Some reflections from the World Cup sidelines
One minute the city was mine –with its apocalyptically barren streets and deserted subways—the next it was Germany’s.
They spewed out of the bars like storm drainage, flooding Berlin in streams of black, gold, and red, singing and pointing like drunken sailors on shore leave. Some point to me, making me feel as if I should reciprocate, to point back, to intone an atonal chant of my own. But unlike them, (and they notice this after an awkward moment), I don’t know any soccer songs, and sadly, my face isn’t painted like a flag. In fact, anybody else walking around that evening could have picked up on the tell-tale clues: I’m just a guy who doesn’t care one bit about soccer, surrounded by a world that apparently does.
Not that Americans are known for being big soccer fans. We have our World Series and Super Bowl, but the World Cup just isn’t our thing. It doesn’t have the same beer commercials, tailgates or homecoming games. It doesn’t even have the same word: what we call soccer, most of the world refers to in some form of foot + ball.[1] Regrettably, for many Americans out there, myself included, soccer is a sport that has been gently banished to the suburban hinterlands; a sport better known for its minivan-driving moms than its riot-inciting hooliganism.
Which makes me think, as I navigate through this Braveheart-sized crowd of screaming Germans, of some alternative universe: one in which this year’s World Cup had been sponsored by Cosmo, and not its three-striped titan, Adidas; where its commentators were no other than ABC’s ‘Desperate Housewives,’ giving play-by-plays that served a double, suggestive life of allegory. I see teams arriving in motorcades of beeping Ford Windstars; their uniforms still warm and staticy from mom’s drier. In this universe, “soccer mom” is no longer a pejorative term, but the title of a popular soccer song. Everybody knows it and loves to sing it ad nasueum. I listen to its lyrics –sung in gloriously high octaves—and hear the celebration of the highest rank of motherhood, the expert in domestic logistics and alchemist of half-time snacks...
But then I’m back in Germany, surrounded by the flags, the Germans, and the unmistakable din of victory. Despite my spoil-sportitude, however, I find myself having fun; not because Germany beat Portugal—I couldn’t have cared less—but because after an important victory, certain things are permissible. For instance, I could yell the word Deutschland! like some hair-band rockstar, and be answered accordingly –applauded even. It didn’t matter if I liked soccer or not. It didn’t even matter if I was German. Behavior like this was not only acceptable, but also encouraged. I felt like I was fourteen again, at some outdoor concert, screaming out "Slayer!" to people in line for the bathroom. Victory, it seems, can be quite cathartic, even for the stubbornly indifferent.
But there were limits. I witnessed one zealous fan run into a Dunkin Donuts at full speed, only to get chased out by the manager. After failing to leap atop the table of his choosing –I assume to declare Germany’s victory to an audience of donut eaters, this fan suddenly found himself at the wrong end of a chair and no outlet for his team spirit. On the sidewalk, he darted left and right, provoking her with colorful German phrases, evading her lunges with methamphetamine-fueled dexterity. Realizing that his efforts were best showcased elsewhere, the shirtless patriot eventually gave up and continued his campaign down the street, disappearing moments later into some drug store, screaming as if on fire...
Everybody around me is bedecked, unsurprisingly, in some kind of patriotic flair. Many are wearing this year’s ever popular Mohawk wig, creating a shark tank effect of German dorsal fins in the crowd. Others wear stupid oversized hats, which evidently come in a variety of national flavors, not just German. But my favorite, by far, are those who go right to the source and wear the flags. These are the fans who know what it’s all about. They could be worn Rocky-style, draped triumphantly over the shoulders, or in superhero fashion, as a cape. Even antiquity has a seat along the World Cup catwalk, with the occasional flag-toga finding its way to the party[2].
When asked by one of my students (one who actually brought a flag with him every class during the games) if I saw the game, I shake my head apologetically, tell him no, and confess my embarrassing secret: I’m a twenty-something male who lives in Germany and does not like soccer. Do I play soccer? Another question I must answer to widespread disappointment. That decisive path to the dark side came in grade school, I tell him, in the form of a flyer. It told me of two options for the fall: I could play football or I could play soccer. The benefits of joining a football league were clearly outlined for my parents: it was social, an after school activity that promoted discipline, fitness, and fun. Written below it, in some gaunt, unsure font, was my second option. Maybe I was too weak or scared of injuring myself after having just begun cello lessons, or maybe I wanted to send out the call for unemployed bullies. Whatever it did say, I forget, but the implications of playing soccer and not football –at least from my 5th grade peers—were somewhat clear: you play football because you’re a man and you play soccer because you couldn’t play football.
Although I chose neither that fateful fall, opting instead for a fresh season in video games, I knew that soccer (or any team sport for that matter) would never be my thing. I left the crowd that night just short of reaching Alexanderplatz. Had I any interest in the sport, I probably would have found myself wading through a sea of bragging rights. But I just don’t care about soccer. Sorry. The World Cup is less about a sport anyway, and more about belonging somewhere, about being German, American, Brazilian, or whatever. And mistakenly, I left my flag and face-paint kit at home.
[1] Theory: Rather than adhere to such stringent, all-too-literal-sounding compounds, we (and Australia) cleverly call it something else –a marketing strategy, perhaps, aimed at diverting potential revenue to our version, which is to be played for the most part –the conspiratorial irony—with our hands.
[2] Given the collective, fraternity-like atmosphere, I began to think of the World Cup not as a trophy or title, but as a cup with some overpriced, multicolored cocktail sloshing around inside, spilling all over, getting on your clothes, reeking of alcohol and a certain I’m-okay-to-drive national pride. Although this was quite easy given the fact that I’ve never seen what this beloved cup actually looks like and furthermore, in big crowds I tend to daydream, I guarantee you reader, drink from this magical cup, and you will transform into a human flag pole.
They spewed out of the bars like storm drainage, flooding Berlin in streams of black, gold, and red, singing and pointing like drunken sailors on shore leave. Some point to me, making me feel as if I should reciprocate, to point back, to intone an atonal chant of my own. But unlike them, (and they notice this after an awkward moment), I don’t know any soccer songs, and sadly, my face isn’t painted like a flag. In fact, anybody else walking around that evening could have picked up on the tell-tale clues: I’m just a guy who doesn’t care one bit about soccer, surrounded by a world that apparently does.
Not that Americans are known for being big soccer fans. We have our World Series and Super Bowl, but the World Cup just isn’t our thing. It doesn’t have the same beer commercials, tailgates or homecoming games. It doesn’t even have the same word: what we call soccer, most of the world refers to in some form of foot + ball.[1] Regrettably, for many Americans out there, myself included, soccer is a sport that has been gently banished to the suburban hinterlands; a sport better known for its minivan-driving moms than its riot-inciting hooliganism.
Which makes me think, as I navigate through this Braveheart-sized crowd of screaming Germans, of some alternative universe: one in which this year’s World Cup had been sponsored by Cosmo, and not its three-striped titan, Adidas; where its commentators were no other than ABC’s ‘Desperate Housewives,’ giving play-by-plays that served a double, suggestive life of allegory. I see teams arriving in motorcades of beeping Ford Windstars; their uniforms still warm and staticy from mom’s drier. In this universe, “soccer mom” is no longer a pejorative term, but the title of a popular soccer song. Everybody knows it and loves to sing it ad nasueum. I listen to its lyrics –sung in gloriously high octaves—and hear the celebration of the highest rank of motherhood, the expert in domestic logistics and alchemist of half-time snacks...
But then I’m back in Germany, surrounded by the flags, the Germans, and the unmistakable din of victory. Despite my spoil-sportitude, however, I find myself having fun; not because Germany beat Portugal—I couldn’t have cared less—but because after an important victory, certain things are permissible. For instance, I could yell the word Deutschland! like some hair-band rockstar, and be answered accordingly –applauded even. It didn’t matter if I liked soccer or not. It didn’t even matter if I was German. Behavior like this was not only acceptable, but also encouraged. I felt like I was fourteen again, at some outdoor concert, screaming out "Slayer!" to people in line for the bathroom. Victory, it seems, can be quite cathartic, even for the stubbornly indifferent.
But there were limits. I witnessed one zealous fan run into a Dunkin Donuts at full speed, only to get chased out by the manager. After failing to leap atop the table of his choosing –I assume to declare Germany’s victory to an audience of donut eaters, this fan suddenly found himself at the wrong end of a chair and no outlet for his team spirit. On the sidewalk, he darted left and right, provoking her with colorful German phrases, evading her lunges with methamphetamine-fueled dexterity. Realizing that his efforts were best showcased elsewhere, the shirtless patriot eventually gave up and continued his campaign down the street, disappearing moments later into some drug store, screaming as if on fire...
Everybody around me is bedecked, unsurprisingly, in some kind of patriotic flair. Many are wearing this year’s ever popular Mohawk wig, creating a shark tank effect of German dorsal fins in the crowd. Others wear stupid oversized hats, which evidently come in a variety of national flavors, not just German. But my favorite, by far, are those who go right to the source and wear the flags. These are the fans who know what it’s all about. They could be worn Rocky-style, draped triumphantly over the shoulders, or in superhero fashion, as a cape. Even antiquity has a seat along the World Cup catwalk, with the occasional flag-toga finding its way to the party[2].
When asked by one of my students (one who actually brought a flag with him every class during the games) if I saw the game, I shake my head apologetically, tell him no, and confess my embarrassing secret: I’m a twenty-something male who lives in Germany and does not like soccer. Do I play soccer? Another question I must answer to widespread disappointment. That decisive path to the dark side came in grade school, I tell him, in the form of a flyer. It told me of two options for the fall: I could play football or I could play soccer. The benefits of joining a football league were clearly outlined for my parents: it was social, an after school activity that promoted discipline, fitness, and fun. Written below it, in some gaunt, unsure font, was my second option. Maybe I was too weak or scared of injuring myself after having just begun cello lessons, or maybe I wanted to send out the call for unemployed bullies. Whatever it did say, I forget, but the implications of playing soccer and not football –at least from my 5th grade peers—were somewhat clear: you play football because you’re a man and you play soccer because you couldn’t play football.
Although I chose neither that fateful fall, opting instead for a fresh season in video games, I knew that soccer (or any team sport for that matter) would never be my thing. I left the crowd that night just short of reaching Alexanderplatz. Had I any interest in the sport, I probably would have found myself wading through a sea of bragging rights. But I just don’t care about soccer. Sorry. The World Cup is less about a sport anyway, and more about belonging somewhere, about being German, American, Brazilian, or whatever. And mistakenly, I left my flag and face-paint kit at home.
[1] Theory: Rather than adhere to such stringent, all-too-literal-sounding compounds, we (and Australia) cleverly call it something else –a marketing strategy, perhaps, aimed at diverting potential revenue to our version, which is to be played for the most part –the conspiratorial irony—with our hands.
[2] Given the collective, fraternity-like atmosphere, I began to think of the World Cup not as a trophy or title, but as a cup with some overpriced, multicolored cocktail sloshing around inside, spilling all over, getting on your clothes, reeking of alcohol and a certain I’m-okay-to-drive national pride. Although this was quite easy given the fact that I’ve never seen what this beloved cup actually looks like and furthermore, in big crowds I tend to daydream, I guarantee you reader, drink from this magical cup, and you will transform into a human flag pole.
posted by This is borrowed time at 8:06 AM
0 comments
