Friends,
We need to talk about sports. More specifically, watching sports as a spectator.
We’re also going to talk about Morocco, Canada, and Chicago, but that part will make more sense in just a minute…
I’ve never understood watching sports. Some folks obsess over their team, the statistics, or the playoffs. Some people spend exorbitant amounts of money buying jerseys or season tickets. Some others lose their ass on sports betting and get foreclosed on while their wife and children starve or whatever.
The whole idea always seemed strange to me.
Surely, one’s time and energy could be spent on more productive activities. What could the appeal of watching other humans playing a game possibly be? Why would people sit on their couch and cheer for a bunch of sweaty dudes in colored uniforms?
I’m still not sure I know the answer, but I think I’m beginning to understand.
A couple of months ago, this thing was going on called The World Cup. You might have heard of it. Countries from all over the world assembled their best futbol soccer teams Avengers-style and battled it out in gripping and unpredictable clashes of sportsmanship.
For a little while, a larger-than-normal group of Americans remembered that soccer is actually the most watched sport on the planet. People paid attention, albeit briefly or in fleeting fashion. The American team actually did fairly decent, all things considered. We’re normally pretty terrible.
As some of you friends might know, on frequent occasions, I find myself hanging out at my in-laws’ house. My wife’s side of the family is all about that quality time together. Which, of course, means me hanging out on the couch while they all talk in Spanish at a speed I’ll probably never be able to keep up with. Spanish is hard, man.
One of these particular occasions was smack dab in the middle of the World Cup. Considering that soccer is a much more culturally relevant phenomenon in Hispanic cultures, a match between Morocco and Canada was playing on the television. More of an afterthought than any real attention being paid. Now, I don’t care much at all about either country. My experience with Canada is limited to the basic knowledge that any American would have. Maple syrup. Hockey. Stereotypical vernacular like, “eh?” and “aboot.” I’ve got a customer at the shop who’s from Canada. He’s a real cool dude.
My exposure to Morocco is even less. I could probably find it on an unlabeled map with relative confidence. Some images come to mind about those awesome red hats with the tassels. Is that culturally insensitive? Probably, but I’m tragically ignorant of the culture. There’s quite a few more things going on in my life than dedicating too much time to understanding the customs and significance of Moroccan history. Blame the public schools, I suppose.
Regardless of how little I knew about either country or, at the time, how little I knew about soccer, I was entranced. I couldn’t look away. The thrill and excitement of watching a bunch of people run up and down the field kicking a ball around was intoxicating. Like the first time a young boy sees some boobies in an old movie. Eyeballs absolutely glued to the damn screen.
I don’t even remember who won that match. Honestly, I didn’t even care. Modern technology allows you to bet on pretty much anything nowadays, so I do remember winning twenty bucks on a randomly placed bet after drinking a few beers and watching the first fifteen minutes. Took about sixty seconds and as much effort as checking the weather on my phone. Modern sports betting is disconcerting and amazing all at once.
The seed had been planted. I wanted more. I spent the next few weeks paying a little more attention. I watched a few more matches. I signed up for a free trial of whatever streaming service it was that hosted the World Cup final before promptly canceling and wondering who the hell pays that much on a regular basis for some of these things. When it was all over, I went down the rabbit hole looking for more.
Turns out, watching soccer is needlessly confusing. There’s like, twenty-seven different leagues all over the world with increasingly confusing names. Champions league, Premier League, La Liga, Bundesliga, Liga MX, etc. Sometimes they crisscross. Sometimes they don’t. Some of them have wildly different rules around salary caps, promotion and relegation, or tournament structure. It’s a lot to figure out.
I took one look at all that nonsense and decided the most sensible thing I could do as a true red-blooded American was, as is our tradition, to not pay any attention to what’s going on elsewhere in the world and focus entirely on my own country.
Enter Major League Soccer.
Yes, believe it or not, we here in America have our very own organization for soccer. It’s nowhere near as popular as baseball or football, but it does exist. The games are all aired live on my Apple TV subscription service, a relief for me because I already pay for that one. Living in the Midwest, my first step was to find a team to root for that was close enough geographically to be relevant.
Easy choice: Chicago. I’m a few hours away from the city, and while I’d never live there because I’m a pretty big fan of my quiet, semi-rural, suburban lifestyle away from all the noise and commotion, I do enjoy the city for weekend trips and fun events. Chicago is an awesome place and I’m definitely not rooting for either of the teams from Ohio. Their team is named the Chicago Fire FC, an homage to the historic Chicago Fire that burned down half the damn city about 150 years ago. It’s a wild bit of history, look it up sometime. Crazy stuff.
Alas, the citizens of the fine metropolitan zone of Chicago proper don’t seem to share my enthusiasm for the team. I know this because of Bobby.
Bobby is a bartender at some random sports bar in downtown Chicago. Why was I at a random sports bar in downtown Chicago? Well, when your wife and her mother want to go see (an exceedingly Latina-oriented) Karol G concert in the city, a dedicated and responsible husband such as myself offers to drive them and handle the Mad Max-style traffic patterns and congested chaos that inevitably ensues afterward.
I recruited Juangis to travel along. If you remember, friends, Juangis needs all the American cultural exposure he can get. So, we parked the car, dropped off the ladies for their concert, and set off into downtown Chicago to grab a beer and wait around for a few hours. Our mission was simple. Find a chill sports bar and try to watch the Chicago Fire soccer game while we drank and hung out.
Bobby the bartender was awesome. He recommended us a few local beers on tap. He was hilarious. Customer service was top notch. A true master of his bartending craft. His knowledge of the local Major League Soccer team, not so much. I can’t really blame him. Perhaps my newfound appreciation for the beautiful game was overzealous. A couple drinks in, I turned to Bobby and said something along the lines of:
“Hey dude, can you turn on the Chicago Fire for us?”
He looked quizzical and responded with, “Uhh, sure. I guess?”
My spidey sense was tingling. Something wasn’t right here. Why would that be so strange? There’s about thirty TVs in this place. Surely, he must know about the local team. They’re in the middle of an impressive comeback run. The team hasn’t looked this good in years. They’re pretty much a lock for the playoffs. They might even have a chance at the championship this year!
Bobby fumbled with the remote for one of the numerous televisions around the bar, before looking back at us disapprovingly and saying, “There you go, guys.”
Juangis and I look up from our drinks excitedly. We’re ready. We’re going to pound these beers and yell at the TV while our team puts in the work. There on the screen, in all its glory and magnificence, is the long-running NBC procedural drama titled, you guessed it, “Chicago Fire.”
Yes, friends. It seems that even in a crowded sports bar in downtown Chicago, my newfound fascination with soccer is shared by precisely zero other humans. The first thing that comes to mind when I ask a literal sports bar employee to put on the home team is a garbage procedural TV show about firefighters. For a moment, myself, Juangis, and about half a dozen geriatric nursing home residents were all watching the same riveting drama. You’re welcome, NBC, for the momentary ratings boost. It won’t happen again.
We informed Bobby of his honest mistake, and we all had a good laugh. Bobby managed to put the game on, and we watched as Chicago got their ass beat by New York.
Bummer.
Was it worth it? Absolutely.
Overpriced beer at a bar I’ll never visit again. A fun story about how far below the popular threshold the culture around soccer has to go here in America. My own realization that I’ve started to become the very thing I mentioned in the beginning of this piece as a mystery. I’m still not entirely sure why I’m entertained by arbitrarily selecting a team and cheering for them and my wife is confused about why the hell I’m planning a chunk of my week around watching sports for the first time in my life.
I’m beginning to understand the appeal. Considering the lack of interest in my team in the very heart of their own market, I don’t expect I’ll meet too many people in my day-to-day life who share the excitement. All that being said, I bought some tickets to a home game next month. I’m absolutely dragging the wife along and forcing her to cheer the team on, and I’ll probably be that insufferable dude who argues with everyone I know about why soccer is more fun to watch than American football.
Give it a chance, friends. I promise it’s a good time.
Thanks for reading.
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See you in the next one.
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