At the risk of exposing my bias so early on in the game I'm going to go ahead and just say it (follow the insults as they may): I'm a Manchester United supporter. I'm talking four A.M. game days at the local Manc-owned pub, scouring the dodgiest neighborhoods in developing countries looking for places to watch the match, missing countless classes to catch noon-time Champions League fixtures and screaming like a raving lunatic and running around in circles after John Terry infamously placed his penalty kick wide right in the 2008 Champions League Final. A win on the day and you can't bring me back to earth; a loss and you'll have to hide the rope.
My girlfriend once said: "He won't get up at nine to go to class, but he'll wake up before the alarm at five in the morning to watch the f****** game!" A roommate in college pulled me aside earnestly a day or two after he heard my post-Champions League exaltation and said, "I'm really happy for you dude. I knew you liked soccer, but I didn't realize you liked it that much." If money was not an object I would be a season ticket holder at Old Trafford (Santa, are you reading?).
I could type until my fingers fall off trying to prove my devotion to a club that I have followed closely for six years, but it would be in vain. Why? Because I would assuredly be the laughing stock of not only greater Manchester but the U.K. in its entirety. I suppose that there is something about a guy from California taking in the game on a nice 70-degree day that just doesn't scream die-hard Red Devils supporter.
I could type until my fingers fall off trying to prove my devotion to a club that I have followed closely for six years, but it would be in vain. Why? Because I would assuredly be the laughing stock of not only greater Manchester but the U.K. in its entirety. I suppose that there is something about a guy from California taking in the game on a nice 70-degree day that just doesn't scream die-hard Red Devils supporter.
Being a soccer fan in Europe--in England above all other countries--is a tribal affair. The British concept of supporting your team transcends any that we Americans have of being a fan. Your team affiliation is part of your identity and is defined not only by where you live but your family history and socio-economic status. So where do we as American fans of the game fall into this? We don't and that is my burden.
In March of 2009, I was in China, on the first-leg of a six-month trip through Asia. United were chasing the Treble that year (as they tend to do), and I ended up in a smoky Beijing bar sitting next to a couple of boys from Northern England, one of whom happened to be a Manchester United fan. I asked the guy if we had a shot of winning all three trophies and he looked at me with a smirk as he asked, "We?"
Getting quietly scoffed at by Manc expats who discount my opinions at the pub is par for the course and I'll suffer that quietly, but I will not stand for being told by bitter British fans of less successful clubs that Manchester United doesn't have any fans in Manchester, that they all live abroad. I have it on good authority that those people are lying--a nice fellow with a Manchester United crest tattoo on his calf told me so--and I further reject the implication that I'm a bandwagon fan; success breeds hate and green is an ugly color on you gentlemen.
Come this Sunday I'll be at The Press Room sans United crest tattoo--maybe one day, but I'm not ready for it yet--watching United put Chelsea to the sword, while my British counterparts sit in their over-priced seats at Stamford Bridge freezing their bollocks off. I'm in limbo, considered odd by Americans for liking soccer so much but unable to sit at the cool table with the chanting masses from Manchester. I'm alright with that I suppose. Maybe one day they'll let me slide my tray over and talk about who is going to replace Fergie when he finally retires.
In March of 2009, I was in China, on the first-leg of a six-month trip through Asia. United were chasing the Treble that year (as they tend to do), and I ended up in a smoky Beijing bar sitting next to a couple of boys from Northern England, one of whom happened to be a Manchester United fan. I asked the guy if we had a shot of winning all three trophies and he looked at me with a smirk as he asked, "We?"
Getting quietly scoffed at by Manc expats who discount my opinions at the pub is par for the course and I'll suffer that quietly, but I will not stand for being told by bitter British fans of less successful clubs that Manchester United doesn't have any fans in Manchester, that they all live abroad. I have it on good authority that those people are lying--a nice fellow with a Manchester United crest tattoo on his calf told me so--and I further reject the implication that I'm a bandwagon fan; success breeds hate and green is an ugly color on you gentlemen.
Come this Sunday I'll be at The Press Room sans United crest tattoo--maybe one day, but I'm not ready for it yet--watching United put Chelsea to the sword, while my British counterparts sit in their over-priced seats at Stamford Bridge freezing their bollocks off. I'm in limbo, considered odd by Americans for liking soccer so much but unable to sit at the cool table with the chanting masses from Manchester. I'm alright with that I suppose. Maybe one day they'll let me slide my tray over and talk about who is going to replace Fergie when he finally retires.
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