Secondhand Sun

DC United lost to New England in the Eastern Conference Final last night, and I'm far more disappointed - crushed, even - than I ever expected to be. I woke up this morning too miserable even to give Anna a game report the way I usually do first thing. She's got a lot of empathy for a five-year-old; I think she caught on pretty quickly that I was upset about the loss, and left it be. She's a good kid. I gave her the report at bedtime, with full props to Twellman for his goal (and leaving out the saltier editorial comments; she is only five) and the tale of how the stunned crowd came alive again, in fits and starts; how Ben Olsen, as always, never ever quit; how Freddy almost scored. Over and over again someone almost scored, but it never happened. "That's really sad!" Anna said. Yes, yes, I agreed; I told her how much I'd wanted to see us play for the MLS Cup. That wasn't what she meant, though: "Now there won't be any more games until spring!" A child after my own heart. No, there won't, and that's sad too - but, I explained, we do get to start earlier than the other teams because we're playing in the CONCACAF tournament. Apparently "CONCACAF" is a funny enough sounding word to cheer up a five-year-old. Would that it worked on me.

But tomorrow is Election Day. In a way, it's like that scene from the movie Fever Pitch, when the Hornby character consoles one of the students on the soccer team he coaches after the kid just missed a PK that lost the game for his team.

Paul Ashworth: If you had to choose between winning this afternoon and Arsenal winning tomorrow night, what would you go for?
Robert: Tomorrow night of course!
Paul Ashworth: There you go then.
Robert: What, you're telling me, Arsenal are gonna win two nil at Anfield?
Paul Ashworth: I can't promise, can I? Well, there's a chance isn't there? You've done your bit, you've missed the penalty. If that's what it takes then it'll be worth it.
Robert: Yeah, course.

If I had to choose between DC United winning the MLS Cup and the Democrats taking back Congress tomorrow, my answer would come just as easily - tomorrow, of course! And, United's done their bit; they got knocked out of the final, so...

So I'm going to go to bed, because I'll be up at 4:30 am tomorrow, if I sleep at all. My volunteers are all confirmed, the car is packed with all my supplies, and I'm jumpier than... something very, very jumpy. The jumpiest thing you can think of. I'm jumpier than that.

Election Day is tomorrow! And tomorrow, we shall see.

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Vote for Bobby Boswell for Cosmopolitan's bachelor of the year.

It's a rather stupid contest, true, and his contest video (links found here) is dorky. But Bobby doesn't get paid that much - only $29,400! and the prize is $15,000. So let's help him out.

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Footie Girl has a post about why she loves soccer tournaments.

There's only an hour between games, which is just enough time for your muscles to all stiffen up before you have to play again. You take off your shoes and socks and jersey and lay them out in the sun, hoping that they'll dry out a bit before the next game. You lie back with your head on your bag for a pillow and talk about nothing and everything with the guys on your team, or talk trash about the players in the games between your own.

Sometimes -- far too often -- the games aren't pretty; a mad scramble after the ball, nobody seems to be playing their position, neither team holds onto possession for more than 30 seconds at a time. But then sometimes it all comes together -- a one-two down the line, a pretty passing move around the 18-yard box, a gorgeous goal -- and it reminds you that this is why you're playing.

Go, read the whole thing.

I'd give up my weekend for that if I could - one of these days, perhaps, when my foot that's been sore for over a month finally heals. (We'll see what the doctor says on Wednesday.) Meanwhile I've got the next best thing for this weekend, a road trip to Houston to visit my family and see DC United play. I couldn't talk my cousin into standing with us - "I'm not cheering for that team!" - but he may attend the game, and even tailgate with us, my aunt tells me. She said he wanted to know whether soccer fans drink.

Anna was very disappointed that she couldn't come to Houston with me, although she's still so enamored of kindergarten that preparing for school was enough to distract her. I set the Tivo to record the game for her, and told her that she should be sure to wear her Jaime Moreno shirt tomorrow, so that we'll win. "I will!" she promised. We're all counting on you, Anna!

UPDATE: While I'm linking to stuff, Soccer Dad of On the Pitch has a post reviewing various websites that you can use to find soccer games in your area. When my foot is better...

Posted by Joanna at 10:25 AM | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBacks (0)

So I was hanging out at the Screaming Eagles tailgate with D of DCenters and a bunch of his friends, whom he'd just introduced me to. And I notice this guy with the most INCREDIBLE completely amazingly dreamy eyes. He is talking to an authoritative woman with brown hair. I mean this guy is HOT. Since D has already been gracious enough to introduce me to people, I think, Gee, I wonder if any of these folks know that guy? Maybe I'll get introduced to him later. Then I look around to see if I can see any other interesting people. My hearing isn't always the greatest, and I was distracted by said people-watching while D and a couple of other guys were having this conversation, off quietly to the side. (That, or he's making it up, but D would never do that. Right, D?)

Dave walks over to me. "You know who that is, right?"

"Who? That guy?"

"Yeah, that's Bobby Boswell."

I stifle the urge to reenact a Jack Benny spit-take. "No shit, hey, you're right." It's a slightly awkward feeling, since a few minutes before I told Joanna of my plans to pick up a Boswell replica jersey when we head into RFK. Very close to the kind of fanboy behavior that invites William Shatner to ask about whether or not I am currently in posession of, as they say, a life. No, the important thing now is to just be cool about the entire thing. I turn to my drinking buddy who hasn't overheard the conversation with Dave. "Hey, it's Boswell over there." He picks up on the studied non-chalance, barely raising his eyebrows in response.

"Is it? Cool." There's a pause as we are earnestly aware of how forced the casual tone of conversation has become. "You know, I woke up with Heather Mitts in bed this morning..." Complete deadpan. A nice escalation of the mood.

"You too?" I offer.

"Who hasn't?" adds Dave, safely out of earshot of his girlfriend.

I can't be rude and stare at other people and not listen to the conversation that is going on right next to me, though. I turn back to D just in time to hear:

Still, now I've been challenged. It's important to establish alpha-male ultimate coolness at this point. "So, um... Jesus Christ came over this morning. Wanted to borrow a cup of sugar. I told him this was the last time..."

I'm a little confused, but I had some of that blue stuff which has vodka in it, so this is still a funny remark. I laugh. D seems to catch on to my confusion because he says something about Bobby Boswell. At first I assume he's still talking about going to get that jersey, but he points. I look. "That's him, right over there."

"HIM?! That guy?" I'm stunned! Because while Boz is cute enough in his photographs...

...they just don't really bring across the extreme hotness that we were all blessed to witness there in person at the tailgate. I think this is because Bobby squints in a lot of his pictures.

So I tease D (while surreptitiously staring at Bobby Boswell) that he ought to just go ask Bobby for one of his shirts. Then he'd have a real one instead of a replica, AND save money. "No!" D says. "I'm not going to be That Guy."

"I know what you mean," I say emphatically (while surreptitiously staring at Bobby Boswell). This response is a useful reminder that I had better not be That Girl either. Or else my new friends will think I am uncool and will not want to hang out with me at future tailgates. I'm on notice, so I'm careful (while surreptitiously staring at Bobby Boswell). It occurs to me that I could walk right up to Bobby, grin at him, and inform him that I'm lucky, and that if he kisses me, we'll win the game. I'm just tipsy enough to maybe pull this off without clamming up and standing there grinning mutely like a stupid idiot. And, with just a small bit of the luck I'd be claiming, I might be able to get him to kiss me on the cheek, which would make the thirteen-year-old in me happy for weeks. But I don't dare try this, because I've got to be cool.

Continue reading "Cool as a grape slushie!" »

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Standing in the Screaming Eagles' Nest is everything people say it is and more. It was something I wanted to try, but I didn't think I'd like it much - I didn't think I'd be able to see, and I thought my feet would hurt. Well, Nicole, the ever-so-helpful guru of tickets, was able to get me a spot in the third row, so I could have seen Ben Olsen's toe lint if he'd taken off his shoes. In fact, if I'd walked down four steps, hopped a wall, run twelve yards, dodged half a dozen cops, shoved some VIPs in folding chairs out of the way, and hopped another wall, well, I'd have been right there on the field. It felt a lot more immediate than that description sounds, because when you've got a phalanx of jumping, singing, cursing fans behind you, a half dozen cops are no obstacle. My feet did hurt, but when the bouncing and singing started I didn't really care.

It's like Mardi Gras, or an Election Night party. At a Mardi Gras parade, you've got hundreds, maybe thousands of drunk people brought together in solidarity over the principle of having a good time. And they all care very much about beads and plastic cups and doubloons, things that matter not one whit in the real world - kind of like soccer games, but tackier - and they're willing to make fools of themselves over these things by getting into fights, taking off their clothes, and generally ignoring social niceties in favor of drunken revelry. At an Election Night party, you've also got hundreds of drunk people, brought together after months of shared effort, hours and hours of drudgery for the purpose of this one night's result, and they're waiting, hoping, praying, holding their breath, crossing their fingers, straining their muscles to reach for the win that, since the polls closed, is now out of their control. Again, kind of like soccer games, from the fan perspective at least.

So being a fan at a soccer game is like both those things. But it's different in a few key ways. At Mardi Gras there are no winners or losers; everyone has fun and goes home happy, and takes lots of aspirin the next morning. At a soccer game it's much better if you win - if you don't, it's not really very much fun at all. But! if you lose, there are no real ramifications for the wider world. I was in a foul mood for two days after the Galaxy game. In the end, though, if your team loses a soccer game, even a championship game, it doesn't mean that prisoners will be tortured or that thousands of civilians will be slaughtered in unnecessary wars or that poor people will die because they lost their health insurance or that thousands of Americans will still be homeless a year after a major natural disaster because the government can't be arsed to lift a finger on their behalf. In soccer, you just show up for the game the next week (or the next season) and hope, pray, hold your breath, cross your fingers, strain your muscles for a better result. At an Election Night party, if your side loses... well, that's much more difficult to come back from.

So it's beginning to make sense to me, why after I attended a DC United game earlier this summer on a whim, I got hooked so quickly. I haven't missed a home game since. With one deadly serious passion, politics, taking up so much of my time and energy that I'm run ragged, what could possess me to take up in addition an utterly frivolous passion that is just as time consuming? But it's good. It's really good. Being passionate about DC United has given my life some much-needed balance, and an outlet that will keep me sane. I can do something much like what I do in politics - gather together and consume beverages with a group of like-minded people who, like me, care so much about a particular result that our heads are about to explode. Whenever our boys give us a win, it will be just like it was when Freddy Adu floated that free kick over the wall and into the right corner of the goal, with the keeper nowhere near enough to touch it even if he had Gadget Arms. I stood there with my mouth open while the crowd went berserk all around me, so happy I couldn't make a single sound. And if we were to lose a game again, I'd be miserable, of course, but without the guilt and added burden of knowing other living humans would soon pay a real and costly price for that loss and for my failure.

Posted by Joanna at 11:02 PM | Permalink | Comments (8) | TrackBacks (0)

For those eagerly awaiting the continuation of the Soccer and Me series, we'll start back up next week. It's a very busy time for me - I'm organizing a canvass for Jim Webb and Andy Hurst this Saturday in my precinct, and after that, of course, is the DC United game against Real Salt Lake, for which I will be standing in the Nest for the first time. In honor of the upcoming festivities, here is a shirtless Alecko Eskandarian.

Yum!

I have a suspicion that I won't be able to see a damned thing standing, because I am 5 feet and 1 inch tall (if you spot me a half inch). But the kind woman in charge of tickets for the Nest is going to do her best for me in regard to location. Perhaps I can find something to use for a stool. Hmmm. I doubt stools are allowed so this would require some creativity. Suggestions, anyone?

P.S. Real Salt Lake is a stupid poser name for an American team!

Posted by Joanna at 12:34 PM | Permalink | Comments (3) | TrackBacks (0)

World Cup 1990 fuelled my growing fascination with soccer and over the course of that summer, it became an obsession. I watched as many games as I could, and taped more, because some were on at odd hours, or when we were out of the house. They were shown on the Turner Broadcast Network, and those little advertising graphics in the corner of the screen hadn't yet been invented - we had to endure actual commercial breaks in the middle of play, during at least one of which the beleaguered US viewing audience actually missed a goal. And the commentary was horrible! "A penalty kick is sort of like a free throw in basketball..."

The 1990 World Cup was supposed to have been the most boring yet, with the lowest ever number of goals scored, but I never noticed. I devoured each game I could get hold of, and ignored my father's growing irritation with the number of blank VHS tapes I was using up - I couldn't bear to erase any of the games even after watching them. "Are you really going to watch these again?" he'd grouse; "Yes," I'd snap back, and the argument would be suspended til the next day when I discovered he'd taped over Ireland-Romania or something.

I remember Tony Meola and his ponytail - he was my favorite player for the US team, and ever since I've always had a thing for goalkeepers. I remember Cameroon and all the talk about how they were controversial and played so much more brutally than the European and South American teams (like animals, you might say?) and how surprising it was when they did well because African teams never do well in the World Cup; the racism of all this escaped me utterly, because I was twelve years old and white and sheltered and I knew nothing of such things. I remember learning about offsides traps and running into space and, well, much more strategy than I'd ever been exposed to in my youth league (none). I remember Diego Maradona, and the "Keys to the Game" that were flashed up on the screen before the final in which Argentina played West Germany: for Argentina, the "Keys" were "Back" "Knee" and "Foot" - the places where Maradona was having steroid injections, already battling against his body's betrayal. I felt sick inside when Argentina lost 0-1 on a penalty kick by Brehme in the last minutes. I felt empty when the World Cup went away and there were no more games with which to fill my hours. I consoled myself by using heat transfer paper and special markers to make myself a Maradona t-shirt with a number 10 on the back.

And I made a decision. I wanted to be a soccer player when I grew up, and play in the World Cup.

Continue reading "Soccer and Me, Part II: What She Wanted To Be When She Grew Up" »

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When I was in elementary school I wanted to play in Little League. Other children in my class played. My best friend played. I played baseball, too, but only in my backyard, when we could get three or four or more kids together; the batting team supplemented their ranks with "ghost runners" who could never be thrown or tagged out due to their lack of corporeal existence. But I wanted to play for real, with uniforms and full teams, so I went to my dad and expressed to him my longing to participate fully in the great American pastime of baseball.

He said no.

He had his reasons, good ones - the local baseball league was populated with those Horrible Sports Parents that you read about in magazines. Coaches screamed at the kids, parents cursed at the umpires, and kids who weren't particularly skilled or athletically talented were benchwarmers, nothing more. My dad wanted something better for me, and so he told me that if I really wanted to play a sport, he'd sign me up for the fledgling local soccer league. Sulkily, I agreed, and so that fall, my brother and I played soccer.

Continue reading "Soccer and Me, Part I: Girl vs. Boys" »

Posted by Joanna at 8:20 AM | Permalink | Comments (7) | TrackBacks (1)

The idea for this blog (if there could be said to be any central idea behind it, which is arguable) was conceived months and more before its beginning, and from that time until this past June, Secondhand Sun was intended to be discussion of politics and current events from a feminist perspective, with the occasional personal-life flavor thrown in. Then in June and July came the World Cup, and soccer invaded my life and my blog. The story of how this happened goes all the way back to my experience as a girl growing into a young woman and playing youth soccer, and so, dear readers, with your indulgence, I'm going to go all personal-is-political on you and tell you about soccer and me.

Part 1 - Girl vs. Boys
Part 2 - What She Wanted To Be When She Grew Up
Part 3 - We Didn't Notice You Were Open Because You Weren't Waving Your Penis
Part 4 - Brandi Takes-Her-Shirt-Off
Part 5 - Necesita Una Mas?

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DCenters, the DC United blog, calls it "Operation Deflower," while We Call it Soccer prefers the "Free Beer Movement." The idea is that we soccer nuts should buy a game ticket for someone who has never seen an MLS game live, ply them with their beverage of choice, and thus set them on the road to becoming lifelong soccer fans, too. At least in principle. Neither name for this event/movement/thingy is really appropriate for the purposes of this blog post, since my target just turned five years old a few weeks ago.

Nevertheless, Anna enjoyed the game very much. It was the first professional sporting event of any kind she'd attended, and she was absolutely delighted about it from the moment I got her parents' permission for her to accompany me. "I love you," she told me giddily at least seven times in the 24 hours or so immediately leading up to the game. I have to say that it feels good to be adored so intensely, and in this case it only cost $16. (Plus $30 for the shirt, but that was just icing - I think I could have got by with just the ticket itself.)

When we were inside the stadium, a shirt for Anna was the first order of business. There were kids' t-shirts, black ones, in imitation of the uniforms. You could get Moreno's name on the back, or nobody's. (They were out of Adu shirts.) "Sometimes the girls like the pink, instead," the nice lady at the counter told us, pointing to a shirt that was, well, a lot like the black DC United t-shirt, but... pink. Pink? It was definitely pink. I asked Anna which she wanted. "I want the black one," she declared. As we walked away, I explained to her who Jaime Moreno was, and then launched into a monologue about various other players. Anna frowned. "Are there any girls on the team?" I explained that there were not, but there were lots of other teams with women on them. I'll have to take her to a women's game sometime soon. Thank goodness for local colleges.

But, the game! For those who, like me, are not parents and not well versed in the art of Keeping Kids Entertained While You Are Trying To Watch The #&$% Game, the key is to sit next to some other kids. We attended the DC United-Colorado Rapids match which was an afternoon game and not terribly crowded. I bought the cheapest tickets, and we wound up in the corner section behind La Norte. Anna immediately made friends with the girl sitting next to her. The seats we were actually assigned to sucked, though - right against the fence, which meant a partly blocked view. So after a short time, I convinced Anna that the drums the La Norte guys were playing were so cool we ought to move closer. They were cool, but not that cool, apparently; and anyway there were no kids near our "new" seats so a tantrum was narrowly averted by a third move, to a row behind two couples and four kids ranging in age from about six to about twelve. That was enough to placate Anna, and it was a great spot from which to see the game, especially while United was attacking the goal at our end: each time, we stood up (Anna standing on her seat, so that she could see), clutched each other, and yelled our heads off. And then, DC scored.

The crowd went wild! Anna went nuts! and with that, I think, she was hooked: every time the drumbeat began, she clapped, in rhythm, and cheered. BOOM, BOOM, BOOM-BOOM-BOOM! "DC UNITED!" It didn't take her long to get the idea, and she took to it with a vengeance.

She lasted until about the 80th minute. Then she got thirsty. And her Jaime Moreno shirt, newly purchased and not washed before she put it on, had begun to shed lint on her skin, a development of which Anna emphatically did NOT approve. However, 80 minutes of game time without (much) complaining, I'll take, from a five-year-old. We remedied both her problems in the ladies' room after the game, and headed on home.

And when we got home? She taught the DC United cheer she had learned to her younger sister. Every time I mention the team in their hearing now, they start dashing in circles around the house yelling, "DC UNITED! DC UNITED!"

I am so proud.

Posted by Joanna at 10:27 PM | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBacks (0)

Via World Cup Blog, Horatio Elizondo, the referee who sent Zidane off in the World Cup final, has gifted the red card he used to Argentine president Nestor Kirchner. That's got to be one of the odder gifts I've heard about, although I suppose if you are summoned before your country's president to be congratulated, and you want to mark the occasion with a gift, you've got to come up with something good in order to impress. I'm a little bit uncomfortable with the idea of send-off related memorabilia, but... well. I can see why someone might want that particular card, and it seems to have pleased Kirchner.

Another interesting thing is that if you look at the comments to that post on the World Cup Blog, you notice that a number of people still aren't finished arguing about The Headbutt. A lot of the discussion died off after the FIFA disciplinary committee released its decision about the incident, but the amount and intensity of the discussion through most of July and the fact that it's so easily set off again says that The Headbutt, for whatever reasons, resonated with a lot of people. I know it resonated with me. But that will have to be left for another post.

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Zinedine Zidane spoke on French TV station Canal+ last night to explain why he headbutted Marco Materazzi in the World Cup final. He was quiet and dignified. He said there was a grave insult to his mother and sister, but did not specify what it was.

The Guardian: His repeated apologies were clearly heartfelt but they were carefully limited in scope. "My action was unforgiveable," he said. "It wasn't the right gesture to make. I say this aloud because two or three billion people saw it, and millions of children. I apologise to them, and to their teachers, the people who have to tell them about good behaviour. I have children myself, and I know what it's like. I will always tell them not to be taken advantage of, and to avoid this kind of situation."

But when asked if he regretted his decision to turn and butt Materazzi in the chest, he was adamant. "I can't regret it, because that would mean he was right to have said what he did."

"It's always the reaction that people talk about. Of course the reaction has to be punished. But if there had been no provocation, there would have been no reaction. If I reacted, it was because something occurred. Do you think that in a World Cup final, 10 minutes away from the end of my career, I would do a thing like that because it pleased me? Never. My action was unforgiveable, but I'm saying to you that the person who committed the provocation should also be punished."

FIFA apparently agrees - they will be investigating Materazzi's comments as well and based on the outcome, he could face a suspension and fine. Materazzi has also stated he believes Zidane should keep the Golden Ball award.

I spent several hours last night trying to find a full transcript of Zidane's remarks, but was unsuccessful. Here's another partial transcript from the BBC. (follow the link for more than I've excerpted here)

Interviewer: Everyone wants to know exactly what he said...

Zinedine Zidane: They were very serious things, very personal things.

Interviewer: About your mother and your sister?

Zinedine Zidane: Yes. They were very hard words. You hear them once and you try to move away.

But then you hear them twice, and then a third time... I am a man and some words are harder to hear than actions. I would rather have taken a blow to the face than hear that.

There's a lot to chew on here, but it's no surprise that Zidane has refused to repeat the insult. One columnist seems to be saying it's unique to Berber culture to refuse to repeat insults about other people, but I don't know about that - would many Americans repeat vile insults about their mothers and sisters on national television? My guess is that they would not.

As for the racism issue, it's still very unclear. Some English language papers have claimed that Zidane denied he or his family was called terrorists, but I've not seen that backed up in any interview excerpts so far, either in English or in French. In general, in the English language news coverage of this incident and the rumors flying around, there appears to be a great deal of confusion between "didn't confirm" and "denied" and "confirmed" and "didn't deny" - for example, Materazzi has denied insulting Zidane's mother, but he didn't mention his sister; I just saw a headline claiming Materazzi had confirmed he insulted Zidane's sister. My guess would be that at least some of it stems from translation problems. Bottom line: I can't tell if he said anything one way or the other on the racism issue.

Above all, I am a man.

I have to say that I understand and respect this. He regrets the effects of his action on his team and his country and on everyone who saw the match - he's sorry we had to see that - but he did what he had to do, in that moment, to preserve his essential human dignity. And he's paid a price. But those headlines on July 10th about Zizou walking off the field in shame? They were wrong. Zinedine Zidane did what he had to do; he paid his price; he made his apologies, but he's made no apology for who he is. In a 2004 interview, he said:

'It's hard to explain but I have a need to play intensely every day, to fight every match hard,' he told me. 'And this desire never to stop fighting is something else I learnt in the place where I grew up. And, for me, the most important thing is that I still know who I am. Every day I think about where I come from and I am still proud to be who I am: first, a Kabyle from La Castellane, then an Algerian from Marseille, and then a Frenchman.'

Walked off the field in shame? Never. Upon his brow shame is ashamed to sit.

Posted by Joanna at 11:31 AM | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBacks (0)

FIFA president Sepp Blatter is aptly named, as many have commented during this year's World Cup, but today really takes the cake. He's threatening to take the Golden Ball award away from Zinedine Zidane.

"I have ordered our disciplinary committee to open an enquiry regarding that episode," said Blatter. "We will await the result before taking action. The presumption of innocence until proven otherwise is and remains a sacred principle."

He added in an interview to Italian national newspaper La Repubblica: "The winner of the award is not decided by Fifa but by an international commission of journalists. Having said that, Fifa's executive committee has the right and the duty to intervene when faced with behaviours that are against the ethic of sport."

Indeed they do. If the lip readers are correct and Materazzi made race-based insults to Zidane, FIFA must sanction him severely. In these circumstances if Zidane is stripped of his prize, it's nothing more than an endorsement of racism.

FIFA has not said whether they are investigating the content of the remarks that provoked Zidane. He is scheduled to do an interview on French television in a few hours, so if he decides to share what was said, we will know soon enough.

Of course FIFA cannot have people, deciding on the basis of Zidane's example, to headbutt others. No doubt this is a very serious concern. I'm curious how many people might actually make this decision, so let's have a little poll:

Posted by Joanna at 1:17 PM | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBacks (0)

Should Zidane have headbutted Marco Materazzi? Duh, of course not. But in the face of vile racist comments of this nature, what Zidane “should have” done is completely and utterly beside the point. If people who love soccer are serious about dealing with the problem of racism, they will recognize this, that it’s completely unjust and morally bankrupt to insist that players withstand racial abuse with grace and a smile and never... ever... crack. It gives free license to the racists. That is a much greater wrong than a headbutt.

Zizou shouldn’t have retaliated with violence; we know this; he knows this; he was sanctioned for it during the match and will likely be fined and receive a ban, or perhaps some other creative penalty given his impending retirement. He has received his punishment. He took it like the man and the player he is.

Now the question is: what we will do with players who call other players the sons of terrorist whores based on their heritage? And it looks like that question is going to be much harder to answer than it should. In discussions across the internet (see the Pandagon link in my previous post for but one example) those who would defend Zidane are being accused of saying that violence is an acceptable response to verbal abuse.

This is an interesting claim to make. It's very interesting. Because you see, I have yet to see anyone, anywhere say that Zidane should not have been sent off. No one is saying that because if you have even a minimal knowledge of the laws of the game, not to mention basic sports customs and human decency, it's impossible to make that argument.

Yet somehow, over and over again, statements like "Racist slurs are equally as unacceptable as headbutts" are being rebutted as though they were "It's okay to beat the shit out of people." So, excuse me, but what the fuck? For those confused at home, let's have a brief review.

1. Headbutting and other physical violence is not okay.
2. Racist slurs against other players are not okay.
3. Insults in general against other players are not okay.
4. Headbutts or other physical violence in response to 2. or 3. above is STILL not okay.

Now that we've got that cleared up, I will say this. What it all comes down to is that unless we are willing to enforce a vision, not just of the game of soccer, but of a world where hurling a racial insult is equally as unacceptable as a headbutt, there is little reason for any of us - you, me, or Zizou - to respect the structure of rules and social mores that exist. If headbutts are punished and racist insults are not, that gives the racists free license to say what they like, and "the rules," be it the Laws of the Game of soccer or the social mores by which we all live our lives, are nothing more than excuses for people with privilege and power to shit on those who don't have it.

Put another way: if racial abuse is condoned either explicitly or implicitly by the rules, why should those on the receiving end of the abuse respect or follow the rules? What have they - or we - to gain by doing so? Nothing at all, only the perpetuation of a system that abuses minorities.

And that is 100% NOT OKAY.

In case you haven't read it already, I'm going to link to Dave Zirin's column Why Today I Wear My Zidane Jersey and quote its hard-hitting conclusion, which he states better than I could:

We don't know with iron certainty what Materazzi said, but if it turns out to be more of the anti-Black, anti-Muslim, garbage that has infected soccer like a virus, the Italian team should forfeit the cup. They should voluntarily give the greatest trophy of them all back to FIFA as a statement that some things in this world are more important than sports. Racism will be the death of soccer if things don't change. Italy can set the sport back on course, with one simple, stunning gesture. Give the damn thing back.

Amen.

Posted by Joanna at 1:35 PM | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBacks (0)

Multiple newspapers have hired lip readers to try to determine exactly what Materazzi said to Zidane before getting his ass knocked to the turf. Here are some of the conclusions:

The Daily Mail and the Times agree with one another that it was something along the lines of "son of a terrorist whore" accompanied by "fuck off." And here is a summary of some of the other wordings mentioned, including "dirty terrorist," various insults against Zidane's sister or mother, and "Harki." Harki is a pejorative word for an Algerian who supported France in Algeria's independence war; it's an extreme insult. Materazzi has admitted to insulting Zidane and pulling his shirt, but has denied calling him a terrorist.

Here are some other must-reads:

Dave Zim: Why Today I Wear My Zidane Jersey
Pandagon: Threats Aren't Loudly Announced, They Are Usually Whispered
Abbas Raza of 3quarksdaily: Monday Musing: Zidane and Racism

My thoughts will follow.

Posted by Joanna at 12:37 PM | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBacks (0)