The Wake

I’ve seen games of hopscotch that were manlier than football. God, with those constant interruptions of play, coaches, apparently having seen Seinfeld, covering their faces while barking out orders–and pause now for station identification. It’s amazing to me how anyone has ever watched, played in, or admired an entire game of football. Seriously, why is it that, in our boring country, football is held as the shining pinnacle of masculinity? The players are draped head to toe in protective padding–why don’t they just wear bubble-boy suits for when they bump into each other?

Now the real football, what we Americans call “soccer,” that is a man’s sport.

But first, what does that mean, to call something “manly”? An unfortunate byproduct of the feminist movement, (which, ask any coworker or female relative, I am all about) was this misconception that being a man is tantamount to being a homophobic, sexist asshole. True, a lot of men are assholes. Conveniently, a lot of assholes I know play football. But trust me, manliness is not synonymous with misogyny, or homophobia for that matter. I think that the manliest guy I ever knew was a gay professor I had when I was living in Montana. If you can picture a homosexual Randall McMurphy meeting Tyler Durden, that’s kind of what he’d be like. And manly doesn’t mean sexist either. I considered explaining this, but Bukowski does it better with his poem “I am not a misogynist,” so look that up, he’s a better writer anyway.

Talking sports, in soccer, you don’t have every twelve seconds to rest for a breather while some assholes talk over their next move, while you wait, for the hut, hut, hike–flag on the play, oh, just hang for a moment. No, in soccer, you have to be able to run, run, run, without time to catch your breath or plot your next move. Maybe you’ll get a second to wipe the sweat from your eyes as you’re shoving your way through the human wall on a penalty kick, but other than that, forget it. There’s that, and the fact that in soccer the only pad you have is a little plastic covering your shin. So when you’re a mid-fielder charging full speed at an attacking forward, with the intent of using your body to take him down, you better brace for the impact.

Football, like golf, is an elitist sport. Mouthguards, shoulder-pads, those cute, tight white clam-diggers they wear–all that shit adds up. In Brazil the kids will just roll up a ball from trash and spent chewing gum, clear out a section of dying yellow grass, pick sides and shout “Jogamos!” That isn’t exactly the case with American football.

I wasn’t the best player–once I was referred to as an “embarrassment” to my high school’s athletic department, but I could play dirty. And lacking a conscience and any shred of moral fiber, dirty always won. At least when you didn’t get caught. One time, I overheard something a mid-fielder said about me, so when he had the ball, I clipped him from behind, and sent him sailing. We both left the game. He walked out under cheers and on the shoulders of caring friends–I went under the glare of a red card and my parents covering their faces.

So yeah, I could be a real piece of shit back then, and I guess I still can–but only when it’s due. The football players from my school were somehow worse than me–you know this story. These were the guys who got away with being trashed at Prom, who groped passed-out girls at the keggers my fellow outcasts and I were unsurprisingly not invited to, (which was probably for the best). Although they were fuckfaces, in their public and private behavior, they were always exonerated. In our local paper, at school fund-raises and useless pep-rallies, even when they lost. Fuck that.

Next time you’re at a computer, do a YouTube search for: “Diego Maradona-Argentina Vs England.” Maradona was, when he was still active and before he got into cocaine, the best footballer ever, and of course, an embodiment of the Argentine alpha-male. When I was in Argentina, Maradona made the news, again, for missing his a flight by a few seconds, and pounding on the door. Corrupt Argentine cops were at the airport, and one held a gun to Maradona’s neck for overreacting. The headline all the papers carried the next day was Maradona’s badass response to the cop: “Dalé. Tirá,” which means “Go ahead. Pull it.” So yeah, he kicks ass.

The clip is of a semi-final match during the 1986 FIFA World Cup. Speaking of the World Cup in comparison to the Super Bowl, why is the Super Bowl every year? Doesn’t that diminish its relevance? Don’t make it this time? Well, there’s always next year. Not so, with the World Cup, the best sporting tournament ever. In the clip on YouTube, you’ll see Maradona, who is a little guy, something like 5′5″, charge up from near his own side’s penalty box, and dribble around a dozen English players, all of whom look twice his size, then going on to make the most badass goal in history. It was named the greatest moment in sports history by ESPN a few years ago, and even if that title is taken by another athlete, I can assure it won’t be some football jock, because what is there to do that is that impressive? You get to pause for a breather every twelve seconds, relax, scratch your ass if you want.

Go anywhere in the world and you’ll find people playing soccer. Shoes and a ball are all you need, and no, you won’t get to rest every time someone falls down. No, you won’t get a pad to cover every square inch of your precious skin, and yes, you are going to get hurt.

But also, you’ll have a lot of fun. American football is only relevant in this nefarious nation of ours, soccer, on the other hand, is slightly more popular than that.