A Sporting Fourth

At this time of year we look at our country and see fireworks, high-calorie grilled meats, and men in wigs reading script from oversized yellow poster board. In general, our only thoughts across the Atlantic were John McEnroe fighting his own revolutionary war on England’s grassy lawns. Yet this year our country has flipped the narrative and undertaken a full invasion across the pond. The British, as is their wont, have stood up magnificently to the onslaught; Europe, continuing its losing record, has folded without much of a fight. And while there is plenty of happiness, darker signs tinge the celebration.

To start, last week Major League Baseball brought the Montagues and Capulets to London to renew their ancient grudges. Befitting the Globe Theatre, the games were more spectacle than tense drama. Pimm’s cup vendors roamed the stands, politely plying their boozy wares; message boards flashed explanatory notes about the rules that probably made as much sense as reading Chaucer (sober or well-Pimmed). And in a nod to Pride Month, Freddy Mercury won the mascot race, although if the cigar-chomping Winston Churchill had come in first I would have demanded to see if Barry Bonds was under the costume.

But in these contests not of two hours’ traffic the Brits witnessed the death of something great: pitching. And this death wasn’t the spellbinding tragedy of Romeo and Juliet, but rather the farce of A Midsummer’s Night’s Dream’s mechanicals. 50 runs in two games farce. Throw in four errors in the second match and you had maybe the world’s most expensive tee ball exhibition but without the hugs, pizza rolls, and fruit juice boxes for six-year olds afterwards. In other words, MLB could have beamed in a couple of Mets games on the Jumbotron with the same effect and far fewer dollars and pounds.

Crossing the English Channel and befitting the 75^th anniversary of D-Day, America once again has shown great strength in France in the form of our Women’s National Team. That would be the National Team that plays the non-national sport of metric football, a.k.a. soccer. Their World Cup tournament these past few weeks has rivaled the greatest of military campaigns Europe has ever seen. Defenseless opponents were wiped off the map; tighter games showed the skill, athleticism, and poise of a team on a mission. On Tuesday night Carli Lloyd spent the last 15 minutes of the game taking the ball down the corner, boxing out her opponents like Charles Barkley with a rebound, and killing the clock like a Bond villain. Come to think of it, Ms. Lloyd could transfer those skills to the Knicks. They have plenty of salary cap space left, but it might be a professional demotion as I’m sure Carli likes winning.

Like all great teams, USWNT has taken advantage of the breaks that have come their way. Take England’s inability to convert soccer’s greatest gift…a penalty kick. With the opportunity to tie the game late in regulation, the Lionesses let go a pea shooter of a shot that was deftly corralled by our keeper. This was not, as Winston Churchill would have put it, their finest hour.. Freddy Mercury—dead, alive, or mascot—would have posed a greater scoring chance. Add it to the list of problems Boris Johnson faces when he becomes Prime Minister.

But for all the greatness of this team, the joy of watching them is starting to slip. They’ve become what they were so very much not. They’ve become the men’s team. Not the team that didn’t make the last men’s World Cup, but the bratty Euro players that are so un-American. Time was Abby Wambach would run into an opponent, hit the ground, popped back up, and do it all over again. No muss, no fuss. Mia Hamm scored and ran back to her team’s side of the field, her arms exultant but without theatricality. Then again she scored so often she might have worn herself out celebrating any more. It was a game played by the best who wanted to win, not some tryout for endless Internet memes.  

Now we see a different sort. Megan Rapinoe posing post-goal as the sequel character to a Marvel Avengers movie. Alex Morgan “tea sipping” after scoring against England, which really sounds more like a fight between Meghan Markle and Kate Middleton at a Kensington Palace garden party. Ms. Morgan and the rest of the team falling like dead soldiers at Flanders at the mere wisp of an opponent’s jersey crossing their path. A hard tackle yields the pantomime of grievous harm, only to turn into an immediate sprint charge toward the goal. The announcers charitably call it “selling” a call, but we all know what’s going on, especially in super-slow high-def. The more Fellini the action, the less appealing it is to an American audience. We like our winners, especially the underdogs, but guts and grit rendered with grass stains win hearts.

I’ll be tuning in on Sunday, albeit a little reluctantly, to see USWNT take on the Dutch Orange. So ladies if you want to put on a show, give your regards to Broadway. Otherwise heads down, make those penalty kicks, and finish off a glorious July 4^th weekend for us all.

© 2019 Alexander W. Stephens. All Rights Reserved.