May 26 2008
Ode to London
Greetings fellow Tsar-subscribers. It’s your lovable pal Devin, back to give you more reasons to hate Europeans! Well, not really but it’s another one of those soccer posts that you probably skimmed last time.
If you read my previous post, then you know I’m an out-and-out footy fanatic. You must also, by the transitive property, therefore be aware of the fact that I’m full-fledged supporter of the Chelsea Blues. And thanks to ‘The SportsTsar’, we’ve all been informed that said Blues were done-in by the awful yet incredibly talented Manchester United Reds last Wednesday in Moscow.
This, lads, was not simply a match won by the best team. It’s bigger than that. This was without a doubt the best display of European football that the world has seen in years. The match was hyped beyond belief and somehow lived up to every single expectation. The match ended in regular time as a 1-1 draw, survived two ‘extra time’ (overtime) periods, before culminating in the ultimate showdown, the penalty shootout. Needless to say, the Reds prevailed, but not before a few of us bit some fingernails to shreds.
I vividly recall the palate of emotions preceding and following John Terry’s biffed game-winning penalty shot. It got worse when ‘Le Sulk’ Nicolas Anelka stepped up and did his best to gift the title to the Reds by demonstrating that his nickname is not for want of trying. All-told, this was classic English football and all of these players deserve high praise.
But you’ll have to forgive me for being somewhat of a Debbie-Downer these days. Its been a rough week for Blues fans stateside, and obviously its been increasingly worse for those lads on foreign soil. And I should know all about it. Yes, as I type I am sitting in Central London and surrounded by Arab children in Cristiano Ronaldo kits. The whole visual is terribly upsetting and I might have to excuse myself from this Starbucks for a reprieve…..
<15 minutes later…>
I’m back. A quick check of the news reveals that Avram Grant, Chelski’s manager has been fired (no surprise there) in the wake of our recent defeat. It’s also been speculated loudly that there is a mass-exodus of talent brimming for a departure to all points of the Continent. Furthermore, out billionaire oligarch owner has his sights set on the purchase of more superstar talent to thicken what might soon become a depleted squadron. All told, these are not stable days on Fulham Broadway.
But I’ve lost the plot. I wanted to write today to remind everyone stateside that here, football is a way of life. I cannot tell you how many times I’ve peeked out the window to see children from the ages of 2 to 22 scrambling across the streets with balls at their feet, rain or shine, winter-coats be damned. When I arrived at Heathrow, I took the tube into the city. It’s approximately an hour’s trip, so I had plenty of time for people-watching. At the first stop, a father and his two sons boarded my cart. This triumverate had travelled to Moscow to watch the match in person, and obviously were disappointed with the outcome. While the father quietly sat reading the morning-after Sun newspaper, the two brothers, who were no older than 6 and 8, recited significant statistics, discussed open/closed formations, debated the attacking prowess of assistant coaches, and speculated on summer transfers for the Blues.
I sat there with my mouth agape for good reason. I wish I was one of those kids. Over here, football is a bonding experience between father’s and sons, not dissimilar to Baseball or the NFL. But it seems to run much deeper here, clearly more tangible than supporting the Yankees. In England, soccer is a way of life, and the color you wear is the one you bleed. These children knew very well that they were born into an extended family of supporters and fanatics, and have embraced the essence of the sport to their respective cores. While most American fans of the sport support the upper-crest and highly marketed teams with superstar talent (myself included) the broad majority of denizens here do not.
Generally speaking, the town you’re born in has a team. Now, that team may not participate in the highest and classiest league, but nevertheless, all teams play matches at varying levels of difficulty. Consequently, most people support their local club, no matter how shitty the stadiums or how little fanfare they receive. Its something akin to pride, but again, something far more significant. The fans feel a bond with the players on the pitch, and the players derive an unquestionable amount of strength from the cheering sections. The lower division squads, referred to as ‘pub teams’, will literally head to the local watering hole after matches and down pints with their fans. They’ll most likely buy groceries from the same Tesco you visit, send their children to the same public school, and buy underwear from Marks and Spencer, just like you. This is the accessibility of English football. The players are not demi-gods. They are regular folk like you and me, and it serves as a humbling reminder that any bloke with enough passion and the right amount of intensity could one day take the pitch.
So when I watch fathers and sons debate the merits of Avram’s resume, or whether or not Frank Lampard deserves a new contract (he does), I feel a certain attachment to them. There’s no doubt I could have jumped right into their conversation and been included as a member of their community without disrupting the flow. Sure we aren’t related, and physically we have different DNA, but theoretically we all bleed Blue. That right there is enough to include anyone into your extended family. Football is more than a game, its a way of life that’s bringing families closer together than ever before, and I cannot help but marvel at the footprint its leaving on a new generation of father’s and sons.
Here’s to the game, and its continued growth in the UK and beyond.
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