Anatomy of a futbol fan
Is it gut and gristle that compels us to the pitch time and time again? What is pitch, you are probably asking. Simply put, it's the soccer field. Terms are relative. Intense love of the game is not.
Early growth of modern futbol is said to have started in England. The English are crazy. I love watching the fans in the stands at those games. Manchester United, Liverpool, and so on. When a goal is scored, the crowds go insane. Scarves, signs and arms flailing wildly. It's a mass of humanity lost in their own passion and dedication to their chosen teams, and what they do.
It's been said that the first ball was the head of an ancient would-be English conqueror. This might explain the bloodthirsty ravings of soccer fans the world round.
I've said it before, but I'm a late-comer to the game of soccer. I think, though, that my zeal for it is just as high. I've been known to wait out a rain/lightning delay armed with my trusty umbrella and a good book. St. Thomas Aquinas came to play our girls team one rainy evening, and there I sat. Wise or unwise, judge me as you will. I wouldn't leave until I knew if the game was off or on.
FIFA was organized in 1904, and teams all around the world began operating in their own leagues and starting a frenzy that to this day hasn't abated. The first World Cup was held on July 13, 1930. France defeated Mexico 4 – 1, and a glorious tradition was born.
Soccer was alive and beating with its heart open wide. It is threaded in and around most countries on our green earth… with the exception of the United States.
I'm not sure why the U.S. has not fully embraced it. It's coming, I know it is. When I watch any MLS game, the crowds that have been attending are growing with each season. Granted, our American teams are still doing their best to grow and better themselves. When you look at the European leagues or even the Mexican leagues, who have been around so much longer, you know we have some work to do.
But it's being done. There is a fan base growing more rabid by the minute. I count myself as part of it. Rabid and all.
Last Friday, I attended a soccer tourney in Alliance, where I watched my soon-to-be-sophomore son and his Hiland teammates play. The heat index was through the roof and a thermometer showed a disgusting 104. Most people would say, this is ridiculous – no one should be playing in this weather.
Where were we? We, being my sister, daughter, and several other Hiland parents.
I'll tell you where we were. We were camped out on the sidelines. Chairs, umbrellas, and coolers with iced washcloths waiting for a sweaty brow were stacked beside us. Drinks chilling with ice and shouts of encouragement ready to be shouted to our boys on the pitch. They played three of the hottest games of their lives that day. The sun was relentless on players and fans alike.
Would I have left? Not a chance. Nothing short of a hurricane could have made us leave that field. Which by the end of the day, technically did. A thunderstorm so ferocious and with incredible winds had us running for cover.
There is something down inside a soccer fan's chest. Something hardy, unbreakable, and ready to fight to the death. We wear proudly the colors of our team and eyeball the other fans when we settle in our seats. We bring out the soccer-season phrases of "shover," "pusher" and "he was waaayyy offsides." Ask my sister Shelly about "shover."
Soccer is beautiful. It's where a ball lives on the knife-edge and players 'control of it is velvet and instant. Where things are well measured and there are opportunities to equalize and capitalize.
I am a soccer fan filled with gusto and verve. Come out and watch us sometime.