My View From the cheap seats

I wish I could get excited about the upcoming FIFA World Cup, but I can’t. I’ve tried. I really have. I’ve stood in front of the television with a beverage, a polite attitude, and an open mind, waiting for the spark to catch. It never does.

This is not a criticism of soccer or the people who love it. I don’t mean it disparagingly. I am fully aware that this makes me the odd man out in certain circles, particularly the ones where people know what “aggregate scoring” means and use it in a sentence without irony.

If you are a soccer fan, more power to you. Enjoy every minute. I’ve got friends who plan their lives around kickoff times the way I plan mine around tailgates. They think nothing of getting up before dawn, putting on the right shirt, and emotionally investing in something that will not be decided until sometime next month.

To be fair, people think I’m crazy for traveling all over the Southeast and getting up at the crack of dawn to tailgate before college football games. They see no joy in folding chairs, cold biscuits, and parking lots that smell like charcoal and hope. I see no joy in a nil-nil draw. To each his own, I say, and I mean it.

I have enjoyed watching women’s World Cup soccer. That surprised me as much as anyone. Part of that was because Carli Lloyd was a bad-ass player who also happened to be easy on the eyes. She played with a level of intensity I could understand. You didn’t need a rulebook or a seminar to know when she was about to do something impressive.

During those matches, I even learned a few things from soccer-fan friends. They explained offsides with diagrams and patience, which I appreciated, though I still nodded the way people nod when you explain cryptocurrency. I understood just enough to fake it, which is the American way.

But even then, the excitement never fully arrived. I admired the skill. I respected the conditioning. I recognized the stakes. And yet, if someone had changed the channel to a mid-season baseball game, I would not have protested.

This World Cup starts June 11 and goes on for more than a month. A full month. That’s longer than some relationships I’ve had and most diets I’ve attempted. A lot of my friends will follow every match, every highlight, every dramatic facial expression after a near miss. It’ll be on the television constantly at my favorite watering hole.

I will look up occasionally. I will ask polite questions. I will say things like, “That was close,” even when I’m not entirely sure why. But I won’t feel that pull, that irrational need to know what happens next.

I would rather watch sports where the clock makes sense to me and where scoring doesn’t feel like a rumor. Sports where someone eventually wins, preferably by more than one.

We didn’t have soccer when I was a kid. At least not in any meaningful way. Experts kept telling us that one day it would be huge in America. They may still be right. It’s clearly growing. Stadiums fill up. Jerseys sell. Kids know players I’ve never heard of. I wish I could get excited. I really do. But for now, I’ll be over here, waiting for baseball season to remind me how long a game is supposed to feel.