Learning to Love the Beautiful Game

"Some people believe football is a matter of life and death. I'm very disappointed with that attitude. I can assure you it is much, much more important than that." Bill Shankly, English football manager

As a boy in Scranton, I was brought up to believe in three sacred things - god, mom and football. And while you never liked to admit it, god and mom usually finished a distant second and third to the game with an oval ball, lots of padding and little use of your feet. The Scranton social circuit revolved around the high school football calendar - for parents and kids alike. A typlical Sunday barbeque topic was which 6-year-old showed the most quarterbacking promise. The height of political intrigue tended to be your family's level of connection with the local coaching staff. And it was not the least bit uncommon for a parent to get into a fist fight with a referee at a little league game (meaning 7-12 year olds). Just ask Dina, who witnessed this first-hand at my 7-year-old brother's game on her inaugural visit to Scranton (my parents were thankfully not involved, although mom was known around town for the occasional verbal assualt).

I was indoctrinated into the football religion early. By age four I was attending practice with my dad, who coached the little league team. By seven I was a starting player - yours truly had the right connections. By thirteen I had already broken four bones. By sixteen I was a starting halfback on one of those high school teams they make American movies about: year-round practices, a case in the school full of trophies and expectations from the local fan base which could be overwhelming for a teenager (you can rent "All the Right Moves", "Varsity Blues" or "Friday Night Lights" to get an idea what I am talking about). My senior year, we started the season ranked amongst the top twenty high school teams in America- only to finish with a mediocre 6-5 record. To this day, that disappointing 1986 season remains another topic of Sunday barbeques. By eighteen, my bruised, beaten and diminutive body forced me to hang up my helmet and retire to a role of football spectator. I spent the next sixteen years as a loyal fan - hosting barbeques on our New York City rooftop always with a spalsh of football talk.

As you might imagine, when it came time to move to London, I was a little anxious about how I'd fill the football void. In preparation, an English friend suggested I read a book titled, "Fever Pitch" by Nick Hornby. The book is an autobiographical account of his life-long addiction to Arsenal, a North London football team. Following my modest research, I anticipated an easy transition from football to... well...football. If salaries are anything to go by, English football is the most popular sport in the world. It is also steeped in history - the "beautiful game" was invented here in 1863. And fans are normally just shy of lunatic. Trust me, when Hollywood did a remake of Fever Pitch with the plot revolving around a Boston Red Sox fan, it just didn't work - you can't replicate the insanity of the true English football fan. Sadly, no other sport in the world has a fan base responsible for quite a large body count: http://www.liverpooldailypost.co.uk/liverpool-life-features/capital-of-culture/2007/07/09/two-tragedies-that-changed-football-64375-19426077/

But the English football game is different from its American cousin. For a start, you actually use your feet. And forget about the pads and crushing violence - a mere trip of an opponent could have you sent off for the entire match. To an American football fan, the English version seems all constant flow, with no obvious strategy. Even worse, you almost never score and draws are allowed, meaning nil-nil (0-0) finishes are all too common. Despite the fact that many of the best footballers in the world play in England, many of them aren't actually English. Indeed, one of the cruel ironies of English sport is the realization that although most modern games have their origins on this island, the English aren't very good at playing them anymore. The one and only time England won the football World Cup was in 1966. That victory over Germany is a favorite topic at many English barbeques today.

So for my first five years in England I watched the occasional football match on television. But the passion wasn't there. That changed this season - and I have my 4-year-old son to thank. Two of Ranen's signature qualities are his mild obsessions and amazing attention to detail -a perfect mix for a budding sports fan. His football obesssion began at last summer's European Cup. It was here he watched Spain's version of David Beckham, Fernando Torres, win the cup with a goal against Germany (the picture shows Ranen next to Torres after that goal). The attention to detail kicked in a few weeks later - he memorized the entire English football squad - names, positions and the teams they played for in the regular season. When he learned that Torres played for Liverpool, he insisted I subscribe to the pay sports channel, something I had failed to do in my five years here. By late autumn, our own social calendar was now filled with football - watching games on TV, playing our own version of matches at St. Lukes Park and talking football at Pizza Express while Ranen played make-believe games with his hands. As Ranen's obsession with football gathered pace, I realized my own passion was keeping up.

So as Ranen and I headed to our first live professional football match in February - Chelsea against Hull City - our excitement was palpable. Of course, the game ended nil-nil (0-0). Both of us were initially disappointed. But as I walked home with Ranen on my shoulders, I realized the match had everything that I had learned to love about English football. For one thing, English football is a very local affair. A quick google search revealed 117 teams in this small country. All have their local, and remarkably loyal fan base. Admittedly, our neighborhood hosts one of the biggest football teams in the world - Chelsea has a payroll of $200 million per year! But that was not always so. In a difficult period in the early 1990s, the team was in tatters. The local fans purchased the rights to Stamford Bridge - Chelesa's stadium - from the bankrupt property-developer owner. They still own it today. Many of those owners walked with Ranen and me down Fulham Road to and from the game (it is a 10-minute walk for us).

There is also the concept of promotion and relegation. Each season, the three teams that finish on the bottom of a league are "relegated" to the league below. The top three in the league below are "promoted" to the league above. Hull City was promoted to the top league - the Premiership - at the end of last season. It was the first time the team has played in the top league of English football in the club's 105-year history. So while a 0-0 draw was a disappointment for Chelsea fans, for the few thousand Hull City supporters drawing against one of the best teams in the world at Stamford Bridge was sheer ectasy. Ranen and I could hear Hull City fans singing for most of our walk home.

But perhaps the best part of English football is the point when you realize and relish just how precious a goal really is. Although in the end no team managed to get the ball into the net, you could practically taste the tension in every attack, every cross (a pass across the goal) and every corner kick - Ranen never once took his eye off the pitch (field, for the Scrantonians). In a scoreless draw, this stadium of 42,000 people nearly shook with the singing of club songs by loyal fans. One of my favorites was Chelsea's eloquent rant to all visiting fans - "Oh.. your shit, your shit, your shit". All of this happened, by the way, without a single commercial break and no time outs - neither are allowed to interrupt the constant flow of English football.

So my void is filled; my football passion returned. And while I will never be able to relate to English football in the way I did as a starting halfback in the American version, I am already looking forward to the next stage of my sporting passion - watching my sons play. And while I promise not to get into fights with referees, I can't committ to holding my tongue about Ranen and Gideon's forward attacking promise at our sunday BBQs.

A Scranton Boy (and Football fan) in Chelsea

P.S. I came out of retirement to face Ranen in the goal at his 5th birthday party. He scored, of course, and I woke up with a torn hamstring (see video below). Oh well.. back to being a spectator. By the way, we have first row tickets to see Liverpool and Torres play at Fulham Stadium in a few weeks... can't wait.

Lessons from those skinny-dipping Swedes

Winston Churchill once said "there is no sphere of human influence in which it is easier to show superficial cleverness and the appearance of superior wisdom as in matters of currency and exchange". All the same, I have made a good living providing wisdom with respect to currency and exchange to clients around the world. As one can imagine, these client encounters are usually a little unstimulating and typically forgettable. In the old days, Japanese customers would fall asleep. I originally thought I was just boring them, but have since learned it is customary for the most senior Japanese manager to exercise his seniority by snooring during a meeting. Many hedge fund managers like to tell me I'm stupid. But after their record losses last year, I can at least tell them I am in good company. And French customers just pretend they don't know what I am saying, which I suppose is fair since half the time I'm not sure either.

Every now and then, however, I have one of those client experiences that leaves a lasting impression on me. One such "meeting" occurred in Stockholm a few years ago. (Before you Scrantonians google it, Stockholm is the capital of Sweden). It was originally meant to be the usual fare - a research dinner where I spoke and everyone else ate. Normally, I liked to invite junior members of my team to attend client events. This time I chose a young, female, traditional Indian analyst (YFTIA for short). This was her first client trip.

As it was a beautiful sunny July day, the lead salesperson made a last minute change. Rather than dining in the city we took a boat a few hours up the archipelago for a simple meal on a tiny island. It all started out well: Some nice food, followed by shots of schnapps and then singing of traditional Swedish drinking tunes. I must admit I had no idea what I was singing, but it seemed close enough to what I used to hear at 2am at any Scranton pub. Let's just say, things turned a little peculiar following the dessert course. The manager of the hedge fund arose from the table, removed all his clothes and dove into the water. The males on his firm's team followed suit. Every sales person from my bank dutifully jumped in too (all males, in case you were wondering). Yours truly was left at the table with the one woman from the hedge fund and my YFTIA - all looking out the window at a bunch of naked men sitting on a set of rocks. Being an American businessman, I quickly recovered from my schnapps-induced haze and began wondering how I'd explain to human resources the lawsuit my YFTIA was about to file.

In the end, it all turned out fine. The woman from the hedge fund assured me that skinny dipping Swedes were as customary as snooring Japanese managers. The hedge fund manager - who, for the record, doesn't think I am stupid, nor I he - offered me a swimsuit, allowing me to experience the July, still ice-cold waters of Stockholm. And in the end, my YFTIA found the entire experience amusing. Although she did moveback to Delhi not long after.

Upon returning to Stockholm this past January, I thought back upon this experience with a realization that we Americans have much to learn from the Swedes. For one, Americans are way too serious about their work. In Sweden, minimum cumpulsary vacation is five weeks per year. Parents are given a combined 480 days of parental leave - yes dads too. I am ashamed to admit that by the age of two, Ranen termed airplanes "Dadda", while Gideon does the same now to the telephone. He also has a habit of pushing other kids off their dads so he can sit on a dad's lap. And yes, in Sweden, sometimes in the course of doing business, you drink, sing and shed those pin-striped suits for an innocent dip in the water. Can you ever imagine skinny dipping with clients in the Hudson river for the sake of good fun and client relationship building?

We should also remember in the early 1990s Sweden experienced one of the worst banking crises in modern history. The root cause was similar to the crisis in America today. So too, I fear will be the aftermath - a huge government bailout, a surge in unemployment, rising tax burdens and a permanent fall in living standards. What struck me most about my latest visit to Stockholm, however, was the high sense of nostalgia and low sense of angst amongst my Swedish clients. They have been through their own banking crisis and have come out of it. They all feel a little less rich, but also seem more balanced than most Americans I know.

I honestly don't know how America will look in a few years time, when this crisis finally begins to settle. What I do know is America and I will be forever changed. And while I too will look back with some nostalgia on life before (and during) this banking crisis, I am happy to say my experiences in Sweden remind me that no matter what, it is likely to be ok. And when it feels like it isn't, maybe just maybe, I will take a day off, strip off my clothes and take a dip in the Thames.

A Scranton Boy in Chelsea

P.S. The picture up top was taken during a trip Dina and I took to Stockholm. It was far too cold for skinny dipping, but we did enjoy a schnapps or two.

Lee Jeans on Ice

As I watched London's storm of the century from the comfort of my home the other day, I realized this city has made me a little soft. Scranton is the land of the alpha male, where snow storms and biting cold weather are an opportunity to prove your toughness. When I was a kid, a snow day meant a quick breakfast then dawn to dusk outside, regardless of temperature. By high school, January ushered in Pennsylvania's annual three-week ski season. It was a time to use those rented skis to slide for 60-odd seconds down a hill of ice.. topped off by standing in line to brave those uncovered lifts- all in six degree farenheit temperature while sporting a pair of Lee jeans. After all, cool guys from Scranton didn't wear those girlie ski pants.

Even when I began working in New York City, those wintry days offered opportunities to prove my manliness. During the blizzard of 1996 I dutifully prepared to brave the 26 inches of snow to get to Manhattan from Hoboken and perform my menial research job. Dina watched from a distance in comic despair. Technically I only made it a few blocks before giving up and grabbing some food at the local diner - with Dina still laughing at me. Nonetheless, I was comforted in knowing I had given it the old Scranton try.

As the storm hit London late Sunday evening, however, my old Scranton instincts abandoned me. I arose at my usual 5:15 am, took one look outside, and like at least 20% of Britain, decided to call it a day. I convinced myself I had good excuses. Thanks to broadband, I can do my job from home. And the city of London can be pretty testing, even for the steeliest of Scranton males. You must remember, this storm of the century amounted to about seven inches of snow (the century thing is technically correct, as it was the biggest snowfall since 1991). It was also predicted by the crack BBC weather squad well in advance. Even so, the entire city of London shut down. No buses, no trains, no taxis, no planes. Businesses were running at 50% capacity. As the British press seized the moment, Mayor Boris Johnson first blamed the type (wet), then the quantity (a lot) of snow to rationalize London's inability to cope with an every day affair in many parts of Europe. It is a good thing that London opted to host the summer Olympics!

But even if good technology and crap London transport services made my decision to stay home perfectly sensible, I still feel a little wimpy. I suppose that I realized a part of me didn't want to scuff up my Cole Hahns and D&G overcoat. It also makes me wonder whether nearly 20 years of urban life has left me ill-equipped to turn my two little boys into the alpha males they deserve to be. The evidence thus far is not reassuring. Ranen is tough for a 4-year old. But he does have a thing for matching clothes (my fault) and an obession with germs (Dina's fault). On Christmas morning he showed up in his matching White Company cotton jammies and stopped me from eating the remainder of Santa's cookie for fear of my catching his germs. As for Gideon, London's storm of the century left a lasting scar. His natural curiosity got him outside. But after taking his first few steps in snow, he retreated to the house for the next two days. During that time he repeated the pharse "dark outside, snow, wet" and refused to go back out (check out the video below, which shows his chat with mom about snow).

So I am making a storm of the century resolution. It is time to regain my alpha Scranton self and toughen up the boys. I've decided to cancel the Ski Chalet in Chamonix France, buy myself and the boys matching Lee jeans and get three full-day lift tickets for Pennsylvania's Elk Mountain Ski "resort".................. Just kidding.

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A Scranton Boy in Chelsea

P.S. By the time I published this, Britain was experiencing its second major snow storm in less than a week. It mainly missed London, but somehow didn't stop the transport system from having massive delays. I should have stayed home - now I need my shoes polished.