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.