It’s like PBS. Or Classical music. We all say we love it. Because then we’re cool. We’re worldly, don’t you know. But here's the truth of the matter: Soccer’s struggling. You can do the laundry, wash the car, go through Halloween, Christmas and Groundhog Day, and the score is still 0-1 with a clock you keep forgetting to remember is running forwards.
"I've had it with living a lie," said Brad Forster of Carson City, "I even went so far as to wear that tight shirt that made me look like a biker."
"My son wants to quit the violin and learn the vuvuzela!" said Barbara Wallace of Schenectady.
"I couldn't bear the subterfuge for another single day," said stay-at-home father Ricky Harcourt. "I even bookmarked www.worldcup2010southafrica.com. I don't even know how long the games last."
Thankfully the NFL schedule is less than a month away.
The LA Galaxy got David Beckham. The US went further than the Brits in 2010. And Landon Donovan might enjoy a little press junket and an Oprah appearance. But no matter. It’s a sport of extraordinary stamina but very little payoff. The ball is too big and the net too small and the two defensive fullbacks are in two different area codes. Shorten the field, wear cooler uniforms, put in some cheerleaders, and remove the goalie – or keep it in the UK. Or South America. Or wherever the hell the damned thing’s played.
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