Appropriating Team USA

Photos by Brenna Cheyney

I like soccer for the same reason most white straight dudes from America do—to separate my identity from my dad’s. Growing up, soccer was something that children and French people do, a fey joke compared to the poetic brutality of our football. Real football was for Americans, hockey was for Canadians, and soccer was for people who spoke other languages while doing jobs where they used their hands (quite the irony, if you asked closed-minded adolescent me.)

This all changed during the 2006 world cup. Then 19, I was living in a shitty condo across from Universal Studios and looking for any excuse to numb the boredom of life as a host at the Cheesecake Factory. My roommate Jake was from Oregon, where soccer is OK because it’s one of their few major league sports, and he taught me that the World Cup is perhaps the most wonderful excuse for drinking at hours normally designated for drifters and Willy Loman. That summer, Zinedine Zidane headbuttedhis way into my heart, and opened me up to the glory of the world’s sport. Soccer truly is the Game of Thrones of sports, in that it takes place all over the world, and I don’t know any of the characters names.

Then came 2010, I was presented with the opportunity to double down my fandom and watch with more of a knowledge of the game. Despite the fact that I actually liked the vuvuzelas, (I mean they honestly gave tension and a Jonny Greenwood-esque nightmarish quality usually reserved for a PT Anderson movie) I just couldn’t connect with that year’s Cup. Despite the fact that our boys made it to round 16, I just wasn’t able to care as much as I did the previous go around. For whatever reason, there weren’t as many people in my life that cared. Blame Obamacare, or even call it a pre-Benghazi warning of Americans abroad, but there wasn’t as big of a deal made from people I regularly interacted with. Before Team USA’s debut on Monday, I truly wondered, did it all matter?

Does it make it worse to root for a country that just doesn’t care?

I tried to think of the reasons why I should get involved. When else can you get drunk at the same time as a billion people? That spirit of togetherness, of being a part of something greater, and drunker than myself, is what spurred me into the world of Cups in the first place. I wanted to see what it was like to witness America’s match at one of my favorite dive bars in a historically white part of town and compare it to the viewing experience of watching Mexico v Brazil in my favorite Mexican bar in town to truly see if caring more mattered. First stop, Team USA at the Drawing Room.

The Drawing Room is a bar after my own tastes, dark as hell, cash only, open as early as legally allowed, and home to both the best jukebox and the best pour in Los Angeles. I got there a half-hour early to ensure I had a seat. At the time I arrived, the room was empty, save for four barflies that looked like they'd been sitting on the same stools since the Carter administration. They seemed like they were actually into soccer though, and not just into rooting against other cultures. One of them piped up to the other, "The whole world really is watching dude!" Score one for America, and the game hasn't even started!

My good friend Cornell accompanied me, and we immediately started making fun of the dumb video intros of the players. Some idiot producer forced the world’s finest athletes to do a 45 degree angle turn while folding their arms, as though they were members of the absolute worst 90s R&B group, (I think the best name we came up with for their stupid band was Boys II Glenn.) We hadn’t even begun to riff on how shitty those intros were when Clint Dempsey scored America’s first goal. Thirty seconds in, and already America had proven to the rest of the world that they were better than Ghana, fucking finally.

By the time the game was over, there were probably a dozen people in the bar of all backgrounds, jumping up and down, high fiving, hugging, and celebrating. I’d venture to guess that at least half of them weren’t there for the game, but it sucked them in, like it did me all those years ago. Also, Christina the bartender’s healthy pours helped lubricate the revelry. I stepped outside into the harsh sunlight for a smoke. After chanting “USA USA USA!” at a parade of passing fire trucks, I spoke to a patron named Sharif about his experience.

“This was my first time at the Drawing Room. I drove drunk here so I can’t remember when we scored but I knew I was smoking a cigarette, and then it was so exciting that I stuck around. Next thing I knew, AMERICA WON!” We were then interrupted by an old man who wanted to tell me about his experiences.

“I think the international stakes have the most to do with it for me, because it means so much more to every other country in the entire world. We’re the people who take it the least seriously. I mean, Australia’s like 58th or something? They got their asses kicked, and everyone there is watching every moment of that game. And we’re like, ah, we don’t give a fuck, and we’re pretty fucking good! I guess it’d be fun to be around more people, because being around so many people rooting for the same thing is so fun. Jumping around after a goal, arm in arm with strangers, hugging, it’s such a great energy to be around.”

I ended up getting so drunk that afternoon—celebratory shots were raining down on us lucky few who witnessed Team USA’s victory—that I missed the first half of Mexico v Brazil. When I stepped into The Gold Room, my favorite old school Mexican bar in Echo Park, the place was already packed. The Gold Room is a throwback to what I assume Los Angeles was like when people in New York still liked us. $5 shot/beer specials, free tacos, and usually ample room to drink in what people in the 1980s thought a classy spaceport might look like.

That day, however, every available seat was occupied, and there were enough people standing to make a fire marshall blush. I was constantly bumped into, but there was not even a hint of discomfort or rudeness from the throng because, after all, I was there to watch the Super Bowl of the goddamned world. A 0-0 tie was being treated with cautious optimism by the patrons, mostly rooting for Mexico.

I ran into honorary Mayor of Echo Park, Terrence Newman who I found out actually set an alarm to be there on time for the match. We sat through the intensity, replete with chants, shouts, and hair-pulling from the congregation of staunch supporters. I was hit by the realization, noticing the differing ages of the clientele, that some of these people had watched their national team with generations of their family.

I caught up with Terrence after the scoreless game ended and asked him why he was rooting for Brazil.

“Honest answer? I root for the team with the hottest women, that’s why I almost always root for Brazil. That, and being a novice to soccer, Brazil’s like the gold standard. They’re like the Lakers of international soccer. I have an appreciation for how much they love the sport and how much they respect it.”

I then asked him why he chose The Gold Room.

“As you step into The Gold Room, you step out of America for a second and into a country that really cares about the World Cup—which is not America. Nobody scored, I’ve been here since noon, I’ve been on the edge of my seat the whole time and technically nothing happened. This was the best.”

Terrence really encapsulated my experience. Points are like explosions in action movies. Just because they’re there doesn’t make them worthy of our time. Cringing when your rival gets an opening, exhaling a sigh of relief when your keeper fully extends to defend your goal. Soccer is about the journey, and as long as you take it with others, that journey is the most worthwhile in sports.

Everybody wants to be a part of something, sure, but who doesn’t love being a part of something first? We actually have a good goddamned team, and we can experience greatness with the extra added benefit of comfort. Get into Team USA while you can still grab a seat and not wait a half hour for a drink. Next World Cup there will be lines around the goddamned corner.

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