In my blog last week, I briefly mentioned my hatred of
soccer (see: “One Week in July in America, 2014). Well, this seemed to have upset
at least a few of my readers. As a result, I’ve decided it’s only fair to
explain myself and make it perfectly clear why the game is so godforsaken awful.
And to all you soccer fans out there, before you vow to never read my blog
again, please remember that this is supposed to be comedic, and is in no way a
comment on you as an individual. I like you.
You aren’t horrible. Soccer is. And here
is a list of five reasons why:
#1) Soccer is boring. It is literally just a bunch
of men running around, kicking a ball. And I know soccer enthusiasts will argue
that there’s much more to it, like “strategy” and such, but I can assure you, there isn’t. It is nothing more than men running around, kicking a ball.
#3) Soccer is boring. Over the past two centuries,
several sports have been derived out of soccer, including rugby, hockey, and
basketball. In essence, they’re basically nothing more than faster paced, more
exciting, higher scoring versions of the same game. The objective hasn’t
changed—put a round object in your opponent’s goal more times than they put it
in yours. Even the Native Americans, in the form of lacrosse, developed a game
more exciting than soccer, and they were thought to be savages.
#4) Soccer is boring. Players try desperately to
make the game appear more exciting by jumping in the air every time any contact
is made, and then diving on to the ground, before flopping around like a fish
out of water. We know that it’s merely a ruse because they almost always
immediately get back up, to continue running around, kicking a ball. Though
basketball players are also known for these theatrics, at least when they take
a dive, they have to land on hardwood, not soft grass.
#5) Soccer is boring.
If there are any soccer fans still reading at this
point, I thank you for your patience and your ability to take a joke. But I fully
understand if I have alienated all the soccer fans, for my writing is probably
much too exhilarating for them to handle. And for those of you who also despise
soccer and are wondering, if I hate something so much, why not just let it be?
Well, that’s simple—if your friends were addicted to hard drugs, would you just
let it be? I don’t see how soccer is any different. In recent years, as soccer
becomes more popular in the United States, I’ve begun to lose friends to their
horrible addiction. “Steve, do you want to do a bike race on Saturday?” “Sorry,
I can’t. There’s a soccer game.” “Neil, come downstairs and hang out with the
rest of us.” “I’ll be down when the soccer is through.” Lately it seems that
the soccer is never through.
Even worse, it has recently become “cool” or “hip”
to like soccer. This is how most epidemics start. In fact, the majority of
people I personally know that like soccer, don’t even like sports to begin
with. Now, how does that make any
sense? Addiction—that’s how. They’ll have excuses of why they like the game. “I
used to play,” seems to be the most popular one these days. Well, I was once forced
to played soccer myself, and you know what? I hated it back then, too! I also
used to play rugby, but that doesn’t mean I like watching it. And I currently
race bicycles, but I certainly don’t watch bicycle races—because they’re
boring!
I know that most adults are probably beyond the
point of being saved, but that doesn’t mean children aren’t. Soccer enthusiasts
have taken a page straight out of the drug dealer handbook and have begun to
target children at a young age. When I was a child, there was a program called
D.A.R.E. (Drug Abuse Resistance Education), “to keep kids off drugs,” in which
police officers would go into classrooms and try to persuade children to never
do drugs (note: it didn’t work). I propose that we start a similar program
called S.T.O.P. (Soccer Termination Or Prevention) “treating soccer like a real
sport.” We can send true professional athletes, like basketball and hockey
players, into schools to warn children of the dangers of soccer before it’s too
late.
It’s going to take a lot of work to keep kids off
soccer, and so, to better understand exactly what we’re dealing with, I’ve
decided to take it upon myself to infiltrate a soccer crowd on the game’s
biggest day. I head down to Pioneer Courthouse Square, or “Portland’s Living
Room” as it’s also known, where they are showing the World Cup Finals on a
giant screen. I already have a Euro-mullet, so I should fit right in, but to be
extra careful, I wear an old rugby jersey, hoping that no one can tell the
difference, and chug a beer, so my breath smells like everyone else’s. I’m a
bit nervous. Though, I’ve been falsely accused of being a narc before (see: The
World Naked Bike Ride, 6-9-14), this is the first time that I really am one.
There’s an estimated 7,000 fans at the square, and
like true addicts, they can’t take their eyes off the giant screen in front of
them. They hoot and holler and break into applause, even though nothing is
happening—only men running around, kicking a ball. “What’s the score?” I ask a
man next to me, trying to fit in. “Zero, zero,” he says in a heavy British
accent (obviously). “What team are you for?” he adds. Oh, no!!!!! I’ve been
had. What team? How am I supposed to know which teams are playing? I must really
look like one of them—disgusting. “They both have strong squads this year,” I
reply, trying desperately to save myself. “I’m more just a fan of the game, no
matter who’s playing.” I scurry away, trying hard not to throw up over the
words that just came out of my mouth.
I circle the crowd, trying to sneak pictures of the
worse assailants. I see three men wearing scarves. Scarves! In July? The
only other people who wear scarves in July are hard drug addicts. I must
document this for future reference, or perhaps for an anti-soccer billboard. I
raise my camera, but just as I snap my photo, one of the men turns his head.
Oh, shit! I’ve been had. What do I do? Should I pretend to watch the game? But
that would make me one of them. This must be how narcs feel when they’re
pressured to smoke crack to prove that they’re not cops. How am I going to get
out of this jam? Please God, don’t make me watch soccer…and then the rain
starts, and the thunder, and the lightning. I’m saved! I pretend to run for
cover and then hightail it the hell out of there. It never rains in July and
there’s never lightning in Portland. God must
be real, and he must hate soccer, too.
I head for home, where there are plenty of more
exciting things to do, like staring at the ceiling, or watching my grass grow. On
the way, I get thinking about soccer and come to the realization that maybe we
don’t need to get rid of it entirely, but simply make some changes, to make it
more exciting. First of all, instead of a net, let’s make each end of the field
a scoring zone, and make each goal worth, let’s say, six points. And how about
we let the players use their hands—go ahead, pick up the ball and run with it,
and throw it, too, if you want. And why not have them tackle each other—if
they’re going to pretend to get hurt, why not really get hurt? And instead of
calling it soccer, let’s call it by its real name—what the rest of the world
calls it—futbol. But in our own language, of course—football. Now, that would
be something worth watching!
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