National Football League

Soccer is fine for kids, but we grow into football

Published Jul. 12, 2010 1:00 a.m. ET

foxsports

The World Cup came down to the two best teams Sunday, and, if not for the fact that I spend my work day in the FOXSports.com newsroom, I wouldn’t know which two teams those are (Brazil vs. Argentina, right?).

The faux fervor surrounding the World Cup in America is annoying as a chorus of soccer kazoos. … What’s that you say? They’re called vuvuzelas? I don’t care. I'm just glad that awful sound will give way to the sounds of real football — a cacophony of crunching pads, barked audibles and man grunts — as we finally turn our attention to NFL training camps opening in less than two weeks.

That said, I’ll fully admit — as someone who spent several years in shin guards — that I’m not your average soccer detractor. Let the world have its beloved sport of finesse, low scores and goal-induced coronaries. But hear this: No self-respecting American sports fan truly loves the World Cup. And soccer will always take a backseat — a way backseat — to American football.

Americans “love” the World Cup the same way we suddenly enjoy Betty White, are again wearing flannel and hearing Snoop Dogg on the radio. All of these sporadically capture the collective consciousness and wiggle their way back into pop culture. But let’s face it — they’re only consistently appreciated by a select few when the mainstream has taken note of shinier objects.

If the first organized sport you played growing up America wasn’t tee-ball, it was probably soccer. At age 4 or 5, the game more closely resembles a pack of mice trapped in a pinball machine. Highlights of a youth soccer game are always food-related — orange slices at halftime, ice cream or pizza post-game.

As we grow older, passing and spacing are introduced, and it begins to resemble a sport. Some of us, this author included, go on to play soccer on a club team that forces your parents to spend their weekends schlepping you from one end of the Chicago suburbs to the other.

There is, perhaps, no better sport for growing children to play than soccer. It requires them to spend their energy constantly running, jumping and kicking while separating the coordinated kids from the ones who like to pick dandelions.

Some time in middle school, all soccer-related actives end, as they absolutely should. Because soccer in this country is nothing more than solid preparation for sports that require crotch protection.

Sure, there are a few guys in high school who take time out from being the guy at parties who breaks out the guitar and butchers something from “Led Zeppelin IV” long enough to comprise the school’s soccer team. And granted, these gentlemen have their following.

However, the prototype for the classic American high school couple will never be the head cheerleader and the striker … or the sweeper … or the midfielder … or the goalie.

The early teens are when the guys with guts drown themselves in plastic pads and courage so they can run full speed into one another.

American football, for all its intricate rules, its oblong ball and various formations and coverages, is amazingly simple. There is nothing beautiful about this game. It’s dudes running into dudes to determine who can push harder. But success is so appreciated on the football field that it’s rewarded with six well-earned points.

I’ve heard the argument that there’s little actual playing when it comes to football, what with all the huddles and the play clock. But I’d rather watch a thousand replays of unsuccessful first-and-10 runs up the gut than a soccer team dropping back to hang on for 45 minutes to a 1-0 lead. Where’s the beauty in that?

And the fans … oh, the fans.

Soccer gives otherwise reasonable individuals far too many opportunities to become intolerable every four years. They could very well rename the World Cup to Which One Of My Friends Is A Pretentious Ass?

These are the friends who correct you when you refer to the playing area as “the field” instead of “the pitch.” They scoff when you suggest that stoppage time is an inexact science and a somewhat ridiculous notion. And God help you if you find yourself in a don’t-call-it-soccer conversation.

Worst of all, they’ll try to convince you that diving — the charming action of pretending to be fouled and faking a resulting injury — is “part of the game.” That’s not part of any game. That’s bad community theater.

I simply can’t muster respect for a player who is praised for his ability to feign injury. You know what happens if you take a dive in American football? Neither do I, because it never happens.

Perhaps the best way to illustrate why America will never be a soccer sanctuary is to examine the fate of the two top players on my under-14 club soccer team.

One went on to play defensive end for a Division I college football program. His pro career ended when he got one too many concussions and a doctor advised him to hang up the pads.

The other went on to play professional baseball until he ripped his shoulder to shreds in the minors to the point where he can no longer give a high-five with his right arm.

Does either regret their choice not to stick with soccer?

Not even once every four years.