Major League Sports: January 2007 Archives
First of all, a brief shoutout of good luck to my beloved UrbanHonking AC, who take on (are probably taking on as I type this) Dudes FC in their second Rivals Cup fixture, because I'm unable to join them tonight. Godspeed, gentlemen.
So your intrepid author, stereotypical Oregon hippie that he is (vegetarian? check. SE Portland address? check. socialist leanings? check. big head of hippie hair plus beard? check.), types these words from a corporate-sponsored Hilton suite, deep, as they say, in the heart of lone star steak country. Said author's travelling companion is a Chicago native, obviously the original inspiration for Da Superfans, who planned his travel itinerary such that not a single moment of Da Bears playoff spectacular would be missed this Sunday. If this is beginning to sound like a bad 90's remake of The Odd Couple, you're not too far off the mark.
Being along for the ride anyway, I decided to accompany him and attempt to at least remember if not re-live some of the excitement I once had for the Broncos as a youth growing up outside of Denver. American Football and I have had a rocky relationship over the years. Loved it as a kid, played it in High School even though I knew in my heart the love was fading, swung to active hate during college, and faded back into mild indifference in the present as I race headlong towards my 30th birthday.
Kickoff commences, and the first thing that comes flooding back to me, other than the realization that my "ceaser" salad is sprinkled with bacon bits, is that I forgot about the commercials. Oh dear. I know how clichéd this sounds, but there is literally 30 seconds of action followed by 30 minutes of commercials. I don't know how such a terrible oversight occurred on my part. Having been tivo-enabled for the last 3 years or so, i've thankfully banished even regular length commercial breaks out of my life. I'm not equipped with the intestinal fortitude to make it through football-sized commercial breaks.
Each time they return, my sphincters unclench a bit and my mind resets into sports absorption mode again, but right when my bile has lowered and i'm ready for something exciting to happen, the requisite four plays are past and the advertising beast must be fed again. Hearing me groan once again, my companion says, "See, this is why soccer will never be big in America. Advertisers can't make any money when there's no breaks." Watching a Rock-Em-Sock-Em Robot take on a pickup truck for the 9th time, I think that's probably best for all parties, but instead I mumble something about MLS approving ads on the front of jerseys and pitch-side ad boards.
As the game progresses, I'm reminded how cut and dry American Football is. Since each team has, I think, 3 chances to score before "time" runs out, every possesion is either pure glory or utter failure. Or a field goal. (I'm told that one of the teams has two kickers. How much does it suck to be one of those guys? You would get 3 chances to touch the ball, but now you have to share those with some other guy. I bet he cries himself to sleep at night. On a pile of $100's.)
This also leaves no grey areas. How do NFL message board geeks get by on this? In soccer, one fan's Maradona is another fan's Joey Franchino, and neither get much definitive proof either way. Other than those two exact players, soccer talent, and soccer games, play out so much more elusively, on a long gradient from blah to bellissimo. There are fewer ways of quantifying what makes a soccer player "good", and the moments of pure joy in the beautiful game sometimes happen far away from the goals. And don't even get me started on the subject of stats unless you're ready to hear A Grumpy Old Man.
Eventually, we finish lunch, and my third Shiner (oh how woeful it is to be anywhere where the best beer available is Shiner). The Saints have crawled back into the game off of one moment of individual excellence from Reggie Bush. The Loch Ness Monster has attacked 5 more pickup trucks. My travelling partner either takes pity on me, or seriously wants to finish the game in his hotel room. I don't care which, because whatever game drama is beginning to solicit genuine interest is washed away with the salivating thought of checking my email.
So I wussed out. I wasn't man enough to take on the big boys. Although, apparently I didn't miss much afterwards, as New Orleans decided they were done for the evening. All I was left with was the thought: MLS needs "saving" so it can be more like this? Can you pass the sepukku knife?