The Life in My Years

. . . because up until play started I had an entire roster of reasons for not watching.

And some of those reasons still exist. Where to start? Where to start?

Okay, let’s begin with FIFA (Fédération Internationale de Football Association) corruption. Taylor Sheridan could probably write a ten season drama series based on FIFA corruption and still feed another decade’s worth into the shredder.

The corruption was always a poorly guarded secret, not unlike the married (not to each other) coworkers who disappear into the janitor’s closet to scour for furniture cleaner and then emerge fifteen minutes later combing disheveled hair and smoothing down clothing.

In 2015, various FIFA officials were indicted and arrested for bribery, fraud and money laundering.

In 2018 I skipped the World Cup because it was being held in the rogue state of Russia. Turns out that Russia bribed FIFA for the rights to host the Cup. Why else would Vladimir Putin be gifted with the global celebration of the world’s most popular sport

I skipped 2022 because human rights violator Qatar (a nation with zero soccer tradition) was hosting the World Cup. Not only did Qatar grease FIFA palms in order to be awarded the tournament, there were credible allegations of abuse of the migrant workers who were constructing the facilities. Reports ranged from workers having to live in wretched conditions, to having to pay unfair recruitment fees, to having their passports confiscated. While Qatar reported 37 World Cup construction related deaths, The Guardian reported over 6000 deaths.

So after FIFA fought the law and the law won, why was I still ready to skip the World Cup this year?

After missing to World Cup competitions I really was all set to make nice with FIFA, as if FIFA really cares, and watch the Cup. After all it was coming to America.

I’m under no illusion that FIFA had a ‘come to Jesus’ moment and became free of malfeasance. After the hammer came down hard in 2015 I’m guessing that the rich old bastards are still shady only they’re being more circumspect, and have toned the fishy buisness down from the previous levels that made Al Capone look like Diogenes.

Honestly, I had come to the mindset that, ‘you can’t boycott everything.’ I have to choose the hills I’m going to die on because if I give up everything that I’m told is evil, corrupt, tainted or immoral then I might just as well move to a monastery. So yeah, I was guilty of caving in. Slap on the cuffs and perp walk me to capitulator’s prison with all the other weak-kneed.

And then came

Donald John Trump –

again.

The Zen master of malfeasance; the guru of grift. The guy who could teach FIFA a thing or twenty-two about corruption. The man who holds the title of worst person in America and is a strong contender for the world title. This was the guy who would get to host the prestigious World Cup? Well, let’s just give Rasputin the keys to the convent.

In January of 2025, as Trump took the helm of the ship of state and aimed it towards the nearest iceberg, shouting, “all ahead full,” it dawned on me just what this cretin would get to preside over; the World Cup, America’s 250th birthday, and the Summer Olympics of 2028.

In the days immediately following Trump’s inauguration, I was both disgusted and disheartened by the realization that fate had gifted this swindler with a trifecta of momentous events. I was starting to waiver. Maybe I’ll miss yet another World Cup. Or maybe I’ll just hold my nose and capitulate.

That was all before the reign of terror. Before tariffs, before Greenland, Venezuela, Cuba, and Canada as a 51st state; before he turned Stephen Miller loose, before ICE and deportations, before Renee Good and Alex Pretti, before Iran, and before Trump turned America into a global pariah.

As 2025 was coming to an end, I was hoping that FIFA would yank the World Cup away from the U.S. and turn the the whole thing over to the other co-hosting nations; Canada and Mexico. That hope was dashed when FIFA President Gianni Infantino joined the legion of grovelers to Trump by presenting him with a phony award; what Infantino called, the inaugural “FIFA Peace Prize – Football Unites the World.” The “award” was presented despite the protestations of Norwegian Football Federation president Lise Klaveness, who said that the prize violates FIFA’s political neutrality rule.

And then came the threats from the Department of Homeland Security that Trump’s new personal state police force, ICE and the Border Patrol, would be stationed at World Cup venues (but probably not at games featuring, you know, Norway against Germany).

Meanwhile, FIFA just couldn’t resist giving itself bad press by setting stratospheric ticket prices for the so-called peoples game that the people couldn’t afford.

It had all the ingredients for disaster. It was back to, fuck the World Cup.

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And then . . .

I was ambushed by highlights of the first game in Mexico City. I didn’t have to look at anything that was happening on the pitch to get hooked. All it took was a few minutes of watching the joy and exuberance of the crowd.

There is nothing quite like an international soccer crowd. Twice, I’ve watched games in Europe; once in Milan to see Inter, and once in Paris to see PSG. Fans in NFL cities like to tout their home crowds but compared to soccer crowds, NFL fans are not unlike a president dozing off in a cabinet meeting.

And then . . .

I watched what was happening on the field and I was reminded why I have come to appreciate and embrace the sport; the artistry, the stamina, the skill, the overall athleticism, and the drama. I never appreciated the speed of the game until we sat in some very good seats in Paris.

In the run up to the U.S. hosting the World Cup I feared an unfriendly America. And while that might be true of a government that overflows with nationalist, and racist zealotry, there have been enough feel good stories to make me feel that maybe America isn’t a total loss – yet.

Who knew that Lawrence, Kansas would develop a love affair with the Algerian Soccer Team?

Who figured that international fans would make Waffle House a foodie destination?

It became national news when visiting Scots (the Tartan Army) drank Boston dry of beer. In order to accommodate fans and pubs Massachusetts Gov. Maura Healey signed a bill extending the alcohol service hours from 2 AM to 3 AM. Drink up, Mass.

Not satisfied with soccer and Boston’s bars, the Tartan Army invaded a baseball game at Fenway where bagpipe music broke out and soccer culture melded with baseball culture prompting commentators to lament the departure of the Scots.

Norwegian fans went viral for performing something called the ‘Viking row’ in Times Square.

America has been embracing all of that multi-cultural shit that J.D. Vance has been saying will bring down civilization as we know it. It brings a smile to think that Vance, and Markwayne Mullin, and Greg Bovino are hating it all.

This is what America is supposed to be about; a melding of cultures. Not just for a month but for always. It’s what that poem on the Statue of Liberty is all about. And yet somehow we’ve allowed knaves like Donald Trump, and J.D. Vance and Stephen Miller to snatch it away and crush it. It’s probably too much to hope that this spurt of international, multi-cultural joy will inspire Americans to, in essence, tell our alt-right leaders to bugger off.

The World Cup arrived just in time to save my sports summer that the San Francisco Giants have tried to ruin. I’m done with the team, at least for this season. Not because the team is awful. Not because pitchers are hitting batters with an 0 – 2 count against them. Not because batters who are being paid tens of millions to hit a baseball might want to consider pickleball rackets so they can actually make contact with the ball. Not because baserunners are making gaffes that an eight year old Little League player wouldn’t make. And not because the bullpen pitchers who are supposed to put out fires are pouring jet fuel on them.

No, I’m done with the Giants because on a recent night, Pride Night, when the team and the stadium was supposed to provide a show of support for a community that is more and more being marginalized, three Giants pitchers couldn’t set their religious fervor aside. They decided to be dividers and write Bible verses on their caps near their Pride Night caps.

As a planned protest.

In San Francisco of all places. Geeze guys, read the fucking room.

And to make matters worse, the Giants management has managed to mismanage the fallout. In San Francisco of all places.

So yeah, I’m watching the World Cup from the first game in the morning to the last game at night. I’m just hoping that Trump will keep busy with uglifying the Oval Office, fumbling the Reflecting Pool, and posting inanities on Truth Social and just stay away from the World Cup. I know it’s a big ask, given the fact that he managed to ruin a perfectly servicable basketball game by attending it. He’ll probably demand to hand out the trophy, which he’ll demand to be renamed the Donald J. Trump World Cup Trophy to the winning team.

Just stay away Donnie. It’s not UFC or NASCAR. Nobody wants you there.

Oh, and you know what else I like about the World Cup? Those electronic annimated barriers around the field.

Cover photo: Courtesy Pexels-RushiPatel