When I first heard it, I thought a swarm of bees had moved in. “Call a bee-keeper,” I yelled to my husband. “We’ve been invaded by bees.”
“That’s not bees, Love! That’s vuvuzelas!” he chuckled.
Vuvu-wah?
“They’re plastic horns the supporters are blowing at the Cup games,” he continued nonchalantly.
Oh, God. The World Cup had begun in South Africa. This buzzing madness will continue through the end of July because, you see, I am married to a soccer fanatic of the highest order—an English one. This man will get up at the crack of dark to watch a live game, rather than sleep in and TiVo it, but ask him to rise and shine to take his grandson (a miniature soccer-mad version of him) to school and he’s comatose.
The Brit and Mini-Brit have been following the World Cup games and participated in a football pool with other English types and one New Zealander of similar persuasion. So far, Mini-Brit leads by 20 points. This is not easy for the others to swallow. Mini-Brit is only 8 years old.
Let me clarify something: Soccer is called football in England. My husband refers to American football as “man-ballet.” He has a point. I have rarely seen American soccer players battle in blizzards, heavy rain, or pea-soup fog. Plus, they wear so much equipment I marvel they can even move. They certainly can’t run like football players, who wear no protective padding other than shin guards and a cup (or I should hope so, judging from the fouls I’ve seen involving cleats).
Soccer, uh sorry, football fans refer to the sport as “the most beautiful game” and I can see why. It has some of the most beautiful players, their sculpted bodies gleaming with sweat, muscled legs moving the ball with elegant ease while they flash handsome smiles as they fire it into the net. But I digress …
I recently watched England and the United States play. Our friend, Manchester United and England supporter Richard, offered Mini-Brit an England shirt that no longer fit. “Make a pillow out of it,” I suggested. “Why would I do that?” he laughed. “You’ll need something to cry in when USA kicks England’s butts!” I countered. “Hah!” he laughed again. USA tied England that day in a surprise result; Richard is not laughing and wants his shirt back.
Father’s Day was spent watching New Zealand take on Italy. Local Kiwi, Kathryn, made a traditional breakfast of eggs, toast, bangers (Brit-style sausages), and baked beans (at 8 a.m., I ask you?!). It was scrumptious, washed down with tea while sitting in front of a huge New Zealand flag draped along one wall. Bangers nearly went flying, and Kathryn certainly did, when New Zealand scored. She’d make a great striker. It was fun watching the Italians feign injuries with such dramatic flare that I expected to hear an opera score in the background. In one of the biggest upsets of the World Cup so far, New Zealand tied Italy. Mama mia! Kathryn’s daughter, Melanie, explained World Cup mania best: “When you have a passion for your country, there is nothing quite like supporting them in a sport. When I watch England play, I live and die with every pass, every shot, and every save, and that’s what makes the World Cup so exciting.”
Soccer has gained popularity in the U.S. It is akin to a religion in other countries, and many immigrants have brought that love of the game to our shores. Soccer has been around since medieval times, but became popular in 19th-century England when teams were comprised of men from the same village, organization, or factory. But there were no clear rules; competition was fierce, and fights became the norm, giving the game an undeserved stigma of violence.
In 1863, the Football Association (FA) was formed and is still the governing soccer organization in England. The FA set down the Laws of the Game that, with some modifications, are still the established final word. Four years of wedded bliss with the Brit has given me some insights into the game, which I am happy to share.
The field of play—or pitch—is the surface on which the game is played. The number of players allowed on the field per team is 10, plus one goalkeeper. Professional games allow only three substitutions from the bench per game.
Players wear shirts or jerseys, cleated footwear, shin pads, cups, shorts, and socks in different colors to distinguish each team. This becomes confusing because teams change colors for away games. For example, Arsenal’s colors are red and white, but during away games they may wear gold or blue jerseys. Why? I don’t know. Why did the English fight a war wearing bright red coats and shiny helmets?
The man in black or neon green is the referee who enforces the Laws of the Game. He is helped by three assistants, or linesmen (one on each side of the pitch and one near the teams’ benches at centerfield). Games last 90 minutes with one break at halftime (sorry, no shows or wardrobe mishaps, unless you consider watching fans shoveling snow off a blizzard-blown field in exchange for tea and bacon sandwiches entertaining). The clock never stops for injuries, fouls, foul-ups, or potty breaks; it keeps on ticking.
Throw-ins occur when the ball goes out of play on the sidelines. The opponent of the player who last touched the ball throws the ball in to a team member. I don’t know why, but they throw it over their heads like my old P.E. coach, Sister Mary Caligula.
Players can kick the ball, bounce it off their heads or chests, but can never touch it with their hands when it is in play (handball). Only the goalkeeper can touch the ball, and only in his goal box.
Indirect free kicks are given for non-penalty fouls, direct free kicks for fouls or handballs, penalty kicks for offenses inside the defending team’s penalty area, and corner kicks are from the corner of the pitch. My favorite is the dropped ball. The ref stops the game, usually for an injury, and then drops the ball from shoulder height in front of two opposing players who battle it out for control. It’s better than the cat fights on Real Housewives of New Jersey!
Well, that pretty much sums up the basics about soccer—er, football. So sit back, wash down some bangers with a pint of Newcastle, and blow your vuvuzela with pride!
Ariel Waterman thanks her English family and friends for sharing their expertise. She bet England in the football pool because she’s patriotic, but she’s not stupid. Send your picks via her editor at rmiller@santamariasun.com.
This article appears in Jun 24 – Jul 1, 2010.