And so, for the first time since I fired England as the team I always cheer for in the World Cup, it was time to settle in and watch them play. And of all the sides they could be opposing on this achingly overdue occasion, wouldn’t it just have to be These United States?
This blog charts the match’s emotional ups and downs – and not because I seriously think anyone really cares who I’m cheering for. It’s more an examination of the whole issue of unconditional soccer support, and whether one can actually free oneself from an unhappy association with a team that drives you asinine, and diminishes your will to live.
Ing-er-land, Ing-er-land, Ing-er-land.
[PRBREAK][/PRBREAK] It’s a life sentence, they’ll tell you – and I desperately want that not to be true. I feel driven down and diminished by England’s narrow view of the world game. I’m tired of never being fully free to support bolder, more creative sides.
I could have done without it being the Americans on the other side. But on the other hand, Major League Soccer is the league I directly cover. The thought that a briefly over-achieving upstart like Edson Buddle of the L.A. Galaxy could actually be in position to dent England’s World Cup dream is ironic – funny, actually. Buddle doesn’t start. Oh, well.
Odd how the universe can set you up, sometimes. Two days after I fired England, I actually encountered my long-lost ex-wife in St. George subway station in Toronto. Hadn’t seen her in eight years. She looked happy and well, and we had a very pleasant little chat. Quite gentle, given the huge emotional range that can be in play in such a situation.
Ah, but that was just real life. This is soccer. And here we go.
My girlfriend sticks her head in to ask me if I’m cheering for the Americans. “I’m not cheering for England,” I answer.
Right out of the chute, England benches David James, a goalie I adore watching. That would have been a disappointment in my former life. It still is, actually, but it’s because I’m a fan of a particularly edgy brand of soccer, and James is rarely dull. From an England point of view, I feel neutral.
Bang! 1-0 England. Steven Gerrard on four minutes. How’s that for a test of the human heart?
Well, it didn’t make me happy. Sincerely. I just feel blank about it. No surge of joy or adrenalin. No running around the living room, screaming like a crimson goofball and high-fiving my sweetie’s dog. The cameras show the cross of St. George, flying a thousand times in the South African night. I, who was born on St. George’s Day, ain’t feelin’ a thing.
On 13 minutes, the dreaded “go you Americans” thought crosses by brain for the first time. Comes after a tight closeup on young Yank striker Jozy Altidore, whom I really enjoy, and feel got a raw deal when he went off to Villarreal in Spain a year early, and hardly played at all.
I really don’t want to be a U.S. fan. I’ve chosen to bind my heart to Cote D’Ivoire for this World Cup, deeply appreciating their fire and creativity, and the fact that they’re really up against it in a group with both Brazil and Portugal. But it’s the Yanks on the field today, and apparently my apathy to England is curdling into disdain.
That’s how it is when you encounter an ex. Never quite know what emotions are going to bubble into play.
19th minute! Altidore just wide for the States! That was a giddy thrill. No question.
Well, fair’s fair. This isn’t dour, depressing, anti-soccer England. The Lions look serious, and are working well enough to create things. Hard to gauge the chronic self-superior mindset thing, because they went a goal up early and are presently entitled to it.
On 27 minutes, a good free kick from All-American pretty boy Landon Donovan gets headed just high and wide by Oguchi Onyewu. I feel a twinge of disappointment.
35 minutes, and the TV announcer makes his first aching mention of the chronic controversy over whether Gerrard and Frank Lampard can function together in the centre of the same England midfield. I am mortally sick sideways over this, because it’s so freaking obvious that they SHOULD, and it’s still never really been sorted whether they can. The endless British tabloid obsession with never solving such subscription-boosting non-stories is part of reason I decided to let England drift away.
Oh my great hairy goodness! Clint Dempsey equalizes for The Colonies! “Is that good?” my girlfriend asks. “I don’t know,” I answer.
It’s another in an endless string of high-profile English goaltending gaffes. Young Robert Green of West Ham United completely forgets to catch a shot that wouldn’t even qualify as a fair man’s half chance. This would have been teeth-gnashing agony for me a week ago. Today, I’m intrigued to say I’m fine with it.
Halftime. England threw a lot of emotional bait at me in the opening 45. And it didn’t seem hard at all to let it all sail by. The premise has always been that you can’t break up with a soccer team. That whatever pain and frustration they send your way is simply part of the contract – and none of it will matter if they actually win it all someday.
But, see, I don’t settle for stuff like that anymore in any other part of my life. I’ve quit jobs, walked out on girlfriends, ditched old habits, shut down aching attachments – all in the name of the pursuit of some tangible version of happiness. And England just hasn’t been a carbon-atom full of fun for me in years. The more I learn, the more I see that England doesn’t. The happier I am, the less I want to play that game.
Quit preaching, kid. Watch the damn game.
On 48 minutes, the ball rolls clean through the American six-yard box. My gut clenches. England pressing hard now. Interesting not to feel my hope engaging.
A moment later, a Wayne Rooney wonk-bouncer for England gets cleared off the American goal line. I enjoyed it, but it was waved out for offside.
Emile Heskey now for England, head-on against U.S. goalie Tim Howard, who dives to save and hold the ball. One-way traffic on the field. This, too, is classic England emotion-wracking behaviour. Manufacture a chip-truckload of chances, and not score on a one.
I hear myself yell “Yes!” three times as Altidore burns past a lead-footed Jamie Carracher and just misses scoring.
By 75 minutes, it’s again all England, with Howard making save after save. Edson Buddle enters the game for the States.
A moment later, here comes Peter Crouch. This is a pull to my heart, because I love watching Crouch. So awkward, so unconventional, so very, very good. There’s something in the English psyche, I contend, that simply cannot accept that a man who moves so clumsily can actually be one of their very best goal scorers. England or no England, I freely give myself permission to continue enjoying Peter Crouch.
Five minutes left and the British announcer calls the game a stalemate. 25 scoring chances! It might be a tie, but it sure ain’t a stalemate! (That has nothing to do with being or not being an England fan, of course.)
On 88, Donovan tries to do too much and the shot goes over the bar. I notice myself groaning, but it could just be chronic frustration with Donovan’s act.
The match ends 1-1. England clearly could – and should – have won.
So – what does any of this prove? (Thanks if you’re still reading, by the way. I know this has been an odd ride.)
It’s only one game, but I’m going to say it is, in fact, possible to cure yourself of a soccer team. This was the entire England bag of nagging stuff, and except for liking Peter Crouch, I didn’t feel the need to bite on it. The draw is a bit of a setback, of course, but shouldn’t be fatal because I don’t see either Algeria or Slovenia causing any serious problems for the Brits.
I certainly had a very different emotional journey than I would have had my England fandom been intact. That howling goaltending gaffe would have dropped my off a cliff. Why does that ALWAYS happen to promising young English ‘keepers?
The next step in this experiment comes Thursday, when I find if I can, in fact, get passionate about Ivory Coast in their do-or-die opener against Portugal.
If you’re tired beyond tired of the team you cheer for, I hope this experiment helps.
Onward!