This Is American Soccer, US Soccer, MNT, WNT, and MLS - Tackling the subject of Soccer in the US, and worldwide.

Scene One

(The Field House at Chelsea Piers in lower Manhattan is to an athletic child as Wonka’s factory is to the holders of a golden ticket. The enormous building breaks down into four sections: gymnastics, indoor soccer, baseball batting and pitching cages, and basketball. The warehouse-meets-locker room is absent of nearly all decoration, save for some muted banners, schedules, and a dozen sugar-filed vending machines guaranteeing to refill any calories lost to exercise. Would-be gymnasts swing from bars and rings falling onto the quintessential blue of padded mats and pools of foam cubes. Young girls bounce from room to room in leotards in search of their parents. Teams of uniformed children populate the spectator holding pen outside the two plexi-glass and net-lined soccer fields waiting for their chance to take the field. They are the saplings to the tree trunks of the teenagers waiting on the batting cages and basketball courts. The words Chelsea Piers are written across the front of every soccer player’s jersey, except for one team. Arsenal is here in authentic glory, and the shimmering maroon jerseys stand out like a celebrity among the masses - as if Spike Lee or someone was here. And then in he walks with his son, Jackson).

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Still waiting on Germany, this is the hand we’re dealt: the Winter Olympics begin this week, MLS pre-season is here with a new team, and the World Baseball Classic is a month away. Thinking over the sports of the moment, I thought there might be something to say about Nationalism. I found myself meditating on the idea more since working with Mariana, our Argentinean brother who proved nationalism is what you make of it in our debut story for The Diary Project. He also proved it is a very personal thing (as did Alex Rogriguez, who wavered about which nation to play baseball for in the WBC). Throughout the sporting landscape, nationalism is never too far away, but is it ever too close?

“where have you gone Joe Dimaggio, a nation turns its lonely eyes to you.”
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Most of the e-mails I receive from people offer up their stories in hopes that I will write about them. I welcome this mail. As a writer, I am always searching for great stories, be it soccer or otherwise. And although I do receive a good amount of e-mails regarding the blog, it still amazes me that people are interested enough, if that is the right word, to take time to write just to say ‘thank you’ or ‘good work’ or ‘hello.’ A few weeks ago, a young man named Andrea Cantatore (or Dre) wrote me. His message was short and to the point. “I play soccer when I get a chance,” he wrote. “But it isn’t very often. I wanted to thank you for writing some good articles.” This in itself is not the reason I thought people might be interested in him. It was the only other sentence in his e-mail–the one I can not quote or paraphrase because of security risks–that engaged me to what might lie beyond his simple words. Click HERE for the full story…

Monday, October 3. My second King match. It’s been almost a week since I hopped on the bandwagon, and it still amazes me the machine of King Soccer. Everything, and I mean everything, is stacked against them. Jake was right. Winning is the easy part. Beyond the mountains of poverty, immigration, and language, there are also the hills they must climb that most kids (me) take (or took) for granted. For starters, try getting to a game. Click HERE for the full story…

$1.23. That is the amount of money Jake had to his name when he touched ground back in New York. If the plane had landed on Ellis Island, the analogy would not be any better. Here is a man whose journey has taken him to the depths of loss, depression and solitude. He drove a cab on Long Island while he fought through withdrawal. He bounced from odd job to odder job to slightly less odd job until he found the one place that might accept such a disgraceful failure. Martin Luther King Jr. High School.

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The building that is New York City’s Martin Luther King Jr. High School fits how the outside world views its occupants, fits the knees of the ML King Soccer team, fits the fields they play on. Scabs, the lot of them. Torn open with pain, healed, and torn again. The high culture and high polish of Lincoln Center looks down upon dirty windows and metal detectors whispering of hoodlum immigrants, gun shots and stabbings. Standing as a virtual prison yard, synthetic field turf berates nature behind a chain-link fence and locked gates where freedom is slashed along with the skin from a knee. This isn’t the norm for New York City Soccer, but it isn’t exactly odd either. What it is, is the story of the most prolific soccer program in the nation.

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