Layer Cake

“The top four next year will be the same top four as this year.”

That was Kevin Keegan’s prediction after Newcastle United’s loss to Chelsea in the penultimate game of the season. He grumbled that the league’s evolution into an elite, uncrackable quartet plus sixteen also-rans meant that “boring” football was the inevitable result.

Keegan’s words unleashed a torrent of commentary. Just google “Keegan Football Boring” and take your pick of the opinions that were spouted by everyone from Reading’s Steve Coppell to every sports journalist in Britain to bloggers around the globe–except Soccer Orb. That is because I’m not inclined to conduct an examination of the state of English football that is sufficiently thorough and comparative to analyze Keegan’s assertions. It is true that since I’ve followed the English game (1998 or so), the title has been held by just three teams–Manchester United, Arsenal, and Chelsea. And the top four are nearly always those three, plus Liverpool. However, Everton finished fourth as recently as 2005 and both Newcastle United and Leeds United–currently residing in the “where-are-they-now” file–made several appearances during the past decade.

I am straying off-point already. I understand that the rich tend to get richer in the world of sport, especially in European soccer. Teams that regularly appear in the Champions League have access to cash flows that open doors that will forever remain closed to lesser teams. Everybody knows that. But does that make the EPL boring? Speaking from an American viewpoint–not at all.

Forget for the moment this year’s nail-biting race for the title and the relegation drama at the other end of the table. Just look at the non-league competitions that spice up European football. I was reminded of this by today’s UEFA Cup Final match between Glasgow Rangers and Zenit St. Petersburg. Though it isn’t nearly as prestigious or lucrative as the Champions League, the UEFA Cup tournament is a portal to extra-league competition for eighty clubs across the continent. Over the years, the most successful of these have been Juventus, Inter Milan, and Liverpool. Tens of thousands of supporters from Glasgow and St. Petersburg descended upon Manchester for the deciding match. Even though the UEFA Cup may be a poor relation compared to the Champions League, everybody seemed pretty happy to be there, especially the Zenit side at the final whistle.

Speaking of the Champions League…most American sports fans could never imagine anything like this. A tournament that runs simultaneously with the domestic league schedule? Just for fun, try suggesting this to an NFL or Major League Baseball fan. The level of competition is daunting, given that it’s reserved for truly the best of the best. And it’s not as if Champions League glory always goes to a domestic league winner. Liverpool finished in 5th place in 2005, yet won a great victory over AC Milan in the Champions League final. There’s nothing boring or predictable in either the UEFA Cup or Champions League tournaments.

Then there’s the FA Cup. True, it lacks the prestige of Europe and the top English teams often field youthful, inexperienced players in the early rounds. But Manchester United and Chelsea fought tooth and nail in the Cup final last May, if you’ll remember. Winning a Double is so difficult that it’s been done only ten times since 1889 and just one team has ever won the Premiership, the FA Cup, and the Champions League.

All this implies that there’s no shortage of meaningful competition in English club soccer. The relegation/promotion system that governs the many layers of the English game guarantees that things get shaken up often enough in the lower half of the table to keep it interesting. It’s clear that the top of the Premiership strongly resembles a very stable oligarchy, yet this doesn’t trouble me. Why? Because real achievement is measured by multiple trophies these days. The top clubs are held to higher standards that are more difficult to meet. Doubles and trebles are rare and likely to remain so. Moreover, competition among those top clubs is keen. Were any supporters of Manchester United, Chelsea, or Arsenal bored this season? I doubt it.

I understand that the examples I’m providing here don’t really speak to Keegan’s point, which is the unlikelihood of second or third-tier clubs breaking the top four’s stranglehold on Premiership glory. This is probably true. And it won’t change unless the FA bans its clubs from participating in lucrative European competitions. The probability of that event is exactly zero, of course. So I would like to invite those Brits who find the Premiership boring to take a trip across the pond in late July or August. They can take in a baseball game…perhaps between teams like the Chicago White Sox and Kansas City Royals. Both were hopelessly out of contention–for anything at all–weeks before the 2007 season was over. With no threat of relegation, why did the fans bother to show up? For the beer, hot dogs and peanuts?

Just 25 months and two days away…

Remember this?

If 750 or so days does seem light-years away, remember that Euro 2008 is just around the corner. And it looks like all the games will be televised on ABC, ESPN, and ESPN2.

Since England didn’t qualify, I intend to sit back and enjoy the tournament. There’s a real freedom to enjoy the games when there’s no rooting interest, isn’t there? There’ll be no agony watching them go down on penalties this time, to Portugal or anyone else…

You say to-may-to, I say to-mah-to…

I tend to use the words football and soccer interchangeably.

This draws sneers from some American soccer fans, or so I’ve read. They use words like Euro snob to describe people like me. To be fair, there’s never more than a smidgeon of pretense in anything I write or do. I happen to like football as a name for the beautiful game, but I don’t have any special attachment to it.

What we know as football here in the United States is apparently an offshoot of rugby. The word soccer was derived from the phrase association football, which was used to distinguish the kicking game from the rugby-variant–in England. I suppose I could have researched the origins of all three games–rugby, soccer, and American football–had I any real desire to get to the bottom of this. Maybe then I would understand why a game in which the foot touches the ball just a handful of times during a sixty-minute game is still called football. But who cares, really? The point is that there are good reasons why two different names are commonly used to describe the same sport.

Growing up in America, all I knew about soccer was that the ball was black, white, and round. I was dimly aware that it was hugely popular in Europe and Latin America. And I’d heard that there were few things that the World was more passionate about than the World Cup. Much later, I learned that most people on the globe used the word football to refer to the game I knew as soccer. I was neither offended nor irritated by this and I definitely wasn’t filled with righteous indignation. Why would I have been? I knew that the rest of the world didn’t play American football. And since the game that we called soccer relied mostly on moving the ball with the feet, it made perfect sense to call it football.

Then I spent six months in London.

It was impossible to live in England without absorbing something about football. The London newspapers, both the real ones and the fun & trashy tabloids, were both entertaining and educational. One of the things I learned was that some Brits were well and truly bothered by the American practice of calling their favorite sport soccer. I think they viewed it as another maddening example of the Yanks’ insistence on doing things their own bloody way. An American, on the other hand, is merely baffled to hear Latin Americans and Europeans refer to soccer as football. He gets a puzzled look on his face–like George Bush at a press conference–and wonders, “Wait a minute…have I ever seen a team from England in the Super Bowl?”

What would Shakespeare have to say about all this? As a matter of fact, Juliet posed this question to Romeo:

What’s in a name? that which we call a rose
By any other name would smell as sweet;

I shall happily continue to use both football and soccer exactly as I please.

O Podaspheria, Where Art Thou?

I haven’t been able to summon the soccer muse lately. She’s as elusive as her better-known sisters: Terpsichore, to whom dancers owe their grace, Erato, who gives voice to love-struck poets, and my personal favorite: Clio, who inspires those who wish to record and understand the past. Artists like to blame the Muses’ fickle nature for their own lapses in creativity. If soccer blogging can be called an art, then I’m pointing a finger at Podaspheria.

It’s well known that the giant athletic equipment company Nike is named for the Greek goddess of victory. Why should football have its own special Muse if there’s already a victory goddess? Doesn’t Nike care for soccer? Podaspheria’s role is, well, complicated. After all, football’s mesmerizing mix of simplicity and complexity is the reason why it’s called “beautiful game.” It’s special, and that’s where Podaspheria enters the picture.

There’s a bit of Aphrodite (the Greek goddess of love), in Podaspheria. This explains why the intense passion of soccer fans worldwide is not limited to those supporters lucky enough to live in a country with a strong national team. Alongside those oh-so-fortunate Brazilian fans stand the devoted supporters of Ghana, Trinidad & Tobago, and Cote d’Ivoire. World Cup success for these sides had been defined as leaving Germany with at least one point in group play, yet their citizens poured their hearts out cheering them on. It is obvious that the Ghana team was especially favored by Podaspheria. She both inspires and rewards intense passion when it comes to football.

Don’t forget that Podaspheria is the sister of Athena, the Greek goddess of wisdom. You may have learned in school that Athena sprang from her father’s–Zeus’s–head, fully-grown. Her scholarly influence on Podispheria is the reason why writers from all over the globe feel compelled to spill ink in sometimes tortured scrutiny of practically everything related to football. Get this–according to a recent article by Slate’s Bryan Curtis entitled Among the Brainiacs, there is now such a thing as a soccer intellectual! And remember that Athena was not only a brainiac goddess–she also ruled the battlefield. That may have something to do with football’s appeal among hooligans and consequently the many tiresome “football as war” analogies.

Podaspheria, like her sister Thalia (the Muse of comedy), loves a good laugh. Her sly sense of humor has given us the well-known practice of diving. She finds it hilarious that referees continue to be conned by the anguished writhing that follows a tackle so slight that it wouldn’t take down the average eleven-year-old girl. Of course, the resulting fouls, penalties, and cards both red & yellow demonstrate that the soccer Muse understands tragedy’s role in football. That’s usually the bailiwick of her sister Melpomene, the singing Muse. I wonder if that’s why soccer supporters worldwide join together in singing during matches? Is it Podaspheria inspiring them to sing in celebration of the game’s drama and beauty? Is it her voice leading them in song when faced with tragedy–as when Liverpool supporters raise their voices in their signature anthem You’ll Never Walk Alone?

I suppose Podaspheria has been too busy directing the action in Germany to have time for me. I haven’t been able to find the words to describe what’s happened on those far-off pitches, all of them witness to a fair share of blood, sweat, and tears. There was both adoration and tragedy in the France-Spain game yesterday. But Arjen Robben’s clever elegance was tragically wasted in another match that was given over to cynicism and anger. England plodded along until Podaspheria sprinkled her own equivalent of fairy dust on one of David Beckham’s fabled boots. The Mexican side stood its ground against mighty Argentina until Maxi Rodriguez knocked them out of the tournament. There’s no shame in losing to an opponent who produces such a magnificent goal.

Beneath the waving flags, the fans sang, beat drums, shouted, laughed and cried.

I am glad that Podaspheria has no time to inspire me. I hope that she’s busy imagining more special moments for the final eight games in the 2006 World Cup.

How was Rome built? One brick at a time…

Tomorrow’s little getaway to Dallas is ostensibly to check out my brother’s new house, give The Girl a break from dreary Evanston, and look in on my parents.

I have assigned myself a significant task to accomplish during those four days, though. My brother’s attitude toward the beautiful game can best be described as disrespectful. Over the years I’ve had to listen to his tiresome, cliche-ridden laundry list of our sport’s supposed negative attributes. Do I need to bother sharing the details with you, dear readers? Nah–you’ve heard it all before.

There’s another attraction to the north Dallas suburbs whom I’ve yet to mention. She is called Katie. She’s my niece, all of four years old, darling, active, super-bright, The Girl’s favorite cousin, my brother’s only child. The other day the usual wacky brew of disparate thoughts swirling around in my head converged thusly:

* Katie lives in Plano, which is just down the road from Frisco, which is the home of FC Dallas.
* It seems that the consumer is king–er, princess–here in the U.S. As everyone knows, little princesses love nothing better than to surround themselves with pink-ness. With that in mind, here’s what I’ll be shopping for as soon as the plane lands. Size 3 should be about right.
* I remember the day when Katie’s cousin (aka The Girl) came home from her very first soccer practice. “I want to play soccer every day!” she announced. Lately she’s been tied up with study-abroad paperwork, French grammar assignments and history term papers, so I’m guessing that she’d love to have a kick around with Katie in that brand-new back yard.

My brother is several years younger than I and long ago perfected the role of teasing little brother. Like when he carried the dictionary to me, at the age of six, and pointed out that pygmies were people whose average height was five feet tall–like me. Or when he was four and called me “Mom” in public places. This weekend, I’m on a mission: to transform Katie into an ardent soccer supporter. At first she’ll fall in love with kicking the ball around, but I have high hopes that she’ll be begging to go to the games at Pizza Hut Park in a couple of years. I’m dreaming of the day when my brother complains that Katie keeps the TV tuned in to Fox Soccer Channel to catch all the EPL and Serie A action.

As they say, revenge is a dish best served cold.

Freddy’s in the Pink

Take a look at Benfica’s away shirt for the 2007-2008 season, which has been described as “controversial.” What’s the problem? It’s quite tasteful, especially when you consider Palermo’s Pepto-Bismol pink home shirt. The new away colors were mentioned several times when I was digging around for a bit more info about Benfica, so I guess Freddy isn’t the only news item in Lisbon these days.

Until today, all I knew about Benfica was this: it’s a Portuguese club that consistently qualifies for the Champions League. That’s enough for most American soccer fans to think that Freddy Adu has hit the jackpot. The Portuguese Liga is not the most high-profile or glamorous of the European leagues–those are honors reserved for Spain’s La Liga, the EPL, and the Italian Serie A. But Freddy will be tested among first-rate competition. In international play, remember that Portugal made it to the semifinals of last year’s World Cup, losing to France with an eventual fourth place finish. Portugal hosted Euro 2004, losing in the final game to Greece. It has participated in the finals of the World Cup a total of five times. This is no easy task, as qualifying out of Europe is slightly more challenging that qualifying out of, say, Concacaf.

Portugal is small–both in area and population. It ranks 111th out of 235 in terms of area and its population is around 10.5 million people, according to the CIA World Factbook. To put that in perspective, that’s about one million more people than the number residing in the greater Chicagoland area. For Portugal to have achieved such stature in football is rather impressive, especially when compared to its big Iberian neighbor. And Spain’s best international results are far from recent. In the 1950 World Cup it finished in fourth place; it finished second in the 1984 European Championships.

Of course, Freddy won’t be playing for Portugal. Instead, he’ll be lighting up (we hope) the Estadio da Luz for Benfica. Benfica is one of the Big Three clubs in the sixteen-team Portuguese Liga, along with Sporting Lisbon and FC Porto. It finished in third place in the 2006/7 season, one point behind Sporting and two behind Porto. Freddy’s new club last won the league in the 2004/5 season, after a decade-long drought. This, however, is a club with a long and glorious tradition. In fact, Wikipedia tells us that it is known as “Glorioso” to its fans. Founded ninety-nine years ago, it has won two European Champions Cups (1961-2), and thirty-one league titles. There are more impressive facts: Benfica is the most popular team in Portugal, with the highest average attendance in the league. It has more club members than mighty Manchester United and many active supporters’ groups worldwide. Benfica is a powerful, significant club in a sophisticated football nation.

Freddy’s days as a big fish in a small pond are over. When he goes to work every day, he’ll pass by a statue of the legendary Eusebio, who scored 727 goals in 715 matches during his time with Benfica. There’s more: he scored nine goals for Portugal in the 1966 World Cup, was the 1965 Footballer of the Year and won the first Golden Boot award in 1968. I could trot out even more impressive stats from Wikipedia, but I’m sure you get the picture. Recent Benfica notables include Rui Costa, Nuno Gomes, and Simao Sabrosa, who was just sold to Atletico Madrid.

Could there be two more different clubs than Real Salt Lake and SL Benfica? I don’t think so. A comparison between DC United and Benfica is more appropriate, of course, since Washington was where Freddy spent the bulk of his MLS career. Yet even though United is a thriving, established MLS franchise, everyone knows that it’s light-years away from achieving Benfica’s status.

Freddy’s life—sporting and otherwise—has been far outside the norm of most athletes, except for female tennis players. It’s a cliché to talk about how he’s been overhyped and oversold. Some fans have responded by being overly critical of his MLS performance. I find that disturbing. He turned pro at an especially young age and, even now, he’s on the small side. So he only scored twelve goals in four MLS seasons? So what? He was learning the game, playing among older, bigger, more experienced players. The media scrutinized everything he did on the field, contributing to the sky-high expectations that have characterized his career so far. It would have been astonishing if he really did turn out to be the Tiger Woods of Major League Soccer.

Freddy Adu’s new life will be filled with numerous challenges—a new language, culture, and life in a very different sort of fish bowl. He was like a gifted middle school kid who got promoted a few years ahead of his classmates and thrown into a competitive private academy with older kids. He wasn’t named valedictorian. But he still had the goods to get an offer from…let’s see, not Harvard or Princeton, but maybe Dartmouth or Columbia. There will be intense competition, because he’s competing against all the other gifted kids. There’s no guarantee that he will thrive. But he’s in the right place to find out if he’s got the right stuff.

Once in a Lifetime

Once in a Lifetime might have appeared in Chicago-area theaters for five minutes or so, but I missed it. Fortunately The Guy heard about it and Netflix came to the rescue. I had planned to blog about my impressions as I watched it. But it was too entertaining for me to engage in the usual multi-tasking: watching a movie while reading, doing a crossword puzzle, blogging, or mindless surfing. (We all know it’s not possible to do anything else while watching a soccer game).

I suppose the rest of the world knew this, but Once in a Lifetime is a documentary about the New York Cosmos of the ill-fated North American Soccer league of the 1970’s. I was ignorant of the NASL, even though I have loved sports most of my life and soccer for the past nine years. I knew that there had been a league populated by a handful of big international stars, but that was it. Such delicious irony! A one-time cliometrician–notice that my email is “clio….”–as in Clio, the Greek muse of history–is ignorant of football history!

My jaw dropped when I saw the footage of packed American football stadiums–full of Americans–going wild for the New York Cosmos. Even more amazing was the discovery that the Cosmos’ goalie, Shep Messing, had posed nude for a women’s magazine. Much of the film’s entertainment value comes from snickering at such seventies-style extremes–hair that was too big, colors that were too loud, and shorts that were too short. Aside from the hilarity of Viva centerfolds, disco music, and bell bottoms, this film was definitely educational.

Only the NY Cosmos were wildly popular. The team was owned by Warner Communications, whose CEO, Steve Ross, had become intrigued with soccer. The driving forces behind the Cosmos’ success were in fact Warner’s deep pockets and Ross’ obsession with popularizing the sport in America. He was indefatigable in his pursuit of Pele, who may never have been signed if not for the intercession of Henry Kissinger. Ross’ determination and hyper-competitive, hyper-confident vision indirectly factor into such success as MLS enjoys today. Even after the league went under in the 1980’s, fans kept a soft spot in their hearts for the Cosmos. Kids discovered that they loved playing soccer and supporters worked hard to bring another pro league to America. They were determined it could work with a more rational business plan.

That is because what succeeded for Ross and the Cosmos ultimately brought down the league. Paying big bucks to aging international superstars created a tremendous level of excitement in New York. Unfortunately, that excitement was accompanied by a big, fat helping of irrational exuberance. Alas, there was no Alan Greenspan around to talk would-be NASL owners out of silly plans to expand the league into every corner of the U.S. Soon there were too many teams chasing too few fans and…well, you can guess the rest.

After watching this film I understand why so many MLS fans were convinced that the Beckham signing was a recipe for disaster. There’s a logic to MLS’ caution in everything it does, from holding back on stadium construction to expansion to courting foreign stars. The film raised as many questions as it answered for me, though. Like why doesn’t the New York MLS franchise draw very well, given the Cosmos’ success?

If you haven’t seen Once in a Lifetime, by all means do so. Rent it for its anachronistic shock value, if nothing else. Maybe it’s just me, but I can’t wrap my head around the fact that American soccer existed in the days before personal computers and cell phones. Or that President Gerald Ford once stood next to Pele and kicked around a soccer ball.

Why Can’t Every Game be Just Like This?

“I think there might be a few prawn-eaters here today.”

Such were The Guy’s thoughts before Sunday’s showdown between the LA Galaxy and the Chicago Fire.

Alas, Toyota Park does not serve prawn sandwiches, forever immortalized by Roy Keane’s contemptuous remark about Old Trafford fans whose priorities did not include actually watching the Red Devils play. And yet I did notice that the line for Dippin Dots was even longer than usual. Was this because of the 80 degree temperature or all those grade schoolers running around in Galaxy #23 shirts?

No matter. This was a perfect day for American soccer. Though I can’t say that the atmosphere in the stadium went all the way to eleven, everybody (well, everybody over age 16), knew they were watching a game whose outcome really mattered. Yeah, they were there to see the guy from East London go head to head with the guy from south of the border. But I sensed that the celebrity thing took a back seat to the showdown on the pitch. Geez, this must be what it feels like to support an English team locked in a relegation battle! We’re getting there, inch by inch….

I absolutely pitied the Galaxy, especially Beckham. Only victory would save their season and neither the Fire nor their supporters were having any of that. Donovan was booed with gusto whenever he took a corner (a bit harsh for a guy who scores for the USMNT), as was Becks when he came in near the 60th. Though LA had a few scary chances in front of goal–especially after Beckham served up some good crosses and corners–possession time and shots on goal favored the Fire. If we had better strikers, the game would have been a blowout in the first half. I do give Chad Barrett points for trying hard, but he missed a handful of good chances, including an open goal early in the game. And Paolo Wanchope? How could I improve on the guy behind me: He runs like a zombie! Zombies, don’t run, do they? I guess that’s the point.

The Beckham v. Blanco matchup has been overblown. Their playing styles are so different that comparisons are meaningless. Beckham’s value has always been his precision kicking: free kicks, corners, crosses. Blanco is a tireless playmaker. Cuahtemoc (I’m trying to spell that without looking–I should know it by now, but I sense that I’ve misplaced a vowel), had an outstanding game on Sunday. At age 34, he plays with such fire in the belly that I would love to see film of his salad days in Mexico. I wonder if Becks looks at him with envy? I mean, at some point all the hype and pressure and 24/7 scrutiny of his entire existence has to get to him, don’t you think? Blanco flew in under the radar of the Anglo media for the most part, and has nothing at all to prove to his legions of Mexican fans here and back home. Less media attention plus no injuries equals relaxed, happy, productive footballers.

I was going to spend this entire post enthusing about the Cinderella boy of Sunday’s game. Except John Thorrington is no Cinderella boy. He’s more like the Heartbreak Kid and the regular media (no fair, Luis A.), have already written all the cool stuff about him. Like how even though he signed with the occupants of Old Trafford as a teenager, his career has been so plagued with injuries that starting for League One side Huddersfield Town had been one of its highlights.

I think that changed on Sunday. Thorrington burst on to the field for the final half hour of Sunday’s game, looking for all the world like a man just told that he was playing in his final game. He made every second count, scoring the winning goal with a lovely chip over Galaxy keeper Joe Cannon. Seriously, I didn’t see Sky Sports News on FSC afterward, but I shall take umbrage if that goal and celebration didn’t make the highlights. Because of the Beckham connection, it could happen, right?

Finally, I suppose that the media and the soccersphere thrive on speculation, but enough is enough. Yes, a draw would have pitted us against Chivas in the first round of the playoffs instead of DC United. But what kind of athlete ever steps on the field of play without going for the win? (No gratuitous references to Manny Ramirez, please). Remember that Beckham was part of the glorious Man United squad that produced two stoppage time goals to win the 1999 Champions League. Should the Fire have played for the draw, just assuming that the Galaxy wouldn’t score in stoppage time? Nope. Besides, a goal like Thorrington’s must surely inspire his teammates. And what team can’t use a little inspiration going up against the strongest team in the league?

Once upon a time, in Sheffield

What do toilet paper and club soccer have in common? According to Forbes magazine, 2007 marks the 150th anniversary for both. Of course, variations of the game itself have been around for centuries (just like tp substitutes, one hopes). But an important step on the long, fitful path toward organized competition was taken on October 24, 1857 with the founding of Sheffield Football Club. Unlike some other inventions from 1857–elevators and transatlantic telegraph cable–competitive club soccer didn’t immediately become a big-time commercial enterprise. At first, Sheffield had no one to play against, forcing the club to stage games between members–bachelors vs. married men, for example. And it would be nearly three decades later before open professionalism was given the stamp of approval by the FA. It’s hard to believe that just 150 years ago today’s glamour game was a chaotic mess of quasi-professionals whose play was governed by a motley patchwork of rules.

Forbes is a business publication, so the article’s author duly notes how soccer’s worldwide sporting dominance has helped to enrich shareholders of Nike, Adidas, and Rupert Murdoch’s NewsCorp. Real Madrid and Manchester United are global brands and ownership of top English clubs is the province of the super-wealthy. Apparently this is news to some Forbes readers.

As I read about the beautiful game’s humble origins, I began to think about what life was like in 19th century England. What did people do for fun? Was soccer the only game in town? Just how did it become so popular?

With the help of Wikipedia and a library book called Sports and Games of the 18th and 19th Centuries by Robert Crego (Greenwood Press, 2003), I learned a bit more about Victorian sporting life. Cricket was already the most established team sport. It had a big head start on soccer in terms of standardized rules, organization, and popularity. Crego states that it was “flourishing” a full one hundred years before the founding of Sheffield FC.

And then there’s rugby football. It had begun to evolve separately from the kicking game by the early 1800’s. To my 21st century eyes, rugby seems like anything but an upper-class pastime, but that’s exactly what it was. The working class did take to the oval ball game as the century wore on. In fact, Crego describes how the 1876 Yorkshire Cup Challenge was won by a team of working blokes, much to the dismay of those who considered such men their inferiors. The Rugby Football Union was formed in 1870, just eight years after the London Football Association. The Rugby Football League appeared in 1895 to govern the different style of play that was prevalent among the clubs in the north of England.

Golf and tennis were always socially exclusive but boxing and horse racing thrived among all classes. Writing of boxing, Crego notes, “With Britain at the height of its industrial boom, even the factory hand and the common laborer had money to spend on entertainment.” Professional horse racing took root in the early 18th century. Races were often part of the entertainment at fairs and festivals, where spectators included both farmers and gentry. There were other sports whose appeal was mostly limited to public school students, or anyone else whose means allowed it: cycling, rowing, track and field, cross country running, and even field hockey.

Get the picture? Soccer didn’t develop in a vacuum. It was a survivor in a battle that was as rough and tumble as the economic competition that characterized the Industrial Revolution. Its beauty lay in its simplicity, lack of expense, and accessibility. Marketing, advertising, and public relations gimmicks weren’t part of the formula. To get an idea of the extent to which soccer permeates the English landscape, have a look at the structure of the English Football League system. Fanciful names–to Yank ears, at least–like Wycombe Wanderers and Accrington Stanley populate the current League Two table, far below glittering “brands” like Manchester United and Chelsea. Yet League Two holds a lofty spot in the pyramid, compared to the likes of Moneyfields and Wimborne Town in the Wessex League (Premier Division).

The business of English football couldn’t be described as a smashing success until the top teams split off into the Premier League in 1992. Revenues poured into the new league from the sale of television broadcasting rights, tapping into a huge global demand for its product. According to Wikipedia, the latest TV rights deal (2007) will bring the League 2.7 billion pounds over three years. Compare this to the Premier League’s first sale of TV rights to Sky back in 1991–191 million pounds over five years–and it’s easy to see how the average player’s salary rose from 75,000 to 676,000 pounds per year over nearly the same period (latest figures were for the 2003-04 season). And to think that we Americans have been rather pleased with the 2007 MLS season!

So all of this means…what, exactly? That the conditions that produced English football are so vastly different from what brought about MLS that making comparisons is a waste of time. The complaints of Euro-snobs (like me) about MLS quality are very much beside the point. The Brits, not to mention the rest of the world, should be better than us. They’ve been at it since the game was known as “mob ball” in the Middle Ages.

It might take several light-years to cross the canyon that separates the English soccer experience from what what’s going on in the US and Canada. At least there are a few oases for those who are trudging across this expanse, namely Fox Soccer Channel, GolTV and Setanta. Most of the time–unless David Beckham’s in town–the local MLS team will welcome weary pilgrims with open arms. Major League Soccer may not completely quench anyone’s thirst. Yet with stars like Blanco, Dichio, Angel, and Altidore, league expansion, soccer-specific stadiums, and expanded live TV coverage–it’s no mirage, either.

I’m not cool enough to sit in Section 8

I’m trying to accept my status as a plain vanilla Chicago Fire fan. Sometimes at Toyota Park I avoid looking over to my right. Why? Because those guys make me feel guilty. That’s where the real supporters sit–er, stand. Behind the goal at the Harlem Avenue end of our lovely, almost-new ground is where you’ll find Section 8 Chicago. (See what I mean? They’re in Wikipedia)! During the entire game, they stand, sing, chant, and bang drums. They set off flares and smoke bombs. There are banners big enough to cover the whole section. And flags…huge gorgeous flags so big I don’t know how one person can wave them.

The group got its name from the section it once occupied in the pre-renovated Soldier Field. It seems to be an umbrella organization that includes several affiliates, such as Barn Burners 1871, the Arsonists, Fire Ultras ‘98, and Ultras Red-Side. There are smaller groups including one called The Shandy Sisters whose irreverence is especially intriguing.

I don’t want to copy the membership requirements for Section 8 and the Ultras Red-Side, both of which are easily found on their websites. Here’s the gist: you’ve gotta be committed, baby. You must attend at least half of the home games, have no other club affiliation, and be possessed of a sincere desire to put heart & soul into supporting the Fire. The people who sign up aren’t just ticking “accept” after scrolling through these terms and conditions. They mean every single word.

Other MLS teams have supporter groups, some of whom seem to be very dedicated. The Torontans who showed up in Chicago this summer certainly had an ultra look to them. I haven’t been to any MLS games outside Chicago, but I’d have to see it with my own eyes to believe that any other supporters can outdo Section 8. Toronto may be the exception to this claim. From what I’ve seen on TV, its entire stadium is filled with ultra-esque types.

So why do Section 8 supporters give me a raging inferiority complex? I’m good Fire fan, I am. I’ve been going to matches since 1998. I’ve listened to games in the car, in Spanish, and I don’t speak Spanish. (I do, however, understand “gooooooal”). I watch the games on TV whenever possible and most years I’m a half-season ticket holder. I’ve got Fire scarves and a t-shirt.* But, but, but…I don’t want to sit behind the goal. I’m afraid that I’ll get scolded if I forget myself and sit down for a few minutes. And honestly, have you heard me sing? It would be disrespectful to the Fire–indeed, to all of Major League Soccer–if I sang in Toyota Park.

So I guess that Section 8 isn’t the place for me. I applaud its style, and especially envy the pre-match tailgating. I’ll just have to admire its citizens from afar, and take pride in the way that they represent Chicago.

*Gripe alert! I would wear my Fire t-shirt much more often if only the market would respond to the needs of women and make feminine, fitted shirts instead of those boxy man-shirts! Haven’t they watched Trinny & Susannah on What Not to Wear?