The NFL rumbled into London this weekend for its fifth attempt at educating Britain in the ways of American football. It was the second time I'd missed the game in person, but the first time I'd sat down to watch it on TV. That was a mistake. Before my eyes were all the British stereotypes Americans are fed (and to a large extent believe), but this time for a British audience.
I've been telling myself for a long time that, despite positive vibes from the league, there will never be a franchise in London. After this weekend I'm of the opinion that I should rephrase my belief to read 'a franchise will never work in London'. It appears the NFL is hell bent on forcing the game on Britain in the long run, whether people want it or not. For the first time in the five year history of the International Series, the game at Wembley didn't sell out. But instead of questioning whether continuing with the venture is worthwhile, two games are in the pipeline for next season. How many "tickets still available" games will come and go before the league admits its wrong. It appears to me the league can't even envisage a scenario where people won't be interested. It doesn't do the perception of Americans being arrogant any harm, that's for sure.
Neither did the TV coverage of the game on Sunday do any harm in showing their patronising qualities either. On three separate occasions British fans were treated to Jerome Bettis, Roger Goodell and the Goose bloke on Fox speaking of their pleasure that so many fans 'appeared' to understand the game. If I hadn't been a guest in someone else's home the TV would have been out the window.
I first heard this patronising arrogance last Wednesday on ESPN's Football Today podcast (a damn good listen most of the time). Presenter Ross Tucker, in his usual aggressive tone, wanted to know how anybody could like football more than the American version after going to a game in the flesh. The English guy talking to him spluttered out some non committal answer, before making the bold claim that the NFL had 11 million fans in the UK.
Now, this is clearly wrong, but now many more Americans will believe what the NFL appears to believe. I have a number of mates who are "interested" in American football. And when I say interested, I mean they watch the Super Bowl for half an hour and will talk to me (mainly to humour me) about "some team who play in green and are named after a bird". I like to think I have a wide ranging set of peers, and thus a straw poll of opinions gives me a good idea of where the game is at in Britain.
I have one friend who is as much into the sport as I am. One who watches some games and plays fantasy football. Three others who know the sport exists and don't class it as a less-manly form of rugby, and then a whole host of others who think it is a less-manly form of rugby (which it blatantly isn't, but to them the helmets and body armour tell a different story).
A legitimate argument flagged up as a potential stumbling block for a British team is fans of the sport in the UK already have teams they support. Although use of the word support is, I believe, questionable.
I've always wondered how anybody who is British can properly "support" a team that plays 3,500 miles away. To me, even with the internet, I find that idea a bit weird. I've followed the sport for a number of years, but I don't have a team. Since moving to DC last year, I follow the Redskins, but I wouldn't really call myself a supporter. Maybe the feeling will come in time. Or maybe I just like hockey and baseball more, as I already feel a truly support both the Capitals and Nationals. To me supporting a sports team is steeped in local pride, and/or family ties. Anything outside of that makes me feel queasy. But that's just me.
Another point has been put to me that the NFL needs to send stars over to the London games to try and create more fans. Although I believe this definitely works when teams sign big name players to galvanise a fan base, if you're a fan already you just want to see a game. If you're not a fan of the NFL you probably don't know any names. Again, going back to my friends as a gage, if I told them Michael Vick was coming to town they'd know he'd been done for dog fighting. They would know he was a sporting star. But they wouldn't know which sport he played. Tom Brady. Peyton Manning. Blank faces all round.
When it comes to sport in the UK, football dominates. Fad sports come and go. A good example of a fad sport taking the UK by relative storm is ice hockey. Although it had a presence in the UK before 1995, it took off big time for about five years after that, with packed out arenas all over the country. It took even less time, just after the turn of the century, for it to drop back into obscurity. NFL Europe came and went too.
Then there are the other sports (sorry, leagues/products) who are trying to increase revenue in Europe and beyond.
I like American football, but this obsession with convincing yourself the sport will take on global significance has to stop (I'm going to start calling it Roger Goodell's search for a legacy). You've been beaten to it by football. Hence why football is called the global game. You can call it soccer all you want (a move at trying to put the sport down) but you're unlikely to see a kid in Africa wearing a Cincinnati Bengals jersey in the near future.
Recent history shows that America likes to try and stamp its mark, or beliefs if you like, on the world. Usually it's through military force or fast food restaurants. It appears now they think sport can be used in the same way. When will the higher echelons of American society learn their lesson. Be happy with what you have, and don't go starting another war that you cannot win.
Tuesday, October 25, 2011
Monday, July 25, 2011
Hagerstown will have to wait
The temperatures in America this week have made me think twice about stepping outside. Now don't get me wrong, I like warm weather, and I don't want to sound spoilt when I'm aware of the usual dodgy weather in Britain. However, 45 degrees Celsius is too much. But when the thunderstorms roll in, and then out again, it leaves the coldest 30 degree temperatures I've ever experienced. Perfect for watching baseball.
The only snag to my plan on Friday was being on holiday. A holiday that had been deemed by my wife as a "no baseball" holiday. I'd agreed to this, largely because I'm an accommodating sort of guy, but also because we would only be away for three days. Three days, no baseball, easy. Well, maybe not.
I blame the Washington Nationals. Before last week I'd planned three games in three days to the north of Washington on my own. Then the Nationals brought back $2 ticket Tuesday and I had to scrap my Hagerstown trip. I'd mulled over what to do about this, and decided that Hagerstown could wait for another season. That was until we went on holiday.
Berkeley Springs is in West Virginia, but only 35 miles from Hagerstown, Maryland. The town was small and quiet, and we'd booked two nights. The 1940s cinema took up the first night, but what about the second? A quick check of my phone found Hagerstown v Augusta, game on.
Like I said, I'm an accommodating guy, my wife was given the option of what we could do, and soon after we were on the road to Maryland.
I've driven through most of Maryland before, and the scenery driving down to Hagerstown was much the same as anyway else in the state. Trees, trees and trees. Then we entered Hagerstown, and straight away wished we hadn't bothered.
The houses are ramshackled, the strip malls are old and dirty, there are huge railway sidings with very few trains, and factories litter the town, many looking in disrepair. But the one beacon of light (literally, as the floodlights were on), was the Municipal Stadium. There in all its glory. You even get to park for free. Brilliant. But hang on a second, people appear to be driving away. I'm sure there should be a floodlight where there isn't one. Oh. Oh dear.
The picture on my phone told the bad news. There was the missing floodlight, collapsed in a heap on the outfield. You couldn't make it up.
Apparently it was a freak storm. So freaky in fact that only the middle of the town appeared to have been affected by it. There was a road closed because a tree had fallen down. A few branches and twigs on the ground, but a floodlight, really.
My original plan was to write about the South Atlantic League after going to three different ballparks and watching six different teams. But with that idea in tatters, I was left to mull over my options during the journey back to West Virginia, with my wife looking at me from the corner of her eye. At least it wasn't too late for dinner.
The only snag to my plan on Friday was being on holiday. A holiday that had been deemed by my wife as a "no baseball" holiday. I'd agreed to this, largely because I'm an accommodating sort of guy, but also because we would only be away for three days. Three days, no baseball, easy. Well, maybe not.
I blame the Washington Nationals. Before last week I'd planned three games in three days to the north of Washington on my own. Then the Nationals brought back $2 ticket Tuesday and I had to scrap my Hagerstown trip. I'd mulled over what to do about this, and decided that Hagerstown could wait for another season. That was until we went on holiday.
Berkeley Springs is in West Virginia, but only 35 miles from Hagerstown, Maryland. The town was small and quiet, and we'd booked two nights. The 1940s cinema took up the first night, but what about the second? A quick check of my phone found Hagerstown v Augusta, game on.
Like I said, I'm an accommodating guy, my wife was given the option of what we could do, and soon after we were on the road to Maryland.
I've driven through most of Maryland before, and the scenery driving down to Hagerstown was much the same as anyway else in the state. Trees, trees and trees. Then we entered Hagerstown, and straight away wished we hadn't bothered.
The houses are ramshackled, the strip malls are old and dirty, there are huge railway sidings with very few trains, and factories litter the town, many looking in disrepair. But the one beacon of light (literally, as the floodlights were on), was the Municipal Stadium. There in all its glory. You even get to park for free. Brilliant. But hang on a second, people appear to be driving away. I'm sure there should be a floodlight where there isn't one. Oh. Oh dear.
The picture on my phone told the bad news. There was the missing floodlight, collapsed in a heap on the outfield. You couldn't make it up.
Apparently it was a freak storm. So freaky in fact that only the middle of the town appeared to have been affected by it. There was a road closed because a tree had fallen down. A few branches and twigs on the ground, but a floodlight, really.
My original plan was to write about the South Atlantic League after going to three different ballparks and watching six different teams. But with that idea in tatters, I was left to mull over my options during the journey back to West Virginia, with my wife looking at me from the corner of her eye. At least it wasn't too late for dinner.
Tuesday, July 12, 2011
Men dressed as tacos, sprinting peanuts and a pig in a pickup truck: Welcome to Richmond, VA
Monday was extremely hot. You would have thought I'd have learnt my lesson. But once again I was in my car on the way to a minor league baseball game that started at noon. I set the standard the previous week driving 120 miles each way to Salisbury in Maryland, so the meager 190 mile round trip to Virginia's capital city was small fry. I just hoped I'd be in the shade this time. The Salisbury trip had taken its toll on both knees and arms, so much so that my skin had since peeled off in large flakes.
I realised I'd be safe from the sun as soon as I turned into the car park. The concrete bowl that loomed large in front of me was mostly protected from nature by a thick concrete roof, protruding out further than almost every ballpark roof I'd ever seen.
The game I'd come to see was Richmond against Harrisburg, or to be more precise, the Flying Squirrels versus the Senators, in Minor League Baseball's second tier (Double-A) Eastern League. This is where players, mainly between the ages of 18 and 25, vie for promotion to Triple-A, and maybe even the Major Leagues. More importantly, or so it seems, it's where people come to spend a lot of money on rubbish food and rubbish beer while taking little interest in the game and being "entertained" in-between innings.
This entertainment takes on many different guises depending on which ballpark you attend, but it usually involves animal costumes, little kids from the crowd and a guy with a microphone. Richmond do things slightly different.
For a start they tried to involve me, with the offer of a Miller Lite T-shirt. Now, I could have thought of many reasons to turn the girl down who asked me to join in, but once the words "Miller Lite T-shirt" entered the conversation, she'd lost me. And after witnessing what happened in the hours after, I'd never been as thankfully to hear the words “Miller Lite” in my life.
The competition started with eight blokes (all over 30, over weight and over confident) and two hula hoops in a relay race. There were four winners and eight losers, sorry, four losers.
The next break in play saw a table appear from the depths of the stadium, and the four remaining contestants sat down to a sub eating competition, in the company of a man dressed as a taco. All this while a man dressed as Robin Hood served the family in front of me with shriveled candy floss.
With half the game still remaining, and two men left standing after the forced eating, it was time for some fillers before the grand finale. The fillers didn't disappoint, as long as you're the kind of person who isn't disappointed by the sight of a man hugging a pig in the back of a pickup truck while another man throws objects into the lower deck (this happened twice).
Men dressed as peanuts, cashew nuts and Brazil nuts then race each other round the infield, with the peanut showboating to a win by crossing the finish line backwards. Oh, and a baseball game continued too.
Then, with the game tight going into the eighth inning, the crowd turned its attention back to the Miller Lite T-shirt competition; a dance off. Now even the players in the dugout seemed more interested in this than the baseball. This was probably down to it being contested on the roofs of the two dugouts, while Richmond's mascot, Nutzy (best described as a squirrel on steroids) joined in. The winner was the bloke who tried to do the splits. Emphasis on the word "tried". He won a handshake from Nutzy and then people started to leave. For the record, and for those people who left early, Harrisburg won 6-3. Shairon Martis (possibly the brother of Doncaster centre half Shelton Martis) picked up the win.
Returning to my car, far less red than the week before, my thoughts turned to food. I whittled my choices down to a sub or a taco. Maybe next time I'll pay more attention to the game!
I realised I'd be safe from the sun as soon as I turned into the car park. The concrete bowl that loomed large in front of me was mostly protected from nature by a thick concrete roof, protruding out further than almost every ballpark roof I'd ever seen.
The game I'd come to see was Richmond against Harrisburg, or to be more precise, the Flying Squirrels versus the Senators, in Minor League Baseball's second tier (Double-A) Eastern League. This is where players, mainly between the ages of 18 and 25, vie for promotion to Triple-A, and maybe even the Major Leagues. More importantly, or so it seems, it's where people come to spend a lot of money on rubbish food and rubbish beer while taking little interest in the game and being "entertained" in-between innings.
This entertainment takes on many different guises depending on which ballpark you attend, but it usually involves animal costumes, little kids from the crowd and a guy with a microphone. Richmond do things slightly different.
For a start they tried to involve me, with the offer of a Miller Lite T-shirt. Now, I could have thought of many reasons to turn the girl down who asked me to join in, but once the words "Miller Lite T-shirt" entered the conversation, she'd lost me. And after witnessing what happened in the hours after, I'd never been as thankfully to hear the words “Miller Lite” in my life.
The competition started with eight blokes (all over 30, over weight and over confident) and two hula hoops in a relay race. There were four winners and eight losers, sorry, four losers.
The next break in play saw a table appear from the depths of the stadium, and the four remaining contestants sat down to a sub eating competition, in the company of a man dressed as a taco. All this while a man dressed as Robin Hood served the family in front of me with shriveled candy floss.
With half the game still remaining, and two men left standing after the forced eating, it was time for some fillers before the grand finale. The fillers didn't disappoint, as long as you're the kind of person who isn't disappointed by the sight of a man hugging a pig in the back of a pickup truck while another man throws objects into the lower deck (this happened twice).
Men dressed as peanuts, cashew nuts and Brazil nuts then race each other round the infield, with the peanut showboating to a win by crossing the finish line backwards. Oh, and a baseball game continued too.
Then, with the game tight going into the eighth inning, the crowd turned its attention back to the Miller Lite T-shirt competition; a dance off. Now even the players in the dugout seemed more interested in this than the baseball. This was probably down to it being contested on the roofs of the two dugouts, while Richmond's mascot, Nutzy (best described as a squirrel on steroids) joined in. The winner was the bloke who tried to do the splits. Emphasis on the word "tried". He won a handshake from Nutzy and then people started to leave. For the record, and for those people who left early, Harrisburg won 6-3. Shairon Martis (possibly the brother of Doncaster centre half Shelton Martis) picked up the win.
Returning to my car, far less red than the week before, my thoughts turned to food. I whittled my choices down to a sub or a taco. Maybe next time I'll pay more attention to the game!
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