Commentary: Making Room For Soccer

Louie is a hopeless gambler.

He bets on NFL pre-season football, and loses every game. He bets on the regular season, both professional and college, and gets his clock cleaned. He bets all the bowl games, the NFL playoffs; heck, he even bets Canadian football and the Pro Bowl, and gets hammered. He places his final, huge bet on the Super Bowl, and, of course, gets crushed.

Realizing he's out of pigskin-related options to get even, he calls his bookie in a panic and asks what else he can wager on. "How about hockey?," the bookie suggests.

"Hockey?" says Louie. "What do I know about hockey?"

Which brings me to the World Cup. And, specifically, why I shouldn't like it.

OK, OK, so just hold your distilled European water there. This isn't one of those "they don't use their hands, therefore it's not a sport" diatribes.

It's not that I "just don't get" soccer. I mean, really, the concept just isn't that tough. Big field, bunch of players, kicking, it goes in and everyone gets a strange haircut. And in the stands, lots of yelling and drinking, which are certainly things with which college football fans are familiar.

OK, some of the rules are a little strange, but then, frankly, so are the rules to just about any game, because, as we've covered earlier, once a bunch of people get together and start setting terms for anything, we're quickly reminded a camel is a horse designed by committee.

So before you get too carried away, just try, out loud, to explain the Infield Fly Rule, or exactly what "targeting" is. If you can manage either one of those and not sound like someone should be giving you a field sobriety test, congratulations. Running the Super Collider will be a breeze.

And Soccer Snob can just give it a break. Yes, I know "it's the rest of the world's game," which apparently means we should embrace it. Of course, much of "the rest of the world" isn't all that keen on democratic elections, basic human rights for all of their people and any sort of delineation between where one uses the facilities and where one gets one's drinking water. Not exactly trains I'm eager to jump on, thanks.

No, any sort of disdain, or at least disinterest, in soccer should, at least in my case, spring from a place of practicality rather than Ugly American-ism.

I've reached the age when there's a finite amount of stuff to which I can pay attention.

It wasn't always that way. Once upon a time, back before someone I know and love suggested, gee, it might be fun to turn my entire life into a seat belt-less double-loop amusement park ride by having children, I had plenty of time for things like soccer. And sleeping.

Now, the realities of life mean the amount of time I can spend on fun and games (and sleeping) has been significantly diminished. The tree has got to be trimmed, and soccer, hockey, alpine skiing and anything else that requires any effort to absorb are the first limbs to go.

Not your issue, you say? Fine and dandy. Your tree can be all about long-board surfing and the Australian Open. Mine, at this point, is about trying to remember where I put my car keys. I'm 54. Anything I add at this point may mean something has to leave. And that something could be my garage code or cell phone number.

At this point in my slow, steady decline into making even less sense than I do now, the soccer ship should have officially sailed without me on board. I am not in soccer's demographic. In fact, the sports I watch tend to have commercials that involved a couple sitting in bathtubs on a volcano in Hawaii. Why, I'm not sure. But they seem happy, so who am I to quibble?

Which doesn't explain why, earlier this week, I was sneaking a peep at my phone for updates and was, for the briefest of moments, more concerned about another human being's hamstring than my own.

Because, at the end of the day, even if I know nothing about the circumstances, it's us against the world. Even if, in this case, the world was represented by a small African nation whose average income would make an American minimum-wager look like Bill Gates.

So maybe, grudgingly, I might give this World Cup thing a look. And maybe, once we get eliminated, I might just stick around. Looks kind of fun. Besides, I never have to call my own cell phone, anyway.

GARY SMITH IS A RECOVERING JOURNALIST LIVING IN ROGERS.

Commentary on 06/19/2014

Upcoming Events