Recently it came to my attention that the world had stopped
spinning. Yes, that’s right. It’s time for the World Cup, and
according to sports writers everywhere, that alone is enough to
stop the world from spinning.
Recently it came to my attention that the world had stopped spinning. Yes, that’s right. It’s time for the World Cup, and according to sports writers everywhere, that alone is enough to stop the world from spinning.
Look, I’m no sports fan – and soccer isn’t really high on my list of stuff to watch unless it’s “Footballers Wives,” a BBC series that’s kind of like “Desperate Housewives” on steroids. There’s even some nudity and baby-switching thrown in for fun. Surprisingly, there’s very little actual soccer playing on the show. I guess there’s no time with the baby-switching and all.
Anyway, when I heard that 3 billion people would watch the World Cup on television, I figured what the heck, I should take in a game and see if it was any different from the early-morning games Junior used to play. So, I watched a game. Well, most of it. Frankly, it’s hard to be enthusiastic about any sport that doesn’t contain the words “shoe” and “sale,” so my attention wasn’t fully on the entire game.
But it does turn out that big-boy soccer is very different from kids’ soccer. For example, I was shocked – just shocked – to turn on the World Cup and notice there were no parents sitting on the sidelines, bleary-eyed, dressed in baseball caps and sweats, and nursing the largest Starbucks cup of coffee ever sold.
In fact, I am told that parents are not allowed on the sidelines. I know – incredible, isn’t it? I mean, how do the players know what do without their parents yelling, “Don’t catch it – this is SOCCER!” Or, “No, no, not into your OWN goal!”
But I think what stunned me the most was that there was no mid-game orange break. That’s right. Nobody stopped at halftime and called all the players to the side to receive their USDA, soccer-required allotment of sliced oranges. I was horrified. How on earth would those sweaty men ever be able to kick the ball around for the last half if they didn’t have oranges?
In kid’s soccer, the oranges are important. If a mom forgot the oranges and the kids went without, well, it wasn’t pretty. She’d never live it down. Oh, sure the other moms would be polite, but only to her face. Behind her back she’d have a reputation as a woman who forgot the all-important oranges. You don’t live down that kind of humiliation. Trust me. I speak from experience.
But I was able to get through my shock about the missing oranges – then it got worse. At the end of the game, the players didn’t run to one of the player’s moms with hands outstretched, waiting for their after-game snack. No cupcakes. No Oreos. No granola bars donated by a misguided mother who means well but really is only going to get her kid teased. How on earth would those men make it to the locker room without chocolate?
As if the snack situation weren’t bad enough, I was stunned to see that soccer actually has defined player roles. Who knew? In kids’ soccer, pretty much everyone just runs after the ball. The only guy who really has a different role is the goalie, and we know that because he gets a special T-shirt. But in big-boy soccer, all the people have roles. There are halfbacks and strikers and fullbacks and forwards and probably many more than I can’t remember. And each of those guys plays the entire game in their position – and they don’t even have special T-shirts so they can tell the difference.
Although, I must say, that would help me follow the game. I mean, how do I know what a striker does? I can only assume that he, um, strikes the ball. Or something. And a forward – well, presumably he goes forward. Which is what most of them do, I think. At least they do that when they aren’t going backward.
But that’s not the point. The point is there’s a lot to this game of football. After all, 3 billion people will watch the World Cup – and I have to assume that most will actually understand it, unlike me.
But that’s OK. Because even though I’ve failed miserably at my attempt to actually enjoy a sporting event other than shopping, I have kept up with “Footballers Wives.” And that’s about as much soccer action as I can understand. Even without the oranges. Or the chocolate.
