By Jeff Girod
Mi casa es su casa, especially at the Rose Bowl, where a full house showed up last Saturday to watch the Gold Cup final in Pasadena between the U.S.A. and Mexico. Uno problemo: An estimated 80,000 of the announced crowd of 93,420 were rooting for the red, white and . . . green?
Yes, the City of Roses might as well have been the city of Tijuana as the American team was repeatedly showered with taunts and boos by the crowd of mostly Mexico supporters. Fans even greeted the introduction of each American player by shouting “Burro!” (That means “donkey” in Spanish. I knew ninth-grade vocabulario would eventually pay off.)
I say root for whomever you want. You want to show up in opposing jerseys and scream “America sucks”? Have at it—because the U.S. soccer team does suck. During the 2010 World Cup, the Americans were beaten 2-1 by the tiny nation of Ghana, which—coincidentally — is the exact square footage of a Chili’s restaurant.
Just think twice before booing our national anthem. And if you do, riddle me this, Sancho: If Mexico or Cuba or Nicaragua or Argentina or El Salvador is such a wonderful place that you’d wrap yourself in the native flag and denigrate this country every chance you get, how come nobody is hiding in a car trunk or crawling through a sewer pipe or building a raft out of milk cartons to get there? I mean, if the United States is such a boo-worthy awful place, why does everybody keep leaving everywhere else to get here?
And if the winner of a soccer game determined which country’s government, military and welfare programs ruled the northern hemisphere; you can bet your vuvuzela you’d see a whole lot more fans chanting “U.S.A.-U.S.A.!”
More importantly, why does anybody care if the U.S. occasionally gets beat in soccer? It’s soccer. Was the Gold Cup even televised? I was probably taking a nap or watching an ice cube melt or punching myself repeatedly in the groin. All of those things are more enjoyable than watching grown men in short pants and knee socks dribble a ball with their feet. I would rather watch a documentary on how soccer balls are made than watch actual soccer. Unless the score is 100-99, what’s the point?
I thought Americans stopped playing soccer when our moms stopped slicing oranges for halftime. Who cares if another country occasionally beats us at a sport where we don’t even try? Congratulations, Mexico. Wow. You just beat our eighth best athletes who weren’t good enough to play professional football, basketball, baseball, hockey, tennis, golf or NASCAR.
How many Mexicans are in the NFL or the NBA? Take the best player off the Mexican national team: He couldn’t even start for the Charlotte Bobcats. I guarantee you that Lebron James, Dwayne Wade, and Chris Bosh would all be better midfielders than anybody we have wearing shin guards for the U.S. soccer team.
I love that the rest of the planet calls soccer futbol, so our country re-appropriated the name, gave it a more logical spelling and made it the most interesting sport ever with helmets and shoulder pads. Then we renamed futbol “soccer,” and forced everyone under the age of 10 with no coordination or arm strength to play it—the way nature intended.
The average football or basketball player is six and half feet tall, 275 pounds and looks like he was molded out of titanium. Most soccer players are about five-foot-five, 140 pounds and should be lifeguarding at Raging Waters.
A soccer player gets kicked in the ankle and you’d think he was re-enacting the JFK assassination. Landon Donovan is the best player on the U.S. men’s team and Brandi Chastain could kick his ass.
And have you ever really studied the World Cup trophy? Why would anyone want to win it? It looks like somebody left an Easter chocolate in the sun. I’ve seen more impressive artwork from the deaf/mute guy who leaves scratch ‘n sniff stickers on my food court table hoping for a $1 donation.
So, way to go, Mexico. Enjoy your soccer victory, and the rest of your stay in our terrible country. Please let us know if you ever get an NFL team.
Contact Jeff Girod at email@example.com.