Bank It Like Beckham
Amidst the frisson that coursed through my network of soccer-loving friends upon news of David Beckham's impending move stateside, one killjoy wondered whether the signing might spark the kind of escalating arms race that torpedoed professional soccer's initial attempt at conquering America.
There's always the chance that the Beckham signing will spark a drunken orgy of spending, but I think MLS Management is mindful of the errors that doomed the NASL and other American soccer leagues. The MLS is essentially a centrally managed corporation that allows its individual units (the franchises) limited autonomy to conduct their business and in their pseudo-socialist way they've done a pretty good job at distributing players and capping spending, so I'm willing to give them the benefit of the doubt on this one.
Basically, I look at the Beckham signing as a marketing expense and at $250 million a fairly reasonable one for an organization with the ambitions that MLS maintains. When you're a league without a significant TV contract, you have to take extraordinary steps to generate publicity and sizzle, because an American sports league without a viable TV deal is hardly a league at all, ask the NHL.
Beckham is almost an industry unto himself and will attract more attention alone than the entire MLS did before his arrival. And that's before you consider the run-off publicity sure to appear in all the non-sports related venues on account of his massive celebrity (Vanity Fair, People, US Weekly, etc).
The biggest problem with American soccer (aside from its relative lack of success making inroads into working and lower class populations of the non-recent immigrant variety) is that there's a huge disconnect between its popularity as a participant sport and spectator sport. Tons of people play soccer growing up. More Americans play soccer growing up than any other sport. Probably twenty times as many people played organized soccer growing up as played American football. But people who played soccer from the first grade to twelfth without ever setting foot on the gridiron will breathlessly watch a meaningless regular season NFL game while ignoring professional soccer entirely.
They watch football because the culture, the aura that surrounds the sport is greater than the game itself. In this celebrity-obsessed age, a figure like Beckham can provide a measure of glamour that not only attracts attention to soccer but illustrates to kids deciding what sport to pursue that soccer is as sexy, sexier perhaps, than the alternatives.
Of course, the question is whether you can transform that cult-of-personality into appreciation of the sport as whole, or whether it withers away and dies, a la post-Lance Tour de France. Regardless, I think it's worth a shot because star power can deliver a sport into the national consciousness, in fact, it's practically the only thing that ever has.
A lot of people don't realize that before Bird and Magic burst on the scene, the NBA was a dying league where the championship finals games were shown on tape delay and its games pulled worse ratings than bowling. I don't know if Beckham can have the same effect, especially without a counterpoint (maybe an aging Latin stud (Ronaldo?) to recapture the whole racial subtext that helped fuel Bird v. Magic), but I think it's clear that for a sport to succeed it America it has to rise from the level of athletics to the level of spectacle. If anyone can help do this, it's Beckham. Now, if only we could get Posh Spice into cheerleading...
Germany, I'm Sorry
Dear Germany,
I apologize. Really. This is not one of those half-hearted apologies born of cowardice, convenience or diplomacy. This is an honest-to-goodness, get down on my knees, "baby-will-you-please take me back" apology. I must admit - I was wrong.
I wish I could erase all the skeptical glances, the awkward moments and the jealous thoughts, but really all I can do is apologize. It's not that I didn't find you attractive at first. In fact, I admired you from afar, marveling at your form, your intellect and resolve. But I must admit, I was also a bit intimidated by your strength and occasionally suspicious of your checkered past. I never mentioned this to anyone because it seemed a bit unfair. From what I could tell, you'd turned over a new leaf and everyone deserves a second chance, right? But sometimes you have to find out for yourself. Well, I finally did, and now I have a new secret to confess. Germany, you vixen, you've stolen my heart.
The last time I left my heart somewhere, it was in San Francisco, where both it and I have resided for the better part of a decade now. Yet as I set out for Germany on the eve of the World Cup, I was unsure what to expect me upon my arrival in Dusseldorf. Come to find out, what awaited me was a trip that was both incredibly entertaining and full of the following epiphanies:
1. "Ein pils bitte" are three of the sweetest words in any language and also three of the most efficient. One of the glories of drinking in Germany is that you can go into any establishment and simply say "Ein pils bitte", secure in the knowledge that you'll receive an excellent brew, generally of the local variety. (Of course, don't completely neglect the weissbeer). If this were true of American pubs, the sanity of bartenders everywhere would be preserved and you wouldn't have to wait for a small eternity while the woman ahead of you debates the merits of Heineken and Amstel Light.
2. Weltmeisterschaft and Weltmeterschaft are two different things. Both things to be proud of, but very different. Weltmeisterschaft means World Cup in German. Weltmeterschaft, doesn't mean anything really, except, maybe, world's long shaft. If you're going to confuse the two, as I did, it's best to avoid doing it at high volume in a German restaurant.
3. With a sufficient amount of trial-and-error, I am capable of reading a train schedule, in a foreign language no less. The day I caught the train in Nuremberg, and successfully switched at Frankfurt (twice) Dortmund and Dusseldorf was one of the proudest days of my life. If only my mama could have seen me.
4. A man can't live on beer and brats alone. You have to toss in a donor kebab every now and then, preferably around 3 o'clock in the morning. Nothing, I mean nothing on God's green earth hits the spot at 3 AM better than a donor kebab. The first person to open up a donor kebab stand in my neighborhood will die a wealthy man.
5. Speaking of which, 3 AM is basically the crack of dawn in northern Germany. There'll be no sleeping in late here, unless you're from Stockholm, Alaska, or have curtains made of lead.
6. "Vie Geits Alter" is apparently a viable translation of "What's up, Gangsta?, at least according to a Turkish-German hip-hop fan we stumbled into on the streets of Cologne. Exactly how this topic came up remains clouded in a pilsner-induced haze, but this translation was confirmed at a later date by a German with a degree in North American studies. It's always good to have an academic weigh in on 50 Cent.
7. Attending football matches dressed as superheroes is a great, self-deprecating way to the edge off anti-Americanism. Consider it Justice League diplomacy. It will, however, mean a three-hour walk to the stadium as you're stopped every ten feet to pose for photos and conduct interviews with foreign fans and international news organizations.
8. In continental Europe, ATMs are not always precise when assessing how much money remains in an American checking account. So, if you ever find yourself hard up for cash in a foreign country and think there's no money left to withdraw, well, you may not want to admit defeat so easily. Just know that there will be a reckoning when you return to the States.
9. The German penchant for innovative design extends into the bathroom. While most toilets in the western world operate under the same basic principle: that your deposit either lands directly in a small pool of water at the bottom of the bowl, or make its way there after sliding down a sloped surface, German toilet technology is decidedly different. Here, your offering lands on a completely dry horizontal shelf positioned just beneath your posterior. Repeated flushings and vigorous use of the toilet brush are then required to dispose of the evidence, although these measures do little to extinguish the olfactory traces of your dirty work. Noting the German reputation for exceeding practicality and design excellence, I knew there must be a logical reason for this. As it turns out the design is meant to facilitate examination of one's stool, the better to preserve gastrointestinal health. Apparently the expression "ignorance is bliss" doesn't translate into German.
10. It never hurts to get a second opinion on the validity of national toasts. After hearing us hoist beers to a chorus of "Prosts", one native prankster intervened to tell us that while most foreigners believed this to be the standard German toast, the traditional saying was not "Prost", but "Prost-ta-ta", which we subsequently discovered means absolutely nothing or "hooray for boobies".
The mischief of this one prankster not withstanding, it should be noted that the Germans were unfailingly helpful during our visit despite the fact that our rather large traveling party - which peaked at 14 members - boasted a cumulative four years of high school German, all of which rested in the cranium of one Greg Nelson, the erstwhile leader of our merry band. Besides acting as the organizational dean of the group, Greg, a.k.a. "American Schumacher" also acquitted himself exceptionally well on the roads of Germany, negotiating the Autobahn with a car packed so full the passengers were nearly immobile and the rearview mirror was nothing but a useless ornament.
Greg was no doubt aided by the fact that our rental car was a Mercedes station wagon, a gem of a car for which the clerk at the rental agency actually felt compelled to apologize. Apparently they were all out of Ford Tauruses and late model Chevy Impalas. For our part, we were quite happy to tour in style through the German countryside, which was pleasant in a comforting, non-exotic way surprisingly reminiscent of Central Pennsylvania. We were less pleased by the hip-hop on German radio, which was surprisingly reminiscent of the Clear Channel hegemony we're subjected to back home. Sometimes, even when you get away, you can't really get away.
Fortunately, our friend, Christian Manders, had the foresight to bring along an iPod adapter that plugged neatly into the car stereo, allowing us to insulate ourselves in a cocoon of carefully constructed playlists. As we sped along to the nostalgic sounds of old school rap, the freshly minted warblings of indy rockers and the reassuring strains of all-time road trip classics like "Country Roads", I couldn't but help but notice the contrast between the crisp organization of our impromptu sing-alongs and the ragged, if spirited, chants belted out by US supporters at the matches we attended.
While the sizable number of US fans in Germany, a contingent that dwarfed the turnout for Korea 2002, was a promising indicator of the sport's growth stateside, development of the game's cultural component is lagging far behind fan interest. This much is clear: we need a new song. Actually, we need a song, period. Really, we need three or four, but as the wise man said, long journey begins with first step.
The old standby U-S-A, U-S-A conjures up fond memories for the 35-and-over "Miracle on Ice really means something to me crowd" and is suitably militant for international misadventures. However, it is also decidedly unmelodic and lacks the creativity befitting a country that was the birthplace of bluegrass, jazz, show tunes, rock-n-roll, hip-hop and Ashlee Simpson. It's times like these when the US could benefit from the type of cultural commission that prevails in countries like France. If the French were in this predicament, they would simply authorize a taskforce to oversee the creation of a catchy new national tune.
On the other hand, similarly bureaucratic measures in America would most likely result in something completely inoffensive and absolutely unlovable. The US requires an organic, rousing national song - one of the people, by the people and for the people. Given this, there is only place to turn: You Tube, the last untrammeled bastion of democracy and grassroots expression. Start a contest for the best song, toss a few dollars and the promise of fleeting celebrity into the mix and let the Internet hordes have at it.
I think it's fair to say that the US will not have arrived as a true soccer power until we have a repertoire of songs that fans know by heart and can belt out effortlessly. When that day comes, we'll know that a true soccer culture has taken hold in the US. Until then, we'll have to make do with fumbling attempts at musicality that fizzle after one or two verses. This is a shame, because there's no shortage of music in the American sporting heritage. True, most of the songs are inspired by college football and not the international kind, but taking a traditional art form and adapting it to suit our current needs is a grand old American tradition, so why stop now? Couldn't we all put aide our partisan differences once every four years and agree on a re-working of "Hail to the Victors", "The Notre Dame Victory March" or "Fight On (USC)" as our national football/soccer song? Just change a few select words and you're good to go. Or, in the case of "Hail to the Victors", you can leave in choice lines like "leaders and best" and "conquerors of the west". Our Mexican friends will appreciate that.
One of the great things about these songs is that they provide an easy way to bond, but also a means of inspiring your side without taunting the other. This is important because it's extremely difficult for an American sporting crowd to celebrate the home team without demeaning the opposition. There's an undercurrent of antagonism to most chants in the US - even our songs are called "Fight Songs", which I suppose neatly captures the unlikely blend of friendliness and aggression that is so characteristic of America. While that doesn't matter so much when Browns fans are slashing the tires of Steelers faithful outside of Cleveland Stadium or whatever they call it since they were awarded an expansion franchise, it takes on broader implications at the world's most eagerly anticipated and widely-watched event.
As I took to telling to the group in my rare sober moments, "At the World Cup, we are all diplomats". This pronouncement inevitably preceded some act of boorishness that did more to reinforce the Ugly American stereotype than 20 years of foreign policy fiascos, but at least my heart was in the right place. Being an American soccer fan abroad puts you in the precarious position of the prettiest woman at the bar, or the celebrity dining at a restaurant in some mid-sized American city. Everyone else has already formed an opinion about you and one false move - even in the face of a hundred good deeds - will serve to reinforce their negative impression. Fail to return the glance of the lush who has been staring you down for the past half-hour, or honor the 137th autograph request of the evening and that pretty much confirms your status as Grade-A jag-off. Similarly, all it takes is one ill-advised comment to stoke the fires of anti-American sentiment and erase the efforts of hundreds of your compatriots who are struggling mightily to find the right mix of bonhomie and humility.
Thus, supporting the American team can at times be a delicate balancing exact between passionate embrace of the national team and whatever concessions to diplomacy sports fanaticism allows. Or, alternatively, you can just adopt the old English football chant "No one likes us and we don't care", as one group of supporters did before the US-Italy clash in Kaiserslautern. These fans were, however, decidedly in the minority. For the most part, the American contingent managed to offer spirited, yet inoffensive support of the national team. You'd hope someone would notice favorably, but there's just no pleasing some people.
Two days after the US-Italy match, the Guardian, one of the UK's most prominent papers, managed to identify some of the most brain-dead American fans, interview them and highlight their quotes in an extraordinarily derisive column headlined: "Overexcited, Overweight and Over Here". As your humble, and relatively slender (some might say scrawny) correspondent, I must object to the title. Overexcited - very likely. But, overweight - I don't think so. I found American supporters to be a rather svelte lot on the whole. Of course, horizontal red-and-white stripes aren't exactly flattering to the figure, but you do what you can for your country.
Americans have never been shy about flying the flag , or wearing it, but the same can't be said of Germans, who have taken an understandably muted approach to patriotic displays - until now that is. Walking around a German city during the World Cup was to bear witness to a national coming-out party. Everywhere you turned, the red, black and gold of the German flag was in evidence and the air was filled with the boisterous chants of "Wir gehen nach Berlin" ("We're going to Berlin") - the site of the World Cup finals. The exuberance of the Germans was infectious and completely in contrast to their somewhat undeserved reputation for severity. As we traveled from Munich to Dusseldorf to Dortmund to Hamburg to Cologne to Berlin to Hanover to Nuremberg and many places between, we had the good fortune of seeing an entire country on an extended holiday of sorts. These are not people who don't know how to have fun. It wasn't exactly Carnivale in Rio, but then I doubt the pilsner is as good on Ipanema.
Still, even though the mood was decidedly festive, there was also an undercurrent of feeling that suggested the celebration was more than just a party. It was as if the entire populace was throwing off the shackles of restraint and enforced humility and joyously announcing, "We've arrived and we're not going to hang our heads or speak in hushed tones any longer." For a few weeks, it was almost like the American fans and the Germans switched places. A fan in Hamburg summed it up best. The man, who was in his early-to-mid forties, recalled the discomfort he sometimes felt when traveling abroad as a youth, noting that years ago, "People would ask where we were from and we would say "Oh, we're German (in a whisper), now we say "We're German!" (booming voice and emphatic fist pump).
From my perspective, Germany has good reason to shout: bars that stay open to all hours, liberal open container laws (or the complete lack thereof), a plentitude of good, cheap beer, attractive women, friendly, helpful citizens, a wealth of inviting outdoor cafes, good, cheap beer, attractive women, an amazing mix of architecture that artfully and successfully weaves daring new buildings amongst structures hundreds of years old, good, cheap beer, the Autobahn, attractive women, marvelously efficient public transportation, a thriving art scene, some of the best graffiti I've ever seen anywhere and good, cheap beer. It's true, the toilets could use a little work, but when that's the worst thing you can say about a country, you know it's doing something right. Prost, Germany, I'm sorry I ever doubted you.
