The relationship between FIFA and the United States has always been somewhat complicated. There has always been something of a footballing subculture in the U.S., given the immigrant nature of the society, but you could never say prior to 1990 that the U.S. was a footballing nation, as the sport languished far down on the pecking order. To a governing body which possessed the same sort of envy/jealousy as the IOC, the U.S. being not very good at soccer – nor very interested – wasn’t really that much of a big deal. The overreaching flurry of the North American Soccer League was amusing in the 1970s, but that experiment – in which owners grossly overpaid for past-their-prime players – wore out its welcome pretty quickly, as a discerning American clientele quickly grew unimpressed.
Beginning in the late 1980s, however, FIFA came to understand that while it still administered the most popular sport in the world, there was considerable room to grow the game. Soccer may dominate the psyches of sports fans in Europe, South America and Africa, but HUGE potential markets still existed for the game. You can somewhat loosely divide the world into three camps based upon the sporting pastime of choice – there are soccer nations, cricket nations, and baseball nations. With each pastime comes a culture that has developed around it – a culture and history and tradition which, in some ways, is just as important as the actual game on the field, if not even moreso. With the notable exception of England, few nations actually have sporting cultures in which more than one of these three sporting pastimes thrive. Venezuela has never qualified for the World Cup, yet it produces many of the greatest baseball players in the world. Given that there are 1,000,000,000 people in cricket-mad India, you’d think you could find 11 decent footballers, yet the Blue Tigers are currently ranked 155th in the world and lost 5:2 on aggregate to the United Arab Emirates in the 2nd round of Asian qualifying for Brazil. FIFA’s expanding of the tournament – the number of invites rose from 16 to 24 in 1982 and then to 32 in 1998 – was done, in part, with the hopes that some of the world’s larger and/or more prosperous, less footballing-inclined nations would get it together and start playing the game at a high level. Some of these nations, like India and Canada, seem to be lost causes at this point, while growth in Southeast Asia has been rather modest, but FIFA’s growth initiatives seem to have succeeded, for the most part in places such as Japan, South Korea, South Africa, Australia and, yes, the United States.
And by “success,” it means more than just rolling out a team every four years in the World Cup. Sustained success means encouraging the development of the game’s infrastructure. The structure of the game in the five nations I just mentioned differs wildly from anything you’d find in Europe. South Korea and Japan have something akin to corporate professional leagues. The A-League in Australia and New Zealand is sort of an odd, Americanized hybrid. MLS in the U.S. does business in ways decidedly at odds with the rest of the globe, which frustrates the hell out of FIFA. In all of these places, the growth of the game of soccer has required, along with it, a creation of an accompanying culture surrounding the game. It’s really the only way in which the game – or any game, for that matter – can ultimately thrive.
It’s taken well over 20 years for this to occur in the United States, which was FIFA’s boldest enterprise given the love/hate relationship fostered on the sporting landscape between the U.S. and the rest of the world over the years. Foreign players themselves have always really enjoyed the United States – the nation possessing enough knowledgable fans on the fringes to make players feel welcome and appreciated but lacking the accompanying gossip-and-paparazzi culture that you find elsewhere. The game’s administrators, meanwhile – generally a bunch of grumpy old men with Napoleonic complexes – have approached the U.S. with considerable caution. Fact is, that the U.S. has shown time and again that it has the resources to do whatever the nation sets its mind to doing, and quite a few grumblers at football’s top levels have feared that the U.S. will eventually just roll out so much footballing talent so as to overwhelm everyone else. But the benefits of growing the game in one of the largest and richest nations on earth far exceeded the long-term risks. Awarding the 1994 World Cup to the U.S. was, therefore, sort of a no-brainer.
And in a curiously convenient twist in the run-up to 1990, FIFA banned Mexico from World Cup qualifying. The reasons stated for this ban – Mexico using overaged players in FIFA Youth qualifying, with the penalty applied to all levels of international play – provided fertile grounds for skepticism: Mexico being out of the competition meant a CONCACAF place freed up for a U.S. team which hadn’t been to the World Cup since 1950. It was thought FIFA was hedging its bets and trying to protect its new American investment, figuring an American appearance in Italy 1990 would bode well for 1994.
And the U.S. did, in fact, manage to qualify thanks to this miracle in Port-of-Spain, but they weren’t particularly good in Italy – which is EXACTLY how most of the footballing world wanted it to be and, in fact, still want it to be. American forays into the game have always been viewed with scorn and ridicule. American players never seem to be able to get a game with clubs abroad (with the exception of the goalkeepers, which Americans have always had tonnes of). In 1998, most every European and South American newspaper made a point of saying Brazil lost to Norway due to “the idiot American referee” awarding a late penalty – never mind that video replays revealed he had gotten the call correct. Playing for the USMNT means you’re going to be Public Enemy #1 wherever you go, with few exceptions – the players were somewhat surprised to discover neutral fans in South Africa actually rooting for them in 2010.
But 2010 was a watershed moment for American footballing. Not only did they win their group in South Africa, but the traits which have been developed over the course of 20 years – tenacity, determination, mental toughness in difficult environments – suddenly seemed enviable. More than one national team coach lamented his team’s lack of “American fortitude” in South Africa. After six consecutive appearances in the World Cup, the U.S. seems to have established an identity as a footballing nation. And qualification for 2014 has taken this to a new level altogether, as the U.S. has come to fully embrace one of the international game’s great traditions.
Fucking with their opponents.
In no sport is losing taken more personally than soccer. There are a number of cultural reasons for this, which are best understood by looking at the word ‘soccer’ itself – a colloquial bastardization of the term ‘association football.’ The ‘association’ part is key there – the game has developed in Europe and elsewhere as a loose association of clubs across all levels in multiple tiers of play. In a nation like England, there are zillions of clubs at all sorts of levels – from the EPL down through three more professional divisions, then regional leagues and county leagues and city leagues and the like. They all play by the same rules, as FIFA insists that the game be the same on every level of play. (This is why the time is kept on the field and not on the scoreboard – far more matches than not are played on this planet without a scoreboard than with.) And when we say ‘clubs,’ we really mean it – most clubs have memberships and field teams on multiple levels of their own. And clubs, of course, are inherently catered to some of particular interest or another. Soccer is an amalgamation of neighbourhood clubs, regional clubs, trade union clubs, corporate clubs, clubs representing ethnic groups or religious groups or students or what have you. Most all of the giant clubs on earth are of humble origins (Manchester United was a club for railroad workers, for example), and what’s separated them over time is performance. All clubs started on a level playing field at some point. To the extent your club is successful is, ultimately, entirely up to you.
In North America, we slap NEW YORK or CHICAGO across the jerseys and declare that team to represent a city – but given that almost every city in the U.S. has seen a professional sports franchise move away, it’s clear that such a construct is artificial. The only franchise in North America that bears any resemblance to a European club is the Green Bay Packers, who are community-owned. Clubs may grow and widen their fan support with success, but that original notion – a sporting club representing a particular subset of people – continues to exist. In fact, it is essential to the game of soccer. The complaint levied most often against Chelsea, as a great example, is that the club has chosen to disregard its traditions (never mind that its traditions didn’t include winning very often). The game becomes an extension of the subset of people who chose to originally support it – and thus matches can take on a metaphorical importance far greater than they should.
Americans find the fervor surrounding soccer somewhat baffling. There is no equivalent to it on the professional sports landscape. A better example in the U.S., in fact, is collegiate sports – something like Alabama v. Auburn being far closer to a European-style rivalry than any game between ‘NEW YORK’ and ‘CHICAGO.’ The football grounds become a soapbox and pulpit, an extension of your group and an expression of your aims. Some of the largest clubs in the world willingly perpetuate this. F.C. Barcelona v. Réal Madrid isn’t just a game – it’s a chance for Catalonia to get in a jab at Franco’s favourite club from years gone by. (And in a bit of turnabout, the city of Barcelona’s second largest club is called Español.) The Celtic-Rangers rivalry is even more disquieting, as it turns into the settling of old scores from the Protestant Reformation. Celtic was founded by Irish immigrants to Glasgow, and their success on the pitch has translated into a way for Catholics to bring to attention years of discrimination in the British Isles (Celtic has become the de facto club of choice for Catholics in Northern Ireland, as well as the entire Irish Republic). Rangers didn’t start out as a ‘protestant’ club, per sé, but have kept up that mystique because it’s been good business to do so. The wars on the pitch have extended to the streets of Glasgow and, indeed, across the Irish Sea. In a situation where the game becomes an expression of a cause, losing is a devastating psychological blow – which also means, of course, that winning is grounds for exhibiting the worst sort of victor’s behaviour. Not only is losing personal in soccer, but winning (and engaging in schadenfreude regarding the misfortune of your rivals) is a chance to gloat and taunt and mock. I mean, don’t get me wrong here, I love mocking the Dodgers at every turn, but there are limits. Actions which cross the line are met with horror in this country. It’s still a game, and there will be another one. The idea that a club would have this hard-core group of hoodlums who believe in further causing trouble at a match (and that in fact that group would be held in a certain level of esteem by the club) pretty much makes no sense to an American sports fan.
With the subtext surrounding the game of soccer, it’s no surprise that psychological warfare is a part of the game. Footballers and their coaches talk more trash in the press than any other athletes. That whole notion of ‘bulletin board material’ means nothing – if some subset of people has an issue with another subset of people, that bulletin board is always going to be fully stocked, anyway. Clubs, and their supporters, will go to all sorts of lengths and shenanigans to try and get their opponents off their games. And nowhere is this more apparent than in the most important games of all, which are the World Cup Qualifiers, where the whole point of having a home match is to make it as uncomfortable as possible for your opponents. You want to find a venue that maximizes your own team’s strengths and works to your favour. Some of the best examples of this are found in South America – Ecuador and Bolivia play their home matches high in the Andes to take advantage of the altitude; other nations try to take advantage of weather conditions or other unique characteristics. Away games at the highest level are meant to be hard.
And this notion which was completely lost in the U.S. for decades.
Mexico has always been the baddest dude on this particular block. They’ve dominated North American soccer for decades, and have developed both the reputation and attitude to accompany this. Along with some superior play on the field has come the creation of their own mystique: Estadio Azteca in Mexico City, which is, arguably, the greatest home-field advantage on earth. Combine 8,000 feet of altitude, searing heat, brutal smog and 105,000 fans and you have an absolute snakepit. The U.S., meanwhile, went years playing World Cup Qualifiers vs. El Tri in Los Angeles. This was done to maximize the gate receipts for the cash-strapped USSF. It was hard enough for the U.S. to compete with the Mexicans, but attempting to do so in a ‘home game’ where 90% of the fans are supporting the opposition made it almost impossible.
But in 2001, the U.S. decided to put a stop to this once and for all. They decided that, after years of being to Estadio Azteca (and an assortment of other difficult away games, as playing in Central America is tough stuff), it was time to create a home field advantage all of its own, and thus was born the once-every-four-years pilgrimage to Columbus – a place which has since become a house of horrors for El Tri. Columbus Crew Stadium is small, loud, the weather is usually terrible, and the crowd is 99% American. New American boss Jurgen Klinsmann, meanwhile, didn’t just stop at scheduling the Mexico qualifier in Columbus. A seasoned vet of football’s psychological wars, Klinsmann wanted to maximize the advantages when dealing with other CONCACAF opponents as well, which is how you end up with Costa Rica playing in a snowstorm at 5,280 feet of altitude in Denver:
The Ticos were miffed about this, of course, and made sure to play up their indignation in the run-up to the return match in San José, but they knew this was business as usual. Indeed, the U.S. and the Central American nations have been covert allies over the years in their quest to topple the Mexicans from the top of the totem pole, their contempt for El Tri exceeding their contempt for each other. An unforseen benefit of the growth of MLS has been that Central American and Caribbean players now have another option when it comes to playing professionally. The talent bases in Costa Rica, Honduras, Panama have grown considerably in the past two decades to boot.
But back to Columbus – Mexico has had no luck whatsoever winning there, or even coming close. All three previous qualifiers there ended U.S. 2:0 Mexico: Dos a Cero. No longer is U.S.-Mexico defined by American misery at Azteca, where the U.S. managed a draw this year, and where they won a friendly in 2012, nor is it defined by El Tri being doted upon by adoring fans in L.A. or Houston or Miami or even at RFK in D.C. Instead, it’s now defined by Dos a Cero. Throw in a second round game from Korea in 2002, which also ended Dos a Cero, and you’ve got the makings of a serious mindfuck going on here. And in a qualifying campaign in which the Mexicans are struggling mightily, a trip to Columbus and the reminder of the mystique of Dos a Cero was about the last thing they needed.
And then this happened last Tuesday in Columbus:
Dos a Cero.
The joke going around was that the U.S. missed a penalty on purpose at the end to preserve the Dos a Cero narrative. Pretty much every newspaper in two countries uttered the phrase Dos a Cero. It was clear from the events in Columbus, but also from the runup and the aftermatch, which of the two footballing powers in this region currently has the upper hand.
The LOSE loves the game of soccer, and finds the culture surrounding it to be fascinating. It pleases me to see how the game has grown in this country and how the U.S. has begun to assert itself at the game’s highest level. Is the U.S. ‘elite’ as such? No, but few nations are. The expectations for Brazil 2014 will be high – but they SHOULD be high. 25 years has seen the creation of a professional league that is now among the Top 10 in attendance worldwide (a fact which surprises almost everyone on all sides of the oceans), has seen the U.S. set the gold standard for organizing World Cups in 1994, compete decently at the World Cup level in 2002 and 2010. Not only is the U.S. now playing soccer at a high level, but its also acting like it belongs there.
As it stands right now in “the Hex,” the U.S. and Costa Rica have punched their tickets to Brazil, while Honduras stands in 3rd place and is in good position. Panama and Mexico are tied for 4th on points and goal difference, with Panama technically ahead on goals scored. 4th place in CONCACAF gets you a ticket to a home-and-home playoff with New Zealand, which will create some logistical issues all its own. There are two games left in the group. Mexico plays Panama at Azteca and then this delicious scenario presents itself – Mexico has to play at Costa Rica, while Panama hosts the U.S. The Ticos and the U.S. have nothing else to play for, mind you, but both of them would love to further add to the misery that is El Tri in 2013. I imagine Costa Rica will go hard in that game, but the U.S. against Panama? Hmmm … would the Americans, oh, you know, maybe not put in their best effort in that game if it means dumping the Mexicans out of Brazil? I don’t mean, you know, maybe bring some young players and not put out the strongest XI and, well, maybe if you get down 1:0 you sort of square pass and go through the motions a little bit and, well, maybe not close out the space on Panamanian players quite so aggressively as you may have …
Far be it from me to say the U.S. would tank that game. Tanking is generally frowned upon in this country. But let’s be honest here – Jurgen Klinsmann knows full well from his days playing for Germany that, had a similar situation arose in Europe, any team would’ve gone into the dumper if it knocked the Germans out in the process. Think Argentina would do anything to benefit the Brazilians? Ever? The next-best thing to a win is a loss by your biggest rival, and any effort (or lack thereof) which contributes to their failures is, in fact, almost expected.
It’s a delicious scenario, actually – Mexico’s fortunes potentially being dependent upon their closest rival. Indeed, the extent to which the U.S. has become a footballing culture may not ultimately be defined by a win as much as a convenient, well-timed defeat.
