Because no sports team can survive without its loyal cadre of superstitious fans, during this past summer’s World Cup I decided that it was imperative for me to watch all of France’s World Cup matches at downtown’s Pay’n’Take; if I didn’t, they would lose. (Oh yeah, and I also had to drink at least three beers). Thanks, no doubt, to these very difficult sacrifices on my part, France won. Mostly. Right up until the very end.
I am a latecomer to the world of soccer fandom: in fact, it wasn’t until the finals, when a man sitting next to me patiently explained it, that I finally began to get a grip on the offsides rule (and a tenuous one at that–even now it’s starting to fade–wait a minute–there it goes). And furthermore, I’ll admit that my support of France was based more on their team captain, Zinedine Zidane, than it was on any understanding of their past performances. (I wanted to show my support of a fellow geriatric: the 34 year old player was described as “old” so often I half expected him to come out on the pitch pushing a walker.)
So what caused my sudden interest in the game? Simple: after watching my own kids play soccer for several years now, I finally felt an urge to just once see how the game is meant to be played.
It was quite an eye-opener: as someone who has heretofore only seen soccer games played by the preschool set, it was quite a surprise for me to find out that, in a real game, play does not stop because a butterfly crosses the field–even a big, pretty, yellow one. I was also surprised to discover that individual players do not stop in the middle of a drive to pick their nose, contemplate a really neat cloud formation, or yell at their sister for playing with their Power Rangers. They also do not lie down on the field or sidelines and refuse to move another inch until they are told who brought snack, what snack is, and whether or not there will be enough snack for everyone. Furthermore, I did not see even one mother standing on the sidelines holding a box of Dora the Explorer fruit chews and a case of juice boxes; nor did I see any mothers running out onto the field to adjust shin guards, tie shoe laces, and (heaven forbid), realign athletic cups.
The whole thing was so impressive, in fact, that I decided it would be a good idea to take my son, Clyde, with me to watch the final between France and Italy–maybe, I thought, he could pick up a few pointers, even if they turned out to be something as simple as: “chase the ball, not the butterfly”. Really though, what I mostly wanted him to see was how hard and how fast the players ran (even without the threat of “no snack”), and how their coach never once had to tell them to get off of the swing set and back onto the field.
And so it was that Clyde came with me to the Pay’n’Take to learn the fine art of futbal. Or at least, that was the plan. Unfortunately, much like my original plan–where only my steady beer consumption could assure France of victory–this plan too went awry.
Perhaps not uncoincidentally, both plans were thwarted by the same thing: the head butt felt ‘round the world. As Zidane was ushered out of the stadium I realized that not only had France lost, but, judging by the look of astonishment and delight on Clyde’s face, Clyde had also picked up more than a few “simple” pointers. In fact, I had the sinking realization that chasing butterflies during the game would soon seem like an idyllic memory–and that Micro Soccer might never be the same again.