Even Better Than the Real Thing…

I watched the Champions League final at Fado, a pub in downtown Chicago. I hadn’t been there before and didn’t know anything about the number of screens, nor how easy it would be to get a table near one of them. So I recorded the game and, happily, remembered to set up the DVR to record two shows afterward…just in case.

I don’t usually watch games in public. Let’s see, there was last year’s Gold Cup final at Quigley’s and a Chicago Fire playoff game in 2006 at the Globe and…that’s about it. I am not very social about these things. I like to concentrate on the game while freely expressing my wild, half-baked opinions to Steve. But I was persuaded that the first-ever all-English Champions League final should be seen in a pub, despite the inevitable presence of Chelsea supporters.

We arrived about ninety minutes before the start, but only one table was open. We snagged it. Things got a bit tight as the crowd grew, but everyone around us was generous about sharing space. I didn’t have a perfect view, but I did see every bit of the action. Some people in the group–Steve’s friend Jonathan and friends–elected to stand for a more direct view of the game. They don’t seem to mind, do they?

The atmosphere at Fado was all that I had hoped for. The place was jammed with serious supporters of both teams, although red shirts outnumbered blue. Each side was enthusiastic but mostly respectful. Best of all, everyone was really, really into the game. The underground community of soccer fans was out in force–and many (most?) were American, too.

After van der Sar blocked Nicolas Anelka’s penalty the party really got under way for the celebrating United supporters.

This evening I treated myself to a second viewing of the game. It was a delight to watch it without yo-yo-ing between numbness and high anxiety. Who can savor the drama of a penalty shoot-out right in the middle of it? Not I. My keenly-felt disappointment when Petr Cech easily saved Ronaldo’s poorly-taken shot seems excessive now, knowing as I do that Manchester United would still lift the trophy.

And John Terry’s misery? Just as awful to watch the second time as the first.

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?

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?

Be Careful What You Wish For

At one time I was a regular lurker on a Manchester United forum called Redcafe. Ah, what an innocent I was! For the cost of a few hours of my time, I received a top-notch cultural education. I learned a new vocabulary term: glory-hunter. I learned that United’s wild popularity around the globe didn’t give every fan the warm fuzzies. And I learned that there was an unwritten rule that only the support of one’s local team was appropriate. Ouch! To this naive little dismal scientist, that last one smacked of sports protectionism.

The most recent era of glorious football at Old Trafford began in the 1990’s. Thanks to their Champions League success and the broadcasting largesse of ESPN, I had seen more Red Devils games than those of any other team–including our very own Chicago Fire, who came to town in 1998. Until this household tuned into Fox Sports World, Champions League telecasts were the only way to see soccer, aside from the World Cup. Man United was the team that I had happened to see most frequently. It was natural that it would be my favorite, right? Not exactly. According to the vocal denizens of Redcafe, I had committed some sort of faux pas. People like me, apparently, were ruining English football.

Much of what I read on that forum made my jaw drop. Many posters would introduce themselves by reciting a sort of pedigree: “I’ve been going to games since 1970…my dad used to take me…I’m from ______, suburb of Manchester….” In other words, these people didn’t want to be mistaken for the glory hunters who had latched on to United as their favorite team during the trophy-laden, high-flying days of late. In their eyes, people like me weren’t true supporters. We would evaporate as soon as the team hit a rough patch. (Thanks to Sir Alex’ genius, I haven’t been tested yet, nine years on). And worse, our presence was the source of all kinds of nasty externalities (unintended side effects): bigger crowds, ticket scarcity, higher ticket prices, and…not enough singing at the games. These pseudo fans showed up at Old Trafford because, apparently, football had become fashionable. They didn’t know the songs and, besides, they were too busy stuffing themselves with prawn sandwiches to carry a tune. The nouveau fans drove up the demand for shirts and other United gear. Everything was more expensive for those pedigreed supporters who had been there for generations.

To summarize the Redcafe attitude: If you’re not from Manchester, why would you care about United?

To summarize my attitude: It’s easy-peasy for you guys to “support” United. They play in your own back yard! You were sitting on your grand-dad’s knee at every home match. No one looks at you and says “huh?” when you tell them your favorite sports team is Manchester United. I would love to sing at Old Trafford every other weekend, but it’s a bit pricey to get there from Chicago. In other words, I really have to work at supporting the team.

I was “gobsmacked” (love that word) at how different my American attitude was from theirs. While most of us do favor our local sports teams, we tend to move around a lot, so those ties are weaker. We think nothing of identifying with a team that may be several time zones away. We definitely aren’t insulted by out of towners who love our favorite teams, either–what could be more complimentary? No doubt there are guys in Texas who still have a soft spot for the Red Sox because Roger Clemens starred for them two decades ago. So what? The more the merrier!

Ah, but there’s the rub. You can’t just drop by Fenway Park to take in a Red Sox game any more. After two World Series victories in three years, you’ll pay a hefty price for tickets, assuming you can lay your hands on any. This got me to thinking about what would happen if soccer ever did become as popular in the US as it is nearly everywhere else…

The Fire would probably insist that I purchase the full season ticket package, instead of the half-season. The price would be a lot higher than the $30 or so per seat that I’ve been paying (for very nice seats, too). It is true that the atmosphere at the games would be more intense if every game sold out. But we’ve been drawing pretty well this year and most of the people sitting around me are very much into the games. It’s cool to go to Fire games because you know that you’re there with the other true believers, people who don’t mind standing up to the tiresome soccer-bashers in the media who try to tell us what we should and shouldn’t like. I began to sympathize with the long-time supporters in Manchester. When Beckham came to town our little stadium was overrun by tons of little kids. I don’t mind having kids at the matches–I want them to be there, believe me. But their parents kept getting up every five minutes to buy them snacks. Didn’t they know that they were missing large chunks of the match? Were they the Chicago equivalent of prawn-sandwich eaters?

Another benefit to soccer’s lower profile here is that we haven’t been overrun by ultra-type fans. Have we had any casualties among supporters? Didn’t think so.

Do I really suffer because soccer is the red-headed stepchild among American sports? Er, no. With Fox Soccer Channel and Champions League on ESPN I am treated to a banquet of world football coverage. (It would be even better if my neighborhood allowed satellite dishes and then I could get Setanta). And, dare I say this, soccer-mad Americans are better off than their Euro counterparts. We have MLS in the summer months, which gives us twelve full months of footy. No sneering about MLS quality either, Euro friends, as I know that many of you follow lower-division clubs. Moreover, I predict that MLS is on its way to bigger and better things. I am a very finicky consumer, and this is the first year that I’ve been really drawn into the league. It’s not because of that guy they brought to LA either. MLS is definitely not the same quality as the EPL, Serie A, or La Liga, but it does have some talented players and plenty of drama to tide me over from May to August.

I’m not arguing that life is perfectly sweet for Yank soccer fans. It’s a struggle for those who don’t live close to an MLS city, have no cable or the internet. But those of us who want to experience the beautiful game can do so quite beautifully, thanks very much.