Courtesy of The Amsterdam Tavern
Soccer Fans
Forgive the pun, but my goal this summer—unbelievable as it seems now—was to boycott soccer, specifically the World Cup. With a variety of job-related tasks staring at me in June and July, the thought of inviting an aggressive time-thief into my world seemed foolish and irresponsible. As someone with heavily patterned (if not addictive) tendencies, the sheer number of game-time commitments is tough enough. But added in, too, was viewer-guilt over the social unrest within certain sectors of Brazil, protesters rightly pointing out areas in which the country’s massive investment of public works money on a FIFA-profiting event clashed with the nation’s own needs.
All of this was enough for me to express my boycott to people, folks who knew that once I fell into the World Cup hole, the fall was going to be long and all-encompassing. They were dubious. And the fall happened early. As in: game one.
Celebrating good news with some friends, I wound up at Red’s 8th Inning, a modest-and-fun South Side tavern, where I couldn’t help but notice a massive screen in the back of the bar, right next to the popcorn machine. “Watching” were two retirees, 160 years of lived life between them. They weren’t watching so much as just observing. They didn’t talk. They didn’t react to the TV. They didn’t seem to notice us all that much. They were just existing there, sipping at AB cans, with the Cup’s kickoff game, Brazil vs. Croatia, playing in what seemed lifelike size beside them.
I watched a few minutes, “just to see the score.” Brazil took the match, 3–1. They also snatched my soul.
Even as an avowed Brazilian soccer hater (“Anybody But Brazil” is emotionally tattooed on my right forearm), the game had passion, excitement, a late rush of goals. The Brazilian fans were going nuts, and I was writhing in agony next to the popcorn machine at Red’s 8th Inning. What a world.
Since then, I’ve taken in games—full and partial—all over town. From the Perigen Tavern, a sleepy corner tavern in Madison, Ill., to my home away from home at The Royale, to The Amsterdam Tavern, of course. There, I’ve enjoyed the secondary matches, avoiding the U.S. games at all cost, due to mortal fear of those crowds. On the off-days, though, The Amsterdam’s been a great spot to watch matches, with super-partisan crowds mixed in with neutral ones. The Amsterdam patio, in particular, has been a magnet on nicer days, the venue having built itself, in recent months, into a national-class venue in which watch games with friends and strangers.
Through it all, the local press has been tossing grenades in the general direction of the swelling soccer-viewing community. The Post’s Joe Strauss wrote a piece that seemed committed to the idea that soccer fans are boorish, thanks to their inhospitality to mainstream media, and hang-ups about soccer-specific terminology and lingo. A few days later, Joe Holleman boiled up his own pot of weaksauce, tossing all the usual ingredients into the mix: the game is slow and boring, lacks drama and scoring. And worst of all, it’s a game followed by Holleman’s nemesis, the local hipster scene, which has apparently taken to the game in a sign of cultural defiance. Weird.
(I will note that when Strauss guest-hosted a show on CBS Sports 920 last week, I called in; the producer patched me through in about 30 seconds, and I was granted about eight minutes to debate soccer and its cultural meaning with Strauss and show host/station boss Tim McKernan. It was a good chat, with very different opinions being bandied about. The fact that I called an AM radio show to take up the shield of soccer showed how very, very far down the hole I’ve fallen. And am still falling, this piece being written with Nigeria vs. France playing on another screen in the background. It’s not getting better, this affliction, it’s just getting worse.)
ME, STEREOTYPING? NEVER!
If Strauss and Holleman got the locals fired up, Ann Coulter’s recent piece on soccer got the entire nation talking late last week. The conservative writer drew huge conclusions from the game’s recent popularity, making the viewing of the sport a debate on the very nature of what it is to be an American. Almost predictably, a lot of the backlash came in the form of soccer fans defending the sport, while others wondered whether Coulter’s on-the-edge-of-sanity opinion wasn’t some type of multi-leveled satire, even a Colbert-like parody of herself.
While I joined the “this is so nuts, it’s hilarious” camp early on, the uncomfortable reality is that certain pieces of the article do make sense to me.
Nationalism and patriotism are part of this experience, this viewing of soccer in public places. At The Amsterdam a week or so back, a family of Ghanaians stood a few feet from me. The inside tavern of The Amsterdam was running at about 50 percent German supporters, maybe 15 to 20 percent opting for Ghana, and the remainder there to eat burgers from the neighboring The Dam. The fact that the Ghanaian fans were so close to me amped up my Germanness by at least half.
Born in Germany and growing up on the game by watching Channel 9 broadcasts of Soccer Made in Germany on Sunday mornings, before or after my own CYC games in South St. Louis, well… the sport’s roots run deep in me, and the country of my birth becomes more important, more real to me, when the nation’s most-famous athletes are playing. In a public setting, you’re supposed to act a little better than your norm, but sports allow you a chance to get in touch with the inner barbarian a bit; at Germany games this summer, I’m a little unhinged, and have to pull back emotionally.
As Germany played the U.S. last week, my homeland was pitted against my homeland. Unsure of what to do, I ran up to a part-time workplace, The Royale, and watched a Sunday afternoon group of random patrons swell into a united, patriotic, U.S.-soccer-loving chorus. People who wouldn’t watch a soccer ball kicked in anger on any other day of the year were suddenly amped up, moaning as one when Germany’s lone goal by Thomas Mueller sailed past the outstretched arms of American keeper Tim Howard. The score held, and both teams moved into the knockout stage, but there was an unspoken sense of mild dissatisfaction with the way the U.S. edged into the deeper rounds.
For English fans, the disappointment arrived earlier and with much more finality. Knocked out of the group stage in just their second match, the English went down 2–1 to Uruguay. At The Amsterdam, I stood in the patio, leaning against the bar, taking in the second half of the match with England supporters all around me. Having spent time in England during school, I also caught several matches in English stadiums and maintain a real appreciation for the passion of the fanbase, as well as the English Premier League.
Unfortunately, England’s most-ardent supporters are also jerks.
Here’s that nationalism thing, boiling up again. When watching a game through mostly neutral eyes, you find ways to love/hate through weird channels. At The Amsterdam, I went in modestly supporting England. But the English fans! They’re loud and knowledgeable, but wow! They’re also some of the most offensive you’ll find. The invective against players from both sides was amazing. Here, on a beautiful patio bar in South St. Louis, the nationalism was spilling out, along with the obscenities and general hostility. Suddenly, I was internally cheering for Uruguay, the same team I’d come to despise a few days later with Luis Suarez’s biting incident and his country’s over-the-top-crazed response to his censure from the World Cup.
Nationalism. It’s freaky.
BUT LET’S TALK BEER
Back at The Amsterdam a week or two after the England match, Ecuador and France were playing to the scoreless draw. There were no local news TV cameras on hand to capture the action. In fact, if there was a sleepy match to find at The Amsterdam throughout this World Cup, it was this one, the Ecuadorans leaving the Cup with this draw. Finding a friend, Anita, sitting alone at a table, I chatted about her reasons for flying solo at a game that escaped attention for most.
Her family’s Ecuadoran, it turns out. Her mother’s the real fan, but was likely unable to watch the match due to work. So Anita came out, sitting there and watching the game to represent for her family. At the conclusion of the match, she chatted up a young family from the corner of the room; mom, dad and baby. (Yup, baby at the bar!) When the conversation struck up, it was in Spanish, and sensing that I wouldn’t understand another word said, I bid Anita a fond farewell and headed out into the summer sun.
Catching games in ethnically and culturally interesting venues is a big part of making the World Cup fun. When Bosnia-Herzegovina played Nigeria in a pivotal first-round matchup, a friend (female, I should point out) and I headed up to the Lucky Duck, a Bosnian corner bar on Gravois. Several people suggested this place as the perfect spot for a Bosnian match. They weren’t wrong.
Walking into the Lucky Duck, the first thought was: this bar is smoky. The second was: this bar is full of only men. Where Bosnian-American women were on this day, we didn’t know, but they weren’t with their fellas at the Lucky Duck. There, the coffee and beer were flowing in equal measures, and the cigarettes were lit by everyone but ourselves and the eight-year-old kid in the Zvjezdan Misimovic No. 10 shirt. We were warmly welcomed into the bar by the staff, the owners and an agitated-but-friendly fan, who pointed at the TV and said in broken English, “Bosna! This game! This my country!”
It wasn’t a pretty game, the Bosnians robbed of a goal on a terrible offsides call in the first half. (The bar erupted in joy, then fell into a deep, resigned anger.) Nigeria went up 1–0, but we struggled to follow the match as well as possible; while the TVs at the Lucky Duck are plentiful, they’re a bit small, and this was a feed directly from a Bosnian satellite. It was a wonderful way to watch a half, but the smoke was tough. We fled to nearby Friendly’s for the second half, which was a solid choice: big TVs, English-language announcing, a wider array of beer options. Less passion, though, true.
But driving between venues, we noticed a bar on Morgan Ford called Code. Outside, Bosnian men wore their country’s jerseys, pitching fireworks. A beer bottle flew onto a nearby roof. Even down at half, this crowd was into the party, celebrating Bosnia’s first-ever appearance in the World Cup. In one of those beautiful moments of visual clash, the new skate park on Morgan Ford was buzzing. Directly across the street, kids were popping moves on half-pipes as fireworks flew, just across the road.
I don’t know Coulter’s America, exactly. Maybe not even Strauss’ or Holleman’s. But this corner of South City looked a lot like the street-level America I know: diverse, a little weird, an old-fashioned melting pot. And soccer played a part in pulling it all together.
Thomas Crone will appear with host Tom Schwarz on 590 AM KFNS’ STL United FC Soccer, Saturday July 5, 10 a.m. For more info, go to 590theman.com.
