The league of extraordinary dictators

Still reeling from the appointment of the German as our national coach (notice not a word from Obama on this outsourcing!), I decide not to bother emailing Sunil Gulati about the lack of native candidates interviewed for the position and to concentrate on my own team. I’m more determined than ever to show the authorities that a grass-roots appointment like me would have been the best way forward for USMNT!

A few weeks back, I filled in all of the necessary league forms for the forthcoming season. In the box asking which U-11 division I felt my team should play in, I asked to be kept at the same level even though we won almost every game of our last campaign. I attached an explanatory note pointing out that we’d be losing a lot of key players and will be a lot weaker so we shouldn’t be promoted up a level.

The thinking behind this very blatant lie was simple. I want my now even stronger team in a division where we can beat up on opponents every week, not play competitive matches against our equals. Do you think these players will learn anything from eking out 1-1 ties against sides of comparable talent to them? Do you think parents want to watch their sons playing out epic 2-1 close encounters when they could be watching them trample weaker kids by six and seven goals every Saturday morning?

Despite what the, ahem, genius running the USSF might think, I’ve been around this game long enough to know the answer to those questions. Imagine my horror then when I log onto the league website this morning to find the dictators running the league have promoted my team up not one but two divisions! Thankfully, the benevolent despots offer all coaches the chance to plead their case if they feel their team was wrongfully assigned. I throw back a coffee and type in his address.

To: guywhorunstheleagueandobviouslyhasnolifeandnoclueaboutcompetitivesoccer@league.com...

The not so good German

‘I need to take a half-day boss,’ I say, not even waiting to sit down in his office before blurting it out.

‘What’s up?’ he replies.

‘It’s personal. I just need some time.’

‘You gotta give me more than that,’ he asks in the tone of somebody who is now a friend rather than an employer.

‘It’s the United States Soccer Federation. They’ve broken my heart.’

‘What have they done?’

‘They’ve only gone and outsourced the management of our national team to a German.’

‘No? Who is this guy?’

‘Jurgen Klinsmann.’

‘Does he know anything about the game?’

‘Well not as much as me of course. I mean, he was a half-decent player in his time, I think he won a World Cup, and he was really, really good at diving.’

‘Why would they opt for him over somebody like you though?’

‘See, as a newcomer to the game, you won’t know this but American soccer is a place where accent trumps ability. If you speak in the clipped tones of somebody for whom English is a second language, it sounds much more impressive than if you have a regular New York accent.

‘No way?’

‘Oh yeah and this rule applies at all levels of the game. Give parents a choice between two equally qualified coaches, one from Europe, one from the mid-West, and they’ll always opt for the European. It has always been this way and now, thanks to Sunil Gulati and the USSF, it’s going to be so for evermore.’

‘Why?’

‘Because the first rule of American soccer is the foreigner knows better.’

;So this German guy, Clingfilm or whatever, will he do a good job?’

‘Not on the available evidence. His only successful spell as a coach came when he had a bright assistant who was the brains of the operation called Joachim Low. Once he doesn’t have Low, he’s clueless.’

‘But why have they gone for him?’

‘Have you not been paying attention? It’s simple. The accent. If in doubt, always go for the accent. He may not know what he’s talking about but it will take people a lot longer to figure that out!’

‘Take a half day, coach,’ says the boss. ‘Take more if you need it. Don’t let the USSF grind you down.’

At least there’s somebody in the world who feels my pain today.

Fear and loathing on the coaching trail

I can barely summon up the energy to write today. I’m too angry and too worried about the future direction of this country. Earlier today, I read a press release from an organization called “The League of Fans” about its campaign for a more humanistic approach to coaching kids.

“We’ve been conditioned in this country that coaches – from the pros down to our youth leagues — have to adopt a Vince Lombardi coaching style: treat athletes inhumanely, and motivate them by force and fear,” said some character called Ralph Nader. “That notion is archaic and barbaric. Our sports culture needs to evolve from the dark ages and transition to more humanistic coaching styles that enhance the overall sports experience for athletes while still striving to win games.”

I initially thought this had to be a spoof story from “The Onion” or from one of the other coaches in the soccer club trying to play a prank on me. But no, I Googled it. It’s apparently for real. I do not know who this Nader character is or what he’s actually done with his life. I’m not sure whether he’s ever had to try to get a group of 10 year old boys to hang on to a 1-0 lead in the teeth of a gale-force wind. I’ve yet to hear if he knows what it’s like having to motivate the most pampered generation in American history to fight for travel team glory!

Whatever his background, Nader is at the very least guilty of un-American activity here. What else do you call it when somebody advocates yet more wussifying of our children? Force and fear are the very cornerstones of all successful youth coaching in this country. Take those away and what are we to use to get the kids to play harder? Positive reinforcement? Words of whispered praise? Pats on the back when things go wrong???

It’s a small and chilling step from there to participation medals for every player, equal playing time for all, and coaches not being allowed to roar abuse at their charges. Nader must be stopped!!!

If I touch a star, will i twinkle too?

‘You are not going to believe this!’ screeches the receptionist at work.

‘Believe what?’ I reply, dreading where this conversation may lead.

‘I saw David Beckham yesterday,’ she says. ‘Seriously, I was literally five feet away from him in New York city.’

I sigh. Being the soccer person at work isn’t all it’s cracked up to be. Sometimes you have to take one for the team.

‘I couldn’t believe it,’ she goes on and on. ‘He was right there. Getting out of a limo. Surrounded by bodyguards. He’s so cute!!’

Where do I start with this woman? How can I possibly react to this type of provocation without saying something that might have me reported to Human Resources? Still, she continues.

‘I hadn’t even time to take a picture with my phone. It all happened so fast it was magical.’

Magical. That’s the word that does it for me. Magical.

‘Okay, honey, I hate to break this to you, David Beckham is a very average soccer player turned plausible clothes horse.’ I pause to watch her face begin to drop, the wide-eyed smile disappear. ‘Indeed, he once played on a Manchester United team where he was possibly the seventh-best player behind Keane, Giggs, Scholes, Sheringham, Schmeichel and Stam. He has only one foot, absolutely no pace and, for nearly a decade now, his career has been more about his ability to sell merchandise than to sell dummies to defenders.’

She’s looking at me like I’m speaking a foreign language so I decide to plough on.

‘Now he’s over here growing his brand, sitting in some sort of makey-uppy quarterback role with the LA Galaxy hitting lazy, long, hopeful crossfield passes that he can’t quite pull off. And moaning non-stop to referees when opponents have the temerity to tackle him or run past him. And the worst part is idiots like you think this is great because his wife – who is far from posh by the way! – is some sort of pseudo-glamorous icon.’

I stop there, not wanting to reduce the woman to tears but, to my shock, she actually talks back.

‘You aren’t going to the MLS All-Star game in New Jersey tonight then?’ she asks, like every word has gone flying over her head.

The net widens

I’m first home from work today and it’s my turn to cook dinner. Well, it’s supposed to be. I’ve other stuff to do. First of all, I have to fix my backyard goal. You know how much fun it is scoring a goal into an empty net with a hole in it? Not fun at all. The ball doesn’t even ripple the net. It just goes flying through it, especially when I unleash one of my trademark half-volleys from ten yards away.

No time for play this evening. I’m up on a stepladder with some string, a Swiss Army knife and various kinds of masking tape, trying to sew the net back together. It’s the most frustrating job and with each sort of stitch I make, I get angrier and angrier at the person or persons who vandalized the goal. It doesn’t help that halfway through my task, the wife arrives home.

Although no longer the number one suspect in this crime, she’s still a person of interest in my investigations.

‘Where’s the dinner?’ she shouts like some ravenous 1950s husband just in from a shift down the coal mines.

‘Can't you see I’m a little busy?’ I reply.

‘Are you telling me you didn’t cook because you are fixing that, that thing?’

‘Well, if somebody hadn’t ripped my net apart I wouldn’t need to do this,’ I say, while brandishing the Swiss Army knife for emphasis. Never a good look when the nosey neighbor in the house behind is out on her deck spying on us.

‘I’m not cooking tonight!’ she shouts, her face flushed with rage.

‘Nobody asked you to cook,’ I say in a calm voice that makes me sound so much saner than her. ‘I’ll cook as soon as I finish this sewing job or as soon as you confess that you committed this crime against my net!’

She walks inside in such a way that I can’t quite figure out if she’s running away because of guilt or anger.

Pace plus long balls equals glory

Typically boring start to the work week. As soon as I can manage it, I decide to down tools and continue work on my coaching manuscript. I need to flesh out the chapter dealing with helping coaches figure out which players are best-suited to which positions. Deciding who to play on offense is an easy one.

At the first practice of the year, you hold a sprint-off to find the fastest players. It’s that simple. If you are lucky, at least one speed merchant will emerge who has significantly more pace than all the rest of the squad. He is your number one striker. His level of ability doesn’t matter. Indeed, you shouldn’t care if he has any skill at all. His main job will be chasing long balls over the top and trying to get on the end of booming kick-outs.

A lot of U-10 coaches make the mistake of trying to pass their way to goal. I call this carry-on Barcelona disease and the virus is running rampant through the American game just now. It’s ridiculous. It’s misguided. And worst of all, it just teaches kids bad habits for life. Long high balls over the defense for the fast kid to chase, that’s the way forward for your team.

Now, you will want another boy up there with the speedster. Sometimes I’ve opted for the second fastest kid, creating a one-two punch, a sort of thunder and lightning approach. My personal favorite tandem however is to pick a tall, awkward boy to complement the fast guy. The big player is a target for the goalkeeper, a handful for defenders (it helps if he has uncontrollable elbows), and sometimes, if he has any skill at all, he may even knock the ball on for the faster team-mate to chase.

Some people call this stuff tactics, I prefer to call it common sense.

My own personal Jesus

In this job, you can never switch off. You’ve always got to be looking out for ways to gain a competitive advantage over your rivals. Show me a U-10 coach who thinks otherwise and I’ll show you a man who gives out participation medals to his squad at the end of every losing campaign. That’s what I’m thinking this morning, sitting in church, silently cursing the amount of time I’m wasting here when I should be at home planning for forthcoming practices.

Then Jesus, obviously empathizing with my discomfort and hearing my prayers, delivers a sign that he’s always paying attention, even to the sinners in his flock.

‘Hey coach,’ whispers the father of one of my players, tapping my shoulder on the way up to communion. ‘I was wondering if you have any room on your rosters for new players.’

‘Not really, after the try-outs, we had more than two kids for every spot.’

‘That’s a pity because my friend’s son is really eager to play and I think he might be useful.’

‘Did he try out?’ I ask as some worshippers nearby tut-tut, oblivious to the importance of our conversation obviously.

‘No, see, he was a football player first and foremost and didn’t expect to have time for soccer this fall.’

‘So what happened?’

‘Well, don’t say you heard this from me but he was thrown off the football team for being too aggressive and too rough. He kept hitting his own team-mates too hard in practice. He’s a little violent.’

If it was a movie, a Hallelujah soundtrack would have kicked in as the Jesus statue on the altar came to life and started doing keepy-uppies to reflect my joy.

‘You are kidding me?’

‘No, I thought, with your, eh, unorthodox approach, you might like to give him a chance.’

I nod my head in affirmation. Too aggressive for the football team. Too rough!!

‘Well, when a kid gets rejected by one team, it’s our job to rehabilitate him. After all, it is the Christian thing to do!’

There's a hole where the goal should be

Sitting in the kitchen this morning, just admiring my new soccer goal in the back garden when I notice something. I go outside to investigate and I find, to my horror, a rip in the net. A sizable rip too. The kind of rip that looks like it was inflicted by a scissors or something equally sharp. I’ve watched enough cop shows on television to know the first place to look in any case like this is at your own spouse.

The wife, suspect number one, is in the hallway applying warpaint before work when I find her.

‘Did you cut a hole in my net?’ I shout.

‘What?’ she asks, pretending like she doesn’t know what I’m talking about.

‘Don’t you what me? Did you cut a hole in my soccer goal?’

‘No I didn’t but I’d gladly congratulate the person who did,’ she says, laughing at my obvious anger.

‘I know it was you,’ I say, pointing a finger for emphasis. ‘I know it. I could see you doing something like this last night. You had that evil look in your eye.’

‘When could I have committed this crime?’

'When I was asleep obviously. You must have got up and did it then.’

‘You are out of your mind.’

‘You are out of order and I’m considering calling the cops.’

‘Well,’ she says, laughing in my face. ‘I’m going to work.’

‘I’ll get them to arrest you right there in your office.’

‘For what?’

‘For cutting a hole in my net.’

‘Maybe it was raccoons did it. Or the squirrels. They are feisty little guys.’

She’s making fun of me now. I know it.

‘If you are looking for a real suspect,’ she says from the doorway. ‘How about the kid down the street? Didn’t you cut him from your travel team last season?’

I hate to admit it but she has a point. That kid didn’t take it well when I told him he had been born with two left feet and should consider taking up knitting. He’s a prime candidate for doing something like this. I head out to work, my head full of the pending investigation.

Soccer's a kick in the grass

Get home from work early today, still exploiting the boss retaining me as his unofficial consultant on all soccer matters. Decide to get in wife’s good books by mowing the lawn. She’s been complaining about it for weeks. Of course, there’s a method to my madness. I want to try to get those distinctive lawn stripes that you see on all the best soccer pitches on television.

I’m no amateur. I spend some time online researching how best to do it before I start. Turns out to be easy enough. I just keep mowing in one direction in the same line, then switch to the other direction when I move across one lawn-mower width. Within the hour, the lawn looks like the most professional soccer field in the world, well, if the pitch had a deck protruding into it around halfway. After I’ve finished, I gaze at its beauty when I have a sudden brainwave.

I drive straight to Sports Authority (boycotting Dick’s Sporting Goods for failure to stock US women’s shirts!). Within the hour, I’m back at home, getting on my cleats. When wife arrives home, she finds me in the back garden with my latest purchase – a full-size soccer goal to go with my beautiful lawn stripes. The whole thing looks magnificent.

‘What the heck!’ she screams from the deck.

‘Hi honey,’ I reply, pretending not to notice her anger as I curl yet one more shot into the taut net.

‘What is that?’ she asks, gripping the rail of the deck as if struggling to stay upright with rage.

‘You know perfectly well what it is,’ I say, using the most annoying calm voice I can muster. ‘It’s a soccer goal.’

The last thing  I hear is a sentence beginning with the words ‘son of a…’ as she marches back into the house. Pity she leaves when she does. She just misses me dispatching a perfect half volley into the top right-hand corner.

She blinded me with science

Walking out of the pharmacy this evening, wondering to myself which managerial genius lets the stoner Goth kid work anywhere near prescription medication, when I get a tap on the shoulder.

‘Hi coach,’ says the fount of all perkiness, mother of one of my best players.

‘Hi there,’ I reply, resisting the temptation to ask whether she’s a walking commercial for some energy drink or if she’s always that depressingly upbeat.

‘I’m so glad I ran into you because I’ve some bad news,’ she says in a suddenly somber tone.

‘Oh yeah,’ I say, feigning nonchalance.

‘Yeah, my son can’t make any practices in August at all.’

I don’t even respond to this obvious attempt at provocation. This unnerves her. Just as I wanted it to.

‘Eh, you see, eh, he’s in the gifted and talented program at school and they’ve recommended he attend a two-week residential science camp. And then we are going away for two weeks to France as well so unfortunately, he won’t be available until September.’

European vacations and science camps. This is what I have to deal with. I’m trying to produce an elite soccer player here. Yet his parents are determined to turn him into some sort of Francophile, Gauloises-smoking lab rat. As is my way, I take a deep breath before telling her my opinion of her plans for her 10 year old.

‘I’m sorry that you are so selfish that you are going to deprive your son of the chance to play soccer this season because no kid who misses an entire month will start any games for me! He’s a very talented boy and could go a long way in the game but if you want to put him in a white coat with a Bunsen burner and then put a beret on his head swanning around Paris so be it!’

I smile when I see how shocked she is at my response. Then, before she can retaliate, I walk away, already wondering who I’m going to put in his spot on the left side of midfield.

On the fringe

The club president calls an emergency meeting at the high school tonight. He’s all in a tizzy about the women’s World Cup, wants to discuss how we can recruit more players on the back of it.

‘Every girl in America wants to be Hope Solo or Abby Wambach this week,’ he says. ‘We’ll never have a better chance to grow the club. I want ideas on how the club can capitalize on the renewed interest in the sport.’

The ideas that come from the floor are so boring and predictable. One guy wants pink fliers delivered to every mailbox in town, another talks about a full page ad in the local paper. Usual stuff we’ve tried a hundred times before. I listen for a while and then decide to liven things up.

‘How about free Hope Solo eyeliner for girls willing to try out in goal?' I shout. That gets a good response, some healthy laughter from everybody, apart from the club president. He’s rather po-faced especially when it leads to a discussion about whether Solo has her own brand of eyeliner yet.

Buoyed by the reaction to that interruption, I go again.

‘Why don’t we offer a stick-on Abby Wambach fringe to every newcomer who manages to head the ball on their first night?’

Surprisingly, this is met by groans of disapproval and a further admonishment from the club president.

‘You are not being helpful,’ he says to me in the tone of a principal lecturing an errant student. ‘Can you come up with something helpful?’

I'm so annoyed by his attitude I decide to give him both barrels.

‘No, I won’t come up with something helpful because I don’t want these arriviste parents for whom the game is the flavor of the month, the fad of the summer, getting involved in soccer. These are the same fickle moms and dads who drag their long-suffering sons and daughters to the swimming pools and the gymnastic clubs after every Olympics. They’ll be forcing the kids to do something else next summer, fencing most probably. I’ve enough to do putting together a winning team (of course I emphasize the word winning) without wasting my time here.’

I walk out, happy that I’ve given everybody in the club food for thought.

We can only hope

The moment I sit down at my desk this morning the boss is on the phone.

‘I can’t get come in today,’ he says, as if needing to explain his absence to me.

‘I totally understand,’ I reply. ‘I feel your pain.’

‘I just was hoping you could tell me who is to blame for this defeat?’ he asks in a voice that sounds like he hasn’t slept much since the penalty shoot-out.

‘Well, we could start with Ian Darke,’ I say.

‘Who’s that? The English guy on ESPN?’

‘Yeah. England have a history of failing at penalty shoot-outs. He brought us bad luck.’

‘But didn’t he do the Brazil match too last week?’

‘Oh, yeah, yeah he did.’ I'm embarrassed. Didn't realize boss was paying that much attention.

‘What about Pia Zadora?’ he asks in a way that suggests he’s given this some thought even if he still hasn’t figured out the coach’s name.

‘You mean Pia Sundhage?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Well, I just read that at half-time in some games she sings to the players rather than lectures them.’

‘There’s a problem right there. What kind of corporate leadership is that?’

‘I thought so too.’

‘Still, she got us to the final,' he says sounding way too reasonable and logical. 'We must give her credit for that.’

‘Of course,’ I say, immediately coming around to his point of view. ‘I think Hope Solo could have done better with the penalties though.’

Silence on the other end of the phone. A long, uncomfortable silence.

‘You are kidding right?’ he asks in an ominously serious tone.

‘Oh yeah, I’m kidding,’ I scramble. ‘Hope did everything she possibly could. Nobody did more for the USA in that game than her. They should have let her take a penalty! That was the biggest mistake!’ I lay it on thick, hoping I haven’t undone all the sucking-up of the past week. It seems to distract him.

‘Anyway forget what’s on your desk today, I need you to find out when the team is coming home and where they land. I want to be there to welcome them if at all possible.’

‘Are you sure that’s a…’

He doesn’t let me finish. ‘Just find out.’

Suddenly, I picture the boss at home creating one of those ‘Hope you don’t have to be solo’ banners. I fear I may have created a monster.

Empire state of mind

Into New York for dinner with the wife tonight. Walking along in mid-town afterwards when we happen upon a crowd staring up into the sky as if watching somebody like Superman, Spiderman or Obama swooping between the tall buildings. I look upwards to see what the fuss is all about. To my horror, I discover two sides of the Empire State Building bathed in red, white and blue while the other two sides are in white, red and white.

‘Aren't those the Japan colors?’ I ask,

‘Yeah they are,’ says wife. ‘It’s so cute. I read something about this today. It’s to promote the women’s World Cup final tomorrow.’

‘Japan?’ I shout, incredulous. ‘Our arch enemies. The country that attacked us 70 years ago. The country that builds way more reliable, economical and enduring cars than us. This is ridiculous.’

I march straight across the street into the foyer of the Empire State whereupon a security guard, recognizing how agitated I look, steps in front of me.

‘Can I help you sir?’ he asks.

‘I hope so. I need to speak to somebody about this act of treason being committed by your building.’

‘I don’t know what you mean sir.’

‘You don’t know what I mean? Let me spell it out for you. A squad of crack, elite soccer commandos from this country are going into battle with the ladies from the land of the rising sun in Germany tomorrow and your building is proudly displaying the Nippon colors for all to see. Way to show your support for our girls overseas!’

‘We’ve had no complaints so far, sir, and the tourists seem to really like it.’

‘The tourists? Well, I’m an American and I’d like to register a complaint. This is, as the great Winston Churchill said about Pearl Harbor, a weekend that will live in infamy for the Empire State Building.’

At this juncture, wife starts tugging my arm and dragging me back out the door. I don’t mind leaving. I think I made my point. Just for emphasis though, I hiss at a group of Japanese tourists on the way out.

Let slip the dogs of war

I’ve been renamed Teflon at work because nothing can stick to me since the boss discovered the game of soccer and developed an increasingly disturbing crush on Hope Solo. Knowing I’m untouchable gives me the freedom this morning to spend a couple of hours working on my coaching manuscript while everybody else rushes to finish some ‘urgent’ project or other.

Today, I decide to deal with how I select which players fill my midfield.  A lot of coaches like to put boys who can pass the ball in their midfield. They go for little, dinky guys with quick feet and an eye for a through ball. Not me. I have a simple question I put to all my prospects at the first practice of the year. Do you play football or lacrosse? If they answer yes, they are immediately in the frame for a slot in the middle of the park.

Why? Simple really.  That’s the job which suits them best. Every football player or lacrosse player I’ve ever worked with has had a mean, nasty violent streak, was willing to run all day long, and slavishly obeyed orders. Tell one of these kids to run through a wall/take out the opposing team’s best guy and they will do it. No questions asked.

These boys may not be able to kick the ball properly, usually lack basic skills and can be utterly embarrassed when faced with opportunities around the goal but they more than compensate for these deficiencies with their capacity for unrepentant thuggery. In U-10 soccer, you can’t underestimate the power of physical intimidation and the fact lacrosse/football types are usually polished trash-talkers is an added bonus.

Every game of soccer is a battle and that’s why in midfield you want to let slip the dogs of war, barking and biting and, very occasionally, if the chance presents itself, even passing the ball.

Working the game

When everybody has gathered in the conference room to watch the USA humble the cheese-eating surrender monkeys, I stand up on a chair just before the boss arrives and call them all to order.

‘During this game, we will be operating by the yellow and red card systems used in soccer.’

Cue quizzical looks all around.

‘If you ask a stupid question about the game, I will issue a yellow card. That will be a warning. Do you understand that?’

‘Yes,’ they say rather unenthusiastically.

‘A second question will see me produce a red card and you will be ordered from the room and back to work.’

‘Who made you Caesar?’ shouts some smart-alec from the back of the room where a group from accounts has gathered. Never trust those number-crunchers. They prefer work to play.

I eject three people in the first ten minutes, just to send a message. Two go for questions about whether Hope Solo is wearing eyeliner, another is marched back to his desk for describing France’s Thiney as attractive. Treason if ever there was a case of it.

The whole event is a huge success. I have the boss’s ear for nearly two hours, explaining the rules to him (again and again and again) and throwing in the odd critique of my fellow workers. You know the kind of stuff, pointing out which ones didn’t get up and over-react when Lauren Cheney scored the opener. Fingering the malcontents who were whispering aloud that France was dominating the second half for long spells.

The only uncomfortable moment (apart from when he hugs me a little too long every time we score) comes when we are leaving the conference room.

‘Weren’t you complaining that Abby Wambach was having a poor game just before she scored?’ asks the boss.

‘No, no, that was Jeff from Marketing who obviously knows nothing about the game!’

‘Are you sure? I thought you were the one saying she was making no impact at all midway through the second half.’

‘Naw, you misheard me, what I actually said was Pia Sundhage is the greatest Swedish import since Dolph Lundgren.'

All it takes is a mention of his favourite actor from the eighties to distract him.

The shirt hits the fan

At lunchtime, I head over to Dick’s Sporting Goods to try to get some paraphernalia for tomorrow’s Women’s World Cup semi-final. What a strange place. For some reason the store is full of signs commemorating Mr. 3000. Personally I thought that movie starring the late Bernie Mac was a fairly forgettable affair. Here, they were all over it with banners and t-shirts and everything. It must be the anniversary of his death or the release of it on Blu-Ray or something.

Anyway, I go to the soccer section to check out the US jerseys. Going in I was a bit worried they might not have the women’s shirts in man sizes. I needn’t have worried. They didn’t have them in women’s sizes either. They had nothing. No shirts. No t-shirts. Nada! I walk around in disbelief for about ten minutes until a wide-eyed employee obviously spotting my dazed and confused look approaches.

‘Can I help you sir?’

‘I don’t know if you can. I’m looking for the US women’s national team jerseys.’

‘Have you tried our soccer section?’ he asks in a way that suggests he’s been pre-programmed with a set list of questions from which he can’t ever deviate.

‘Eh, in fact I did. There’s nothing there except Red Bulls merchandise.’

‘Well if it’s not there, I’m afraid we don’t have it. We just stock what head office sends us.’

I want to grab this guy by the polo shirt and make a citizen’s arrest under the terms of the Patriot Act (there has to be something in there about un-American sporting activities!) but instead I just unleash a volley of abuse.

‘Listen buddy and listen well. Five thousand miles away from here tomorrow morning, a squad of wholesome, milk-fed, corn-bred, elite American women, most of them travel team graduates, will go into battle against the cheese-eating surrender monkeys of France. They will be fighting for the right to reach the World Cup final and my right as an American citizen to wear the same shirt as those ladies is being infringed upon by your store and its refusal to stock the kit they will be wearing. You should be ashamed to even work here. And if you see Dick, tell him he was one appropriately-named dude!!’

I turn and walk out, pushing over a Mr. 3000 cut-out that looks nothing like Bernie Mac as I go.

Hope springs eternal in the corporate beast

There are few things as disconcerting as sitting in the boss’s office being peppered with questions to which I do not know all the answers.

‘Is that Han Solo woman single,’ he asks.

‘You mean Hope Solo, the goalkeeper?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Eh I’m not sure,’ I say, although a part of my brain is just dying to tell him she’s hardly in the market for a balding forty-something who has just lost half his fortune in a bitter divorce. Especially one with Stars Wars figures on his desk.

I’ve been in the hot seat for fifteen minutes listening to the boss tell me in excruciating detail how his daughter made him watch the USA defeat Brazil yesterday. He’s now a fan of the beautiful game for life apparently even if he’s struggling with the names.

‘What about Baby Wombat?’

‘Abby Wambach?

Yeah, yeah, whatever her name is. That play with her head, does she practice stuff like that?

‘I presume so yes.’

‘Amazing, amazing. There’s a lesson there for the corporation I think. I may have to show highlights of the game to the staff and explain the importance of never giving up on a lost cause. I may want you to help me draft the speech.’

Just what I need. The boss developing an interest in the sport. There’s nothing more likely to kill my love for soccer than that.

‘Great, yeah, I can put together some notes for you,’ I say, pretending to be enthusiastic.

‘Now, where are me and you going to watch the semi-final against France on Wednesday?’

‘How about the conference room on the big screen?’

‘Perfect.’

The thought of being alone in there with him for two hours frightens me so as I leave his office I have a brainwave.

‘Can I have your attention please ladies and gentleman,’ I shout, standing on a chair in the center of the room. ‘All staff will gather in the conference room at 11.30am on Wednesday to watch the USA take on France in the Women’s World Cup. Attendance is mandatory. Orders from the boss.’

Smiles all around and pats on the back as I walk back to my desk and await the free frappuccinos that will soon be coming my way from grateful co-workers.

God moves in mysterious ways

Huge argument at home this morning about going to church. Wife doesn’t buy my contention that it’s too hot to spend an hour in a room with no air conditioning listening to some old guy talking. I decide to stage a little protest at being made to attend. I wear one of my newest t-shirt designs. Of course, I’m smart enough not to let her see the slogan until it’s too late.

‘Church is where I worship, travel team soccer is where I get to play God!’ reads the slogan.

Pretty impressive I thought. She’s less thrilled when she finally reads it in the car-park. Too late to do anything about it by then.

‘You have got to be kidding!’ she shout-whispers.

‘What? These are going to sell by the thousand. I have to be seen to model them!’

‘Please cover it up,’ she begs. The desperation in her voice is hilarious.

The nun who greets all parishioners every Sunday is standing at the front door. She’s smiling at us and tilting her head to read my t-shirt. I think she figures it to be one of those quasi-daring religious shirts, you know, with slogans like ‘My therapist is a Jewish carpenter’. She soon realizes it isn’t.

‘I can’t let you in here with that,’ she says in that stern voice nuns must have to perfect at a very young age.

‘Why not?’ I ask, pretending to be shocked.

‘It’s sacrilegious.’

‘Sacre what?’ I respond, still playing the fool, loving the fact wife is now a deep shade of crimson.

‘Sacrilegious. It’s not appropriate attire for church. I can’t let you come in here,' continues Sister Sledge.

I throw my hands in the air in mock exasperation and turn to see sweat dripping down wife’s forehead.

'I’ll come back for you in an hour honey,' I say smiling broadly. 'I'm very sorry about this wardrobe malfunction.' 

Then I head home to watch the USA take on Brazil in the Women’s World Cup quarter-final, thankful that the Gods have smiled upon me this Sabbath day.