Why I Love Soccer…
There are times when soccer is hard to love.
It can be the catalyst for movements where ‘casuals’ and hooligans are allowed to express horrible views and perpetrate crimes with a colored scarf on. It can be the background for events out of kilter with the rest of civilized society.
Look at the Liverpool situation. Tonight Luis Suarez came back from a ban for a supposedly racial slur against Patrice Evra. He missed eight games. He enjoyed a standing ovation. His fans expressed adulation, love and respect. He kicked someone in the chest but no one would say he deserved his booking.
Afterwards coach Kenny Dalglish said it was “fantastic for us to get him [Suarez] back, he should never have been out in the first place”.
It is moments like this that I feel disgust about soccer. Normal morals fall out of the window, pushed out thusly by the notions of loyalty and expression. He is talented with a ball at his feet and he commands a colossal salary, in relative terms, so he is forgiven loathsome actions.
In one stroke Dalglish has undermined anti-racism campaigns and stuck two fingers up to the association that ruled on the game. All for the sake of one players ego.
Why do I love this game?
There was a time when I was younger that politics and sport were two completely unrelated entities. One was a dirty idea, the other a beautiful distraction from an already distraction-filled existence. Soccer was that thing that made it OK for a young man to bond with others over something that wasn’t saccharine or mawkish.
At times like this I have to remind myself of those moments. A time when I did not have to listen to a cavalcade of pros being called ‘legends’. A time when the beauty of a goal was seen in a snapshot and then I would struggle to hold on to the details of it in my mind because it was not replayed on hundreds of media outlets at my disposal. A time when soccer was an entity above all others to me: too simple to associate with politics or strife.
When I struggle to understand how soccer can continue this journey towards incessant simulation, player power and financial idiocy I think of those times, summed up in two memories.
The first memory is World Cup ’98.
Everyone has their World Cup. The one you identify with most because it was held at a time significant to you or because it was the event during your period of greatest solace. France ‘98 was my World Cup.
I vividly remember moments like Blanc kissing Barthez’s head; Zidane lapping the hoardings after scoring in the final; Davor Suker rifling in shots; John Collins scoring a penalty against Brazil; the penalty shoot-out between Holland and Brazil; Michael Owen’s mazy goal against Argentina; David Beckham’s infamous red card; Gabriel Batistuta, Christian Vieri, Ronaldo and Salas all operating at their optimum capacity; Taffarel’s horrid green jersey; seeing Scotland in a major tournament.
I was 11 and I was on a family holiday in Greece when the tournament entered the latter stages. We would huddle round small TV’s to watch the games and every goal was cheered regardless of who scored it. Soccer was all inclusive, fun and exciting in ’98. At least it was for me.
The other memory I reach for when soccer gets me down is that of being a season ticket holder at Dens Park, home of Dundee FC.
I was there cheering on the Dees for 3 seasons, before playing my own sport dominated the weekends. I saw them play one year of rough-house soccer in the second tier on their way to promotion to the Scottish Premier League. I saw them play steady, hard edged soccer in ’99, before watching them chase foreign players in 2000-2002, looking to adopt ‘sexy’ soccer.
Dens saw Argentinean international Claudio Caniggia play alongside Temuri Ketsbaia and local boys like Lee Wilkie. It was a time of surprise and impressive soccer. I saw my local club go to the national stadium in 2003 to play in the Scottish Cup Final, a heartbreaking 1-0 loss to Rangers. I’ve not been a regular since…
For me soccer was untouchable for the years of ’98 to ’03. Then I grew to realize how nasty fans could be and how serious social problems could be tied up in the game. I grew to understand the ugly side.
Now as news reaches me of one of Scotland’s most impressive former players, Dalglish, slapping the beautiful game in the face I stop and think of why the sport is so good. No massacres, no politics, no egos, no bullshit. Just great goals and unforgettable instances.
I bet you have memories you will cherish, too.
