Many people have asked me, “Why do you love soccer so much, what is it about this sport that draws you to it so passionately and not, say, backgammon? How can you possibly watch four ninety-minute games on a Saturday without going blind?” These are fair questions. Why indeed? I sometimes ring off the old vanguard of noble reasons: “There are no commercial breaks. It’s free flowing and unpredictable. It involves coordination and tactical acumen as well as great athleticism.” But what use are these reasons? You can say the same thing about field hockey but that don’t make it football.
The truth is I didn’t choose football. It chose me. I am merely an innocent bystander. I’m like Richard Dreyfus in Close Encounters of the Third Kind, flashed with a brilliant light (94’ World Cup, Romario, thirteen years old), and suddenly barreling after pitches and games and articles like a maniac – “This means something!” I’ll say, watching Lens vs. Auxerre at 2:00 AM on a Tuesday, “This is important.” I haven’t left my family yet to go climb the Bernabeu, or ruined my kitchen building a soccer pitch on the linoleum with dirt from the neighbour’s lawn. But I’ve spent a great deal of money on a trip to England merely to catch a glimpse of my club, Aston Villa, play Charlton at the Valley over Christmas. I’ve skipped work for GROUP STAGE matches in the Champions League. I follow League 2 standings the way some people follow their investment portfolios.
Perhaps I have a problem. Or perhaps YOU have a problem, still stuck in your life watching hockey or basketball, mired in the grinding machine that is ‘other sports.’ Perhaps you aren’t prepared for the more splendid life football affords to her loyal servants. Let this web log or ‘‘blog’ be a guide to you then. Let it be your freak show or your inspiration. I don’t care. I don’t have time to care. Serie B reruns are on SopCast.
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