A Journey to the Offside

My family were sports fans with a soft spot for the underdog. Dad loved the Chicago Cubs and the Cincinnati Bengals, though I’m not sure he made it to either of those cities for a game. He was waiting for a good comeback story, holding tight to a sinking ship. It’s a small mercy that he died loving his “Cubbies” before their losing streak ended, or he would have had to switch teams. Mom on the hand, was fiercely loyal to the NY Giants. Every Sunday game was another opportunity to root against each other, as was their jam.

The story that sports was spinning, with its statistics and manufactured heartbreak was out of my league. I preferred games with fewer players, where I could rely on myself to lose. Like gymnastics. Or tennis. Or make up. 

I’d heard of soccer somewhere but had never seen it played until the Columbians made an ad hoc field in the corner of our party park, right next to the cemetery. As the sun was setting and my delinquent friends were setting up shop, they came out as families or friends, with food and balls and laughter and passionate competition. We stayed on our side of the park, and they on theirs. I didn’t see anyone harass them, but back then I had shitty eyesight about those things, as so many of us did.

Beyond that, I didn’t give soccer much thought, nor did the people I know. I met my husband and took it as a positive that he was more interested in the refreshments being served than the game being played. He started a half hearted reading up on teams to talk to my parents about, but they were too busy being disappointed in their respective seasons to notice. 

It was 1995. I had three years, an Olympics, and a wedding to go through before I found out the truth. He might not be into sports, but the World Cup was a competition he wouldn’t miss.

During that initial tournament round, when all the teams were playing, my husband talked angles and blockages, the quality of the pitch and the righteousness of the refs.  He insisted shots made on goal had real world implications. Fine by me, but there was so much time where they kicked up the field only to chase the deflection back, in hopes of an impossible moment. Sometimes they would make it into the goal and the ref would take it away. Offside, they called—striking the goal without having a defender already there. Though he explained it patiently, it made as little sense to me as the current state of humanity does. After all, the first one in, wins. Right? Not always.

There were 32 nations to root against—teams, I mean. Some were countries I’d embarrassingly never heard of. The arc of the player’s stories intrigued me but not their stats--one more equation I was never going to master. And no matter what anyone says, the offside rule is as arbitrary as any goalie’s save. 

I listened around the periphery while I had my face in a book, only looking up when the crowd cheered, in time to see someone miss. Soccer is lousy with these poignant, heart-stopping shots that wind up with shrugs or offside in the end. I offered my husband chips and dip in lieu of interest as we rounded into the quarterfinals. 

My son came in time to watch the Germany World Cup in 2006, a thumb in his mouth and a map in his hand. I was happy my husband found a fellow fan, though he was more interested in his map and the chips, at first. He at least pretended to understand offsides.

The details of gameplay have gone the way of so many unimportant memories, but I do recall having long conversations with my kids about how Zidane’s head butt and Suarez’ notorious, game winning hand ball were no way to win a contest. Skill and sportsmanship will take you farther than a pile of yellow cards, I told them. I really hope I’m right about that.

We all watched South Africa, while my son asked questions and cheered louder than anyone—one of my favorites of his qualities. Together, we imitated that obnoxious but so fun, vuvuzela, elephant calling our way through the games. We followed the action closely, and I began to appreciate the fundamentals, even the geography. Our knowledge base consists mostly of places with sports teams. Or family. 

One World Cup we were in Europe and it confused me. The entire continent stood on the sidelines cheering. There was no pub, souvenir, cafe, street corner where they weren’t watching or chanting, amiable but drunkenly stumbling through their days to the next game. It was a phenomenon akin to the Super Bowl. Or Christmas. Only it went on the entire length of weeks of the World Cup. Maybe they were onto something I was missing? 

My boys took to playing soccer, which I agreed to because of its relatively containable amount of equipment, and the lack of concussions, which turned out to be in my imagination only. You can’t slam your forehead into a ball at full speed and expect not to shake things up.

I braved these games, becoming friends with many of the parents, as we either froze or sweated our way through often painful halves. We grew from bringing juice boxes and fruit gummies to huge bottles of gatorade and whole pizzas. Our boys aged up and we watched them become a team and study the offside rule together. They honed their skills and evolved into valuable players.

Soccer parents can be an intensely loud and questioning bunch, claiming the refs were often on the side of any opposing team, yelling at coaches and our kids alike. An uncalled foul was a bribe or vendetta against the next town over. Still, these same parents rallied around every player, holding a space for a wacky liberal mom like me who cheered when any team scored. Even when it was offside.

My son’s Bar Mitzvah coincided with the World Cup in Brazil in 2014 and a talented friend put together a room he absolutely loved. Each table was its own country. A theme with which to mark milestones.

I barely remember Russia, but I watched at a friend’s house, their wide screen punctuated by cheers coming from the kids hanging out in the basement. I apologize to the poor fans trying to watch while the rest of us snacked and chatted.

I’d preferred the drama of the Olympics, thinking I was above the long game. My father was right. While the commercial free half was hard on the players, it wasn’t that easy on the bathroom or kitchen goers either.

My sons patiently listened as I became enraged over vindictive A team players, and rooted for countries with the lowest GDP. I enjoyed the rags to riches stories. I boiled in outrage over corruption where the host country pays off everyone, shoving this year’s contest in a homophobic oven, while we watch in stadiums built on the bodies of forced migrant laborers. So many, myself included, can’t resist the lure of watching the pyramids go up in realtime. 

We are sleeping on this grand opera where, unlike the Olympics, you don’t need to study the rules of every obscure sport—like synchronized swimming and the ever illusive equestrian dressage. Soccer is simple.  If you don’t count offside, anyway. 

It took twenty-something years, but I am riveted. This time the boys were away at school and we took to a wider family group chat. I complained about stoppage time. I railed against goal differentials, and was heartbroken over penalty kicks like a true baller. During a few of the elimination games, my husband had to tell me he was at work and muting the chat. The boys were both in class. 

I wonder what my parents would think? Me on a couch in the middle of the day, glued to the World Cup and rooting for the countries I think have the best human rights records, having inherited their love of the least likely win.

I’ve heard that more Americans watch now than they did when I got on board, and it makes me feel better that most of them won’t know a rightful red card from an onside goal either. 

In 2026 it’s right here in the U.S. Until then, here’s to the beautiful game!