh, tilting his head back, fluid rocking to the base of his skull. “No dos a cero.”
“We played our B team,” another teammate from our all white team of former college players said, lifting a beer in the air. “Congratulations.”
“Five to Cero!” He shouted into the branches overhead. “Ha!” His head swung forward with a momentum that forced his feet to follow. He stumbled away along the fence of the field, his laugh drifting back to us in rhythmic bursts, like cars buzzing on a highway. None of us responded. We didn’t want to talk about it. We talked about beer and alternative energy.
Later that afternoon I ate tempura noodle soup at a sushi restaurant. Brains unraveled in brine. I didn’t eat again that day, mostly for monetary purposes, but also because I didn’t feel all that good. By bedtime my head throbbed from a day of sweat and beer and sun. I drank about a liter of water before lying down. My stomach a tide pool that waves couldn’t reach. My heart an exposed starfish, not pained but not comfortable, waiting for submersion. I hoped that Mexican hearts rested easier, however and wherever they rested.
ONE MAN’S STRUGGLES WITH WPS FANDOM
Posted by Cyrus Philbrick in Style, US Soccer, WPS, Women's Soccer on July 21st, 2009
Does Liking Women’s Soccer Make You Gayer?
I love soccer. And I’m pretty sure I love women. So why don’t I love Women’s Professional Soccer? Or do I, secretly? These are questions I fear to answer because any serious soul-searching might uncover the misogynistic pig within. That, or I’ll end up stripping away a vestigial layer of macho-callous that has kept me straight and largely insensitive to the needs of women through the years. Oh well, here goes…
I probably like women's soccer more than this Norwegian defender does.
There are a few things about women’s soccer that I know. First, I know that I like the idea of girls playing soccer. I always have. It’s a beautiful sport that women add to in uniquely savvy and vicious and really just hot ways. I like seeing women in short shorts. I like watching them make guys look dumb on coed fields. I’ve always thought soccer provided more fertile ground for women than other team sports – something about its blend of touch and guile, grace and ruthlessness. It has always been half feminine. Most of my biggest crushes in life have been on female soccer players, through high school to now. I used to think I had a shot with Mia Hamm, but then I realized I respected Nomar too much to move in on his woman. So I moved, weirdly enough, onto Shannon MacMillan. I was a teenager and it was the nineties and I was a sucker for in-swingers. And now there are a few current players in the WPS that I would dump my girlfriend for in a second. I’ve prepared her for this.
I know that I want the league to succeed. I want a sustainable women’s professional sports league to exist besides the WNBA, which would crumble without the support of the NBA. I want professional soccer to be a dream and a scrappy career choice for young girls the world over. Call me a sap, but I don’t think I’m the only guy who wants this.
I know that I enjoy WPS when I watch it, especially live. It’s often better than any women’s soccer I’ve ever seen, including any international games. I saw remarkable talent on display on WPS’s opening day, on the Los Angeles Sol and the Washington Freedom. Nevermind Marta – she’s fantastic. I watched Shannon Boxx control the game better than a lot of MLS midfielders. I watched Sonia Bompastor run riot on the wing with a lethal blend of pace and control. I watched Aya Miyama strike angled passes that most people of any gender don’t see. In watching the WPS, I’ve been drawn to female players in a way that I never thought possible, both for their savvy and their style. Yes, style. If you don’t believe me then watch the Breakers’ Kelly Smith, who can weave in and out of traffic at will. Watch the Gold Pride’s Tiffany Weimar, who attacks with a courage and abandon that is sorely lacking in MLS forwards.
WPS produces great women’s soccer. There’s really only one problem with it: it’s not men’s soccer. Without getting into an argument about Title Nine and other messy subjects, this is the most honest reason I can give for why I’ll watch just about any men’s game over any women’s game, and why so many other people would rather do the same. When given the choice of a Latvian B League men’s game vs. the WPS, I would probably go with good old FK Dinamo-Rīnūži. Itawamba Community College men’s vs. WPS … same. A U-14 Boys Club vs. WPS … this is when I start to question if WPS will work.
My main explanation for this attitude is that women’s soccer is slow, at any level. It’s inarguably, frustratingly, heart-murmeringly slow. I’m not saying that the players aren’t as smart or quick-thinking or savvy as men. I’m not saying Marta wouldn’t school me one on one. The game is just slower than the men’s game. Men create goals out of nothing – a turnover in midfield turns into a top corner screamer that you miss wiping a speck of salsa off your shirt. In a women’s game, I’ll see the turnover (wait … yup, there it is) and know I’ll have time to hit the bathroom and get a cold one before it gets converted into the goal that grows along with the grass at midfield. (Side note: Speaking for washed up male athletes everywhere, I’m also the first to admit that male egos get in the way of our willingness to appreciate or respect women sports. We see women run and kick and instead of admiring them we think, “That’s cute, but I could run faster, kick harder.” We imagine that we would be the best player out on that field, or that we could have been if given the chance. Even if we wouldn’t, a lot of us still believe this. I don’t know why, but the reason for this probably gets at the root of the male psyche.)
Other reasons exist for the general populace’s dismissal of, and even contempt for, women’s professional soccer. The league has failed to produce many goals, for example. As a whole, the league averages around 2 goals per game. But this doesn’t differ too starkly from most men’s professional leagues. Another reason fans don’t care, as Jennifer Doyle points out in a thought-provoking post on watching women’s football, is that the media ignores women’s soccer. Media goliaths and local papers alike don’t give fans, or potential fans, the chance to follow hidden story lines about underdogs or phenoms or scandals that undoubtedly exist in the game. But these two reasons seem only bi-products of the root reason women get ignored; men are better than women at soccer. Men put out a better product.
So what chance does the league have if die hard soccer fans like myself would rather watch so many male forms of the game before stooping to watching women’s soccer? Some. But only if fans let the game in, checking their egos while seeing the women’s version as a legitimate and attractive alternative. For a lot of us, myself included, this isn’t easy. But as much as I’ll bitch about the slowness of women’s soccer, I also think its pace provides a unique charm and rhythm, subdued by laws of physics but also tapping into higher levels of communication. This could be seen as a backhanded diss, but it’s also why I find the women’s game uniquely compelling. As Jennifer Doyle suggests, women’s teams often play with more cohesion and passion than men’s teams. They have to. They have more to prove, playing for an entire gender’s future in the sport. As teams, they slog against the momentum-shifting tides of the game. Also, the pace of the game highlights fundamentals – the spacing and angles and subtle techniques that link teams together. Unfortunately, when people say that any version of anything “highlights fundamentals” it usually serves as a cheap defense for the way that thing lacks transcendent powers, but women’s soccer doesn’t. Less hectic and driven than the men’s game, it can heighten your sense of what is there, like listening to more minimalist music. You hear spaces. You swell with chord changes. If you’re ready for them, you get in touch with feelings you never knew you had. Some of my friends will probably punch me for saying all this. But I’m starting to believe it’s true, kind of like when I started listening to Brian Eno. There is a time and place for it.
Despite the barriers of ignorance and contempt, the league has so far drawn close to its target number of fans, enough to market its sustainability and streamlined financial structure. Fans like me follow it, battling with inner demons while truly trying to respect and appreciate the league. I’ll go to more games. I route for the league and its fundamentally grassroots marketing campaign during an era in which preferences typically get determined from the top down. I raise more beers than I could otherwise afford to its cheap ticket prices and the players’ unequaled appreciation for the fans. But it’s no secret that the league needs more fans to succeed.
“We need to get out of the ghetto of being a role model for girls,” Andy Crossley, the Boston Breakers’ director of business development, said in a recent New York Times article. “You can’t make dads feel like they’re visiting Chuck E. Cheese’s.”
The problem is I’m not sure if anyone knows how the league can change this. WPS works best as an inspiring example for young girl players. And as millions of them exist in this country, this isn’t a bad selling point. But to draw in the rest of us skeptics remains a challenge that will take a lot more than just innovative social media marketing.
I wonder if it will take a change in the game itself, something besides the evolution of women players that lessens the talent gap between genders. Like, I’d like to see games with two balls in play, or games with guest male players from the crowd, or games with interactive crowds that could choose the lineup changes or fire good-natured projectiles at players. Then again, these are idiotic ideas that would undermine the sanctity of any sport. If I were commissioner of WPS, however, I’d at least consider some freakishly creative options. Maybe the league could start with some more delicate and minor alterations in the game’s rules to favor offense, to give the league more ammunition. Smaller fields? Smaller goal box? Bigger goals? Why let conventional rules constrict the excitement of the game? Why not start something new, make the product more unique and less comparable to the male-dominated version of the game that the vast majority of people will only continue to see as better?
OK, I get why. But any other ideas? Or does anybody else even care?◊
A KID’S LETTER TO ALEXI LALAS
Posted by Cyrus Philbrick in Alexi Lalas, US Soccer, Youth Soccer on July 7th, 2009
Dear Alexi,
You seem like a pretty cool guy, for a ginger and a hippie. Actually, that’s why I like you – cause you’re a ginger but you make fun of yourself for being a ginger. You’re like, ‘yeah I’m a goofy ginger, What? I’m still pretty cool and funny could probably kick your ass, so if you can’t look past my gingerness then like screw you dude.’ And that’s a lot like what if feels like to play and love soccer in America. A lot of people in this country think it’s stupid and boring, but so what. A lot of other people love it. One day I want to play for the U.S. national team. Maybe you could give me some advice, because you know what it takes. You ARE American soccer, at least that’s what my dad says. I was watching the Confederations Cup the other day on TV and I didn’t know who you were and my dad came in told me you’re an American soccer legend, who like helped put us on the world map. So then I looked you up on YouTube and stuff and it’s totally true. You were bad ass, like a hockey player on the soccer field. A rock star. And then I found out that you actually are a rock star too! Sort of. Except you sound like a homeless man’s Nickelback, but with words that make more sense and are a little less wussy. Anyways, I think you’re pretty cool. (I don’t even blame you for all that Beckham stuff that everyone’s talking about, which kind of seems like a lot of other big guys in suits might be telling you what to do and then you have to take the blame for it). I got your back on that one. But what I don’t got your back about is you coming out on ESPN saying that we need to get bigger and stronger players on the U.S. team. Maybe you were just saying that to agree with the radio host or to get more Americans totally pumped about soccer in a way that they can relate to. Or maybe ESPN made you say it like the Galaxy made you say certain things. Or maybe you were kidding. I mean, I know you can be a kidder sometimes. But you didn’t really sound like you were kidding. You said something about how in America “we have cultivated this group of players that are technically very good, but don’t have that much size. And that’s where we need to bridge the gap.” (By the way, you have a pretty slick vocabulary. Maybe you could teach your friend Harkes a few things). You make it all sound really believable when you talk the way you do, like you should teach jock speech classes or something if your office jobs don’t work out. Anyways, have you seen the U.S. team lately? Have you seen Gooch? Bradley? Altidore? DeMerrit? Wynne? Casey? Dempsey? You really think size is the problem? To me, soccer is more about everything else athletic: coordination, balance, quickness, fitness, agility, and mostly skill. You know, all the good stuff. And a lot of times being big doesn’t help that much.
That’s what makes it so great. Of course size can help in some places on the field, like in front of the goal. But have you seen where most of the game is played, and have you seen like most of the best players in the world, ever? I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but a lot of them aren’t that tall. I know you’re pretty big, and so were a lot of your teammates back in the day. And you played in Italy and blah blah blah. But that doesn’t mean you can take a shit on my dreams, you stupid clumsy ginger brute. It’s when you do say stuff like this that I wonder if you really deserve to be Mr. American soccer. Like why don’t you manage a hockey team or something with the rest of your clan.
Signed,
Bruised American youth
ps. I still like you, but check yourself, especially if you’re going to be a voice for American soccer that kids like me look up to.
pps. I don’t have a Napoleanic complex or anything. I’m small, but the doc says its just a phase.◊
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