Why I Love Soccer, Part 2 of 5
Well, sorry about that. I haven’t blogged in a while and stupidly broke several cardinal rules of teh internetz yesterday, including (but not limited to) the following:
1.) Don’t write more than 300 words unless it’s really good content. Your correspondent won’t claim to be as talented a writer as Christopher Hitchens (few people are), so it would have been good to have things like an outline, effective editing, etc. My bad.
2.) Don’t be derivative. Something about imitation and flattery, but my writing style is not the same as Drew Magary‘s and shouldn’t be. Kindly send defamation complaints to psbyrne at gmail dot com.
3.) Stick to the script. I had intended to compare soccer fandom to Asian filial piety but ended up writing about mercantilism in 19th century Imperial Britain. I know that’s about ten minutes you’re never getting back, and I’m sorry.
The second reason I love soccer so much is that, at the professional level, it’s much more meritocratic and capitalistic than American sports fans are used to. Oh, your team finished in last place? I’m sorry, you do not get to draft Ndamukong Suh or Matt Stafford. Your beloved team gets relegated to the second division and you get to travel hundreds of miles to cold, depressing, dilapidated post-industrial shitholes in the backwoods of Europe to watch your team lose in some meaningless cup competition because your manager and all your best players left to join your most bitter rival.
If there was any justice in this world, the shitty Orioles and shittier Redskins would be playing in the local beer leagues by now. I think I’m starting to hate all of the sports teams I used to love, but I still hate everyone else more so that makes it all OK… right?
The enormous market for soccer merchandise is also a lot of fun, especially at World Cup time. Let’s face it, all sports manufacturers exploit the labor of one set of brown people or another, but some people market their cheap overpriced schlock better than others and Nike does it better than anyone. H/T Seth Stevenson on the always brilliant Slate.
