I hate soccer.

There, I said it. No remorse. No shame, and actually it feels quite liberating. Saying you hate soccer is almost as politically incorrect these days as saying you think people migrating to America ought to enter the country legally; or that one of the most noble purposes bovines serve is being slow roasted to medium rare and served with a large baked potato. Seems like there has been such a push over the past few years for good ol’ red-blooded, American sports fans to become more tolerant of a game that requires incredible skill, yet features world class whiners.

And therein lies the contempt I have for the sport. Just when I’m seduced by the exploits of Wayne Rooney and actually endure a full 90 minutes of a Premier League game, or find myself talking to my neighbor about the nuances of Manchester United vs. Manchester City, the World Cup came around and reminded me all over again that I hate soccer.

It’s the floppers, whiners and drama queen prima donnas that for me so totally hijack any ounce of interest I may have been lured to invest. I scream at the television, things like, “get up you sissy;” or, “real men don’t get hurt by imaginary people,” or, “Even Reese Witherspoon can act better than that” (albeit not by much).

“It’s part of the game,” I’ve been told by many an aficionado with an international perspective. However, I am certain these same fanatical groupies would see Mike Tyson biting off Evander Holyfield’s ear as part of boxing. “Hey, hey!,” an offended and snobbish soccer fan may retort. “Not the same. Biting is cheating.” Well, I see flopping and diving as cheating. It totally undermines the spirit of competition at the least and at worst – which it usually is – manipulates the rules of the game to seize an unfair advantage. That’s cheating, and I hate it.

Makes me wonder where along the way these stars picked up this dastardly flopping habit. I’ve helped coach four-year-old girls soccer at the Y and it never crossed the minds of our girls to act like, well, four-year old girls. They were too busy talking with friends on other teams, watching planes fly over the field or chasing the ball around in a pack with about 10 other girls. No flopping, even though there were low velocity impacts with the ground due to lack of coordination. We did have crying, but it was because somebody got vanilla icing on a cupcake instead of chocolate. You know, legitimate stuff. Come to think of it, I’d have more respect for the world’s elite players if they cried and whined about stuff like not getting chocolate icing rather than mysteriously being tripped by an opponent who happened to be within about five yards of the flopper about the time he goofed and lost possession of the ball. (Notice next time, floppers usually grab an ankle and virtually all writhe with the same pained expression while their closest teammate kneels to console him and the second closest teammate pleads an animated case with the hapless official.)

Having one official doesn’t help the sport whose boys cry wolf seemingly every trip down field. The officials I’ve observed throughout the World Cup are either smack in the middle of play and in the way, or they  offer their best guess on a flop from 30 meters away. Why not have a three-man official rotation like NBA basketball (speaking of whiners…)? Better yet, why not flash some of those red cards above the heads of the whiners instead of above the heads of the guys being called for a foul and whose mere proximity to the whiner surprisingly was enough to throw them to the ground, causing life threatening injuries (and from which the whiner miraculously recovers in time to kick the penalty or jump up and reposition in the event a call is not made in his favor.)

Yep, I hate soccer and its floppers and whiners. You don’t see flopping in rugby. Flop in rugby and even the guys on your own team will pummel you. You don’t see flopping in cricket either. Flop in cricket and you stand a good chance of being denied a hot cup of tea. Maybe I was a little too hard in my evaluation of cricket. At least cricketers act like gentlemen.

Soccer players are floppers. And whiners. And act like four-year old girls who got the wrong icing on a cupcake.

I hate soccer.

I have repeatedly stated how much I enjoy living in the UK. I love Brits’ use of English and the mingling of language use and British humor. I love the rich history. I love the (ethnic) food (sorry, you can only eat so much fish ‘n chips before the arteries begin hardening). I love rainy British days and I love that intensively hot summer days only push the mercury to 85 degrees.

I even love tea. I never drank it much before coming here, at least not the hot variety, but I’ve grown to understand which brands common folk are inclined to drink and which ones the posh people consume, I enjoy them all. I love almost everything about the UK.

And then there’s cricket.

We had a village fair (fete) today and the local cricket club was playing a “friendly” against a neighboring village.  I focused intense energy from afar trying to understand what the heck was going on. Having played baseball I could draw some similarities. There is a batter (batsman) and a pitcher (bowler) and a ball (interestingly enough, also called a “ball” in cricket). That was about all I could piece together. I wandered down to the scorer’s tent in a determined effort to come away with an understanding of how score is kept at the least. If successful, I was certain I could handle an explanation as to why test matches last four days.

As I approached the tent, I picked up some handy vernacular. “Oh, well played James,” as a ball was thrown back toward the wicket; and “Peter, that was well handled, brilliant!” when one of the fielders actually managed to catch a ball without trying to surround it like a soccer goalie. “Cracky” got a mighty swing on the ball and hit it over the boundary and into the weeds. “Cheers Cracky. That’s a six.”

“Hey, could I disturb you gentlemen for a few moments to explain to a novice the nuances of cricket?” I asked, certain I’d get a most welcome response, which I did.

“Actually, cricket spectators and baseball spectators have much in common,” replied one chap waiting his turn to bat. I asked how so. “Both consume massive quantities of beer.” Of course I laughed and agreed, but in my mind thinking “I’d probably consume gallons if I actually had to play cricket…or watch four consecutive days of it.”

Thirty minutes later I got up to leave believing that if for some odd reason our television only received one channel, and I was desperate to watch TV, and the only thing on was a cricket match, I’d at least understand better how score is kept (but still with no clue for why a game – match – takes four days). As I was about to slip away, one kindly gentlemen (as all of them were) invited me to play next Sunday. How to respond? “I’d rather be beaten with a sticky wicket,” shot through my mind, but I managed to say, “I’m afraid I wouldn’t do the game justice, but I deeply appreciate the offer.”

Maybe I’ll give lawn bowls a go.

NOTE: The postmortem is here after you read this one. You can find out what happened.

I haven’t blogged for close to three months. I could say my time has been filled with intensive sprints up and down steep grades, weight workouts that would make a rugby player wilt and long hikes through the English country side building the stamina of a Kenyan marathoner – all in preparation for my Dorking to Dover hike (wrote about it here) along the North Downs Way.

I could say all that….but it’d be a lie. Truth is I’ve spent time running around London chasing after a bunch of guys from The Upstream Collective with a video camera, over to Paris where I suffered through delicious chocolate crepes, long lines at EuroDisney and a sprint along slick cobble stone lanes through Pere Lachaise Cemetery to spend five minutes at Jim Morrison’s (The Doors) grave site before sprinting back to the subway in an attempt to make an appointment on the other side of town (and was one minute late).

Somewhere along the way I strained a tendon in my knee (aggrevating it by paying more attention to the Eiffel Tower than walking in the dark) so haven’t been training for the 100 miles that lie ahead. Undaunted, but mildly concerned, I’ll launch out this week for the big trip. Concerned because to complete the ramble (as we call it here in the UK) I’ll need to cover about 25 miles a day to finish the trail in  four days.

Some of the challenge of the trip is that the North Downs occasionally brushes past a few villages but unfortunately more times than not an additional 1-2 miles is required to hoof it into town. Not interested in the extra mileage so for lunch I’ll dine on the packaged cuisine of PowerBars and Oberto beef jerky.

Most of my countrymen don’t know that “pubs” is actually short for “public houses” and aren’t just for for sampling wheat and barely in liquid form. Pubs also offer lodging – cheap lodging in many cases – and I’m counting on cheap lodging since I’m not hauling a tent, sleeping bag or much of anything else. Along the way should pass some castles, hike along an old Roman Road, see a bunch of WWII stuff, choke down several pounds of fish ‘n chips in the evening and walk along the white cliffs that lead into Dover. Provided I survive it all the way to Dover, I’ll enjoy the train ride home and post an account of the big adventure in a week’s time.

And aside from taking occasional  “creative license,” the story will (mostly) be accurate.

All eyes were directed toward the other end of the parade ground in front of Buckingham Palace watching two of the Queen’s Guard moving through the ceremony to change the posted guards. They were dressed impeccably smart in ceremonial uniforms carrying on a tradition that has extended hundreds of years.

There are horses, flags, guns, marching bands, big fuzzy black hats and swords. It is the pinnacle of pomp and pageantry.

However, I was looking the other direction, watching the french horn player twist his instrument in circles working the spittle through the piping and out the bell. Not so much the pinnacle of pomp and pageantry – but a necessity if you don’t want your french horn to sound like it is gargling with salt water.

I’ve written previously on some reasons why I’m quite keen toward Brits and now add to the list.

1. Pomp and pageantry. I can’t think of a circumstance in which Brits might not seize the opportunity to add a significant amount of pomp…and I love it! I love ceremony, procession, pomp, formality and marching bands that play marching songs (think John Phillip Souza). Brits are pompous (often times in both senses of the word!). I don’t know that I know Brits well enough to say that to be British is to be inclined toward pomp, but I don’t know that it would be far off. Ceremony in regard to tradition is deeply ingrained in this culture, and it ought to be celebrated. It is one thing that makes Brits distinctly British.

This is an exceptional people who have done much in 1,000 years. Frankly, I am a bit perturbed at Brits who seem so quick to criticize their heritage and hand it over to multiculturalism in the name of tolerance. I see it happening in my own country (USA). It is the ceremonial parade of tradition that might just serve as a reminder to those who undermine their own country of the greatness Britain was and help some regain a respect for their culture.

2. The monuments. I’ve now made about five trips past Buckingham Palace, Trafalgar Square, 10 Downing Street, Parliament and Westminster Abbey. It all seems surreal being here and seeing it all but as I’ve continued to learn more about British history the more I appreciate the buildings and monuments that stand as a testimony to great architects (like Christopher Wren), great heroes (like Admiral Lord Nelson and his decisive victory at Trafalgar) and great statesman (like Winston Churchill). The monuments are grand, and formal and imposing and do justice to the people for whom they honor.

3. The city is photogenic. Okay, this one isn’t so much about Brits as London, but let’s face it, London has got to be one of the coolest – if not the coolest – city on earth. Because of the ubiquitousness of monuments, historical sites, great architecture and famous places, there is never ending fodder at which to point a camera. So, in that spirit, here are a few photos from the day.

I love Dorking, the town near where I live. It is a little more than a mile from our house so will often walk “to town” on Saturday’s. Stops include Millet’s (an outdoor equipment store), Oxfam (a used bookstore), British Bookshops, a really cool mom and pop hardware store and Starbucks.
Last week I read a brief history of Dorking and learned it has probably existed since at least 40 AD. It was a stop on the Roman road from a city on the southern coast of England to London. Dorking once had a reputation as a smugglers’ town (with a maze of tunnels that still run beneath the city streets).
A local resident sailed on the Mayflower, John Wesley started a church here and a host of other famous people have passed through a town that has changed little in its complexion in probably 200 years.

Through the years Dorking grew in prominent residents who established large farms and neighbors tell me Denbies Vineyard produces the UK’s best wine.

I don’t believe that I’ve ever walked through Dorking without the words of John Mellencamp’s song “Small Town” echoing through my mind. (So, here’s my video dedication to my adopted town.)