A St. George’s cross to bear
Tuesday, June 8, 2010, at 11:38 pm
In 1994, when I was too young to really appreciate it, my dad took me to World Cup group games in Orlando, where I got to see counties like Morocco and the Netherlands on the pitch. Even though I don’t remember much about the actual matches, I clearly remember the masses of painted and screaming fans thousands of miles from their home countries. And I remember my dad getting my brother a yellow vuvuzela from a street vendor. That’s a noise you never forget. You’ll see if you haven’t already.
I have been to a lot of sporting events — two Final Fours, a number of national football championship games, a handful of Daytona 500s, Olympic events in 1996. I have been to Fenway Park and Dodger Stadium, and I’ve witnessed a Premier League match. I saw Mike play the Magic and was there when Earnhardt was killed. And the Cup in ’94 is still among the highlights. More than the Olympics, it creates this sense of national anxiety, that it all rests on the lads on the pitch. In the Olympiad, one country might be a traditional power on the track while another is a force in gymnastics. But in the Cup, it’s all equal. Not to mention the sport is universal. Likely no one in Mozambique gives a shit about the uneven parallel bars, but you can be sure the whole country will be watching to see whether the continent’s best player, Didier Drogba, is in the lineup for Ivory Coast.
More than in 2006, when the United States limped back home with one point after the group stage, I am anxious about this tournament. Part of that is my trepidation about how well the U.S. will fare after watching some shaky performances in qualifying and after a number of injuries. Another part is my torn allegiance.
Given my love for Morrissey and my fondness for the British in general, I have been described more than once as an Anglophile. Just about everything English appeals to me — the cars, the accent, the Tube, The Guardian and, of course, the footy. Because of my keen interest in Manchester, I naturally adopted United as my club. (I chose the Red Devils over the Blues because of my hero’s tribute to the club and because of Old Trafford’s proximity to his hometown of Stretford.) I love how Wayne Rooney plays, and I love the history of 1966 and Bobby Charlton.
Then again, there was that tea tax and the massacre in Boston.
In the end Saturday, I would love to see us — the U.S., that is — win 2-1 on a Dempsey goal in the 88th minute. Then, after we have flamed out in the quarterfinals, I want to see Rooney wearing a grin on his weird, ruddy face as he hoists the trophy for the Three Lions.
Nevertheless, despite my English envy, I’m glad that Revolution didn’t turn out that way.


