The Beautiful Game

First, with apologies to my international readers, I'll use the common North American convention of referring to the real football as soccer and the North American version as football.  And, by way of brief disclaimer, while I've lived entirely in the U.S., played football not soccer growing up, and didn't know anything about soccer except Pele till my kids started to play, over the last 20 years I have come to love The Beautiful Game and believe it to be superior to football for spectators and skilled players.  For unskilled players though, football is the way to go.

The Pace of the Game

Football is a series of short high-intensity bursts of brute strength and athleticism punctuated by time outs, huddles, commercial breaks, injuries, referee challenges, and cheerleaders.  The flow of the game is intermittent, as the opposing forces surge against one another en masse.  In between blows they regroup and ask themselves "what the hell just happened!?"  Coaches can stop the action with time outs and red-flag challenges.  Then the television networks impose their breaks to accommodate the advertisers.  Add to those scheduled interruptions the numerous stoppages for fouls and penalties that result from over 367 rules, and the playing time for a one-hour contest generally stretches to a three-hour commitment.

By comparison, soccer is a nearly continuous flow of action during two 45-minute halves.  Except for brief restarts associated with fouls and injuries, the occasional issuance of cards, and the less-frequent substitution of players, the action doesn't stop.  The ball moves up and down the pitch as players attack and defend in accordance with the 17 basic rules/laws of the game.  Rather than clashing soldiers attempting to overpower one another, soccer is all about finesse.  It combines passing, running, and shooting with teamwork, stamina, strategy, and skill much like basketball but with no hands on a field that can range from about 10 to 25 times larger than a basketball court (that variability in pitch dimensions being one of the endearing quirks of the game.)

Coaches can only stop the soccer action with the referee's permission and then only when the ball has left the field and is in their possession.  Players can't call "time out" when they're confused about the right play call or have run out of time as often occurs in football.  When you sit down for a soccer match, you can count on two 45-minute periods of action with a brief 15-minute half-time with a few minutes added for injuries for a total of no more than two hours (that's 75% action compared to 33% for football).

The Look and Feel

From the vantage of one's living room, these games have completely different looks.  Football seems to be all about intimidation.  From the glossy helmets, body armor with over-sized shoulder pads, and skin-tight pants, the uniform seems all about celebrating the physique of weekend gladiators.  With the war paint under the eyes, the face masks hiding the rest of their features, and team emblems emblazoned on helmets and jerseys, players take on the anonymity and uniformity of soldiers - their relative bulks and the now common lumberjack beards and mops of long hair being the only differentiation.  And bulk differences are extreme!  From the 5-foot 9-inch running backs weighing in at about 200 pounds to the 6-foot 6-inch tight ends and the 300-pound defensive linemen, the range is extreme and severe obesity is not uncommon.

Soccer is more about agility and mobility than confrontation and power.  Soccer players aren't decked out in body armor and helmets (except for the rare padded head gear to guard against concussions or face shields worn while recuperating from facial injuries).  The uniforms (kits) are limited to shorts, jersey, shin guards, socks and shoes.  One small complaint with the kits, a newcomer can easily mistake a team's name for some European airline, an electronics company, or a bank since they're more prominently displayed than the team logos.  That's fine with me though - I'd rather have them get advertising revenue like that than from the persistent interruption of beer commercials.   And, while height differences can also vary by a foot from short attackers to tall defenders and keepers (although there are exceptions) you will never see an obese soccer player!  The average professional player is about 6 feet tall and weighs between 155 and 175 pounds.

Pros and Cons

When it comes to amateur participation, especially for those who haven't grown up in a culture that worships the ability to manipulate a ball with one's feet, football is a great sport.  There's nothing quite like the Turkey bowl on a crisp November afternoon while the turkey is roasting.  As long as no one gets seriously injured (more likely in football than soccer to be sure), it can be a blast.  And, there's always flag football to increase the finesse and speed quotient while reducing the injury quotient.

In contrast, for a person who grew up playing sports when the ball was bounced, carried, or hit it can be extremely frustrating to be limited to using your feet to dribble and pass the soccer ball (no way I'm going to risk a neck injury using unschooled heading "technique").  While helping to coach community soccer, I saw first-hand how difficult it is to acquire foot skills (let alone heading) and appreciated the importance of learning them while young with constant reinforcement so it could become second nature.

Thinking about it from the other perspective, I imagine it is equally frustrating to a natural soccer player and be forced to hold onto a strangely-shaped ball while not being able to kick it along the field, being faced with attempting to catch the long bomb on the run, or being chased by players intent on crushing you.  From an amateur player's perspective, to each his own - I concede there are merits to each.  In my opinion, the most important thing is to get the kids out there playing something (our soccer association motto was:  "Just let them play!")

When it comes to being a spectator of professional football or soccer though, my allegiance to North American football wanes.  I can't stand the constant interruptions, the inane penalties (now even restricting the ability of players to make contact in certain ways so as to make this brutal sport less injurious - I think that's the owners finding ways to protect their investments), and the overall time sink of a single game.  From the vantage of my recliner and the wizardry of HDTV, I can't think of a much more beautiful sport (except The Masters at Augusta perhaps) than soccer. 

Some day I hope to update this commentary after having sat through a live viewing of ManU battling Bayern Munich or Real Madrid at Old Trafford in Manchester England for a Champions League title.  I'm certain that will only deepen my love of The Beautiful Game. 

Samuel William Gleue (5/19/93 - 1/24/13)

I am grieved by the passing of a young friend of the family.  Samuel William Gleue passed away suddenly from an accident and left behind heartbroken parents, two older and two younger siblings, a large extended family, and many friends.  Words could not do justice to the emotional toll we all felt at his memorial service:  we absorbed the minister’s words with mute anguish and stifled sobs.

Sam was one of my son’s best buddies in elementary school.  They chased each other around the house, yard, and neighborhood as only 8-year-old boys can.  I remember him as the quintessential towhead freckle-faced “Dennis the Menace.”   Sam was a fearless bundle of energy that bolted off in any direction at the slightest suggestion.

It’s with strong recollections of those happy childhood years and sensitivity for the raw void that Sam’s departure has created that I offer these thoughts on a parent’s love for a child.

We want the best for our kids, but we want them to do the best they can as well.  We guide, nurture, coach, and instruct and in return expect them to give it their best shot.  If they don’t even try, it doesn’t alter the depth of our love, but it may alter our attitude.  I’d be disappointed if no attempt had been made at all.  Having removed the opportunity to participate, the child remains in limbo and unable to grow from the experience of either success, failure, or draw.  It’s understood that a child needs to find his own way, experience her own setbacks, and learn his own lessons – sometimes the toughest part of our job as parents is to push them onto the field and stand back as spectators.

A parent sees in a child, especially of the same gender, all that he or she might have been.  There is potential to do the things that have not been achieved, to complete the work that has been started, to live the dreams yet to be fulfilled, and to avoid the pains that have been suffered.  But a parent should know it cannot be so.  The child has her own path to follow, his own potential to realize, her own dreams to dream, and his own pains to endure.  Just sharing in them should be reward enough.  Shared experience strengthens our love.  Living together, working together, solving problems, playing games, traveling, helping each other, and simply being together brings us closer together and enriches each experience.

Like my own son, Sam graduated from high school just about 18 months ago.  Like at our celebration, his family had probably compiled a photo montage to chronicle his growth from childhood when things could be fixed with simply a hug to young adulthood when troubles had become exponentially more complicated yet the opportunities seemed limitless.  I suspect that his parents were equally proud of his many accomplishments and while worried about the uncertainties of the future were cheered by happy memories of fun times they’d had together.  As they anticipated a growing and natural separation and independence they would have counted on there being many wonderful times yet ahead to share.

As is true of any loving parents, it would have been hard for them to step back and allow him the freedom and space to discover his own way, to learn his own tough lessons, to suffer his private pains, and to celebrate his individual victories.  But step back we must as we relinquish control and in turn trust in their accumulated wisdom, the good in others, and the alignment of the stars to keep them safe.

Now that fearless bundle of energy has been extinguished and his path remains untrodden, his potential remains unknown, and his joys remain only in the shared memories of those he touched.  A shooting star has passed through our constellation, caught our imagination for a brief time, and left a warm afterglow to balance the chill of his winter departure.

Rest in peace Sam.