Monday, July 10, 2006
We Are the Champions!
I’m so proud right now that I can hardly even contain myself. My country just won the World Cup. I’m bursting. I’ve been following the Italian soccer team for what seems like decades, and it’s so great that my devotion has finally paid off. Of course, it only seems like decades. In actuality, it was closer to 3 hours. But soccer is so boring that it felt almost interminable.
I’m not a soccer fan. Not in the least. I don’t get it. I don’t understand the appeal. I don’t understand how every other country in the world thinks it’s the greatest game ever. I just don’t get it. But I’m Italian. And Italy was in the finals. So I had to watch. I had to cheer on my country-mates. Of course, I’m only half-Italian. And I have to go all the way back to my great-grandparents to find someone in my family who was actually born in Italy. And as The Wife pointed out, I’m actually part French too. So really, the final match was win-win for me. Except that I like to pretend that I’m not French at all.
(By the way, at what point does one stop being of a different nationality and start being an “American.” I ask because Luke is ¼ Italian, ¼ Czech, 1/8 Polish, 1/8 German, 1/8 Swedish, 1/16 French, and 1/16 Irish. That’s 7 European nationalities, which is actually more than the European Union and the United Nations. Combined. Okay, I exaggerate. But Luke ought to just be able to say he’s an American, right? And on International day at school, he can show up with cheeseburgers and fries from McDonald’s. Anyway.)
Given my strong allegiance to Italy, I watched the finals and was completely underwhelmed. I played soccer for a year or two as a kid. I never really understood the game. It’s a bit moronic, if you ask me. I can accept the no-hands rule. (Though, the ability to use our hands to hold a ball is the one thing that separates us from animals.) But I can’t for the life of me understand the offsides rule. I understand why it’s called, but I don’t understand the point of the rule. Are they actually trying to keep scoring down? In a sport where 2 goals scored is a lot? Huh? That’s like playing baseball with a superball. Or playing football on a field that’s a mile long. Why on earth would you do that?
I had a bunch of laundry to do yesterday, so it was perfect for sitting in front of the TV to watch the game. I hate folding laundry. It’s one of my least favorite activities in the world. Right next to watching soccer. So I figured, why not combine the two? To my surprise, the game turned out to be moderately exciting. Not exciting enough to make me stop folding clothes, but exciting enough to make it so I wouldn’t mind folding clothes. (That should be the slogan for the World Cup.)
So, the game was tied and went into overtime. France’s biggest star then head-butted an Italian dude and got a red card. The announcers were talking about how reckless that was. The guy was retiring and this was his last game. How dare he sully his image by doing that? Meanwhile, I thought it’s exactly what I would have done. You’ve got 5 minutes left to play for the rest of your life and some guy’s pissing you off. Take him out. What are they going to do? Suspend you? Who cares? It reminds me of when I was at Wash U and went to a Candlebox concert. They were a very terrible band, but they had two songs on the radio at the time. Shockingly, they decided to wait until the encore to play them. As if anyone cared about the other songs. Anyway, I’d been crowd-surfing throughout the show and the bouncers told me that if I did it again, I’d be kicked out. So, there I was, at the front of the concert as Candlebox launched into “Far Behind.” Knowing they were going to wrap up the show soon (and wanting to beat the other 1500 people out of the show), I crowd surfed and got kicked out. I knew I was going to get kicked out. I just didn’t care because I’d seen everything I wanted to. I felt exactly like the French soccer player. (And that’s probably the last time you’ll ever hear me say that.)
Finally, the game was decided on penalty kicks. Basically, everyone scored except for one French dude who hit the crossbar. That’s going to be a tough one to live with. By the way, I’m not certain that’s exactly what happened because my TiVo got all screwed up and wouldn’t stop fast-forwarding for some reason. So I watched most of the shootout at 2x speed.
Anyway, my darling Italian team won, and I honestly feel proud about it. I’m not very nationalistic. I forget that I’m Italian most of the time. Sure, I liked traveling in Italy and I like Italian food, but that’s about it. I don’t have a picture of the pope hanging on my mantel. Not yet anyway. (I’m still working on The Wife. She’s resistant for some reason. Stupid Lutherans.) And I don’t wear gold chains. So really, I don’t celebrate being Italian. But for a country that’s best known for Benito Mussolini and cars that don’t run well, it’s nice to know that they’re also going to be known for winning a soccer tournament that everyone in the world but us cares about. Now there’s an Italian national pride slogan if ever I’ve seen one.
I’m not a soccer fan. Not in the least. I don’t get it. I don’t understand the appeal. I don’t understand how every other country in the world thinks it’s the greatest game ever. I just don’t get it. But I’m Italian. And Italy was in the finals. So I had to watch. I had to cheer on my country-mates. Of course, I’m only half-Italian. And I have to go all the way back to my great-grandparents to find someone in my family who was actually born in Italy. And as The Wife pointed out, I’m actually part French too. So really, the final match was win-win for me. Except that I like to pretend that I’m not French at all.
(By the way, at what point does one stop being of a different nationality and start being an “American.” I ask because Luke is ¼ Italian, ¼ Czech, 1/8 Polish, 1/8 German, 1/8 Swedish, 1/16 French, and 1/16 Irish. That’s 7 European nationalities, which is actually more than the European Union and the United Nations. Combined. Okay, I exaggerate. But Luke ought to just be able to say he’s an American, right? And on International day at school, he can show up with cheeseburgers and fries from McDonald’s. Anyway.)
Given my strong allegiance to Italy, I watched the finals and was completely underwhelmed. I played soccer for a year or two as a kid. I never really understood the game. It’s a bit moronic, if you ask me. I can accept the no-hands rule. (Though, the ability to use our hands to hold a ball is the one thing that separates us from animals.) But I can’t for the life of me understand the offsides rule. I understand why it’s called, but I don’t understand the point of the rule. Are they actually trying to keep scoring down? In a sport where 2 goals scored is a lot? Huh? That’s like playing baseball with a superball. Or playing football on a field that’s a mile long. Why on earth would you do that?
I had a bunch of laundry to do yesterday, so it was perfect for sitting in front of the TV to watch the game. I hate folding laundry. It’s one of my least favorite activities in the world. Right next to watching soccer. So I figured, why not combine the two? To my surprise, the game turned out to be moderately exciting. Not exciting enough to make me stop folding clothes, but exciting enough to make it so I wouldn’t mind folding clothes. (That should be the slogan for the World Cup.)
So, the game was tied and went into overtime. France’s biggest star then head-butted an Italian dude and got a red card. The announcers were talking about how reckless that was. The guy was retiring and this was his last game. How dare he sully his image by doing that? Meanwhile, I thought it’s exactly what I would have done. You’ve got 5 minutes left to play for the rest of your life and some guy’s pissing you off. Take him out. What are they going to do? Suspend you? Who cares? It reminds me of when I was at Wash U and went to a Candlebox concert. They were a very terrible band, but they had two songs on the radio at the time. Shockingly, they decided to wait until the encore to play them. As if anyone cared about the other songs. Anyway, I’d been crowd-surfing throughout the show and the bouncers told me that if I did it again, I’d be kicked out. So, there I was, at the front of the concert as Candlebox launched into “Far Behind.” Knowing they were going to wrap up the show soon (and wanting to beat the other 1500 people out of the show), I crowd surfed and got kicked out. I knew I was going to get kicked out. I just didn’t care because I’d seen everything I wanted to. I felt exactly like the French soccer player. (And that’s probably the last time you’ll ever hear me say that.)
Finally, the game was decided on penalty kicks. Basically, everyone scored except for one French dude who hit the crossbar. That’s going to be a tough one to live with. By the way, I’m not certain that’s exactly what happened because my TiVo got all screwed up and wouldn’t stop fast-forwarding for some reason. So I watched most of the shootout at 2x speed.
Anyway, my darling Italian team won, and I honestly feel proud about it. I’m not very nationalistic. I forget that I’m Italian most of the time. Sure, I liked traveling in Italy and I like Italian food, but that’s about it. I don’t have a picture of the pope hanging on my mantel. Not yet anyway. (I’m still working on The Wife. She’s resistant for some reason. Stupid Lutherans.) And I don’t wear gold chains. So really, I don’t celebrate being Italian. But for a country that’s best known for Benito Mussolini and cars that don’t run well, it’s nice to know that they’re also going to be known for winning a soccer tournament that everyone in the world but us cares about. Now there’s an Italian national pride slogan if ever I’ve seen one.
