USA-Slovenia World Cup Aftermath: American Soccer Fans, In Three Short Acts

Apologies for the personal narrative, but today while I was out and about, things felt remarkably different. Every conversation I caught was about the World Cup group match between USA and Slovenia. These three stories, all true, are incidents that I believe offer insight into Americans’ relationship with soccer.

Story number one.

At around noon, I was walking down the sidewalk past a column of gridlocked traffic. Someone yells at me. “Hey, bro!” I Turn around. In a subcompact with “SLOVENIA 2, USA 2 (3)!” drawn on the back windshield, I saw a guy brandishing an American flag much taller or longer than the car itself. The car was idling; I imagine their idea was to go flying down the street, flag waving gloriously in the breeze.

Instead, the flag hung limply off the pole, the tip touching the ground in a major breach of flag etiquette.

“Hey,” I say. “Dude! USA, man! USA! Tell everybody!”

“H... uh, Hell yeah!” I walked past him. A couple minutes later, he finally caught up and drove past me, leaning on his horn while driving ten miles per hour. I don’t know what the simple message, “USA,” is meant to portend, but if this gentleman made an effort to communicate it to a stranger, it must be important! He asked me to tell everyone, so now I’m telling you. USA! Do not forget that it exists! Have you forgotten?

Story number two.

While waiting at a crosswalk, I was approached by a visibly drunk fellow with a small American flag sticking out of his hat. He said, “We shoulda f***in’ kicked Slovakia’s ass!”

“Slovenia?”
“Whatever, Slovenia! Nobody knows where Slovenia is!”
I decided to have some fun. “Slovenia’s another name for South Africa.”
“What the hell? It is? I didn’t know that.”
“Yeah, since they’re the host, they get two teams.”
“Weird!”

He walked off, and I’m guessing that as he walked down the street, he announced America’s superiority over South Africa. I kind of feel bad.

Story number three.

I was sitting in front of the coffee shop, talking to a friend. Over his shoulder, I watch as a truck runs a red light and plows into the car of a local government official (nobody appeared to be injured, thankfully). The guy in the truck gets out, wearing a USA hat, and the more I watch him, the more I’m convinced that he had been drinking.

The most likely reason for this man to have been drinking at noon, I figure, is that he was patronizing one of the many nearby bars that were open during the USA-Slovenia match.

All of these stories are bizarre to varying degrees. The idea I choose to take away from all of this -- apologies for broadcasting such a familiar trope -- is that if you kick America a soccer ball, it simply does not know what to do with itself, and it might be a while until we’re nimble enough to kick it back.