Advertisements
Home

Anderson Stadium at Providence College: New England Revolution-Rochester Raging Rhinos (3-0)

Leave a comment

Almost a month ago I attended a U.S. Open Cup match at Providence College’s Anderson Stadium between the MLS’ New England Revolution and the second-tier USL’s Rochester Raging Rhinos. Among the almost two thousand spectators cramming a college stadium on an early summer afternoon I could not help but realize that—in some small way—this match served as an allegory for wider U.S. society amidst its current polarization. It was a David Vs. Goliath match, with a much richer MLS side facing off against a second division opponent (realistically, the outcome was never in doubt). Since the result was so predictable, I turned my attention to the fans—the most sociological aspect of a soccer match.

 

IMG-20170615-WA0007.jpg

IMG-20170615-WA0005.jpg

Early Summer In Providence. Images Courtesy Of M.L.

 

The U.S. Open Cup is one of the most storied cup competitions in the world, even if it takes place in a country that does not value football. This year there have even been a few Cinderella stories, like the amateur side Christos FC. Given the history of this cup competition, one that is over one hundred years old, the fans had come out in full force for one of the few matches that the New England Revolution have ever played in Providence, Rhode Island.

The “hardcore” fans, on the other side of the field from where I stood, were vocal in their support while also advertising their increased politicization (a subject I have written about in the past). Some fans were waving a rainbow variation of the “Flag of New England”, an interesting meshing of Revolutionary War America and current LGBT movements, while on my side a priest (likely from the Catholic Providence College) was taking in the match. In that moment, I wondered if the LGBT activist/fans on the other side of the field—and the Catholic priest on my side—had ever had a conversation with one another. The likely answer is that they have not, and that the two should watch the match from opposite sidelines was an allegory for some of the issues we see these days in the polarized climate of the United States. If people holding opposing points of view do not even speak with one another, then how can they empathize with one another?

 

IMG-20170615-WA0000.jpg

IMG-20170615-WA0013.jpg

Soccer Brings All Walks Of Life Together. Images Courtesy Of M.L.

 

This lack of communication, of course, is not specific to the United States; it exists throughout the global “West”. We believe in the myth of globalization bringing us closer together by cutting down the cost and time of communication; in reality society is just as fragmented as ever—people at a dinner table prefer interacting with their phones to interacting with their fellow diners. In Europe—and to an extent in the United States—the idea is that “pluralism” will bring a more diverse society and thus bring us closer together. This myth has been debunked by the ghettoization of non-whites in the United States and Muslims in Europe; just because “different” people are made to live in separate areas does not make a society more “diverse”, it just means that the disparate parts of society are not actually talking to one another; they are in fact drifting apart, rather than coming together.

This kind of situation—where communication between different social groups is discouraged—fosters a society where individuals are not able to make the connection between personal troubles and societal issues that C. Wright Mills once explained. The only way to make such sociological connections is through communication, something that is sorely lacking in the technocratic world of the modern-day West. As I watched the sunset over Providence behind one of the goals I thought about something my dentist had told me, when I said I was studying Turkish soccer: she asked me if “I was afraid to go there because it is dangerous”…clearly, she had not communicated with anyone from outside of her bubble. It is not, of course, completely her fault. But it is a characteristic of the individualistic society that has taken root in Western cultures.

 

IMG-20170615-WA0016.jpg

Sunset Over Providence. Image Courtesy Of M.L.

 

In order to actually get to know others, we must—as I have argued before—first travel. Former U.S. goalkeeper Brad Friedel makes some great points along these lines in an article he wrote for The Players’ Tribune, when he describes playing for Galatasaray in Istanbul (I have bolded the pertinent parts):

 

For one thing, on the pitch it was just an incredible game. It was quick and intense and it pushed me as a keeper. We won the Turkish Cup that year and qualified for Champions League. Off the field, it was absolutely phenomenal. For a kid from Bay Village, Ohio, to go and live in a Muslim country was an eye-opening experience.

 Which brings me to the sheep.

 We were walking to a game right after Ramadan was over, and the fans were holding a sheep. On a list of things you don’t expect to see on the soccer grounds, I’m pretty sure a live sheep would be somewhere near the top, but there it was. I had no idea what was about to happen, while the rest of my teammates couldn’t have been less fazed. There was a lot of yelling and then the fans just slit the sheep’s throat — right there in front of us. Blood everywhere. They dipped their hands in it, and swiped it on their forehead as a sign of good luck. Then they asked us to do the same.

 This wasn’t something that most Americans would consider normal, but it was absolutely brilliant to be a part of. I had teammates who, during Ramadan, had to fast during daylight hours even as professional athletes. We’d be at training and a call to prayer would go off and certain players who were very religious would stop their training, go pray and come back to the pitch. Once you learn that that’s how things work, it’s not a big deal, but in the U.S. you can go through your whole life in a little bubble. But when you live in these places, you find out that these people are very good human beings. It was incredible. It was understanding other cultures. It was a phenomenal thing to see.

 

Friedel goes on to explain, “I had two choices: Learn Turkish or don’t understand a word that anybody was saying. So three days a week, I took Turkish lessons”. Mr. Friedel should be commended for his willingness to communicate with—and assimilate into—a culture that was so different than his own. It is a lesson that all of us—whether football fans or not—would do well to heed. There are a lot of perspectives out there, the only way we can begin to understand them is by communicating with those who we might—at first—not think we have anything in common with.

 

GettyImages-234077a.jpg

Brad Friedel Appearing for the United States National Team. Image Courtesy Of: https://www.theplayerstribune.com/2016-6-26-brad-friedel-soccer-copa-america/

 

s-7c97a1a9b11178324c081910f363f3660f544ac6.jpg

Brad Friedel (R) In Turkey (Please Note the Classic Adidas Shirt Designs). Image Courtesy Of: https://onedio.com/haber/galatasaraylilarin-duygulanarak-bakacagi-nostalji-goruntuler-512738
Advertisements

The Pawtucket Red Sox: Baseball, The United States, and Globalization in 2017 at McCoy Stadium

Leave a comment

 

 

A few days ago I went to a baseball game with my little brother in the Pawtucket Rhode Island, a city that could be characterized as epitomizing the pitfalls of globalization and representing post-industrial revolution America. Author Dan Barry’s interesting account of the Pawtucket Red Sox baseball team, Bottom of the 33rd: Hope, Redemption, and Baseball’s Longest Game, shows what baseball means to this depressed post-industrial town. It also shows what sport can mean to a struggling community. Although I had read the book years ago, it echoed in my mind as I sat in the seats of aging McCoy stadium with my brother, taking in a typically American sporting event in the early days of summer.

Schools were passing the time before the end of the school year by giving the kids a de facto day off by taking a field trip to the ball park; the voices of children melded together and created such a buzzing sound that my brother and I referred to them as “bees”. Later I learned that it was “kids and seniors day”, an odd combination but it made sense when my brother (himself only fifteen) pointed out that “people walk slow when they are young,” pointing to a small child negotiating the stadium steps with his father, “and they also walk slow when they are old,” no doubt referring to our father. Indeed, it is the circular nature of life that my brother—perhaps unwittingly—uncovered on this afternoon.

The afternoon consisted of a double header, two seven inning games. The first game is spent behind home plate, “the best seats in the house” as my brother said. I couldn’t help but notice that the majority of (empty) seats around us were those reserved for corporations. It was normal for them to be empty for a game with an 11 am start time, after all the owners of said seats were busy at work making the money to afford those seats. It was also an example of industrial sports at their finest, the best views go to those with the most money. The rich get richer (financially and culturally) while the rest…well, you know how the story goes.

 

20170607_130639.jpg

Behind the Plate, Welcome To Pawtucket. Image Courtesy of the Author.

 

The first game ends with a victory for the home team as my brother and I head over to Papa Gino’s for a pizza, waiting out the twenty-minute break between games. As we wait we watch a a controversy over payment: did the woman in question pay or did she not? It is a meaningless discussion since life will go on, it is—after all—an overpriced cheese pizza that is in question. Perhaps those working could have kept track of things, but that is beyond my purview. Maybe they’ll just build some more security cameras in the future in order to ensure payment (and ensure our surveillance as well in the process).

As the second game starts we are sitting on the grassy berm in the outfield, behind the left field wall. The stadium is now empty, as both the school children and the elderly have left. This, I think to myself, is the essence of both baseball and America: the ball hitting leather, the crack of the bat, and the sun on your face. It brings you back to a simpler time…it is a time, judging by the empty stadium, that no one wants to remember. Perhaps a double header is too much; people have more important things to attend to…people must get on with their days and engage in the other American national pastime: shopping.

 

20170607_141518.jpg

An Empty Stadium But An Amazing Day. Image Courtesy of the Author.

 

The mascots come out to amuse the few fans that are left by throwing cheap plastic balls into the stands. My brother and I each catch an oversized plastic ball, sponsored by Wendy’s, and toss it around for a few minutes. I watch a young boy and girl, probably eight or nine years old, play with the same plastic ball which they had caught. It was shades of Jack and Diane, harkening back to a time when a plastic ball could amuse as much as an iphone. It reminded me of my own obsession with plastic footballs in Turkey as a kid, as Bryce Brentz heads to the plate to the tune of country music completing the theme of Americana.

The crack of the bat turns my attention back to the game It’s a line drive foul and the visiting team’s left fielder tosses the ball into the bullpen, and the bullpen pitcher tosses it up to us. My brother fields the ball and tosses it over to me, completing a different type of life cycle. I examine the Rawlings ball—the writing half smeared by the spot where the bat made contact. “Official International League Ball”. I feel the seams and turn it around in my hand. “Made in China”. I look at the plastic Wendy’s ball . . . “Made in China”.  I yell over to my brother: “Hey-the official game ball—and the fake ball—are both made in China. This is absurd!”

 

20170607_152556.jpg

20170607_152622.jpg

Made In China. Images Courtesy of the Author.

 

At that the young kid—of Jack and Diane fame—asks to no one in particular (even though Diane is standing next to him) “Why is everything made in China?”. When even a nine-year old can ask the questions politicians can’t ask, you know we live in an absurd world. At least—in this classic American scene on an early summer’s day in the post-industrial Northeast—the home team won both games of the double header.

Memorial Day 2015: Boom Towns, Re-Building Towns, and Ghost Towns BONUS: Austin Aztex Home Shirt 2010

2 Comments

The Boom Town

Driving into Austin at 10 pm on a Monday night you see lights, lots of lights. They could almost stun you, the driver, who was all but lulled to sleep for over 150 miles on the smooth pitch-black roadway from Houston. But the speed limit was raised from 70 to 75. So that is a plus. In between the neon signs advertising Target, HEB, Super 8 Motel, and Fiesta you head down I-35 as the lights of downtown Austin almost overpower the highway, the cranes that dot the horizon distract you and take your eyes off the road for a few seconds. The small town has become a metropolis overnight, or so it seems.

Austin, Texas, America (as 98.1 KVET says) is indeed America’s fastest growing city—it experienced 12 percent growth from 2010-2013. They say 110 people are moving to Austin every day. But that migration isn’t necessarily positive, as a 2014 Austin American Stateman article explains. Many smaller homes are being demolished to make way for high-end luxury condos, the kind of gentrification—exacerbating the wage gap—that has made people around the United States and the world disgruntled. On the surface, it all makes sense:

“For the sellers, many of whom raised their families in the homes, the demand for lots in their neighborhoods offers an opportunity to cash out at a price that can exceed the value of their property. For the buyers, it’s a chance to live in a central area, near shopping, dining and entertainment, while avoiding the headaches that can come with an older home.”

But some residents quoted in the article beg to differ. Mark Rogers, who holds a PhD in art history from UT Austin and has lived in east Austin for 30 years, says that “It’s kind of like losing memory through the loss of structures…That’s what architecture does – it connects you to your memories and your experiences, and when you have so much change that a whole neighborhood and eventually a city changes, we kind of have collective Alzheimer’s.” Resident Mary Standifer adds “there is a sense that people are gutting the neighborhood, not blending with it or becoming part of it. You want people to move here because they want to join in your neighborhood, not because they want to reinvent it.” Austin developer Ed Wendel went so far as to warn “We are hollowing the middle class out of Austin.” Just like industrial football has pushed the original fans away from the game, so too has gentrification pushed the original residents out of a formerly sleepy city in central Texas that is now home to a Formula One race.

The next morning you wake up road wary and want breakfast tacos. The same 85 cent breakfast tacos you ate so often as a student in a stiflingly hot room, under the sign that read

“The heat you feel / waiting for your meal

is a small price / so maybe think twice

The cost to keep you cool / would be passed on to you

so please refrain / to complain / about no air conditioning”

You want those tacos that filled you up for three dollars and change. But the Tamale House—the one you had discovered long before it was featured in the New York Times— no longer exists. It closed after the owner’s death, may he rest in peace. The neighborhood isn’t even the same anymore. The seedy old service station down the road has become a shiny new In-N-Out Burger, advertising jobs for 10.25 an hour and attracting clientele among Austin’s newest residents from California.

But that isn’t all that’s gone from Austin. A cursory look around will tell you that. The great Omlettry building with its mural is slated for destruction. Fran’s Hamburgers, which you once tasted out of pure curiosity, is gone only to make way for that mass-produced (yet “local”) taco chain Torchy’s. Austin Eater has a long list of other Austin dining institutions that are being cleared out in order to make way for shiny new restaurants; even one former Tex-Mex place is becoming (again) luxury apartments. You can only suppose that rents are getting harder to afford…or maybe it is just greed, a desire to “cash-out” while the getting is good.

292847_440782549291820_2052494933_n.0.0

Image Courtesy Of: http://austin.eater.com/2015/5/18/8621885/the-omelettry-s-iconic-burnet-building-will-be-demolished-next-week

Screen_Shot_2015-01-22_at_9.15.05_AM.0.0

Image Courtesy Of: http://austin.eater.com/2015/1/22/7871571/check-out-the-destruction-of-old-fran-s-hamburgers

So that is the boom-town of Austin, Texas, America. You leave more than a little disappointed. You’ve spent three years of your life here but it feels as if those that moved here last week feel more at home in the city than you do. But you comfort yourself with a visit to the old House Park and the old Austin Aztex jersey you own—the one that moved to Orlando and became MLS’ Orlando City FC. Who knows how much longer House Park will house a team, given the recent flooding…then again, cities can recover from floods.

CF6D5HFUsAA3isS

Image Courtesy Of: https://twitter.com/Crysta_Lee/status/603064428251086848/photo/1

20150519_143257 20150519_143346

20150527_222201 20150527_222235

The Re-Building Town

You walk down Tulane Avenue, the terminus (or beginning, depending on how you look at it) of Bob Dylan’s Highway 61. Looking around tells you that New Orleans is a seedy place. Young men staggering around in wife beaters on the second floor balconies of cheap motels stop to stare at you, the newcomer who is so conspicuously out of place. You look away, focusing on the cracks of the uneven sidewalks trying not to fall on your face. One intersection reminds you of an eastern European city, the lush green park in the median dominated by the statue of a hero from a bygone era—in this case it is Jefferson Davis.

20150521_122021

Underneath the I-10 underpass is an above ground cemetery, one that survived the horrors of Katrina when the flood waters came through. Across the street is an abandoned University of New Orleans building, graffiti covering those areas a person can reach. Soon the seediness gives way to debauchery. Blonde girls taking part in bachelorette parties sport t-shirts reading “that’s what she said” while drinking grenades, young men on the prowl wearing identical button downs are drinking Bud Lights, while older couples take in the scene while sipping cocktails. It seems as if everyone from 20 to 60 is strolling down Bourbon Street in an alcohol-fueled haze. Its on the parallel side streets of the iconic French quarter where you really get a feel for this unique American city that feels more like Europe, the French architecture and overhanging balconies provide you with endless stimulation as long as you don’t step in the puddles of vomit when distracted. Its only ten o’clock but the night is just getting started.

20150523_123058 20150523_144436 20150521_131829

It is nice to get out of the touristic quarters and spend some time in other areas of the city. You visit the Southern Art Museum and take in some “culture” all the while ignoring the two girls who stumble up the stairs with drinks in hand. Classy is all that you can think. After that you head to the Louisiana Superdome, the massive American football stadium that housed survivors during Katrina. The roads that were flooded then have since been rebuilt, leaving no traces of the destruction. Walking along the historic tram line (which also reminds you of eastern Europe) on Saint Charles Avenue you head towards Tulane University, the wide green boulevard tells you that this is a more affluent side of the city. Its seediness remains where empty Budweiser bottles lie in the gutter but its nothing you can’t get over. The kind owners of the Blind Pelican even offer you a signed shirt, there you learn that New Orleans is back among the fifty largest U.S. cities for the first time since hurricane Katrina. So it is possible for cities to come back from the worst of disasters. It doesn’t surprise you; the city has a unique charm to it despite everything.

20150522_152306 20150522_152720

 

image818006

Image Courtesy Of: http://www.cbsnews.com/pictures/hurricane-katrina-superdome/

 

The Ghost Town

Just off I-40 near Hickory North Carolina exists a peculiar site on the side of a two lane back road—a small village that has become a ghost town. Henry River Mill Village was once a small textile village before the mill closed, now it is up for sale for over 1 million dollars. Ashes to ashes and dust to dust, you think, and indeed everything is cyclical. The boom comes, the bust comes, and then the rebuilding comes. If Austin is at the height of its cycle and New Orleans is trying to come around, then the crumbling houses of Henry River Mill Village are at the bottom of their cycle, burst by the industrial revolution, but they might cost someone a pretty penny someday. You can’t help but laugh at the absurdity of a ghost town being resuscitated by Hollywood but then again, this is America. Everything can happen. Your mind spins as you walk along between the shattered houses, but you can’t feel the shattered dreams in this atmosphere. It is the golden hour just before sunset on a late Spring day and the chirping of birds is all you hear, dotted by the occasional sounds of a passing car. You want to lie down on the grass and take it all in. But you don’t. You need to keep moving. You head back to your car parked in front of the abandoned company store that advertises pastries from another time.

20150524_194744 20150524_194634 20150524_194346 20150524_195133 20150524_194410 20150524_193741 20150524_193932 20150524_195644 20150524_193500

All These Roads That Lead to Nowhere in Particular

You’ve been driving for 12 days and over 4000 miles. You only have about 500 left and you want to go for a walk. You need to stretch those legs. Ahead of you, on pavement dotted by sprouts of grass, you read “This way to Hell”. You snicker, even if you are sure that someone, somewhere, thinks Hell is in Pennsylvania. “Death Ahead. Turn Back”. “Yeah, ok,” you think, looking at a lone cross sticking in the grass as if for guidance. The birds are chirping, the sun beats down, and there is no one in sight. There are no cars to hear. On either side of you trees reach to the heavens along the highway to Hell. Besides the birds, all you can hear is your Nikes beating against the crumbling pavement. You walk the (dotted) line like Johnny Cash. Its like a death march, one and half miles in a straight line under the sun. You shouldn’t have worn a dark blue shirt. But you did. Then you see what you wanted to see. No, it is not the “Hail Satan” poking through the bushes. It is the wide black expanse cut into the mountainside, Rays Hill Tunnel, where scenes from the movie adaptation of Cormac McCarthy’s great novel The Road was filmed.

20150525_115702 20150525_120324 20150525_120341 20150525_120956 20150525_121201 20150525_115813 20150525_121555

Some portions, like the tunnel operator’s room, feel like they are straight out of a horror film. Other portions, like the walls, are dotted with graffiti. Some are eulogies to lost love, most are so vulgur they make you almost ashamed to be reading them. But you do, as you feel the cool moist air of the tunnel fall all around you. But you can’t relax here. The feeling is too odd, too uncomfortable, too chilling. That feeling might be called reality: The reality that nothing is permanent, not nature (this was, after all, an unspoiled mountain side before the Pennsylvania turnpike) and not any man made structure (nature is slowly reclaiming what was taken from it, busting through the concrete). So while we build cities by destroying what we built as in Austin or build cities in the wake of nature’s wrath as in New Orleans it is important to recognize that none of it is permanent. We are all temporary in the histories of our cities, of our countries, and of our world.

20150525_121637 20150525_121721 20150525_121730 20150525_121801 20150525_121813 20150525_121824 20150525_121906 20150525_121914

Before the Graffiti:

abandonedTPK6 abandonedTPK5

Images Courtesy of: http://www.briantroutman.com/highways/abandonedpaturnpike/

 

So, on Memorial Day Weekend, I urge readers in the United States to celebrate the beginning of summer and remember the fallen soldiers who sacrificed their lives for the United States of America so that we may live in this country, an ever-changing country full of all kinds of cities and towns. To readers outside of the U.S., I urge you to celebrate the beginning of summer and get out and explore lesser-known parts of your countries–you never know what might be out there.

Happy Memorial Day and Have a Great Summer!

 

NOTE: All Images Property of the Author (thisisfootballislife.wordpress.com) Unless Otherwise Stated.

Gillette Stadium, Foxborough, MA, USA: New England Revolution-Houston Dynamo (2-0) Matchday

1 Comment

A few shots of the New England Revolution-Houston Dynamo match at Gillette Stadium in Foxborough, Massachusetts. The stadium’s capacity is 67,756 for American football and 20,000 for soccer (or just football). The stadium itself is easy to access, half-way between Providence, RI and Boston, MA, and as a bonus parking is free for soccer games. The write up for the match is here.

 

20140412_170028 20140412_170701 20140412_170900 20140412_170902 20140412_170905 20140412_171024 20140412_171037 20140412_173910 20140412_174455 20140412_175656 20140412_175912 20140412_181412 20140412_183545 20140412_185859 20140412_185902 20140412_190218 20140412_190329 20140412_190352 20140412_190515 20140412_191932

University of Tennessee at Chattanooga’s Finley Stadium Davenport Field, Chattanooga, TN, USA – FC Chattanooga

1 Comment

I visited Chattanooga, Tennessee in May to see an old friend. During my time there I was in for two very pleasant surprises. The first—and what makes this post relevant to this blog—was that Chattanooga is home to a soccer team. The second—and what makes this post relevant to readers at large—is that Chattanooga is perhaps one of the most European cities in America.

The city is easily navigable by foot, is home to an amazing art museum, has a beautiful riverfront, has a number of great restaurants located in the down town area, and—yes, it is easily navigable by foot! This is Chattanooga’s greatest quality. I spent over five hours wandering the streets without a hint of boredom, ducking into the city’s small shops while feeling as if I were anywhere but the United States. The fact that there was a soccer stadium (the University of Tennessee at Chattanooga’s Finley Stadium Davenport Field) within walking distance of the downtown area was a bonus, the fact that I could not get a jersey was unfortunate. Luckily, the team sold a few of last season’s jerseys online later in the year, when I was able to procure one.

 

Chattanooga-20130531-01140

Chattanooga FC’s Home Stadium

Chattanooga-20130531-01121

The Beautiful Tennessee River

Chattanooga-20130531-01135

 

A Beautiful Old Railway Bridge Converted into a Pedestrian Bridge