The Beautiful Game

Simply put, I love soccer, or, as I call it, football, because it actually IS football.

In an hour the Houston Dynamo take on the New England Revolution for the MLS cup. Being from Houston I will, natually, cheer for Houston. I even have my orange shirt handy, left over from the Holland games during the World Cup. Oranje! Moi hej!

Now, I am a mom and my kid plays soccer. What separates me from the other Stepford Moms here, besides firing neurons? The fact that I love and know soccer. I know soccer beyond Mia Hamm and Brandy Chastain. I know and love soccer beyond David Beckham. I was the only person this side of the pond NOT surprised by Zizou's headbutt. If you have to ask who Zizou is, go watch your kid kick a ball around some more. I also know that Figo has taken more dives than Greg Louganis and that Christiano Rinaldo is a whining pussy. I also know that Wayne Rooney, that Irish Git, broke my heart in pieces.

If you have to ask yourself what any of those references mean, check out the local soccer leagues, begin watching Fox Soccer Channel, demand your cable company carry it. Soccer is a beautiful game. If the only soccer player you can name is Pele, give it up and find a fern bar where it's illegal to smoke while drinking.

Soccer is a real person's game. There are no ivory towers or statiticians in ivory towers watching every pass of the ball across field. Soccer is for everyone who likes to watch their sports and be able to tell who is playing and what's going on, at a glance. Soccer is also played in real time. Don't go into shock, you Americans, where the is real time and football time where two minutes can last half an hour. And soccer is 90 minutes of pure endurance not seen since the raining down of brimstone on Soddom and Gamorrha all those millenia ago. You wont see any fat soccer players. And other than shin guards and a cup, these guys aren't wearing padding, helmets or any other safety gear. Their spikes are plastic, not metal. When they tackle, they have to go down too. And, when they get hit, there is nothing to cushion the blow.

So take your wussy American sports that defy time and space, with all of your protective layers to cushion you from reality, and see if they can hang with the great soccer players. Chances are they wouldn't make it past 15 minutes without wheezing and calling their agent.