England: Gamenight in Manchester
By Leanne Cameron

Old Trafford, game night: forty thousand people clad in cheery Manchester red leap to their feet as Ruud van Nistelrooy, alive on the pitch with hair glued to his forehead from perspiration, slides into the ball and sends it flying past the Sparta goalie into the top right corner of the net. Another point for the Dutchman, the announcers call out in their Northern brogue, and the crowd noise reaches deafening levels. The stadium seems to rock on its foundations as fans stomp their feet, scream at the top of their lungs, and grab their neighbors to kiss absolute strangers. The small section of Sparta Prague supporters, surrounded by four-deep rows of lime green security guards, bite their lips and wish that someone would just take out number 14 right below the knees.

But this night belongs to Van Nistelrooy: he advances to the net four times, moving so quickly and gracefully as if skating on a field of green ice, the ball slipping dramatically past the goalie's fingertips to bring the crowd, recharged and reenergized, to their bellowing, thumping feet.   This, in all of its riotous glory, was my introduction to English football.

Football, or soccer as we call it, was no foreign concept to me although this form of near religious hero worship was uncharted territory. America is one of the only countries in the world suffering from the lack of soccer addiction; our short attention spans that subsist on quick, flashy commercials and headline news are drawn to the immediateness of American football, the short thirty second plays that end in a heap of obese linebackers and maimed quarterbacks. Soccer requires an investment of time and mind; it is a drawn-out dance in forty-five minute halves, a ballet of open breaks and fake-outs. The liquidity of the uninterrupted motion of the game enthralls the watchers, thousands of heads in the audience following the ball from foot to head to chest to foot again. The moment the ref pulls out a card, you want to hurl a bottle at his striped figure, not for calling against your precious team, but for halting the entrancing movement of the game

I visited Manchester for it’s international reputation. Manchester United became familiar thanks to one David Beckham: his good looks, quirky hair, and game skills are recognizable the world over. Though he abandoned United for Réal Madrid, Beckham still endures as the quintessential English footballer, and probably the only player that the average American sports fan could name on demand.  Manchester dominated the soccer world in the late 1990s and early 2000s. They bought the best players in the world. They were soccer’s Yankees, before Chelsea was soccer’s Yankees.

My excursion to Manchester came after watching several more football (as we shall henceforth call soccer) games and reading numerous articles in the Metro about naughty newcomer Wayne Rooney's sportsmanship (or lack thereof) and the Dutch Magic of striker Ruud Van Nistelrooy, known by some as "the Flying Dutchman."

And what did I see that night in Manchester?  Three separate sort of fans who celebrated their team in their own way. One group was the sort that could be found at any American sports game: a long line of fair-weather louses sitting in the seats in front of me, high in the nosebleeds. Mostly upper-middle-class white men who doubtless do not live in the Trafford area, they arrive with their brood of youngsters decked to the nines in the latest kits and gear: crew cuts, Alan Smith jerseys, and game scarves, clutching glossy programs.  They support Manchester United, with stickers on the bumpers of their BMWs, until the team falls out of favor with the gods of the Premiership; then suddenly they've been Manchester City fans all their lives. These fickle parasites glance at the group of rowdy young men to their left and pray to God that their sons in the glimmering new jerseys don't take up the cause of the hooligans.

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