This will be epic. Chris Mannix.... you're a dead man.
[Figuratively]
Seriously, stop what you're doing and devote 30 minutes to this. We've worked hard and suffered through many broken computers to bring you this. Why? I'm not quite sure.
For a brief reminder as to why we wrote this, and why it took so long (answer to part 2: because it took me this long to calm myself down), read his original piece-of-shit article here.
Sports Illustrated, your editorial department has some 'splaining to do.
Sure, the headline might be a bit harsh if you know your acronyms, but I really don't give a toss. I'm suffering from some awful sunburn, the by-product of sleeping on the beach and general lotion-application stupidity, and while this article angered me last week, now I'm in a full-on sunstroke rampage. In-between bouts of fainting, I'm fucking pissed.
Simply put, Chris Mannix is the latest face on the "Why the US will always hate soccer blah blah blah" bandwagon. He's the most recent chap to brave the choppy waters and add his 2 cents to the argument. Except, amid his awful prose, his argument goes nowhere, and it irritates the shit out of me that he is paid to write garbage like this for a national sports magazine, and also gets the kind of USMNT access that real soccer fans would murder Eric Wynalda to get.
So let's FJM-style this shitbag, shall we?
His intro is soft and pudgy. Just like his character.
"I bet you think soccer is as American as cricket and as thrilling as the Westminster dog show."
No, we don't, but please continue. I can see where you're going.
"All that kicking and heading, and no hands? Maybe that's why Zinedine Zidane dropped Marco Materazzi with a head butt in the 2006 World Cup final."
Hey, he can use Wikipedia! I give him credit for spelling the names right, but really, are we still hung up on this incident? People get sent off for violent conduct and outbursts of emotion on the pitch all the fucking time (heck, just ask Antonio Cassano or Javier Mascherano)!
Still, in the minds of the closed-minded, this is what it all comes down to. A French-Algerian headbutted a vile-mouthed Italian.
"He didn't realize he could use those things attached to his shoulders to throw a punch."
Well, he did, but let's face it, the symbolism was rather tasty.
"And games that end 0-0? (Sorry, nil-nil.)"
A cute joke that bolsters an awful argument. It boils down to this: people think soccer is boring because they don't score too much! Fuck, we've been dealing with this idea since the birth of the game.
Are these same people the ones who decry a 77-74 NBA Playoff game? Or a 9-3 NFL game? Or a 1-0 game of baseball? Or the entire concept of golf?
Because honestly, highlighting one possible outcome of an intricate sport is a laughable way to try and show that it's boring, or simply not worth the time or investment.
Seriously, it's a throwaway point that makes you look like a drooling cretin.
The idea that goals/points/scoring = excitement is only something that neanderthals cling to when watching their sport. Remarkably, it's often the same crowd who mumbles this thought between bites from their KFC Original Bowl and who love NASCAR so much! I realize there's an art to driving fast and all, and that there is some skill to it, but on some chemical level I see it as three+ hours of turning left!
Thankfully, I can come to terms with it while still respecting it, which is more than could be said for Mannix and soccer.
"The zealots will tell you that soccer is ready to become America's fifth major sport. In my mind, it already is. If you're too slow to play basketball, too scared for baseball, too small for football and too clumsy for hockey, you turn to soccer."
Hilarious. I'll let him have this joke. He clearly worked hard on his anaphora, so he gets a brief respite. It's the next paragraph that condemns his entire perspective on the argument at hand.
"In the interest of full disclosure, I have tried my feet at the game. Let's just say it didn't take. It was 1988, and I was in second grade at Sacred Heart Elementary in Kingston, Mass. My team went 0-9. My father was the coach. I was the goalkeeper. After the season the team parents gave my dad a book on how to coach soccer. "I didn't need it," he tells me now. "I already knew how to win. Don't put you in goal." I hadn't watched a soccer game since."
[Scene from Chris Mannix in high school]
Physics Teacher: Hey Chris, we need to talk before class.
Chris: Sure thing, prof.
PT: I just finished grading the midterm, and you got an F. Simply put, you're terrible at physics. You've taken this class five times over already, and despite all the mentoring and after-school tutoring, you're no better than where you were in elementary school.
Chris: (silence)
PT: I understand you're upset, angry even. We can work on this though. I'm willing to give you the benefit of my expertise, and I will commit to helping you gain a better grip of basic physics concepts and ideas in order to make you a better student.
Chris: I renounce the concept of gravity. Fuck you, and fuck Newton.
[end scene -- man, I should call David Mamet. I clearly have a future in screenwriting]
Seriously, SI editors, why let this idiot fumble his way through another 2000 words at this point? Anything you get beyond this heartfelt glimpse into Mannix family lore is pure rubbish.
Letting this guy write editorials is akin to letting Jared from Subway commercials explain the intricacies of Asian cuisine. Sure, he might have a basic idea of what its about, and he's certainly capable of learning, but really, his entire world view dictates that he'll be fucking useless on the subject.
So why bother? Why waste precious pages? You're already a magazine struggling to keep up with the loud and lightning-fast world of sports media, and yet you're continually giving column space to the intellectual equal of Mickey fucking Rooney? Drool on, please.
At this point, Mannix, seemingly incapable of a threaded, coherent argument, jumps into his 5 main complaints about soccer, and attacks them each individually with his experiences from the road, occasionally pausing to offer scant praise for the sport he's always hated.
I warn you, I might pass out from the screaming.
Thankfully, The Likely Lad and Precious Roy were happy to sub in and out to prevent me from being hospitalized.
-----
COMPLAINT NO. 1
American fans lack passion
---
This ought to be good.
"Two weeks ago, if you'd asked me about La Barra Brava, I would have guessed it was a Latin boy band. Turns out, with over 1,000 members representing more than 30 countries, the Barra is considered MLS's largest, most diverse and most rabid fan group. Great, I thought when I learned I'd be hanging out with them in Washington, D.C., for United's game against the Houston Dynamo on June 4. The David Hasselhoff fan club."
Nice, a boy band joke. Immediately, a tone of snobbery from a guy who's barely a leg to stand on.
"My first indication to the contrary came well before kickoff. A driving rain had turned a four-hour trip from Manhattan into six, and I was beginning to wonder if I'd get to see my first soccer game at all. I texted Rob Gillespie, one of Barra's elders, to confirm that the pregame tailgate had been washed out. His answer was succinct: rain or shine."
Mannix' internal dialog: man, I was hoping the rain would stop these public school morons from preparing for the game. That would make sense in my worldview, because of course, while Cleveland Brown fans would adopt a similar mentality when faced with road-clogging snow, I am amazed that any soccer fans in the USA could possibly exhibit the same rabid fanaticism.
"It's amazing what Barra members can do during a tornado watch. They can eat, even when their rolls have turned to mush and the charcoal flames are reduced to a flicker. They can drink, even if their keg cups contain less beer than monsoon. And they can sing. Oh, can they sing. First Vamos United. Then the Barra Brava song. Soon I'm frantically scrolling through my BlackBerry for the lyrics and singing along -- it's addictive. The Barra takes advantage of a break in the rain to head into RFK Stadium. Rather than seek refuge beneath the overhanging stands members march directly to their section at midfield. They cluster together behind a massive black banner, even though the stadium isn't lacking for seating. As the players emerge, the chants begin again. Everyone on Houston sucks. The refs suck. Cobi Jones sucks. (Never mind that Jones, I learn, played in L.A., retired last year and is not in attendance.)"
Again, more empty set-up. He is surprised and amazed as he continues his de Toqueville-esque observations of soccer fans, who, surprise, are just as fanatic as those who root for the traditional American stable of sports. Heck, he might even be enjoying this!
"After 16 minutes the referees deem the field unplayable and wave the teams out of the muck. The Barra doesn't move. When lightning strikes in the distance, the P.A. announcer tells fans to take cover in the concourse. The Barra chants louder. Only after a personal request from a United official does the Barra relent. An hour later the game is suspended. A few angry Barra members storm the flooded field and are escorted out. The rest leave on their own, hurling profanities."
Yep. We're not leaving early just because of some rain. When was the last time you saw the Marlins retain most of their crowd in the face of a storm?
"As I wade back to the van, water spills from my sneakers at every step. I should be miserable, but I'm not. I'm smiling. American soccer fans are great. If only there were a few more of them."
Excellent! There is hope for this gu---- oh wait. Fuck.
(pause to smash head against wall)
There are fucking hundreds of thousands of them! They clog the NY public soccer rec leagues, amateur clubs all over the country, high school stadiums across the northeast and southwest, MLS stadiums from Los Angeles to Columbus, large sports arenas for Mexico vs. USA, it doesn't fucking matter. Rain or shine, come hell or high water: there are a lot of fucking soccer fans across this nation.
And yet, what did all this prove? Mannix enjoyed a wonderful day out, had a good time, ostensibly enjoyed nothing more than the tailgate and colorful songs (hey, two more things soccer has in common with the major US sports), and he still managed to end on a downer.
Why? Because otherwise his thesis is ruined. Wasn't he supposed to be arguing that he hates soccer? He complains initially that they lack passion, then he spends a day with La Barra Brava, realizes they are passionate, and now his complaint shifts to there not being enough American soccer fans!??!!?!
Christ, is there one editor brave and strong-minded enough to point this out to Sir Mannix?
-----
COMPLAINT NO. 2
There is no strategy
-----
Please, restrain me. My blood pressure is dangerously high by this point. Mannix is off to spend some time with members of the USMNT, and thanks to the surely out-of-context quoted idiocy from Claudio Reyna, Mannix has his golden goose.
Who is Claudio Reyna? The New York Red Bulls had persuaded Reyna to sit with me during the first half of their Thursday night game against Chivas USA at Giants Stadium, so it was probably a good idea to know whom I'd be talking to.
Yep, it would be. Moron.
Reyna, I learned, is the former U.S. captain who had a successful career in Europe before returning to the States to join MLS. (He's currently injured.)
A wise move on his part, considering that the Red Bulls are fucking horrendous.
O.K., here was a man who could talk soccer.
Debatable, but for another time.
Here was a man who could explain how there is more to the game than 20 players running up and down the field. That there's more to scoring goals than one really good player kicking the ball in the general direction of the net -- and hoping it gets past a bunch of guys.
At this point, I'm almost scared to turn the page. It's an obvious set-up, and a horribly, horribly misguided one. It would be easy to look at soccer and think that. It would be easy to look at a Packers/Vikings game without knowing what was going on and thinking the same thing. "Oh, you mean they have to run into that zone at the end and have possession of the ball when they do it? OK, makes sense."
I mean fuck, you could watch an episode of Sex and the City without knowing what was going on, and you're be worried as to why the blond one can never keep her legs closed for more than 11 minutes.
But there isn't, as even Reyna admitted. "Some teams play technically," he said. "Mostly in Europe. But soccer is probably the least coached sport of them all."
Claudio, I swear to the Lord God on high, why would you give him this quote? Are you fucking kidding me? At this point, I cannot see straight.
I think reading this line has caused blindness. Least-coached sport of them all? Are you fucking joking? Perhaps it's because you've lumbered through a mediocre club career that's seen you play for a number of going-nowhere clubs, and that all of your managers have been slobbering idiots.
Soccer requires a lot of tactical coaching considering its wide-open nature. 11 men running around in pursuit of a white ball cannot be left to chaos and chance. It requires discipline in formations, adjustments to suit for player-on-player matchups and markings (just like in the NFL, where teams overload weak DBs or put their tallest WR on the opponent's smallest CB) in order to neutralize the opponent's strength.
You need a marshal on the sidelines to make sure the formation holds in both attack and defense, and that the team's style of play (smooth passing play, or Route 1 play via the long ball, or putting an emphasis on wingers or your #10 who sits right behind the strikers as a libero) is adhered to.
If there are injuries or red cards, the manager has to make adjustments accordingly (or in Domenech's case, shit the bed entirely). Who was sent off? What position did he play? Who do I have on my bench who can ably deputize? Which player/position do I weaken in order to bring on this substitute?
And thanks to the eternal stupidity of Claudio Reyna's soundbite, Chris "Donkey Logic" Mannix has his misconceptions confirmed BY A GUY WHO HAS PLAYED THE GAME FOR OVER A DECADE PROFESSIONALLY.
Seriously... the MLS works so hard to gain legitimacy, and this crocked retard undoes some of that earnest work with a flourish of his mouth.
So let's see how Mannix extrapolates this:
Reyna did turn me on to certain nuances. Spacing is critical, and coaches often shift players into more defensive positions when they have a lead late in games. Up by a goal with the clock winding down against Chivas, Red Bulls midfielder Dave Van den Bergh raced toward the sideline and shouted to New York coach Juan Carlos Osorio to assign someone to "sit on" Chivas midfielder Paulo Nagamura. Osorio sent in defensive-minded midfielder Luke Sassano, who helped New York hang on for the win.
This is simply brilliant writing, AS IT NEGATES WHAT MANNIX HIMSELF JUST QUOTED. Phew. Thank you Claudio. You give him some evidence of coaching in professional soccer, and then it is immediately reinforced by a concrete example of this coaching methodology in action.
Perhaps all is not lost?
Still, Reyna confirmed my belief that soccer is more about individual talent than teamwork. He mentioned former national team striker Brian McBride, whose ability to head a ball in traffic is unmatched.
What do you mean, "still"? He gave you a terrible quote which was then negated, but "still", Reyna negated it again and somehow drove you back to your retarded initial hypothesis? Fuck... I'd love to meet your debate coach.
Individual talent can only get you so far. It's not difficult to find examples of this.
Example 1: my beloved Liverpool FC. They are a team largely driven by 2 players of their first-choice starting XI: Steven Gerrard in midfield, and Fernando Torres up front. These two are tremendously gifted, and have conjured up several fleeting moments of brilliance to bail us out of awful situations.
However, when one or both of them are having a bad game, the entire team struggles, and we end up suffering through 1-1 draws at home to Wigan. It's simple: you can have one or two world-class superstars, but all their talent and potential can't get you the three points every week. It simply doesn't work. Once or twice or thrice a season, but over the long-haul, you require a team effort.
Example 2: the Turkish National Team. Now they are a wonderful example of the other side of a coin: a team driven by several efficient role players with no discernible superstar in sight. They are hard-working and rely on each other to grind out favourable results. No household names, no-one getting paid billions to lounge around in Nike or Adidas commercials, but by-and-large, a successful team.
Example 3: Barcelona. Now they're a fun case study because they're a team full of superstars who rely on individual skill, and yet they have no fucking idea how to work together. The end result in 2007/08? 3rd in the League, semis of the Champions League, beaten both times by Real Madrid during La Liga campaign (1-0 and 4-0 respectively), and failure in both domestic knockout tournaments. Aka, a DISMAL FUCKING SEASON WITH NO WINS OR VICTORIES TO BE PROUD OF.
Mannix, are you getting this yet? Individuals only carry a team so far. The very nature of a TEAM requires that you have more than one player. Did the Cavaliers win the NBA Title? No, of course not. Lebron James can't do the work of 5 players on the court at one time. When was the last World Series win for the Yankees, a team led furiously by an individual who will go down in history as one of the all-time greats, Mr. Alex Rodriguez?
Fuck. Pick the New York Giants. Two or three household names, and a bunch of determined nobodies. And they have a Super Bowl trophy.
The concept is fucking retarded, Mannix. Please, give it up. Give me something better, PLEASE.
And, of course, there's David Beckham, who could ping a paparazzo in the head from 50 yards away if he felt like it. "What Beckham can do with free kicks and corner kicks," says Reyna, "is an art form." So there is strategy: Get more players like Beckham.
*slumped on the floor dead*
[Ed. Note: it is at this point that LB fell over, probably due to a self-inflicted gunshot wound to the head. The Likely Lad will deputize in his absence]
Well, in light of LB's demise, allow me to crack on. Chris Mannix will not be allowed any respite!
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COMPLAINT NO. 3
It's mind-numbingly dull
---
I want a sport to seize my attention and keep it. My impression: In soccer you can marvel at a pretty goal or a diving save, then go to the bathroom, call your girlfriend, buy a plate of nachos and make it back to your seat before a team crosses midfield again.
Oh, your impression? I see, we had nearly forgotten.
Apart from Mr. Mannix’s ill-conceived notions about football and his general rhetorical cuntiness, there is the issue of his narrative construction.
As now, the reader understands that the words spilling across the page are the writer’s own. They are his opinion. There is no need to continuously restate the point.
Over and again goes the refrain: “to me”… “I thought”… “I’m beginning to get it.” Why then, can this esteemed professional not state his piece without such stunting qualification?
The answer is simple, if not immediately obvious. An argument of this nature must be grounded in the wit or incisive nature of the reporting. When stripped of that, along with any illusion of factual research, there is nothing left but the cliché. In this case, a particularly drab one.
It is important to understand that when a reporter knows something to be true, or has done sufficient research to hold some confidence in his assertions, or, god forbid, uses a telling quote, there is no need to conjure up such a bundle of awkward refrain.
Remove the “My Impression:” from the above cut-out and what you have, simply, is a staid, hopelessly formulaic denunciation of a particular sport. It’s pale and snarky, and worst of all—the one real, unforgivable sin—not funny.
The frequent lulls turned off the crowd. Fans talked about how many beers they planned to drink in the parking lot. Two men sitting in front of me spent 23 minutes of the first half arguing whether the game was being played on natural grass or field turf.
This conversation our correspondent was privy to, that he set his watch to (we’re led to believe), could have only taken place at a soccer match. Correct?
No other sport could driven the spectators into the arms of such inane conversation. The constant, feverish pace of a baseball game would never allow for such idle musing. Or an American football game for that matter.
Fans spend the NFL’s hours of artificial stoppage time discussing what? The intricacies of the Tampa 2 defense? Quantum physics, or the political heritage of Nixon’s Southern Strategy?
No, they get drunk, as many soccer fans do, and bullshit. Sometimes about the game. Sometimes about their wives and girlfriends. And sometimes, maybe even when some creepy geek with string warts is hovering over their shoulders… the cut of the fucking grass.
The world's No. 2-ranked team looked listless, falling behind 63rd-ranked Venezuela and getting booed off the field at halftime. What's worse, they didn't even bring Ronaldinho, the one soccer player whose name I know.
Observe our esteemed reporter, here, delighting in his greedy ignorance! He’s an idiot and will not be bullied into denying it. He is not one to bow before those European quasi-intellectual soccernistas. Here he is with beer, wraparound shades and the virility of youth and narcissism. He’ll make a name for himself yet—the power to awe and incite all bottled up in his little pen.
He is our 21st century nowhere man.
After the final horn sounded in Venezuela's 2-0 victory, the Brazilian fans continued their chanting and singing and drumming on their way out. As amped up as I was by the noise before the game, now it rang hollow. To me, what these fans really enjoyed was being Brazil fans, not watching their team play. It had to have been. No one could have enjoyed that.
Certainly Mr. Mannix has dug his own grave here. He’s crossed the Jester—a rank criticism of what he can’t understand.
If Sports Illustrated is a dying brand, this is the stuff that will fill out its epitaph. Profits have shrunk, and with them the salaries of staff members—those, that is, that have been lucky enough to keep their place.
But rather than stay true to the form that brought the magazine its longstanding acclaim (from some, less so from others… hem/haw), its editors have decided that young writers like Mr. Mannix are where the future lies.
Every notion that strikes his kind is a revelation. For what he cannot fathom—being a Brazil fan—he fashions a sneer. It is not an affliction reserved for him. It is common, indeed. Why Sports Illustrated sees fit to pay him to articulate it is anyone's guess.
Whatever the reasoning, it is misguided at best.
The days of prose poets reporting the news and telling the stories of sport and man may be past, but there will always be a hunger for writing that speaks to the reader as an equal. This piss, condescension in the guise of contrarian's disarmament, may stir up some silly bloggers today. But ultimately it will have all the staying power of a Big Mac in the bulimic's craw.
[Ed. Note: we're skipping #4 because we're aware this is rather long. Also, welcome Precious Roy to the argument. Sterling work ahead!]
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COMPLAINT NO. 5
Soccer Players are Wimpy Athletes
---
They don't run; they jog. They don't fall; they dive.
I know what you're doing here. You're going to set up all of these stereotypes about the sport, then have some sort of mini-revelation. Hey, congrats you've been born into the light. Welcome.
Not really.
In fact, consider that your stereotypes are just plain wrong. Like creation science kind of wrong.
Sometimes players do jog. Other times they are on a dead run (and often trying to control a ball while doing it... oh, and a 6'4" 210 pound defender is trying to get them off the ball while this is happening). But if they were on a dead run for 90 minutes, they wouldn't be soccer players, they would be Kenyans.
As for the diving, let's run a little experiment. You take off on a sprint, then I'll come up from behind you and clip you with my spikes. I'll give you, say, $50 (and my undying respect) if you don't hit the ground. I'll double it if you can prevent yourself from responding to the reflex of reaching back to the hole in your Achilles.
They treat contact like an infectious disease.
Actually, that's the opposite of what they do. If they thought it were an infectious disease they would probably shy away from it, or warn other players off them: "Hey, don't tackle me man, I've got a raging case of
schistosomiasis, and it would be a total bummer if you caught from me for trying to do something as silly as preventing me from taking a shot on goal. K thx."
These were the biggest preconceptions I took into my final game, a highly anticipated exhibition at Giants Stadium between the U.S. and the world's No. 1, Argentina. It took a little more than 37 minutes of playing time for me to realize that, well, I was a fool.
That long? I figured out you were a fool about 2 sentences into this article. What was that? Maybe 20 seconds?
A loose ball had squirted free, rolling toward where I had positioned myself, behind the U.S. goal. Argentina's Javier Mascherano and the U.S.'s DaMarcus Beasley gave chase, Mascherano coming away with the ball after cracking Beasley with a hip check that sent the midfielder careening into the boards. I looked up, certain I would see one of those colorful cards come out of the ref's pocket. No foul. Play on. The action was pulsating. Heads collided. Bodies soared before crashing violently to the grass. True, there was the occasional head-scratching decision. U.S. midfielder Pablo Mastroeni was ejected in the 71st minute, and I'm still wondering why. But show me one bad call in soccer, and I'll show you a reel of NBA ref Dick Bavetta's greatest hits. For 97 minutes the two teams grinded, pressing the action on both ends, engineering fast breaks from 100 yards away. It was the best game of the weekend. And it ended 0-0. Imagine that.
Whoa. Holy fucking cow. A low scoring game, and it was exciting? Unbelievable. I've never heard of such a thing. In fact, even though I watched the same match, I'm still not sure I could have possibly imagined it was both exciting and low scoring. I hadn't realized what a fucking anomaly it was until you just pointed that out to me. Low scoring games have
never been exciting before.
Never. Instead, I'm going to go ahead and posit that it is
metaphysically impossible. Or it was, before your little revelation.
"The physicality makes it exciting," U.S. defender Heath Pearce told me afterward. "When you're going for the ball and it's between you and another guy, you are going to lay that other guy out to get there first. That's the kind of stuff you really can't appreciate on TV."
Not to get nitpicky, but that's the best quote you got?
Agreed. After five days and six matches I can now say that I enjoy soccer at its best -- though I continue to despise it at its worst. And the biggest problem is that you're as likely to see a mess as a masterpiece. But how do you know going in?
Initially I was tempted to say something like: "Hey, we agree. Awesome, we're so alike when you get right down to it. It's like Sly Stone was saying man. 'I am everyday people' and it's so cool because you are too. Let's sing 'Kum-bay-yah' What do you say?" I mean, soccer at it's best is phenomenal. Boring soccer, yeah, it can be tough to watch.
But that would be stupid of me. Because what you said is true of any fucking sport. You never know going in to any game if it's going to be a blow out or a tense, hard fought, super-deluxe excitement-a-thon of awesomenessly excitable excitingness.
Yeah, bad soccer is bad. Guess what, so it is with other sports. Bad basketball is bad just as bad football is bad. And bad hockey is bad. And bad ice dancing is bad. And bad rugby is bad. Even bad badminton is bad.
[Ed. Note: Bad sex is still alright though. Y'know, because it's sex.]
And anyone who knows going in if a sporting event is going to be good or bad probably shouldn't be trying to make a living as a sportswriter, but instead using those powers of precognitive dissonance for greater good, or even personal enrichment of material wealth (Vegas, baby). Doesn't matter to me if you want to be selfish like that.
Look, nobody is asking anyone to like soccer. You don't like it? Fine. I don't like the NBA. Can't watch it. Any sport where a 30 point 3rd quarter lead is meaningless? Kind of hard to get behind watching that (Not to mention the fact that there are different rules for stars, and that it often takes 10 minutes to play the last 30 seconds, and there is this bizarre provision that let's a team take the ball in at half court after a time out so when the game is on the line late they get to do what might be the baseball equivalent of going straight to second after a base on balls for a team that is trailing in the ninth inning, and my grammar is probably getting atrocious. Anyway... where was I?)
Yeah, people who don't like soccer, or don't think they "get it"? Nobody cares. Or at least the people who love the sport don't. They aren't holding telethons in Europe to raise money to help the silly Americans appreciate the world's most popular sport. I'm not going to call you at 8 am on a Saturday to lobby you to join me at the pub to watch Arsenal play United. You're probably sleeping, I'm not that rude, and, frankly, I'd rather be able to get a good seat at the bar, so the fewer people the better.
So, yippee, Mr. Mannix, you gave it a chance. I baked some rather delicious banana bread last night.
If you want a piece, it's yours for your efforts. Only you have to come get it because I'm not making any effort for you, or for your silly little crash course, or for anyone else who thinks they have to explain why they don't like it or feel obligated to become a social scientist seeking to undercover what it is about the rest of the world that separates us over this one activity.
The rest of the world also eats more Nutella.
Or maybe they don't. But I am sure there are other things that we don't all agree on or do differently.
So anyone else who wants to give soccer a chance, great. It's there for the sampling. If you like it, I'll see you in August when the EPL season starts. If not, shut up. Save for my abbreviated rant above, I don't go around spouting off about what sports I don't watch and why, then come to conclusions which are inanely universal.
Wait, what's that? The U.S. is playing a World Cup qualifier two weeks from now -- in Barbados? Hold the presses: I think I have one game left!
Journalism Fail! Sorry, no trip for you. Do not pass 'Go,' etc.
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