Giving It a Go: A Baseball Guy Gives European Football an Honest Shot

Guess I'm swimming in the deep end, now.

My fascination with all things European--history, art, architecture, wine, food, and, of course, travel—has led me to finally devote some time and energy to exploring just why soccer (football in Europa, calcio in Italia) is the world’s game. I mean, billions world-wide can’t be wrong, can they? I guess I’m not so sure…at least not yet. But I’m working on it.

I grew up with an unquestioned faith in the natural authenticity, the timeless symmetry, and the green promise of baseball, where teammates and rivals celebrate the connectedness of all—and the glory of summer, our longest, sunniest days, the days we live out of doors—by tossing a cowhide-covered ball between us, leather glove to leather glove, and striking it into play with a hunk of wood, the natural grain exposed, a perfect fit at the handle for the human hand.

Of course, none of this occurred to me at eleven years old. Baseball was just what we did any chance we got. In our side yard, the brick garage served as the catcher (automatic ball return!), a clay brick as first base, a tree as second, the side of the apartment building as third, and a glove as home. Well beyond the tree, up a gradual slope, was the fence that separated the yard from the sidewalk in front of our three-flat. The fence was covered in ivy in the summer months, which, to us, made our yard Wrigley Field. But unlike the real deal in Lakeview, our South Side version of the Friendly Confines had that tree as second base, which meant that cracking a home run over the ivy and onto Avenue L required one to crush the ball through the foliage of the fully mature tree, or just about over it, something even King Kong Dave Kingman might have struggled to do. The side yard on the corner of 100th Street and Avenue L was a pitcher’s ballpark.

Of all my sporting loves over the years—baseball, hockey, football, basketball—only baseball has survived as a passion into middle age. It’s a game that seems to prove something lasts. Despite the specialization in today’s game, the modern equipment, and the increased size and strength of the players, it remains, essentially, the same: the 90 feet between bases, the 60 feet, 6 inches from the mound to home, and the home run fences anywhere from 300 to 400 feet from the plate, well, they pose precisely the same challenges to 21st Century ballplayers as they did to the Cubs’ first National League championship team back in 1876…the summer of Custer’s Last Stand. Of all major sports, the game itself has withstood time, and would be recognized and played well by the best players of any era. So when Dana and I are at Wrigley watching the Cubs, we feel instinctively (it’s not something spoken) as if we’re not just watching a game, but that we’re somehow taking our rightful place in our family and city and national histories. We belong.

That brings me to soccer. Now that we’ve traveled a good bit of Europe—with Iceland and another trip to Italy next—it seems to me that soccer might just hold some of the same character and history and cultural significance (that sense of identity, of belonging) for those who love that game. And I’m beginning to think that one cannot really understand the rich, historic tapestry of European cultures--and, perhaps, our own ancestry, personal and national--without making an honest effort to understand football, too. And besides, with nieces and nephews having played more soccer than baseball in their youth, I can't help but wonder: Why?

So I’ve consulted with some well-traveled friends who know the game well, researched a bit, and selected two teams to follow closely whose histories and cultures and cities intrigue me, since I figure one has to have a rooting interest in this business (it is a game, after all). I also think I can learn more by following one or two teams through their seasons than I can trying to wrap my head around dozens of squads and hundreds of players across many leagues.

I’ve selected West Ham United from east London in the English Premier League (although as one might expect from a Cubs’ fan, since I’ve followed West Ham, the team has collapsed and now faces the real possibility of relegation to the Championship or B league next year), and Fiorentina in the Italian Serie A, largely because Dana and I just love the city of Florence so much. I’m keeping an eye out for a La Liga (Spanish League) club for which to root, but while blown away by the quality of play in this, perhaps the greatest of all professional leagues today, no team as caught my eye just yet. Again, as a Cubs fan, it’s counter-intuitive to adopt a team like Barcelona or Real Madrid, which would be like trying to learn about the soul, the passion in baseball by adopting the New York Yankees as a team. Only a New Yorker would believe one can learn as much from winning as one can from a desperate struggle to survive.

One month into my adventure in European football, I’ve learned three things:

1. Beer—Estrella Damm from Barcelona has been my choice—goes surprisingly well with breakfast foods like oatmeal, sausage & egg sandwiches, and French toast. Since the European games are broadcast live at The Globe and other European style pubs starting at about 6:30 AM on weekends, most of my beer consumption now takes place before 11:00 AM. And in these establishments, this seems not only socially acceptable, but also rather natural!

2. While I used to think the rule prohibiting the use of one’s hands (only the most complex, effective tool man has) was a flaw in the game, it’s actually quite fascinating, a strength. What can you do when your most commonly relied-upon tool is unavailable to you? That requires remarkable creativity and ingenuity from the athletes, and is mesmerizing to watch.

3. The fact that a football match runs no more than about two hours on television—compared to three hours for most baseball, hockey, basketball and American football contests—is already something I appreciate. The length of the matches seems perfect, allowing for intensity and maximum energy…but not lethargy and monotony.

From time-to-time I’ll update visitors to Molto Gentile, Italia with my findings. A fun way to pass the time before our next journey across the pond. Thanks for reading, and ciao for now.

GIO