Anyone for Association Football?

When Paul Gascoigne once appeared in court and was introduced by his defence lawyer as a professional football player, the judge famously asked if this was a reference to Association Football. It was. This story often springs to mind here in the USA every time I have to remember to call the beautiful game "soccer" in order to be understood.

But there's more to it than nomenclature. There is something different about US soccer which it's not easy to put one's finger on.

Let me give you an example. My eldest son is very much enjoying playing in the village U-10 C team, otherwise known as the Raptors. I have been spending many a happy weekend hour freezing on the touchline whilst the Raptors get hammered by a variety of local teams, with names like the Eagles, the Raiders and the Gladiators. Needless to say, in such circumstances, one has to find a way to keep spirits up, and self-deprecating terraces humour usually does the job. At least to my British way of thinking.

So, away recently to the marvellously-named Armonk Fire (their debut album is first rate, by the way), at 5-0 down and with only two minutes to go, I shouted earnestly from the touchline, "Come on boys, we only need six!". (Okay, not perhaps the most original terrace heckle of all time, but not a bad effort.) Nothing. Not even so much as a courtesy chuckle from the gaggle of freezing parents all around me. Don't be seduced by the old fallacies about the American sense of humour or their grasp of irony - this is the country which gave us The Simpsons, Saturday Night Live and, er, Different Strokes.

On another occasion, we were hanging on (temporarily) to 0-0 against a team I shall not mention, for a reason which is about to become obvious. My boy broke away in the area, with only one defender to beat, and it appeared that his first goal for the team was a formality. Unfortunately the last defender was a huge kid, at least twice the size of anyone else on the field, in all dimensions. Ignoring the ball completely, he flattened my son, using only the forceful application of his huge belly. Once the magic sponge had been applied, and we had established that there were no serious injuries, my natural reaction was to lead the home parents in a stirring chorus of "Who ate all the pies?". But, looking around at the earnest faces, still concerned about my son's welfare, I decided that perhaps they might not know the tune.