That's Football

For the purposes of the international audience (yes, it exists), I should try to standardize some terminology that I use on this blog. I am generally going to use the word soccer to describe the world's favourite sport, so as to differentiate between the sport and the American version of football. I will, however, most likely refer to soccer players as footballers, simply because I like the term, and may occasionally use the term football in a context such as: "they played some of the most dreadful football I've ever seen in that 0:3 loss to Norwich City over the weekend."

I just wanted to clarify this from the beginning, so as to avoid as much confusion as possible. I will, of course, fail miserably at keeping to this style, beginning with the title of this post. Just roll with it. You'll figure out what I mean.

And yes, I mentioned Norwich City in that last sentence because the Canaries and my club of choice, having been indoctrinated into the Yellow Army during my time as a student in Great Britain. It would figure that I'm a fan of a club that's never really won much of anything in their history. On The Ball City! It's time to show those Magpies from Newcastle United who's at the top of the pecking order.

As I mentioned a few days ago in my praising of bad American football, the game of soccer possesses some unique and interesting nuances when it comes to losing. I love the game and always have. It doesn't have the same hold on the sport psyche of Americans that it does in many other countries, but soccer culture has always existed in this country, albeit in less obvious and apparent forms. The game does, however, have some basic premises which seem at odds with Americana.

For one thing, if you're going to understand soccer, you have to understand that the draw is generally considered an acceptable result. We hate draws in the U.S. All American games now have some semblance of an overtime involved. There must be a winner, even if it takes 18 innings and you've got leftfielders coming into pitch and pitchers with .100 lifetime batting averages hitting cleanup and playing 1st base by the end of the game, the two baseball teams having exhausted their benches and all good ideas in the process. (Indeed, the most memorable games of any marathon baseball season are usually the extra-inning games I just described, which turn surreal and comical after awhile as all logic and baseball orthodoxy fails to produce a winner.)

But in soccer, of course, draws are so common that teams often accrue nearly as many draws as they do wins and losses. It's part of the game and you have to accept as much. The solution for breaking ties in knockout situations – the dreaded penalty shootout – is a wretched and revolting construct done out of necessity but not really fitting with the aims of the game. In a knockout competition, there has to be a winner, and yet soccer is fundamentally a game in which there is often no winner at all. Much like life, in fact. I have always believed that our games are symbolic of our societal mentalities. Whereas American sports emphasize the necessity of winning, the game of soccer emphasizes the fact that winning isn't always possible, and that sometimes it's all you can do to get by and settle for a draw.

And the victories on the pitch, ultimately, are cause for jubilation as much out of exhaustion and a sense of relief as anything. This is because the game of soccer is SO DAMN FRUSTRATING! A simpleton complaint about soccer is that there is a lack of action, because no one ever scores. A simpleton counterargument is that you have to watch the buildup of the play, get a feel for how it develops. But neither argument really speaks to the essence of what's going on out on the pitch.

My first British footballing experience took place at the City Grounds in Nottingham, as my hosts thought some of us Americans should take in a unique European experience. The home side Forest were one of the top clubs in England at this time, and their opponents were a woful Charlton Athletic side known for a pulling a Houdini act every year and avoiding being relegated somehow but doing little of anything else.

So we are in the terrace, the standing room area behind the goal where all right-minded supporters should be, and my host Mark, questioning my knowledge of 'real football,' makes a suggestion along the lines of 'watch the development of the play.' Having only watched high level soccer on TV before this, it occurs to me immediately that there are two things the high TV camera angles distort: speed and space. Everyone is moving a lot faster than it appears on TV, and there is a whole lot less room to maneuver.

But I do what Mark suggests, and pay attention to the buildup, which goes something like this: the right back playing a little 1-touch with a midfielder, slipping into open space to get the return pass and playing it into space down the right side to a streaking winger, who engages the Charlton defender in a brief little game of cat-and-mouse, deking and juking before laying the ball off to an arriving midfielder in support. Forest have some of England's best players and their quick movement of the ball causes Charlton's defence to lose its shape. With the continued buildup comes enthusiasm that builds, rises, an excitement gathering among the 30,000 or so in the stands at the City Grounds. The midfielder looks for a target in the box but the defender sloughs off, giving him space and a clear shot on the target and … no goal. And the crowd lets out a collective groan at the missed opportunity, declaring the midfielder to be rubbish and recommending that they send that duffer of a winger back to Mansfield Town or some other Div. 3 club – only to be engaged again as the next buildup commences, soon to be let down by the failure of the attack.

Now take that sequence I just described and run it about 10-11 times and you've got your typical soccer match.

There is always buildup, development, genesis of ideas, and yet the goal never comes. The cross if off target, the keeper makes the save, the offsides flag goes up, the official randomly calls a foul on no one in particular on the attacking side which makes no sense at all. The goal never comes. I always find it curious when the astute and erudite British commentators say "a bit of a surprise, really, that a player of such quality could squander such a chance," because I've been watching the game for 30+ years and that is what always happens. The goal never comes. The fans are collectively, constantly disappointed as one failed opportunity follows another, and are collectively and constantly angsty/nervous/agitated/terrified when the opponents have the ball that this next opposition attack will be that one time that their defence collapses – which never happens either, because the goal never comes.

It's a promethean sort of endeavour, soccer. A constant effort to do the impossible. The game is fundamentally frustrating and somewhat fatalistic, even, a quixotic attempt at the impossible which is rarely rewarded. Very often, one team will dominate possession of the ball and have a huge advantage in shots, and yet the game ends in a 0:0 draw. Or, worse, a 1:0 defeat. A defeat that seems wholly undeserved, given that the team which had such control ends up taking the loss. But "that's football," as players/coaches/fans are quick to say in such a circumstance, usually with a shrug. The game, like life, isn't fair.

But when the goal does come, well …

After several failed attacks on the Charlton goal in this particular game at the City Grounds, Forest's enterprising right back decides to take matters into his own hands, bringing the ball forward into open space and blasting a worm-killer of a shot that skids along the grass, finds its way between the defenders and eludes the surprised Charlton keeper. A perfect strike into the bottom right corner of the net which sends the fans into a WAVE OF EXULTATION, the joy and delirium flowing as freely as the beer at the pub before the match. It's an ecstatic, electric moment expressing delight, relief – and surprise, really, because someone actually scored a damn goal!

Given that it's so damn hard to score, given that picking up points in the standings is paramount, and given that the draw is a legitimate result in soccer, what then happens quite a bit, of course, is teams make little or no effort at all to win the game. Just hang back, try to ride the wave for 90 minutes, get the draw and pick up a point in the standings. The notion of playing for a draw drives Americans crazy. On arguably the greatest stage American soccer has ever seen – a round of 16 match with Brazil in the 1994 World Cup, played at Stanford on the 4th of July, no less – the Americans played for a 0:0 draw throughout, with hopes of ultimately forcing the lottery that is a penalty shootout, rarely making any real motions to attack even after the Brazilians were reduced to 10 men. It was a befuddling spectacle that seemed somewhat to defy the American spirit: how could you not try to win? Coach Bora would've argued, of course, that standing toe-to-toe and trying to attack the Brazilians would've resulted in a humbling defeat, as the American couldn't match the Brazilians skill. And indeed, the 10-man Brazilians ultimately unlocked the rigid American defense and scored for a 1:0 victory, so even the defensive strategy failed to pay off. But it seemed almost like the WRONG way to lose. Wouldn't if have been better to go down in a blaze of glory?

Of course it wouldn't. Because what difference does it make how you lose? Losing is losing. Losing pretty and losing ugly yield the same result – you go home unhappy. And winning ugly or forcing a 0:0 draw is, ultimately, a better result than losing pretty.

The act of goal scoring in soccer is often spectacular, given how it often takes a spectacular play to produce such results. Savvy soccer sides the world over, of course, long ago figured out their best chance to win involved creating the freest opportunities to score – penalties first and foremost, and also set pieces – and the best way to do that is influence the haggard, overworked referee, who is attempting to single-handedly police 22 guys on a field the size of an acre, and who simply cannot see everything. Hence the culture of diving, of flopping, of constantly politicking and arguing with the officials. Guys get dispossessed of the ball and collapse in a heap as if they've been struck by sniper fire, flop around like fish strewn atop a dock. Always arguing, baiting, courting favour from the official. It is gamesmanship, it is unsporting – and it works. It works often enough that everyone's started doing it. And why not? Some stout defending combined with a timely free kick – or, even better, a penalty earned with a flop in the box – can translate into a 1:0 win. And winning is all that matters, after all.

And like I say, soccer is chalk full of games where what would clearly be construed as the "better" team doesn't ultimately prevail. The flow of play often does not translate into logical results. Life on the pitch is not always as it seems. But it happens to every team, eventually. You just hope it doesn't happen in a particularly important game. "That's football" and that's how it goes. There are very few instances in American games where a similar situation arises. Often times, teams in American football dominate the stat sheet but come up short on the scoreboard, but a lot of the time it's due to self-inflicted wounds – penalties, turnovers, a sloppy play on special teams. There is a much greater sense of cause and effect in America.

Or so it would seem.

We are a society that has always stressed the notion of competition in our economics and commerce, but it's always been abundantly clear to me that businesses HATE competing, because it implies a possibility of failure. People, and businesses and government institutions, ultimately love winning. The idea of "playing fair" is just as much rubbish as that midfielder who couldn't hit the target with his shot. A lot of people conclude that the best way to beat the system is to game it. As long as there have been competitions of any sort – games, sports, contests, you name it – there have been people trying to cheat. The cause and effect, therefore, isn't always so clear cut. There are plenty of ways to go about gaining a competitive advantage that blur the lines between legal and illegal, if not just completely ignoring them altogether.

So, really, is diving on the football pitch any different? If anything, in that light, it seems somewhat resourceful and clever, as much as it may seem to run counter to the 'spirit' of the game. (That, and it's unsightly. C'mon guys, take some acting lessons.)

Losing is still losing, no matter the nation or the arena. In America, you're taught to believe that you can through self-improvement and the cutting down on mistakes. But in soccer, sometimes that doesn't matter. Sometimes you simply cannot win, no matter what you do, so you're best settling for a 0:0 draw, as unpleasant as it may turn out to be. You have to redefine success, and also redefine failure. The 1:1 draw where you gamely hold on with 10-men can feel like triumph, and sometimes the 0:0 draw where your offense couldn't hit the side of a barn feels like the most painful of losses.

No diving or dubious tactics on the part of Notts Forest was necessary at my first English soccer match – they added a second goal while Charlton's meek attacks were easily parried, resulting in a relatively easy 2:0 win for the home side. And while I appreciated seeing that outstanding Forest side (which I think finished 3rd that year in the English Div. 1), my love and appreciation for the game was elevated – and my loyalty forever cemented – with repeated visits to Carrow Road, the home ground of the Canaries of Norwich City F.C. I knew then I would be destined to love the Yellows forever.

And it was at Carrow Road that I not only rid myself of the American loathing of the draw, I actually came to appreciate its occasional benefit to society. I went to a game between the Canaries and Liverpool that year. Liverpool were the biggest, baddest dudes on the block, the best team in England. But our side had talent (3-4 guys wound up on World Cup rosters), tenacity (a trademark of Norwich football over the years), and also didn't take any shit from anyone (witness a 21-player brawl v. Arsenal earlier in the year). It was promising to be a combative and electrifying match. Liverpool brought a healthy number of supporters with them, and their fans had a rather dubious reputation at the time (not entirely deserved, I might add, but that's another story for another time). It was an intense atmosphere, electric and combative. There were extra police in case of any trouble, and a feisty spirit in the air at Carrow Road. The fans of both sides, at first glance, seemed ready for a fight.

And it ended 0:0. Nothing happened. And everyone went home. The only people happy were the local authorities, who didn't need to quell any riots, as any potential combatants had essentially been neutered by boredom. I recall overhearing a pair of red-clad fans talking as I was leaving the grounds, and one of them said, "well, gee, that was a dreadfully dull affair, now wasn't it?"