The Empire Strikes Out; or Look Ma, No Hands

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The blaze of summer sun kept me homebound this weekend, locked up in the cool of earthwarming, home-cooling air. And whilst I waited for some late night West Coast baseball, I had nothing better to do during the day than flip between soccer and golf.

I watch soccer on occasional whims, and golf exactly four times a year (I won’t bother mentioning which four). By the end of Sunday, I came to some conclusions as to where my preferences lie.

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While the rest of the world has married soccer (or football, as they’ll have it), the U.S. has maintained its steadfast bachelorhood towards it, preferring to occasionally flirt with the notion of hooliganism but always opting for further conquests of tantalizing athletic strange. There’s always time to settle down.

What I mean is, we get into soccer when there are high chauvinistic stakes, when chants of U-S-A get to be our vuvuzela counterparts. Otherwise, we stick to our four major team sports and sprinkle in some NASCAR here and there. That is not to say there aren’t rabid soccer fans in the States, and I don’t mean to discount them, but if they’d look beyond their suburban-East Coast, private school surroundings, they may notice that the rest of the country only cares if national pride is on the line. We don’t, for the most part, own any of those fancy scarves.

That said, I initially figured there’d be little to entice me into watching any of the UEFA European Championships.

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Meanwhile, the U.S. Open was taking place on the West Coast on a seemingly 45º angle. Even before the match started, players’ danders were collectively up about the difficulty of the Olympic Clubs’ course. It was too fast. It was falling into Lake Merced. It was haunted. Okay, I made the last one up (but the fog was very Scooby Doo-esque).

But golf is, by all accounts, an international game with international players and an international following. And given that it was a major, I was in for the long haul.

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In the matches at Euro 2012, I quickly found my favorites. I am one of those sad customers who need a rooting interest if I’m to watch a good bit of soccer, so why not stick to chauvinism’s close kin: pride in ancestral nationalities.

I’m a mutt of Northern European descent, so I narrowed my options to two: England and Netherlands (I would have taken Ireland, but boy did they get spanked early).  Nonetheless, I don't mean to belabor my viewer experience vis-à-vis my rooting interests. Instead, it’s more what I witnessed of the attendants of the matches in host countries Poland and Ukraine.

Enthusiasm about soccer is not noteworthy outside of the U.S. It’s a given, in fact. Every crowd member’s dress corresponds to their team’s colors. Some don face paint. Many have flags. (Still, nothing new or surprising, but these are the facts.) Most notable is their tendency to not shut up throughout the entirety of the two 45 minute halves. They live the agony and ecstasy that is, as Mitt Romney would say, sport with every second of action on the pitch.

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In San Francisco, the amateurs and card carriers 3-putted their ways into or out of contention while courtesies were bestowed upon each equally. Minimally, there are golf claps. For former champs, there are hoots and hollers. For the golf celebs, there are the requisite shouts of get in the hole for every fucking swing (which are criminally annoying, especially on par 5 tee shots). And, of course, the players oblige with doffed caps and…well, it pretty much ends there.

Otherwise, the players are thrown by the slightest gallery* movement; they have the hearing of snow owls—stopping mid backswing because of the noise of a camera shutter 200 yards away; they can feel the breeze kick up from 4mph to 4.5mph and have to start their routine over…from the beginning.

Further, they actually have someone toting their shit for them from hole to hole. The visuals on this are terrible. I’ve never been a caddie, but I’ve known caddies. Caddies are kids with shitty summer jobs who schlep golf clubs (which cost more than what the caddies will make all summer) for assholes who get to take 4-hour lunch breaks on a Tuesday.

Now, I know that professional caddies are paid well, and they know their golf. They serve a real purpose. As I said, the visuals are terrible, especially when you see the leaderboard complete with the flags of player origins.

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Portugal v. Denmark was as amazing as Netherlands v. Germany was disappointing. Outside of 5 minutes of play in the 2^nd half, the Netherlands looked sleepy—not tired—they actually looked like they needed a team nap. Sweden v. Ukraine was interesting, though I missed the beginning and thought the bright yellow of the Ukraine squad was the familiar yellow of Sweden. I was surprised by there being a Swede named Shevchenko. Then I realized my mistake.

I missed Greece v. Russia but was delighted by the results (the Greeks could use some good news for a change). The French, sadly, took it to their hosts 2-0. Poland v. Russia, in what was a battle between the two most depressing national anthems (so many minor chords!), finished without a winner, though team members of both countries, in unison with their respective fans, sang every oppressive sounding word of the aforementioned anthems. Meanwhile, a three-way battle raged outside the Warsaw stadium between Russian fans and Polish fans, and those same fans versus the Polish police**.

I admittedly didn't watch (and couldn’t have watched had I wanted to) all the matches. But in each—so far, anyway—fan fervor is ceaseless and unbridled and unquestionably genuine.

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The flags of the leaderboard read, with few exceptions, like a who’s who in Imperialist subjugators and subjugates: England, Northern Ireland, Republic of Ireland, Republic of South Africa, USA, and Australia. Sprinkled in the mix was a Swede, German, Korean, and Belgian, representing branches from a tree not rooted in British Imperialism. But this got me thinking about how foreign (pun alert!) it is to see athletes from places like RSA, Northern Ireland, or even Fiji (which, by the way, where the hell has Vijay Singh been?). And it’s not just one or two people from these places, the leaderboards of every PGA event are peppered with golfers from these countries. These countries are well represented amongst the list of major winners. And that’s why the caddies are an ugly reminder. That’s why I’ll always feel a disconnect from professional golfers. They are not like me. Most (Vijay Singh a notable exception) have lived highly privileged lives, attending golf academies, receiving new clubs at Christmas the way the rest of us receive a new pair of Levi’s, and they have other people do the heavy lifting. They can’t tolerate the slightest discomfort, turning peevish if someone in their periphery decides to scratch his nose at the wrong time.

I should note that, with full awareness, I don’t personally know any professional golfers. In fact, many seem like decent guys. But the spectacle that is a professional golf tournament is too often too off-putting for me to tolerate.

And then there’s Tiger Woods…

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Not too long after the Euro 2012 tournament concludes, the London Olympics will begin. The grand marshal of the acceptable chauvinism parade, the Olympics represents a time when national pride is the point (all that nonsense about sportsmanship and tests of one’s self can go to hell; I want gold, and I want my country to win it). With the U.S. men’s soccer team unceremoniously sitting this one out (way to go, boys!), I’ll be forced once again to find rooting interests within my Northern European lineage in order to enjoy some Americanless soccer. I likely won’t watch all the games, but I’ll watch some. And though I’ll watch sans scarf, jersey and face paint, I’ll watch willingly, dreaming of the day the U.S. men’s team truly arrives on the world pitch.

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I’ll forego the tiresome psychoanalysis of Tiger Woods. In fact, I won’t even comment on his U.S. Open play. I am one of those fair-weather fans who is more likely to tune in on a Sunday if Tiger is within striking distance. He’s the exemplar of golfing excellence for my generation. I appreciate that. My issue with Tiger has nothing to do with his poor weekend play at the Olympic Club. My real issue with Tiger goes back to the beginning of April at the Master’s.

The Augusta National Golf Club, as has been thoroughly reported, still does not allow women to be members. With its quaint Southern beauty (each of the 18 holes taking the name of flowering tree), Augusta’s Masters Tournament is the belle of the ball when it comes to the four majors. They admitted black members for the first time in 1990. Yes, that is correct. 1990.

Tiger, as has been pointed out, had a black father who firmly nudged his son into the game of golf. His influence on Tiger is not a matter for debate. And though Tiger’s childhood environment was not in league with that of most black athletes, there is the undeniable fact that Tiger is not like most of his competitors. Tiger has done a remarkable job of making his race a non-issue on the PGA tour. Even with the occasional taunts—like those of former Masters champ, Fuzzy Zoeller—Woods has been steadfast in making the game his only focus (the last couple of years being a particular—and at times, albatross-like—burden on him for reasons that have been too enthusiastically covered by sports and mainstream media alike).

Yet, Tiger’s race is part of his identity. He can’t simply hide behind the legacy of Jim Dent. Most people wouldn’t even know who that is. Dent’s best finish in a major was 34^th at the PGA Championship. Jim Dent was not a threat to white dominance in the game of golf. In fact, he couldn’t even play in his hometown’s major tournament for most of his life^***.

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A new breed of hate has reared its ugly head in European football circles. Modest efforts to curb it can be seen in the Unite Against Racism signs along the midfield boards at Euro 2012. Hard economic times have been blamed for what many pass off as a mere pointed hooligany. I’m not sure what to make of it or what this says about the bubbling fires that always appear to be just under Europe’s surface. At least officials with some say have decided to act, if only in token gestures. Planting the seed of the correct message, to say the least, is better than burying your head in the sand trap.

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Tiger has mostly (I say mostly because I’m sure there are still off-color comments made in clubhouses and galleries across the country…most assuredly in Augusta) removed the race debate from the game, and with the persistent successes of Japanese, Korean, and Spanish players, the diversity issue—as far as ethnicity—only further continues to be laid to rest. Tiger could, should he choose, take one badly needed and completely justified stand against Augusta National and boycott one year’s play at the Masters unless women are permitted membership.

This is not a call for women to be a part of the Masters Tournament (Michelle Wie stay away…as far as I know, you’re still not very good at golf). But the exclusivity of Augusta National reeks so poorly of the old aristocratic South that I can’t help but hate the Masters more and more each year. And when I start thinking about the old South, I start thinking about oppression, which hearkens back to America’s sullied years; which calls to mind apartheid in South Africa; which suggests the ugliness of the clashes of the Irish Republican Army and Ulster Defence Force; then British rule over Fiji; exiles to Australia (only to then adversely affect the aborigines); and so on and so on.

Besides, in the rehabilitation of Tiger’s image—most notably in the eyes of women—this would do his legacy as much good as winning another major. But he refuses to be a lightning rod for any criticism, even if that criticism is rooted in horribly archaic worldviews.

Regrettably, none of the other golfers care to take on the issue either. Just like the balls they strike, they’re looking for the path of least resistance.

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Sometimes you have to consider the company you keep, and in terms of golf and soccer, if I’m to grab a couple of drinks in the clubhouse bar or the neighborhood pub, you can keep your Fresca. I’ll have me a pint of ale.

I may be the stereotypical American who prefers hockey, baseball, football and basketball, but there’s a certain ethos in soccer that I learn to respect more each year.

Golf remains a game for a different tax bracket.

*And what pretension that golfers have galleries, not crowds or audiences or fans, as though the spectators are attending a museum of moving sport.

** Good god, there is bad blood in that part of the world. There were even some German fans injured and/or arrested. This riot was just a quick French surrender away from being the biggest WWII reenactment ever.

*** Jim Dent was born in Augusta, Georgia.

-Kyle Wills