The first soccer jersey I purchased was as stereotypical as it was ill-advised. Like most barely-adolescent Americans attracted to football in the early 2000s, I faced the difficult task of keeping abreast of a sport in a country where domestic media coverage began and ended with blooper reels. Of course, I might have turned to foreign websites for news and results, but to a naive kid with a provincial sense of the world, .co.uk domains seemed especially mischievous. Save for the footballers who freelanced in the North American leagues, the only players I knew about were those few who were more than athletes, the footballing celebrities who fascinated American tabloids with their social lives, rather than their performance on the pitch.
It shouldn’t be such a surprise, then, that with $80 freshly panhandled from my parents and neighbors, I trekked to the only soccer apparel store in my area determined to buy the #23 jersey of one of the few footballers to penetrate the American media, David Beckham.
The store was overwhelming. Walls plastered with jerseys, racks filled with cleats, an autographed 3×5 of Kyle Martino resting near the register. The sheer amount of paraphernalia seemed more reminiscent of a museum than an apparel shop. My daze unfortunately, was eventually interrupted by an inquiring store employee who ushered me towards the center of the store. Assuming that a knowledge of football was required to work at “Soccer USA,” I pointed across the store and yelled1 for the employee to bring down, “A David Beckham jersey!” that hung out of my reach2. It became clear after a few minutes of charades that you didn’t have to be well-versed in soccer to work at “Soccer USA.” After a few minutes of ineptly groping for jerseys, he came upon the all-white Real Madrid jersey, and business settled, I quickly left the vault in his incapable hands with plans to wear the jersey to school the following Monday.
Chest out and chin up, I walked into my first class of the day wearing the Beckham jersey. To be completely honest, I waltzed in. Unfortunately, the compliments and high-fives that I expected weren’t forthcoming. Replaced by a gasping teacher and laughing middle-schools pointing and screaming “Semen!?,” I was forced to take off the jersey and find a replacement shirt. It was a disaster.
A lot has changed since my middle school nightmares. MLS is thriving, the US National Team is a respectable, if unremarkable group, and the public is gradually becoming more conscious of the world’s game. The growth has been so tremendous that two hours before the Champions League Final this Saturday, I was confronted by a bar crammed full of football fans proudly flaunting their team’s colors. A group of Brazilians with Ronaldhino jerseys sat in a corner booth. A Chilean with an Universidad jersey sat on a barstool casually chatting with someone wearing an Ecuadorian National Team jersey. Evertonians played darts with Los Angeles Galaxy supporters. And behind me sat someone my age chatting about Arsenal’s approaching transfers with his graying, American father.3 In a word, it was beautiful.
Sure, I couldn’t find a seat, and struggled to avoid the eyes of a Barcelona fan in a full kit once the match ended, but I can’t help but smile at how much has changed in the last few years. I mean, non-bloopers occassionally make Sportscenter now; it’s mind-boggling.
Is there really anything to take from a multi-ethnic population meeting up to watch the year’s most important soccer game in the heart of Los Angeles, one of the most diverse cities in the United States? Probably not, but a few days on, it still feels assuring. The future is changing for the better, mostly. The David Beckham jersey still fits4, but the laughter still stops me from wearing it in public.
An American Afterglow
- Maxi Rodriguez
The first soccer jersey I purchased was as stereotypical as it was ill-advised. Like most barely-adolescent Americans attracted to football in the early 2000s, I faced the difficult task of keeping abreast of a sport in a country where domestic media coverage began and ended with blooper reels. Of course, I might have turned to foreign websites for news and results, but to a naive kid with a provincial sense of the world, .co.uk domains seemed especially mischievous. Save for the footballers who freelanced in the North American leagues, the only players I knew about were those few who were more than athletes, the footballing celebrities who fascinated American tabloids with their social lives, rather than their performance on the pitch.
It shouldn’t be such a surprise, then, that with $80 freshly panhandled from my parents and neighbors, I trekked to the only soccer apparel store in my area determined to buy the #23 jersey of one of the few footballers to penetrate the American media, David Beckham.
The store was overwhelming. Walls plastered with jerseys, racks filled with cleats, an autographed 3×5 of Kyle Martino resting near the register. The sheer amount of paraphernalia seemed more reminiscent of a museum than an apparel shop. My daze unfortunately, was eventually interrupted by an inquiring store employee who ushered me towards the center of the store. Assuming that a knowledge of football was required to work at “Soccer USA,” I pointed across the store and yelled1 for the employee to bring down, “A David Beckham jersey!” that hung out of my reach2. It became clear after a few minutes of charades that you didn’t have to be well-versed in soccer to work at “Soccer USA.” After a few minutes of ineptly groping for jerseys, he came upon the all-white Real Madrid jersey, and business settled, I quickly left the vault in his incapable hands with plans to wear the jersey to school the following Monday.
Chest out and chin up, I walked into my first class of the day wearing the Beckham jersey. To be completely honest, I waltzed in. Unfortunately, the compliments and high-fives that I expected weren’t forthcoming. Replaced by a gasping teacher and laughing middle-schools pointing and screaming “Semen!?,” I was forced to take off the jersey and find a replacement shirt. It was a disaster.
A lot has changed since my middle school nightmares. MLS is thriving, the US National Team is a respectable, if unremarkable group, and the public is gradually becoming more conscious of the world’s game. The growth has been so tremendous that two hours before the Champions League Final this Saturday, I was confronted by a bar crammed full of football fans proudly flaunting their team’s colors. A group of Brazilians with Ronaldhino jerseys sat in a corner booth. A Chilean with an Universidad jersey sat on a barstool casually chatting with someone wearing an Ecuadorian National Team jersey. Evertonians played darts with Los Angeles Galaxy supporters. And behind me sat someone my age chatting about Arsenal’s approaching transfers with his graying, American father.3 In a word, it was beautiful.
Sure, I couldn’t find a seat, and struggled to avoid the eyes of a Barcelona fan in a full kit once the match ended, but I can’t help but smile at how much has changed in the last few years. I mean, non-bloopers occassionally make Sportscenter now; it’s mind-boggling.
Is there really anything to take from a multi-ethnic population meeting up to watch the year’s most important soccer game in the heart of Los Angeles, one of the most diverse cities in the United States? Probably not, but a few days on, it still feels assuring. The future is changing for the better, mostly. The David Beckham jersey still fits4, but the laughter still stops me from wearing it in public.