The Love of the Game

So it’s over. Three weeks of getting up early to watch television before starting work, setting the VCR for the days I had to be in the office, and trying to avoid listening to the radio on the drive home. Because of course it would have been terrible if I’d learned the result prior to watching the game.

The World Cup of course – Do try and keep up.

I didn’t bring much with me when I immigrated to the US other than a funny accent and a love of football. And that’s football, as in "with the feet". I refuse to use the term "soccer"; that’s what rugby fans call it and you don’t want to get me started on them.

One of the things on my "to do" list is to dig out my parents’ photo albums and find the one taken of me when I was about 6. The one where I’m wearing my very first football kit. Not only is the strip a replica of the one Manchester United wore back then (what was I thinking?) and that’s shameful enough. But even worse, I’ve got my shorts hiked up almost to me oxters. The word ‘cool’ wasn’t around back then, but if it was, I can’t imagine it ever being applied to me.

But anyway, I digress. The point is that once every four years, my life gets put on hold, all other interests and pursuits are neglected and I park my bum in front of the television to watch the world’s finest on display. Of course it doesn’t usually live up to the expectation although the opening rounds are always promising enough. A bunch of third world countries whose players are just happy to be there get to take on the overpaid prima-donnas of the world’s major footballing nations and the result is exciting, free-flowing football with the inevitable upsets. Sadly, by the time we get into the second round, most of the minnows are out and we’re left with the big boys. Such is the nature of knock-out competition that rather than try to score, most coaches prefer to try and avoid being scored against. Tedious, low scoring games are the result.

Not that I care. After four years of American sports, I’m always chomping at the bit by the time the World Cup comes around. I don’t expect the game to ever really catch on here of course. Regardless of the pitiful showing by the US National team, (am I the only one who finds it odd that a country so obsessed with patriotism is unable to instill any sense of national pride in its athletes?) the media, especially talk radio, is determined to prevent anyone from taking an interest. In the weeks prior to the tournie, barely a day went by without us being lectured on what a boring game it was, nobody was interested, blah-de-blah, blah, blah. Alright guys, we get it; you don’t like the game. I don’t like golf, but lots of other people do so I don’t feel the need to badmouth them every chance I get. (OK, well perhaps I do just a little bit.)

Then there's the short attention span of most people nowadays which requires "something to happen" every few seconds just to keep them interested. I’ve tried explaining that it’s the passing, the dribbling and the tackling in football that is the action, while the goals are just the icing on the cake, but what’s the point? These are people who get excited by a 162 game baseball season, or a basketball game where 95% of the scores are meaningless, or football (sic) where there’s a break in the action every 6 seconds. You know who you are.

Of course, the off pitch drama is every bit as enthralling. Thanks to the wonder that is the IntraWebthingy, I get most of my football news from the BBC; which as we Scots like to point out, should really be named the EBC, as in English Broadcasting Corporation, such is the bias they routinely show at this time. England as you may know, once won the World Cup, on their home soil some 40 years ago (by virtue of a dodgy goal, I might add) and the BBC is determined never to let anyone forget it.

For weeks building up to the tournament we’ve been told how the English lions are world-beaters who’d be bringing the trophy home to the birthplace of the game. And you know what? This time I actually fell for it. That is, until I saw them in their opening game and realized it was just the same old, overrated England. And if you're interested enough to read this far, you probably know they stumbled through each game until they met some decent opposition, one of their aforementioned prima-donnas got sent off after a juvenile hissy-fit and they were eliminated on penalties.

As usual.

Fortunately there was a touch of controversy about the sending off, so now, rather than admitting that they are not, and haven’t been in years, a major footballing power, England can spend the next four years happily telling everyone they would have won the World Cup had it not been for the biased referee.

What’s that you say? Sour grapes? Moi? Well perhaps a little. It’s true Scotland decided to sit out this tournament by virtue of not qualifying yet again. And it’s also true that in the last few tournaments for which they have qualified, their track record has been less than stellar and they've never reaching the second round. There has been pain. None greater than during the Argentine World Cup of ‘78.

Despite the coach’s boasts that the cup was theirs, Scotland came out of the gate looking tired and stuttered to a draw against Peru. Defeat at the hands of Iran and the ignominious disgrace of a player being sent home for using drugs meant the campaign turned into a national disaster which left scars on the psyche of every Scottish football fan. The fact that in their third game Scotland took on and beat Johan Cruyff’s Holland, regarded by many as the best team ever to play the game, has largely been ignored by the historians. See me? See ancient wounds?

Which brings me to my last point.

The next World Cup will be held in South Africa, in the year 2010. By which time I shall be almost 48. Which means that by any realistic estimate, this is probably the last time I’m going to get selected to play. So, this is a private message to whoever has the job of coaching Scotland by then.

Hurry up and call me, dammit!