ConstantCommentary® Vol. III, No. 60, July 8, 1999

So Sue Me . . .

by Mike Jasper


Soccer's a pussy sport

Last Sunday, I was rooting for my favorite woman's soccer team -- Norway. I was aching for a World Cup Final between the U.S. and the Scandinavian heartthrobs.

You see, when the Norway women score a goal, they sometimes pull their tee shirts over their heads and let the sports bra jiggle. That's what I call healthy competition.

But nooooo. China won the semi-final match, so no Norwegian woody for me. Instead of the Women's World Cup culminating in a sexual climax of continental proportions, we get to watch a politically sensitive battle between the Big Red Machine and the Police Force of the World.

Of course, we can still get off to Mia Hamm. Every red-blooded American guy outside of San Francisco's Castro District (or facsimiles thereof) wants a piece of her. And then there's Brianna Scurry, the studly American goaltender. She's a hottie.

But the Chinese women? Spare me. They flaunt the sex appeal of an overcooked wonton. I get more wood from a Russian shot-putter.

One thing's for sure. Europe won't give a shit. Canada? They don't care. New Zealand? Australia? Forget about it. They'll be drinking Guinness and watching re-runs of rugby matches.

Besides, to them this isn't real soccer anyway. It's just the women. To them, soccer is football and played by real men. Skinny men. Boring men. Pussy men, really.

Just not as pussy as the men on the American soccer team.

So what's the deal? Why are the American women so good at soccer and the American men so bad? Hell, I know why. Three reasons: baseball, football (real football) and basketball. Want some other reasons? Hockey and track & field. Need some more reasons? Tennis, golf and horse racing. Want more? How about bowling and lacrosse. Fuck it, throw in hunting and archery.

You see, in America, a real man will play almost any sport except soccer. Soccer is at the bottom -- at least for now. Yeah, I've heard all about the soccer moms and the popularity of the sport among the youth of America. So what does that tell me? It tells me I can hear the mincing footsteps of a generation of pussies behind me.

Look. I know that in Europe, soccer boasts a great tradition of manly competition. In the UK, for example, soccer players remain the true studs of the nation. And I can even understand why. It's because they stand next to cricket players. In Italy, soccer's also the number one sport, just ahead of bottom pinching. In France, it beats out smoking and in Germany it narrowly edges attitude copping.

Let's not forget our friends down under. In Australia, soccer overshadows snake shooting, while in New Zealand it's a toss-up between soccer and sheep fucking.

I'll leave the Canadians alone for now. At least they have hockey.

My point? The rest of the world better hope to hell Americans never embrace soccer as a real sport. Cause if we ever start paying players multi-million contracts to play soccer, the rest of the world can kiss their dynasty goodbye. And if it ever goes American, the game as we know it will change forever.

First, athletes such as Michael Jordan in basketball, Jerry Rice in football and Scotty Hamilton in figure skating would invade the turf. America doesn't do too much right, but it definitely holds the edge in war, rock & roll and sports. Pay the fuckers and they shall come, believe it.

Second, American coaches would substitute players all the time. And the subs would be huge, brutal NFL-types whose only job is to fuck up the other team.

"Go in there Koswalski and put a hit on number 7. He's scoring too much." Instead of skinny guys with enormous lungs and finesse, you'd see muscle-headed, 250-pound, six-foot-five bruisers pounding the field. Sure, they'd only last ten minutes a match. But think of the damage they'd do in that ten minutes.

I for one hope it never happens. Soccer's a pussy sport. Let it stay that way.

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STANDARD DISCLAIMER: This column aims to be funny. If you can read anything else into it, you're on your own. Copyright 1999 by Mike Jasper.