The Literary Life

Today, I was eating my lunch and I wanted something to read and so I googled “knausgaard” and found an essay in the Los Angeles Review of Books by Nina MacLaughlin.  It’s been a couple of weeks since I’ve finished reading Book Two of Knausgaard’s My Struggle and still I find that I want to return to that place, that destination, that world which I slipped into each time I opened his book.  Not that I want to be Knausgaard or even live his life, but by being with Knausgaard the narrator, I entered into my own quotidian existence equipped with a clean lens and a bright light.  Nina MacLaughlin’s essay says, “He [Knausgaard] opens our eyes to meaning.”  Every act, every choice offers the possibility of meaning.  How many of us even think about our choices?  Especially those small choices?

When I reached the end of the essay, I read the couple of lines about the author.  “Nina MacLaughlin left her job at an alt-weekly to become a carpenter in Cambridge, Massachusetts. She’s working on a book about it to be published by W.W. Norton.”  A writer of books?  Another quick search yielded Nina MacLaughlin’s blog, Carpentrix with the teasing subtitle “Tools, Sweat, Building, also Books and Sometimes Sex.”  I read a few posts and found that we have something else in common: mothers who knit.  And in the cooler months, hardly a day goes by when I don’t have the opportunity to say the words, “My mother made it.”

I talk with my mother each week on the phone.  She lives on the other side of the country, in the Pacific Northwest.  She tells me about her knitting and I tell her about my writing.  The two activities are not dissimilar.  Writing novels might seem like an artsy way to pass the time, but the nuts and bolts of word work is a precision craft like knitting or carpentry.

There’s a practical, crafty side to my life.  When I put away the tools of fiction, I strap on my rubber boots and head down to my brewery.  Leaving the writing desk is always difficult for me. I want to keep writing.  I want to keep reading.  And as I pull on those brewery boots I think, I want to live a more literary life.  But then I get to the brewery which is less than a half mile from my house and I start my work, the labor of beer making, and I wonder how I could ever give this up, this craft, this honest labor, this making of something that brings joy to myself and to others.

Yesterday, Mike and I brewed another batch of pilsner.  As I was filling the last keg from the fermenter we were about to refill with the wort in the boil kettle, Mike brought me a frothy glass of the hefeweizen we’d made on Friday.  Fresh, malty, tart, balance of clove and banana… a host of beery words bubbled up as I took in the aroma.  Other associations like the approach of summer and afternoons on the beach came to mind as I drank in the crispy, prickly liquid.  Summer in a glass.

A couple of weeks ago, I met a fellow brewer at a crafty gastropub in Manhattan and we talked about the brewing business, its trials and tribulations.  You don’t go into the brewing business to make money, at least not small scale craft brewing.  Eventually, my brewing colleague asked me how I got in to commercial brewing in the first place.  Why did I give up homebrewing for the headaches of commercial brewing?  Or why did you leave the comforts of your career-track job that guaranteed a steady income and benefits?  Why turn your hobby into your career?  “I thought it would be something to write about,” I said.  Another life experience.  Some men brave the subzero temperatures of the South Pole.  Others scale the oxygen deprived heights of Everest.  But I chose beer making.  A possibly less lethal choice.

Thinking of Nina MacLaughlin’s blog and its subtitle, I wondered about my own blog.  Should I adopt a teasing subtitle.  “Kettles, Kegs, Brewing, Also Books and Sometimes… what?”  I usually save the sex for my fiction.  Very little sex in the brewery.

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Thursday

The image of Aira in his café writing has haunted me.  I play the image over and over in my mind as if it were a favorite record.  To see him sitting there just across the way with his fountain pen and his notebook doodling fills me with a sense of purpose and of longing.  For while I see him in the café, the writer at work, an empty espresso-stained demitasse resting near the upper right hand corner of the open notebook, I see myself, or, I should say, my future self sitting in my own café not in Buenos Aires, but in Long Neck.  I’m sitting at the table in the Claire du Lune, the one by the window because from there I can see the ferry coming into the harbor, that too is a sign that man’s true mother is the sea.  Ishmael knew this.  But ferries interest me less than my own children, my literary progeny born of paper and ink, labored on over many a morning at my little table in Claire du Lune where all I have to do is lift my index finger and nod and Sylvie brings me another mocha latte.  Don’t write in the present tense.  The voice is that of Aira’s ghost.  The past, the past.  That is the true world the storyteller inhabits.  His counsel is wise.  Do I trust him?  He who takes no orders, not even from himself.

As he sat in the café Donavan’s imagination was filled with the swirling image of his unborn children.  They were queuing up at that narrow ink-filled passageway (a birth canal? the image seemed absurd, but yet, there it was) to take their form on the page.  I’m next!  I’m next! They clamored to the forefront and muscled their way forward.  Be still! he commanded.  But he knew that they would not listen.  They had been penned up too long, the dam was about to burst.  Each character jostled with the other for a place at the front.  Pandemonium ensued.

The writer began to despair and so typed a quick prayer on his iPhone addressed to his muse and clicked the send button.  To pass the time, he twiddled his hair, spun the pen around on the table, and drew faces in the margins of his notebook.  Sylvie brought another steaming mug of mocha latte and set it down in front of the writer who thanked her and asked after Jerome.  “He’s doing well,” she said.  “Settling in to his new apartment in Brooklyn.  I’m visiting him next week.  At least that’s the plan.”

He knew the story already.  Not the details, but the broad strokes.  But the precise beginning eluded him.  He would need a title, a working title at least.  The last one had been SummerFall?  No, too portentous.  Autumn would be better, softer, less final, fatal.

Suddenly, he was startled by the buzzing of his phone.  He put down his pen and took up the portable electronic device.  His muse!  She’d responded.  She was his salvation, his inspiration, his guiding light in the storm.

It doesn’t matter, she wrote.  It’s all the same.  One day at a time.  The devotion of the penitent.  You’ve always been a lover of ritual, my dear.  Indulge yourself.  Send up your prayers like a good scribbler.  Don’t look back, and never erase a line.

Time to begin.

Thursday

Nemo cast a blanket of white over the landscape last weekend.  The nearly three foot thick layer of snow made roads impassable.  Regularly scheduled activities (soccer training, soccer matches, work, school, etc.) were cancelled.  Nemo’s gift was free time, extra time (stoppage time?).  His price was a few hours of shoveling, but the benefit was a triple return on investment.  I disappeared into my study to write.  My work in progress: Angels and Monsters.

Watching football was my escape from the labor of writing.  Stoke City v. Reading on Saturday morning.  The US Women v. Scotland in the evening.  The Africa Cup of Nations final on Sunday.  Liverpool v. West Brom on Monday afternoon.  Celtic v. Juventus on Tuesday.  Then something happened.  Wednesday.  I had a football hangover.  Champions League: Man United v. Real Madrid.  The idea of watching that match made me sick.  The MetroBulls played a preseason match against Real Salt Lake.  I couldn’t even bring myself to watch that.  All I wanted to do yesterday was read.  And read I did, finishing Cosmos by Witold Gombrowicz.

A fresh layer of snow covered the steps and driveway this morning.  I started the day with shoveling and the scattering of ice melt (salt of the earth).  My son was hoping for another snow day, a day off from school to play, and to lounge lazily around the house.  Today is a normal day.  A short commute to the office.  Meetings.  Manuscripts to read.  Decisions to be made.  I hold authors’ futures in my hands.  Do I feel that weight of responsibility?  And when I return home, the hope that the book I ordered will be waiting for me on the steps.  The Novel of the Future by Anaïs Nin.  I’ve read it before.  About ten years ago.  It was one of the first books I read after moving to New York to become a writer.

Saturday

The Africa Cup of Nations continues today in South Africa with runner-up match between between Ghana and Mali to decide who will take third place.  The final tomorrow will be played between Nigeria and Burkina Faso.  I’ve been following the tournament closely since it began two weeks ago.  To supplement my viewing I’ve been reading a couple of books about soccer in Africa.

Africa United by Steve Bloomfield is a summary tour of the continent with ten chapters introducing thirteen of Africa’s national teams.  Bloomfield’s book was published a few years ago, just before the 2010 World Cup finals hosted by South Africa.  A few things have changed since the publication of the book, but it’s still current enough that it doesn’t feel dated.

Bloomfield writes more about the recent history of these African nations than he does about their soccer teams.  Soccer is the entry point for Bloomfield’s treatment of the social, racial, economic, and political upheaval in these countries.  And it turns out that soccer is an ideal unifying thread for Bloomfield’s narrative since soccer and each country’s national team is a central part of public and social life.  Politicians and dictators associate themselves with successful soccer teams in order to bask in reflected glory.  But when those same teams lose matches, those who value power above all else unjustly seek to punish and degrade failure.

The other book I’m reading is called More Than Just a Game.  The subtitle explains, “Soccer vs. Apartheid”.  The authors are Chuck Korr and Marvin Close.  The narrative reads like it’s a pitch for a film and is full of tired narrative shorthand phrases.  Even if the literary quality isn’t so high, I’m intrigued by the story and the level of organization that the political prisoners on Robben Island committed themselves to when they decided to play soccer during their free period on Saturday.  The prison league structure had a constitution complete with governing boards, each club had its own written constitution and laws of operation.  There was a referee union and courts of arbitration.  The impression I get is that the jailed South African blacks were intent on demonstrating that they could govern just as well as the whites.  Better perhaps since they would be adverse to mete out cruelty so casually as the white prison guards.  Soccer, for the prisoners, became a training ground for self-governance and self-determination.

South Africa lost their quarterfinal match against Mali.  Because South Africa is the host nation and my reading list, I was sympathetic to South Africa and hoped that they would progress to the final match.  But it was difficult to begrudge Mali the win.  Mali could use some happy news at the moment.  A win over Ghana might give them a moment of joy and something to celebrate.

Monday

The African Cup of Nations kicked off a little over a week ago with a match between South Africa and Cape Verde.  Since then there have been two group stage matches per day, and I’ve indulged myself in watching at least one match a day.  It’s a tournament after all.  Time limited.  Only 31 matches.  There’s something captivating about a tournament.  A tournament is an occasion, a season like Christmas.

I followed the African tournament last year.  Someone was posting all the matches on YouTube.  The commentary was in Russian (mainly, though one of the matches had French commentary), but I didn’t mind.  The football, while not of the flowing, fluid sort that I prefer, was dramatic, exotic, festive.  The bright colors: orange, green, red, yellow.  The banners and costumes of the fans, elaborately designed, vibrantly colored.

When I start following a tournament, I’m enthusiastic for about five days.  Then I start getting spectator fatigue and so I end up missing the last round of group stage matches, the matches that should be more interesting.  The same thing happened to me over the summer when I tried to follow the European Cup.  The group stage is wrapping up over the next few days.  Then the knock-out stage begins.  I won’t miss any of those matches.

On Saturday I attended a craft beer festival.  Over the years, I’ve become less interested in beer festivals, primarily because festivals tend to be jam-packed with people.  Not that I am a misanthrope, it’s just that I prefer to keep a little personal space between me and my fellow drinkers.

The festival on Saturday was (in part) hosted by my brewery but it’s really a community effort, a partnership with our village civic association and a good friend of ours who runs an event planning business.  It’s the fourth year we’ve put on this festival.  We limit ticket sales to just under two hundred people which means that the festival hall isn’t overcrowded.  There’s plenty of room to move around and (more importantly) there are never any beer queues or queues at the toilet.

This year at the festival I made sure I talked at length with Kenny about my plan to help grow a soccer supporter movement on Long Island, similar to the craft beer movement which led to the foundation of the Long Island Beer and Malt Enthusiasts and the launching of half-a-dozen new breweries on Long Island in the last six or seven years.  It’s time to augment craft beer culture with soccer culture and create a network of soccer pubs pouring craft beer all over the island.  Let’s give those thousands of craft beer enthusiasts something worth-while to do while they are at the pub: support their soccer club.

The reason why I was keen on talking with Kenny (beyond the fact that he’s a nice guy) is that he is in the process of purchasing a bar in Mt Sinai.  These things take time.  Permits, licenses, financing, etc.  Most importantly, Kenny is a soccer fan.  The key to making a successful soccer pub is the full and unbridled support of the pub’s owner.  Just as craft beer pubs put the beer first and make it clear that craft is a value, soccer pubs have to put the beautiful game first.  It won’t work if the owner doesn’t love and value the game.  Soccer supporters can tell.

Soccer culture is different than any other sport culture in the world.  People fanatically follow baseball, hockey, basketball, etc., but the fan culture for these other sports has a different quality than supporter culture in soccer.

The small world effect kicked in at the beer festival.  A long-time friend of mine, Wes, introduced me to a long-time friend of his named Eric.  “You two will get along,” said Wes.  “Eric’s into soccer too.”  Not only is Eric into soccer, Eric is a Borough Boy.

The Borough Boys are a Brooklyn-based soccer support group that started in 2007 with a mission to bring professional soccer to New York City.  You might think that New York City has a professional soccer team already, the one that plays in New Jersey, but the Borough Boys wanted something better, something within the five boroughs of New York.  And the best shot at getting what they want (at the present) is the New York Cosmos.

I told Eric about my own interest in the Cosmos and my vision of supporter culture on Long Island and how to grow it.  “The seed of soccer culture will be planted in beer,” I said holding up my glass.  “Supporters need a place they can call home.  A place to meet.  A place where they can hang their banners.  A place to gather and watch the away fixtures.  A place to catch the bus to the home match.”  That’s when I introduced Eric to Kenny.  Making connections.

Unpredictable

Over the weekend our U10 boys team played a futsal match.  The extra outdoor practice on Saturday must have helped.  The Strikers won 14-1.  We were up 7-nil at the half and I told the boys they were playing well and that they didn’t need to be in such a rush to score.  “Pass the ball a bit.  See how long you can possess the ball.  Get the center-half involved in the play.”  They all nodded their head, smiling from ear to ear, ready to get back out on the court.

Before league play started, I didn’t know if I’d like competitive futsal.  We ended up in a winter futsal league when the indoor soccer league (on a larger turf field) fell through for varying reasons depending on who you talk to.  Most likely reasons rooted in money or lack thereof.  Running a youth soccer club is all about paying out money, always asking the parents to chip in $20 here, $25 there, and all the time I’m wondering why we don’t have more play between the teams in our own club.  And then there’s the adults.  We’d like to kick the ball around too.

After the Strikers 14-1 victory over the Elite, we had an hour long practice in the gym.  We played small sided games and I joined in to make up a 3v3.  I’m rusty too.  My legs felt heavy and stiff.  All flabby from sitting around during the holidays.

Despite my fatigue I dressed up after practice and drove to Williamsburg.  Spuyten Duyvil put six of my brewery‘s beers on tap and one on cask.  Rasan was there.  Lev and his friend Paul.  I’d hoped Franz would show up, but he might have been too put out after the Arsenal, Man City match (which I wouldn’t see until the next day).

It was midnight just as I was getting home Sunday night.  The drive home in the fog seemed timeless.  I was listening to the Anfield Wrap (podcast) and the Liverpool supporters were admitting just how much respect they had for Sir Alex and his boys.  I was in a trance.  Whole stretches of road passed as if I were in a dream, my consciousness far away.  At one point, I became aware that I was so caught up in what I was listening to that I had no recollection of the road over which I’d been driving for how many minutes?  I’d read something about this effect, autopilot (?) in a book by Oliver Sacks.  Was it Oliver Sacks?

There’s a new book out by Daniel Tammet called Thinking in Numbers.  I haven’t read the book, don’t even own a copy, but I did hear a podcast interview with the mathematician / author recently.  His discussion of the many possible arrangements of Nabokov’s Lolita captured my attention, but it was what he said about the predictability of the language of school girls that got me thinking.  Tammet referenced a “famous study” where “scientists” came up with an algorithm to predict the speech patterns of English school girls.  To a high degree of accuracy, he said, the scientists could predict precisely what an English school girl would say next based on exhaustive and accurate knowledge of what she had already said.  He didn’t explain that this was a result of the language of English school girls being so repetitive and conventional.  That school girls talk for the same reason that birds sing, because they lack a natural capacity for silence, or simply to be heard.

Tammet compared the predictable language of the English school girl with the greatest novelists and poets.  A novelist, or a poet, uses language in a more sophisticated way.  What a poet will write (or say) next is not predictable at all, he said.  And it is precisely this unpredictability that makes good novelists so exciting and interesting to read.

Football players, great ones, are also unpredictable.  What makes great soccer players and great teams so fun to watch is that they do the unexpected, and the unexpected often leads to glimpses of beauty, or moments of joy, or inspiration.

When I watch a football match, I look for patterns, the positions of players, open lanes for passing, and often I see a small channel open up and I say, “Pass it there!  To him!”  But then the ball flies in some other direction, reaching another player in a more congested part of the field, and he finds a crack in the defense, one that I hadn’t even seen was there.  That moment of realization is a surprise, and a pleasure.

A team or a player that always does the same things over and over again, they are less interesting to watch.  Even the highly skilled sides, who can pass the ball accurately, expertly, and with clockwork precision can be boring if the passing is too predictable and leads to little in the way of breakthrough moments.

Beyond just watching the game, I started reading books about soccer.  Authors like Simon Kuper and David Winner showed me that football was a worthy subject — possibly even a subject that I could write about.

For years I’ve kept up with literary journals and the smart book reviews.  Most of such publications are filled with political and social commentary.  As much as I’ve tried, I’ve never developed a lasting interest in the political world, or the characters that inhabit it.  The political players are a dull sort, and for the most part shallow, and incapable of independent or unpredictable action.  When I ran across a reference to the Dutch “literary” football journal Hard Gras in Winner’s book, Brilliant Orange, I was intrigued and so started looking for English language equivalents.  I found a host of intelligent writing about football and cultural criticism written from a soccer perspective.  Now in the US we have journals like Howler and XI Quarterly.  This is a wonderful time to be a literate football fan.

I’ve been working my way through A Football Report‘s list of the best football writing of 2012 and I’ve found a writer that I enjoy reading, Brian Phillips who writes for Grantland and his own site, Run of Play.  And it was Phillips that I thought about when I was musing about good writing and unpredictability.  I had just read Phillips’s piece in Grantland “Celebrity Entropy” and was amused by this line: “By the time I started getting into soccer, he seemed more like a discredited childhood memory, one of those stray communal wisps that once felt genuine but turned out to be propaganda, like hair metal or the first Thanksgiving.”  When I started reading the sentence I didn’t see “hair metal or the first Thanksgiving” coming.  In football terms, it was like Phillips had found an open passing lane, slipped the ball through, and scored just past a diving keeper.  It wasn’t that the sentence was beautiful, it was that Phillips had introduced the unexpected, words that were unpredictable.  The surprise of discovering the unexpected is at the root of both comedy and the joy of something approaching beauty.

Any Given Thursday

I look forward to Thursday nights the way most people look forward to Friday night.  Thursday evenings are protected.  No matter what’s going on in the world, Thursday is my night to say, “No, I can’t do it.  I’ve got other plans.”  Thursday nights are reading nights.  No streaming soccer matches on the widescreen display.  Just a book, and me on the couch, or the bed, or in my reading chair.  “I have a date with a book,” I could say.  But perhaps some wouldn’t understand.

Even though I read every day – reading is essential for the writing life – I rarely get more than an hour (here or there) on most days.  Except for Thursday when I can block off three or four hours to immerse myself into something.  And I won’t give that up.

My current reading list has a fair number of soccer (aka football) books given that my present writing project is soccer-themed.  I’m in the research phase at the moment.  The research phase for a book is the best since it involves reading and note-taking mostly.  The organizational, the structural phase is less fun.  The actual writing part is the labor.

There’s a long-ish piece in the New Yorker this week by John McPhee on structure (in writing).  It’s an interesting article to me, as a writer, because McPhee opens the door to the workshop.  I’ve always been a fan of the “Writers at Work” series in the Paris Review.  Although, I can’t imagine that anyone but a writer would be all that interested in how writers go about their work.  It’s literary shoptalk.  What I’ve learned in two decades of reading about how other writers write is that everyone has their own bag of tricks, everyone works in their own way, and there’s no standard method.  What works for one writer, won’t necessarily work for another.

Working methods differ, but the basic process is the same: conception, organization, implementation, revision, (and finally) publication.  How a writer goes about navigating that process is his business.

I still don’t know what sort of soccer book I’m going to write.  When I first got interested in writing about soccer (the latter part of 2011) my first idea was to write a book about youth soccer, a vaguely fictional memoir about a dad coaching his son’s team.  The first thing I did was a “literature search.”

When I was in graduate school, I had to come up with an original research problem.  That original problem would be the subject of the dissertation I would need to write to complete my degree.  The originality of the idea was key.  I couldn’t just do something that had already been done, the idea had to be completely fresh, something new in the world, pertaining to a problem that had never been solved before.  So each time I came up with an idea (the conception phase) I’d trudge off to the library (the Internet was still in its infancy back then) and do a literature search.  The mechanics were slightly different than doing a Google search, but the idea is the same.  The literature search had to be complete and exhaustive.  The worst thing is to pick a project, spend a year or two working on it, and then discover that it’s already been done before.

It didn’t take me long to find Jim Haner’s book Soccerhead.  The subtitle of the book gives you an idea of what the subject matter is: “An accidental journey into the heart of the American game.”  But it’s the premise that gives the book its structure: a dad who gets drafted to coach his son’s soccer team learns about the game and it’s history and development.  Haner covers the story of soccer in America, giving an entertaining history of the game embedded in the context of his trials and tribulations as a youth soccer coach.  It’s a brilliantly done book.  And there’s no reason why I should try to rewrite it.  Okay, perhaps things are different in the US, ten years since Soccerhead‘s publication, but there are other soccer books I could write, so why redo that one?

I’d moved to Long Island for practical reasons having to do with my writing career.  And after three years of working on a novel, a colleague of mine, another writer, encouraged me to take up blogging.  This colleague had been experimenting with blogging about wine.  He knew that I was an amateur brewer, so he kept bugging me about writing a craft beer blog.  Somewhat reluctantly, I gave it a try.  And the experience I gained over the subsequent five years helped shape my thinking about culture and society.  I wasn’t satisfied to limit myself to writing just about craft beer, I wanted to write about American culture and what the craft beer movement represented in that context.  The connections I made in those five years led to a partnership with two other brewers, and together we founded and launched a craft brewery of our own.  Now that I’m a professional brewer and not just a beer writer, I have a different relationship to the local beer scene.  So what I write about the world of craft beer is colored by this new perspective.

I thought about giving up writing about craft beer altogether.  During that time I indulged myself in working on a number of fiction projects I’d started over the years and not quite finished because I was so wrapped up in chasing after craft beer.  With the beer blogging out of the way I felt free to flirt with other subjects.  And because my son was getting more involved with soccer and his team needed an assistant coach, my life started revolving more and more about the axis of the soccer pitch and less about the pub.  The change was also good for my health.  Running around after eight and nine year olds is good exercise, and after a few months I noticed my beer gut shrinking.

Writing about the craft beer movement allowed me to write about culture, economics, politics, psychology, and pretty much anything else that interested me.  Craft beer was a lens.  And through that lens I hoped to gain new insights about how American society is put together, what’s going well, and where we’re making mistakes.  After a few months of talking with people in the soccer world and reading whatever I could find on the subject, I realized that soccer was also a lens.  And the soccer lens could be trained on the same aspects of American society, culture, economics, etc.  And, additionally, soccer and craft beer were connected by the umbilical of the pub and the stadium terrace where beer drinking and spectating meld into the same act (like chocolate and peanut butter).

Last year, shortly after my brewery got its final operational license in place, I was talking with Rasan about a book that I thought I was going to write, a book about my and my business partner’s experiences in getting a small brewery up and running.  I’d just read a book by Gabriel Kuhn called Soccer versus the State and I’d realized that we’d been running our brewery as an anarchist collective (without realizing it) for nearly five years.  Reading Kuhn’s book started my mental wheels turning.  At the heart of the craft beer movement is a (sublimated?) commitment to anarchism, and certainly an overt commitment to doing things for yourself rather than confining one’s role in society to that of passive consumer.  But I also started thinking about our local soccer club, and the pay-for-play model that we all agreed to uncritically.  What Kuhn had written about freeing the game from capitalist shackles seemed right to me.  Soccer is a game.  People get together and kick a ball for fun.  I’d already run into the politics of the use of public space and how that is controlled, and regulated with fee structures that are designed to keep out “undesirable elements” (poor people and recent immigrants).  The fees we had to pay to get our brewing license were not huge, but I wondered why the State had what amounted to a pay-for-play policy when it came to starting a new business.  It was like they were saying, unless you are part of the monied elite, don’t bother us, stay chained to your soul-killing, alienating nine-to-five slave-work like a good boy.  Imagine it.  What if anyone who wanted to could make their own beer and sell or trade it to whomever they wanted without interference from the State – it would be anarchy.  And that’s good thing.  Gabriel Kuhn, with his little book about soccer, had completely changed the way I thought about anarchy.  I’d been operating under a misconception about anarchism all my life.  After reading Kuhn’s book, I realized that I had been a closeted anarchist.  Kuhn gave me the courage to come out of that closet and declare my natural born and instinctive anarchist tendencies.  And if a book about soccer can do that, then I thought (as a writer) the subject was worth studying.

Soccer Culture

Near the end of the summer of 2011, the technological world advanced beyond me.  My computer was no longer compatible with the “new and improved” video streaming software and (since I don’t subscribe to cable or satellite television) I lost my ability to watch professional soccer.  Rather than being disappointed, I looked for other ways to watch soccer.  I started going to the matches at the local high school and attended some of the youth club matches (in addition to the matches my son played in).  By December 2011 I was suffering from soccer deprivation (there was something I missed about putting on a soccer match, plopping on the couch and drinking some fresh craft beer), so I bought a new computer and immediately purchased subscriptions to two online services which stream matches live and on-demand.  Since then, I’ve never been without a match to watch whenever I felt the urge to take in a game.

In the spring of 2012, I started attending MLS matches at the soccer-specific stadium in Harrison, New Jersey (a three hour journey).  What was a little easier was catching matches in the summer at Cy Donnelly Stadium in South Huntington where the Long Island Rough Riders play (only half an hour away).  At the end of July, the Rough Riders’ season was over.  I still took the long trip to New Jersey about once a month for the odd MLS match.  Then it was over.  But I still had my online streaming subscriptions and so (in September) I started following the English Premier League.  Really, though, I am just passing the time until the MLS kick-offs in the spring.  And later this year, I plan on following the NASL.  In August the new retreaded Cosmos will be joining the NASL reboot.

But recently, I began to question whether the EPL, the MLS, or the NASL deserved my attention.  With my paid streaming subscriptions I’m subsidizing a form of football that runs counter to my social, cultural, and political convictions.

Recently, I read Glen Wilson’s article, “Out of Love – On finding it hard to follow your club.”  While reading what Wilson had to say, I thought, “What am I doing following the Premiership?  I should be following my local team.”  And I remembered all those Saturday afternoon matches I attended at Cy Donnelly Stadium cheering on the Rough Riders (both the women’s and men’s sides).  The Rough Riders are relatively close; they play at the highest level of soccer within a thirty mile radius of Long Neck.  The Rough Riders play in the USL PDL with sides consisting of college players trying to keep their form.  The level of play is quite good.  However, when sitting in the stadium with a few hundred other spectators I don’t get the feeling that I’m a part of something.  My friends who live in Long Neck still think driving to South Huntington is too far, so it’s hard to twist their arms and doubly so since there is not beer concession at the stadium.  I was hoping to find a Rough Rider supporters group, but found none.  Starting one myself seemed a quixotic idea.  My days of crusading for causes are over.  Aren’t they?

When the Cosmos announced their entry into the NASL, I thought I might help organize some support out here on the Island.  As long as it was easy and didn’t take up too much of my time.  But lately I’ve been having second thoughts about the Cosmos, their foreign ownership, and the lack of information about what’s happening with the club.  Aside from buying a name, a logo, and some colors, what have the new owners done?  And even when (if?) the Cosmos do arrive, I’ll have to drive to Hempstead (an hour away) to get to the matches.  Of course, if I can get enough fans together, we could hire a bus, and take a keg of RPAB with us.  That would be a fun day out with the lads and lasses.  But why don’t I just move to England if what I really want is a well establish local football culture?  I could move to Manchester and join FC United Manchester.  That’s what I really want.  I want FC United Long Neck and FCUM would be the model.  What is FCUM?  Here’s what the blurb says: “FC United of Manchester is a community football club owned and run by its members. Its membership is open to all, with everyone an equal co-owner, holding one voting share in the club.”  Is something like that possible on Long Island?  Even the Rough Riders, a club that’s been around since 1994, struggles to get spectators into the stands.  For the typical Rough Riders match, you’ll see maybe two or three hundred in the stands.  Reported figures sometime spike in the six hundreds, but that’s a pretty light showing if you are looking at laying an economic foundation on which to build a club.

Perhaps attendance would improve if the Rough Riders had an active supporters group.  The biggest hurdle is getting a group of people interested in watching a “minor league” soccer match.  People willing to put on the colors and show up at a match on a Saturday afternoon ready to have a good time.  But American sports fans are so used to watching (passively) the big leagues that even those interested in soccer in this country (for the most part) aren’t chomping at the bit to get out to watch a fourth tier (USL PDL or NPSL) side.  Even getting support for the Cosmos playing in the second tier (NASL) is a challenge.

Another problem with building a local supporter culture for the Rough Riders, or even the Cosmos, is that neither team is really part of the community, at least not the community of Long Neck.  Long Island is so big and spread out and compartmentalized.  The villages and hamlets tend to be small and the people have a suburban mentality where what passes for a “town center” is often a strip mall.  Even if Long Neck had a soccer club fielding a fourth tier side, few people would instinctively identify with it as something representing their community.  Not only do we lack a soccer culture in this country, we lack a community minded culture, or perhaps it’s just that community spirit expresses itself in different ways than identifying with a local sports team.

This morning, I chanced on an article called “Saving the Soul of Soccer” posted on Parlor City Football that touches on some of these issues, and identified (correctly, I believe) that the foundation of soccer culture in this country must be the supporters (not spectators).  Soccer culture will grow as the soccer supporter culture develops.  And to develop that we need to get involved at a local level and help our local clubs and leagues grow.

Virtual Support

For Christmas in 2011, I bought the video game FIFA 12 “for my son.”  We had a lot of fun playing virtual soccer with avatars of the players and sides we were just getting to know.  While my son created a player (the improbably named Tenfifths Strood) and then guided Strood from playing football in the streets of Brussels to being the player / manager of Barcelona FC, I thought it would be fun to manage a team of my own for a season.  We’d just come back from a vacation in England and Wales, so I decided to take one of the Welsh Championship sides and see if I couldn’t earn promotion to the Premier League.  Quite randomly I picked Cardiff City.  Well not so randomly.  We spent two nights in Cardiff and I feel like I know the town well from watching the TV shows produced by BBC Wales (Doctor Who, Torchwood, The Sarah Jane Adventures) all of which feature images of Cardiff.

My son is much better at controlling the little football avatars than I am, so I deputized him to play along with me “as Cardiff City.”  (BTW, my FIFA 12 personal is a player / manager known as “Bob Marley” a good Welsh name don’t you think?)  And not only did we make Cardiff City into the strongest Championship side, we won the FA Cup and earned promotion to the Premier League.  So when I saw that Cardiff City, the real Cardiff City, was playing in an FA Cup match over the weekend… you’ll have to excuse my excitement, I just had to watch.

Cardiff City took the field against Macclesfield Town, a lower (fifth?) division side with a 139 year history.  Cardiff City (presently) are sitting comfortably atop the Championship (2nd division in British football) with 56 points.  And Malky Mackay, the Cardiff City manager, decided to field a side of teenagers against Macclesfield, feeling, I guess, that (a) his side could win without the regular starters, or (b) advancing in the FA Cup isn’t important since promotion to the Premier League is the club’s primary focus this year.  (The commentators did allude to FA Cup ties as a possible cause for Cardiff City not earning automatic promotion last year.) So I only recognized two of the players from the FIFA 12 side that my son and I led to Premiership promotion.  And the real players did bare an uncanny resemblance to their FIFA 12 avatars.

I’m a fickle fan.  Or perhaps it’s like Franz said, “You respect the game too much.”  My intention was to root for Cardiff City.  But I found my sympathies resting with Macclesfield Town (the underdog?).  Objectively, Macclesfield Town were the better side that day.  And with a little help from the referee (gifting them a PK in the final minutes) Macclesfield Town eliminated Cardiff City from this season’s FA Cup.  While the result felt engineered by the officiating, it still felt like the correct result based on Macclesfield Town’s performance.

Unfortunately, the officiating turned out to a major deciding factor in another FA Cup tie, this one played on Sunday between Liverpool and Mansfield Town.  I was quite keen on watching this match since it featured the debut for Liverpool of the newly acquired Daniel Sturridge who scored in the 7th minute to put Liverpool up 1-nil.  And that’s where the scored stayed until nearly the 60th minute when Luis Suárez came on for Sturridge (who’d just earned a questionable yellow card).  Suárez wasn’t on the field for more than a few minutes when he handled the ball into the Mansfield net.  Everyone in the stadium saw Suárez’s handball, except for the officials.  The handball spoiled the match for me.  And when Mansfield Town did finally manage to score, I thought, if it wasn’t for the handball goal, the match would be 1-1 which seemed a just score given that Mansfield Town had played well.  They deserved the draw, I thought.  Especially since the replay would be hosted by Liverpool at Anfield and it was bound to represent a record windfall in split gate receipts for the lower division side.