A clash of civilizations is taking place in American soccer, and history suggests that the winner will be Brad Friedel. Actually, I’m pretty sure he already won.
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In the 1980s and 90s, we had cleats, middies, fields, fans and goalies. A pitch was something you avoided when MBNA called and tried to give you a credit card, and a kit was an obvious reference to Michael Knight’s preferred mode of transportation.
American verbiage stood solidly on years of isolation from foreign influence. The most die-hard, proper English fan could hardly blame us for willful ignorance.
If you were one of the millions of players during soccer’s Dark Ages in the United States, you probably weren’t regularly reading articles in The Guardian about things like crowd violence at a Liverpool vs. Juventus game, the “nitro-glycerine in human form that is Eric Cantona,” or Michel Platini doing something worthy of praise (remember, he was once a half-decent player). (more…)













