There is no surer sign of decline of America’s culture than the modern‐day craze over this godawful European sport. Drive past a park on a clear spring afternoon and your likely to witness a depressingly unpatriotic sight: the baseball diamond lies empty as crab grass grows in the infield, while herds of healthy red‐blooded American children dressed in preposterous looking polyester uniforms run around aimlessly kicking a white and black ball nowhere and to no apparent end.
Soccer at any level–from six and under peewee leagues to the pros (I am forever amazed that there are people who would actually pay money to watch a soccer game)–is about as scintillating as 90 minutes of Court TV. Soccer is somewhat reminiscent of ACC college basketball games in the pre‐shot clock era when halftime scores were in the single digits: North Carolina 9, Virginia 7. (What is it they used to say about Dean Smith? The only man who ever held Michael Jordan to less than 20 points a game.)
Soccer is the least offensive‐minded game ever invented. They might as well establish a slaughter rule once a team gains a two goal advantage. Throw in the towel. No mas. To overcome such a deficit is to ask the losing team to climb Mt. Everest.
During the second period of one game last year a Good Humor truck drove by the park and on hearing the tinkling of the bells half our team instinctively awoke from their on‐field slumber and scrambled from the playing field in joyous pursuit. Finally a prize worth pursuing. Meanwhile, on the field the game relentlessly continued. For more than five minutes our opponents commanded the equivalent of a five‐man power play advantage and they still couldn’t score. Now I know what it must have been like to have lived through the hundred year war. Soccer is the furthest thing imaginable from instant gratification.