Guy’s Guide: Pseudo-Soccer Fandom

Soccer is catching on in the U.S. Catching on fast. The 2010 World Cup game between the United States and Ghana was watched by nearly 20 million Americans. That’s a big ass number. More precisely, it’s the same number of viewers the six games telecast in the previous year’s World Series averaged. The following week’s finale between Spain and the Netherlands was watched by a whopping 25 million Americans, at least half of whom understood that neither country was located in middle America. Coupled with a recent spike in merchandise sales and the influx of soccer specific/friendly sports channels (Fox Soccer Channel, Gol TV, ESPN Deportes, Telumundo, ABC, ESPN) and it is clear that American has found itself a new anal bead. Made of alternating black & white patchwork leather, its name is the rest of the fucking world.

The reasons for this new-found anal intrusion are simple, if not anticipatory. The sports fan zeitgeist, awash in the decade long doldrums of steroids, Spygate, and mobbed-up NBA referees, has officially flared the first salvo of surrender. With perennial “hero” after “hero” crumbling to degradable dust under the immense weight of intrusive media scrutiny and self-immolation, an antidote is clearly in order. Tiger Woods, the one time miscegentic wunderkind turned public pariah, is now as famous for his harem of hos as he is for his golf exploits. Brett Favre, the hick’s hick, mercifully left the NFL with his public persona in shambles; retirement coronation corroded by text messaged photos of his puny penis all over the internet: Wrangler sales, Allah Akbar, still dreadfully low.

No need to get into the well-documented PED problems that have pervaded the MLB throughout the entire 21^st century. “They all cheat” is the overriding sentiment. Whether by whisper, Jose Canseco, or the “Mitchell Report,” nary a premier player of prodigious power has escaped this pandemic without at least suffering some indignity or other. Albert Pujols, a talent for all-time, has a sterling record unsullied by proof of a positive test result; innuendo by neither teammates nor sportswriters having ever defamed his name. Nevertheless he’s been deemed guilty by association. Which would be an injustice if he were not in all likelihood actually guilty of the crimes unproven heretofore. The next several year’s Hall of Fame inductions will be a salad of second baseman and shortstops. I don’t care if I never get back, indeed!

…a premier player of prodigious power has escaped this pandemic without at least suffering some indignity or other.

And how about those sociopathic NFL players? The league never fails to repeatedly remind us between breaks of pomp and militarized pageantry (onslaught after onslaught on the senses) that said sociopaths are doing their part, spending off-hours shuttling between cancer wards and your local United Way. Footage of the strip clubs, clinic, and clink that paved the way for such piety left on the cutting room floor. Unsavory Swill.

Again; the antidote… Soccer. So hop your bitch ass on board this bandwagon and get in on the ground floor before this national groundswell passes you by. Go to any sports bar in any city on a late Saturday morning/early afternoon and scope the scene (stick to the East/West Coast. Saturdays are strictly for sodomy in the flyover states). Within those walls you will find a most raucous crowd of evenly split pandemonium. One color/county/team on the left, another color/country/team on the right. Each respective side will have multiple factions within belting out their own chants and dancing their own jigs. Not a solitary, sober eye in sight. Meanwhile the most beautiful women abound in approachable gaiety. Drunken, Dionysian nirvana writ large.

Having decided you’d like to be a part of this magnificence, understand that there are certain infallible ground rules which, when strictly observed, will act as your keys to the kingdom. If broken, well…talk to The Fates, bitch. Onward…

GROUND RULES

First and foremast, familiarize yourself with the game. It’s hardly necessary to be a true fan, but it’s paramount that you appear to be one. Sniffed out as a fraud by an angry mob of hooligans will lead to an unknown circle of hell. So know the difference between a throw-in and a corner kick and understand the circumstances leading up to them.  Same goes for goal kicks, indirect free kicks, direct free kicks, etc.  In the act of certain penalties, the referee will raise one of two cards: yellow (caution) or red (ejection).  Know whether or not these cards were warranted.  Vociferous questioning of a legitimately bad call will earn you street cred and respect. A thirty-minute overview of the Wikipedia “rules and regulations” entry will suffice. Study it.

Don’t buy the jersey of a superstar player.

It’s also extremely important to wear the right jersey of whichever team it is you’ve chosen to support. Don’t buy the jersey of a superstar player. Half the other charlatans in the bar will don the selfsame thing and it proves you to be a front-runner at best, a potential informant at worst (after body cavity search yields no wire, you’ll get an ass-kicking just for wasting their time.)  Don’t give these people a reason! Wear the number of a team’s second or third best player. Simmering suspicions soon turned fawning: “This guy really knows the lineup. Damn, he’s passionate.” Straight fucking martyr. Belle of the ball type shit. So if you decide to hitch your ride on the Manchester United wagon, avoid the Wayne Rooney regalia and go with Antonio Valencia instead.  If it’s Real Madrid you like, go with the Mesut Ozil and not the Cristiano Ronaldo.

As an aside, it’s imperative that you never, ever wear a baseball or football jersey into a soccer bar because a) you’ll look like a jerk-off douchebag. Dude’s in baseball shirts look like stringed sausage.  Dude’s in football jerseys look like sex criminals.  Soccer jerseys, on the other hand, are quite flattering. Any guy in half decent shape will look tight and toned. And b) soccer fans as a rule despise all other American sports. Your ass will either be heckled to humiliation or sodomized in the nearest stall. Lose-lose proposition, people.

Third, and most crucial, you must memorize all chants associated with the team that’s become the object of your affectation. Being caught ignorant of these chants will lead to permanent exile or in some cases… homelessness. Get to work.

CROWD CONTROL

The crowd will be comprised of nearly every stripe of the spectrum. Hipsters, permeating all things cool as they’re wont to do, are harmless and even a bit precious in their ineffectual vapidity. Approach unseen and they will flinch, in turn buying you a beer out of embarrassment. Their fraudulent sophistication will only reinforce your affected soccer fandom resolve. Next to them, you look downright fanatical. Poor sods.

The crowd will be comprised of nearly every stripe of the spectrum.

The intelligentsia will be holding steady in a far corner, one eye on the game, the other on the front door: a transparent eagerness to be seen by fellow travelers; meanwhile doing everything in the world to remind themselves that they hate being American. Must be exhausting! You will hear grumblings of expatriation, Socialism, and “the ancients” emanating from this group throughout the match, punctuated by the occasional unenthusiastic chant by rote. Best to bite your tongue and move on. Engaging with one of these assholes will lead to a life of nihilism and spite. Avoid.

The yuppies and suits are a lively bunch and, undoubtedly, the truest of fans so far. Sauntering in the bar on a Saturday morning dressed to kill in seersucker suits and lobster printed pants, these dudes don’t give fuck all. For once in their lives not putting on airs, they’re simply there to get drunk and root on their favorite team. While the lack of self-consciousness will initially be inviting, you must beware! As the game progresses and the bar tab balloons, their attention will shift from the game to conservative politics, date rape, and  Ayn Rand. Disputation with this sort will lead to a dumb downed self trying to fuck the nearest electric socket; suicide note taped to bare buttocks.  Avoid.

Hooligans and fanatics present the highest risk-reward.

Hooligans and fanatics present the highest risk-reward. They also constitute the greatest number of patrons so tread extra-carefully: they’ve spies from the hostess to the barbacks down to the Cockney accented, faux bearded panhandler pissing on the bouncer’s shoe out front. They’ll eye you up and down, discernible antennae ready to cut your chord the second they smell bullshit. Do them wrong and its curtains: a beating at best, a wooden coat at worst

But penetrate this gang’s inner sanctum and you’ll be the toast of the town.  The beers will be cheaper, the sport more enjoyable, and the women more forthcoming. So either help lead this charge of the U.S. and its newly found appreciation for a global obsession; dancing in the vanguard with a lifetime license for all things licentious, or stay at home watching baseball whilst sitting on your right hand with only “the stranger” to look forward to.  Sophie’s choice, it is not…