Ian Rush...Superstar...How Many Goals Have You Scored So Far?
"The Continental Soccer Association is coming to Springfield! It's all here -- fast-kicking, low-scoring and ties! This match will determine once and for all, which nation is the greatest on earth: Mexico or Portugal!" -- TV ad that convinces Homer to give a new sport a try.
As my satellite settled on ABC for Saturday's D.C. United vs. San Jose Earthquakes soccer match -- a 90-minute sidebar, really, to the professional debut of 14-year old United forward Freddy Adu -- I, like most people, was curious as to whether Adu would provide substance to support the suggestion that he was indeed the latest, and perhaps most gifted, of America's athletic prodigies.
What I was not, however, was hopeful... hopeful that the teen-age phenom could generate for soccer what to this point has been unattainable in this country: mass appeal.
While Adu's story is certainly an intriguing one, the hard truth is, it simply doesn't matter. Freddy could have strolled out onto the pitch, weaved through lunging defenders like a pubescent Pele, and hung up a hat-trick in the first 18 minutes, and America still would have flipped to "Weird Science" by halftime. Here's why:
It's hockey without the gratuitous beatings: Contrary to popular belief, there are people capable of appreciating a 1-0 game. Unfortunately, none of them live in the U.S. Products of a one-hour photo, high-speed Internet, eight-minute abs society, we have come to demand instant gratification from every facet of our lives, sports being no exception. With no time to waste on build-ups or subplots, we require non-stop scoring and ample commercial breaks -- all the more opportunity to satisfy our meandering attention span. That's why football is king. Touchdown? Grab some food. Punt? Call your bookie. Time-out? Spend some quality time with the wife and kids. And if for some reason you miss anything, it's all wrapped up in a neat little 30-second package every six minutes on ESPN News.
Soccer, on the other hand, provides none of football's appeal. No commercials. Fewer goals than the Hilton sisters. Highlight shows that routinely feature near misses. (What American sport would try that? McGrady pulls up for three...Oh, that one was close!) No, to appreciate the subtle beauty of a well-played soccer match requires patience -- a virtue which, as we all know, was stolen by a wealthy advertising executive in 1950 and buried deep below Madison Avenue, where it can never bother us again.
As a result, America has pledged its allegiance to the "major" sports: football, for the reasons discussed above; basketball, with its 200 points and infinite TV timeouts; baseball, as the ideal background noise; and even hockey, for the off chance you'll see an unprovoked pummeling or, rarer still, the puck.
We have too many meats in our cultural stew: If soccer is so dull, why is it the most popular sport in every nation on the planet, sans one? It's simple. They've got nothing better to do, that's why. With no NBA, NFL, MLB, AOL, MTV, HBO, R&B, NKOTB, or X-Box, soccer is the only voyeuristic distraction for much of the world.
Not to oversimplify things, but in England, the athletic alternatives are either soccer or cricket, a game of which, I'm told, can last roughly as long as the O.J. trial. In Brazil, legend has it a young Pele, unable to afford a ball, honed his skills by juggling grapefruits. Kids in America don't juggle grapefruits. They spend $59.95 on a PlayStation game called "Extreme Grapefruit Juggling," play it for three days, then trade it for an extra chocolate milk.
There's also a darker side to much of the worlds infatuation with soccer. In countries where lawlessness has yet to become the norm, hooliganism is used as an outlet for aggression. Fans argue, fight, and even kill one another over team loyalties. In America, we don't need a lousy soccer game to release OUR pent up rage. If we want to drag some guy out of a car and beat the hell out of him, we certainly don't require an Arsenal upset of Manchester United as justification. A missing turn signal will more than suffice.
Uncontrollable ego: It's not just for Texas anymore: Here's the thing about Americans: While we like to believe we thrive on competition, what we really thrive on is domination. Since Rocky IV ended the Cold War, we've stood as the world's lone superpower. We've got it all: the richest economy, the best athletes, and a military that harbors both the arsenal and the inclination to bomb the hell out of anyone that forgets who's boss. As a result, we've grown spoiled. We've come to dismiss any pursuit that doesn't result in immediate supremacy in the same manner MENSA member write-off their inability to swap out a spark plug: If WE can't do it, it must not be important.
This, more than any other reason, is why soccer is doomed to fail in this country. As a people, we are unwilling to acknowledge the validity of a sport where the world pecking order is reversed; where nations in which we routinely finance revolutions are considered authority figures, with the U.S. relegated to the role of red headed stepchild. Just look at our history...
Our proudest moment came over half a century ago, when we pulled off a 1-0 shocker over perennial power England at the 1950 World Cup. How's that for irony -- the United States an underdog to the British, only years after single-handedly sparing England the fate of becoming -- as Kevin Cline put it best in "A Fish Called Wanda" -- "the smallest fucking province in the German empire."
To make matters worse, we didn't even qualify for the next ten World Cup tourneys. Qualify? This is the United States! We don't sit around pining for an invitation to hang out with the Argentina's of the world; we just show up at their door, grab a beer, and start grinding our muddy shoes into their couch like an insolent Rick James.
In 1988, we finally made it back to the sports biggest stage. Setting off raucous celebrations from San Bernardino to East L.A., the U.S clinched a spot in the 1990 Cup with an improbable upset of Trinidad & Tobago, a nation roughly the size of Stanley Roberts and not nearly as athletic. In the four tournaments since, we've suffered embarrassing results at the hands of such world powers as Czechoslovakia, Romania, Poland, Iran, and South Korea. South Korea! How sad is that? Eleven guys who spent the better part of their childhood toiling in sweatshops and stitching our Nikes, kicking our ass in front of the world.
Bottom line: With few "SportsCenter"-worthy moments, no commercials, ample entertainment alternatives, and regular international indignities, soccer will soon slip behind the World Series of Poker in the hearts of Americans -- and there's nothing Freddy Adu can do to stop it.
OK. Moving on...To avoid the luxury tax, I've been forced to make some cuts. Welcome to the new, improved, streamlined, 10 Things You Oughtta' Know...
10. Correct me if I'm wrong, but Jason Kidd's presence is more vital to the success of his team than any one player since Larry Bird...on the 1979 Indiana St. Sycamores. It's more than just Kidd's talent, leadership, and court vision. Without him on the floor, the Nets are forced to alter their very identity, morphing from the most dynamic transition team in the NBA to a team incapable of scoring efficiently from a half-court set. If they have to face the Heat in the first round of the playoffs and don't have a healthy Kidd, they're done.
9. What were the MLS and D.C. United thinking with the way they handled the Adu debut? You've got a nationally televised audience tuning in, many of whom have never seen an MLS game and whose decision to watch in the future will be based solely on Freddy's performance, and the kid doesn't even start? You could almost HEAR the simultaneous "click" emanating from remotes across the country when the news broke that Adu was sitting. Did the MLS really think the dazzling footwork of Jamie Moreno and Ben Olsen would captivate audiences for 60 minutes until Adu entered the match? They've got one marketing tool -- ONE -- in the entire league, and he's sitting on the bench for two-thirds of the game. I understand Adu's only 14 and you want to bring him along slowly. It's sound logic. Just wait until the next game to do it.
8. Random thought while taking in the Final Four: With bobbleheads giving way to Russian nesting dolls as the sports collectible du jour, is anyone sitting on a potentially bigger E-Bay windfall than the Duke basketball program? Imagine the demand for this "15 Years of White Guys you Love to Hate" collection, starting with the outermost doll:
Danny Ferry (breaks whenever you touch it)
Christian Laettner (where we always suspected -- inside another man)
Chris Collins (buy it and his dad will owe you a favor)
J.J. Redick (only looks good from 23 feet away)
Steve Wojciechowski (the other dolls are so much better, you won't really notice him)
Of course, Duke would have to issue the following caveat: Satisfaction guaranteed for four years -- after then you will be greatly disappointed.
7. As I was basking in the glory of a double victory Saturday night -- Duke goes down, in large part thanks to Redick's struggles down the stretch -- my glee was no match for that of my buddy Andrew, who had bet on Duke. Two point underdogs, Chris Duhon's 40-feet heave at the buzzer covered the spread, and saved Andrew next week's poker entry fee. One sports book made $630,000 in two seconds. It's nice work if you can get it.
6. Emeka Okafor will garner all the headlines after the come-from-behind victory over Duke, but the real hero for Connecticut was freshman forward Josh Boone. Without his offensive rebounding, interior defense, and opportunistic scoring while Okafor was sitting most of the first half with two fouls, the game might have been over by halftime. Boone finished with 9 points and 14 boards, twice as many as any other Husky. 5. Obligatory baseball predictions:
World Series: Florida over Yankees. Again. NL MVP: Jim Thome AL MVP: Vladimir Guerrerro NL Cy Young: Kerry Wood AL CY Young: Javier Vasquez Gutsy call: Boston doesn't make the playoffs. (NY, Min., Anaheim, Oakland) Total Wins Bets: Minnesota OVER 84, S.F. OVER 85, Reds UNDER 71, Mets UNDER 80.5
4. The "Did He Just Say That?" Quote of the Week: My brother Mike, providing his two cents on ESPN's coverage of the Final Four: "Having Dick Vitale and Jay Bilas cover Duke is like having R. Kelly cover a high-school cheerleading competition."
3. I know this isn't "exactly" sports related, but I did see the commercial on ESPN, so it's fair game as far as I'm concerned -- "Hootie and the Blowfish" are releasing a greatest hits compilation. How is this possible? Did they just change the album cover for Cracked Rear View and hope nobody would notice? Now, I can't back this with any official documentation, but the second "Hootie" disc joins these four as the "Top 5 Discs Most Likely To Be Found in the Used Section at Twist & Shout:"
1. Spin Doctors Pocket Full of Kryptonite: People really, really liked "Two Princes." Rest of the album? Not so much.
2. Anything by Stryper: Christian metal? What were we thinking? 3. Extreme Pornographiti: Everyone thought the rest of the album would sound like "More than Words." It didn't.
4. Traveling Wilburys Traveling Wilburys: Wow! The four worst singers ever on the same album? I've gotta' have that!
2. You've got to love the unbridled optimism that permeates every clubhouse during spring training. Case in point: In what has to be the most un-attainable incentive clause in the history of sports contracts, the Milwaukee Brewers, fresh off a last place finish in the N.L. Central, have agreed to pay Ben Grieve -- he of the .230 average, 4 HR, and 17 RBI in 2003 -- $500,000 in the event he's named World Series MVP.
1. Billy Martin, lead counsel for the defense in the Jayson Williams manslaughter trial, has done his best Lionel Hutz impression over the last few weeks. ("Don't worry, Mr. Williams...I saw Matlock in a bar last night...the sound was off, but I think I got the gist of it.") If the interchangeable series of John Grisham novels has taught us nothing else -- and it hasn't -- you don't promise the jury something and then not deliver. During his opening statements, Martin assured the jury they would hear Williams explain what really happened the night he "accidentally" shot his limo driver in the chest from close range with a shotgun, and if time permitted, they could spend a few moments basking in the glow of his innocence. Whoops. After a disastrous two weeks of testimony -- the defense's weapons expert was forced to concede it was extremely unlikely the shotgun malfunctioned and fired on it's own -- Martin, accepting that putting Williams on the stand was akin to rearranging the deck chairs on the Titanic, declined to let his client speak and the defense rested. On the plus side, since the case wasn't wrapped up in 30 minutes, his legal services are free.
As my satellite settled on ABC for Saturday's D.C. United vs. San Jose Earthquakes soccer match -- a 90-minute sidebar, really, to the professional debut of 14-year old United forward Freddy Adu -- I, like most people, was curious as to whether Adu would provide substance to support the suggestion that he was indeed the latest, and perhaps most gifted, of America's athletic prodigies.
What I was not, however, was hopeful... hopeful that the teen-age phenom could generate for soccer what to this point has been unattainable in this country: mass appeal.
While Adu's story is certainly an intriguing one, the hard truth is, it simply doesn't matter. Freddy could have strolled out onto the pitch, weaved through lunging defenders like a pubescent Pele, and hung up a hat-trick in the first 18 minutes, and America still would have flipped to "Weird Science" by halftime. Here's why:
It's hockey without the gratuitous beatings: Contrary to popular belief, there are people capable of appreciating a 1-0 game. Unfortunately, none of them live in the U.S. Products of a one-hour photo, high-speed Internet, eight-minute abs society, we have come to demand instant gratification from every facet of our lives, sports being no exception. With no time to waste on build-ups or subplots, we require non-stop scoring and ample commercial breaks -- all the more opportunity to satisfy our meandering attention span. That's why football is king. Touchdown? Grab some food. Punt? Call your bookie. Time-out? Spend some quality time with the wife and kids. And if for some reason you miss anything, it's all wrapped up in a neat little 30-second package every six minutes on ESPN News.
Soccer, on the other hand, provides none of football's appeal. No commercials. Fewer goals than the Hilton sisters. Highlight shows that routinely feature near misses. (What American sport would try that? McGrady pulls up for three...Oh, that one was close!) No, to appreciate the subtle beauty of a well-played soccer match requires patience -- a virtue which, as we all know, was stolen by a wealthy advertising executive in 1950 and buried deep below Madison Avenue, where it can never bother us again.
As a result, America has pledged its allegiance to the "major" sports: football, for the reasons discussed above; basketball, with its 200 points and infinite TV timeouts; baseball, as the ideal background noise; and even hockey, for the off chance you'll see an unprovoked pummeling or, rarer still, the puck.
We have too many meats in our cultural stew: If soccer is so dull, why is it the most popular sport in every nation on the planet, sans one? It's simple. They've got nothing better to do, that's why. With no NBA, NFL, MLB, AOL, MTV, HBO, R&B, NKOTB, or X-Box, soccer is the only voyeuristic distraction for much of the world.
Not to oversimplify things, but in England, the athletic alternatives are either soccer or cricket, a game of which, I'm told, can last roughly as long as the O.J. trial. In Brazil, legend has it a young Pele, unable to afford a ball, honed his skills by juggling grapefruits. Kids in America don't juggle grapefruits. They spend $59.95 on a PlayStation game called "Extreme Grapefruit Juggling," play it for three days, then trade it for an extra chocolate milk.
There's also a darker side to much of the worlds infatuation with soccer. In countries where lawlessness has yet to become the norm, hooliganism is used as an outlet for aggression. Fans argue, fight, and even kill one another over team loyalties. In America, we don't need a lousy soccer game to release OUR pent up rage. If we want to drag some guy out of a car and beat the hell out of him, we certainly don't require an Arsenal upset of Manchester United as justification. A missing turn signal will more than suffice.
Uncontrollable ego: It's not just for Texas anymore: Here's the thing about Americans: While we like to believe we thrive on competition, what we really thrive on is domination. Since Rocky IV ended the Cold War, we've stood as the world's lone superpower. We've got it all: the richest economy, the best athletes, and a military that harbors both the arsenal and the inclination to bomb the hell out of anyone that forgets who's boss. As a result, we've grown spoiled. We've come to dismiss any pursuit that doesn't result in immediate supremacy in the same manner MENSA member write-off their inability to swap out a spark plug: If WE can't do it, it must not be important.
This, more than any other reason, is why soccer is doomed to fail in this country. As a people, we are unwilling to acknowledge the validity of a sport where the world pecking order is reversed; where nations in which we routinely finance revolutions are considered authority figures, with the U.S. relegated to the role of red headed stepchild. Just look at our history...
Our proudest moment came over half a century ago, when we pulled off a 1-0 shocker over perennial power England at the 1950 World Cup. How's that for irony -- the United States an underdog to the British, only years after single-handedly sparing England the fate of becoming -- as Kevin Cline put it best in "A Fish Called Wanda" -- "the smallest fucking province in the German empire."
To make matters worse, we didn't even qualify for the next ten World Cup tourneys. Qualify? This is the United States! We don't sit around pining for an invitation to hang out with the Argentina's of the world; we just show up at their door, grab a beer, and start grinding our muddy shoes into their couch like an insolent Rick James.
In 1988, we finally made it back to the sports biggest stage. Setting off raucous celebrations from San Bernardino to East L.A., the U.S clinched a spot in the 1990 Cup with an improbable upset of Trinidad & Tobago, a nation roughly the size of Stanley Roberts and not nearly as athletic. In the four tournaments since, we've suffered embarrassing results at the hands of such world powers as Czechoslovakia, Romania, Poland, Iran, and South Korea. South Korea! How sad is that? Eleven guys who spent the better part of their childhood toiling in sweatshops and stitching our Nikes, kicking our ass in front of the world.
Bottom line: With few "SportsCenter"-worthy moments, no commercials, ample entertainment alternatives, and regular international indignities, soccer will soon slip behind the World Series of Poker in the hearts of Americans -- and there's nothing Freddy Adu can do to stop it.
OK. Moving on...To avoid the luxury tax, I've been forced to make some cuts. Welcome to the new, improved, streamlined, 10 Things You Oughtta' Know...
10. Correct me if I'm wrong, but Jason Kidd's presence is more vital to the success of his team than any one player since Larry Bird...on the 1979 Indiana St. Sycamores. It's more than just Kidd's talent, leadership, and court vision. Without him on the floor, the Nets are forced to alter their very identity, morphing from the most dynamic transition team in the NBA to a team incapable of scoring efficiently from a half-court set. If they have to face the Heat in the first round of the playoffs and don't have a healthy Kidd, they're done.
9. What were the MLS and D.C. United thinking with the way they handled the Adu debut? You've got a nationally televised audience tuning in, many of whom have never seen an MLS game and whose decision to watch in the future will be based solely on Freddy's performance, and the kid doesn't even start? You could almost HEAR the simultaneous "click" emanating from remotes across the country when the news broke that Adu was sitting. Did the MLS really think the dazzling footwork of Jamie Moreno and Ben Olsen would captivate audiences for 60 minutes until Adu entered the match? They've got one marketing tool -- ONE -- in the entire league, and he's sitting on the bench for two-thirds of the game. I understand Adu's only 14 and you want to bring him along slowly. It's sound logic. Just wait until the next game to do it.
8. Random thought while taking in the Final Four: With bobbleheads giving way to Russian nesting dolls as the sports collectible du jour, is anyone sitting on a potentially bigger E-Bay windfall than the Duke basketball program? Imagine the demand for this "15 Years of White Guys you Love to Hate" collection, starting with the outermost doll:
Danny Ferry (breaks whenever you touch it)
Christian Laettner (where we always suspected -- inside another man)
Chris Collins (buy it and his dad will owe you a favor)
J.J. Redick (only looks good from 23 feet away)
Steve Wojciechowski (the other dolls are so much better, you won't really notice him)
Of course, Duke would have to issue the following caveat: Satisfaction guaranteed for four years -- after then you will be greatly disappointed.
7. As I was basking in the glory of a double victory Saturday night -- Duke goes down, in large part thanks to Redick's struggles down the stretch -- my glee was no match for that of my buddy Andrew, who had bet on Duke. Two point underdogs, Chris Duhon's 40-feet heave at the buzzer covered the spread, and saved Andrew next week's poker entry fee. One sports book made $630,000 in two seconds. It's nice work if you can get it.
6. Emeka Okafor will garner all the headlines after the come-from-behind victory over Duke, but the real hero for Connecticut was freshman forward Josh Boone. Without his offensive rebounding, interior defense, and opportunistic scoring while Okafor was sitting most of the first half with two fouls, the game might have been over by halftime. Boone finished with 9 points and 14 boards, twice as many as any other Husky. 5. Obligatory baseball predictions:
World Series: Florida over Yankees. Again. NL MVP: Jim Thome AL MVP: Vladimir Guerrerro NL Cy Young: Kerry Wood AL CY Young: Javier Vasquez Gutsy call: Boston doesn't make the playoffs. (NY, Min., Anaheim, Oakland) Total Wins Bets: Minnesota OVER 84, S.F. OVER 85, Reds UNDER 71, Mets UNDER 80.5
4. The "Did He Just Say That?" Quote of the Week: My brother Mike, providing his two cents on ESPN's coverage of the Final Four: "Having Dick Vitale and Jay Bilas cover Duke is like having R. Kelly cover a high-school cheerleading competition."
3. I know this isn't "exactly" sports related, but I did see the commercial on ESPN, so it's fair game as far as I'm concerned -- "Hootie and the Blowfish" are releasing a greatest hits compilation. How is this possible? Did they just change the album cover for Cracked Rear View and hope nobody would notice? Now, I can't back this with any official documentation, but the second "Hootie" disc joins these four as the "Top 5 Discs Most Likely To Be Found in the Used Section at Twist & Shout:"
1. Spin Doctors Pocket Full of Kryptonite: People really, really liked "Two Princes." Rest of the album? Not so much.
2. Anything by Stryper: Christian metal? What were we thinking? 3. Extreme Pornographiti: Everyone thought the rest of the album would sound like "More than Words." It didn't.
4. Traveling Wilburys Traveling Wilburys: Wow! The four worst singers ever on the same album? I've gotta' have that!
2. You've got to love the unbridled optimism that permeates every clubhouse during spring training. Case in point: In what has to be the most un-attainable incentive clause in the history of sports contracts, the Milwaukee Brewers, fresh off a last place finish in the N.L. Central, have agreed to pay Ben Grieve -- he of the .230 average, 4 HR, and 17 RBI in 2003 -- $500,000 in the event he's named World Series MVP.
1. Billy Martin, lead counsel for the defense in the Jayson Williams manslaughter trial, has done his best Lionel Hutz impression over the last few weeks. ("Don't worry, Mr. Williams...I saw Matlock in a bar last night...the sound was off, but I think I got the gist of it.") If the interchangeable series of John Grisham novels has taught us nothing else -- and it hasn't -- you don't promise the jury something and then not deliver. During his opening statements, Martin assured the jury they would hear Williams explain what really happened the night he "accidentally" shot his limo driver in the chest from close range with a shotgun, and if time permitted, they could spend a few moments basking in the glow of his innocence. Whoops. After a disastrous two weeks of testimony -- the defense's weapons expert was forced to concede it was extremely unlikely the shotgun malfunctioned and fired on it's own -- Martin, accepting that putting Williams on the stand was akin to rearranging the deck chairs on the Titanic, declined to let his client speak and the defense rested. On the plus side, since the case wasn't wrapped up in 30 minutes, his legal services are free.
posted by Tony at 1:44 PM
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