In High School the men’s soccer team, I must admit, was composed of Marblehead’s football “drop- outs”—those who most likely attempted the violent sport in their youth, found themselves getting annihilated by the larger, more athletically inclined 5th graders, and never looked back from then. Ironically, at Trinity, three of my closest friends are members of the Men’s Soccer team. However, instead of being “football drop outs”—which they actually may have been—these boys were die-hard soccer players. There dorm rooms are doused with miniature soccer balls, banners, and posters, and their TV’s are almost always displaying highlights from recent games. Even more strangely, these highlights were not of American-based soccer games, but instead, of the Premier League matchup between Manchester United and their rival, Liverpool. They were watching football, but Tom Brady wasn’t throwing touchdown passes, and 1st downs didn’t exist. Instead, there were goals, and penalty kicks—slide-tackling and more.
Football is to the United States, as futbol is to Europe. I had finally came to terms with it. Nevertheless, it wasn't until my first live European soccer match before I really began to understand what all the hype was about.
The journey to the Olympic Stadium paralleled the traffic nightmare, which any Patriots fan in New England associates with the drive to Gillette for the Sunday matchup between the Pats and the Jets. We took two different smelly metros and a suffocating tram before arriving to the gigantic, yet welcoming stadium. Following the hordes of maroon and gold—I recalled my first time navigating Boston alone, desperately searching for my destination that was Fenway Park—using the swarms of Pedro Martinez and Johnny Damon jerseys as my guide.
Finally, we arrived—dressed in our inexpensive versions of the more authentic jerseys—I first felt out of place, like a fare-weather fan at the Bruins game. These fans were die-hard and we were their guests, or so I felt.
But after only a few minutes into the first half—we couldn’t help but feel an innate attachment to the home team. Soon enough we were screaming for those dressed in maroon, booing at the dramatics of the away team, and spilling our beers on top of one another in celebration. We were among the die-hard fans proudly waved their flags throughout the entire game, not once passing the torch to rest their struggling wrists. So long as we were cheering for the right team, we weren’t guests; we were part of the team. The stain of “tourist” seemed to wash away—at least until the final whistle blew and we were back to frantically and self-consciously navigating ourselves back home.
The magical evening ended victoriously with an AS Roma 3-1 domination over the bad guys. It was truly a night to remember.
Football is to the United States, as futbol is to Europe. I had finally came to terms with it. Nevertheless, it wasn't until my first live European soccer match before I really began to understand what all the hype was about.
The journey to the Olympic Stadium paralleled the traffic nightmare, which any Patriots fan in New England associates with the drive to Gillette for the Sunday matchup between the Pats and the Jets. We took two different smelly metros and a suffocating tram before arriving to the gigantic, yet welcoming stadium. Following the hordes of maroon and gold—I recalled my first time navigating Boston alone, desperately searching for my destination that was Fenway Park—using the swarms of Pedro Martinez and Johnny Damon jerseys as my guide.
Finally, we arrived—dressed in our inexpensive versions of the more authentic jerseys—I first felt out of place, like a fare-weather fan at the Bruins game. These fans were die-hard and we were their guests, or so I felt.
But after only a few minutes into the first half—we couldn’t help but feel an innate attachment to the home team. Soon enough we were screaming for those dressed in maroon, booing at the dramatics of the away team, and spilling our beers on top of one another in celebration. We were among the die-hard fans proudly waved their flags throughout the entire game, not once passing the torch to rest their struggling wrists. So long as we were cheering for the right team, we weren’t guests; we were part of the team. The stain of “tourist” seemed to wash away—at least until the final whistle blew and we were back to frantically and self-consciously navigating ourselves back home.
The magical evening ended victoriously with an AS Roma 3-1 domination over the bad guys. It was truly a night to remember.