Tag: Aston Villa

adventures in british football: weeks three & four … then a break, already?

I’m a tad behind on blogging about my adventures following the Prem this season because I was on vacation on Cape Cod and was trying to NOT work during that time, which meant no writing. But I did watch Liverpool rack up two more wins … and now they’re on a break? Already? Only four weeks in? I’ll tackle my being mystified by that fact in a separate post. Meanwhile, below are recaps of weeks three and four in my British football odyssey.

Week Three: Short One Player, Liverpool Comes from Behind to Beat Newcastle, 2-1

My Liverpool-fan son Jonah joined his Chelsea-fan brother Casey, the “neutral” Scott, and Liverpool-fan me minutes before the Reds took on the Magpies at St. James’ Park. (Okay, I know that the name “Red Sox,” especially with its odd spelling, is a stupid team name, but, come on … magpies?)

Anyway … Jonah, who was celebrating his 25th birthday, spent most of this game slamming his fist into the couch and shouting, “No!!” which caused our 12-pound, caffeine-on-legs dog Tedy to bark wildly, widely sharing his nasty breath around the room with each, “woof.” (We can never tell if he barks when we cheer or jeer because he wants to join in or because the sounds upset him.)

The flurry of yellow/red cards didn’t make for an enjoyable first half in my house. As the sea of black-and-white clad Newcastle fans provided nearly constant noise for the first nine minutes of the match, Trent Alexander-Arnold, Liverpool’s right-back, received a yellow card early in the game for tossing the ball out-of-bounds after he believed he was fouled on the back but the shove wasn’t called. (See above.) Seriously? Given the immense physicality (and subsequent bad acting) in typical EPL (English Premier League) games, tossing a ball away, instead of to an official, leads to a yellow card? Yes, according to this season’s new Prem rules, established to curb bad behavior. Officials, according to TalkSport.com, can distribute yellow cards for “time-wasting from the clear and obvious (kicking the ball away), to the more subtle (delaying goal-kicks).” This meant the Alexander-Arnold couldn’t play as aggressively for the remainder of the game lest he receive a second yellow card and serve a one-game suspension.

“Trent’s finished, mate,” Casey said to Jonah, as the two expected Alexander-Arnold to be subbed out. Only he wasn’t subbed out.

By 24:44, the guy who Jonah and Casey thought should’ve been subbed out misplayed a pass and Newcastle’s Anthony Gordon scored. Jonah and “neutral” Scott groaned their displeasure. Three minutes later, Liverpool’s defender Virgil Van Dijk (VVD) received a controversial red card — meaning he leaves the game, the team continues with one fewer player, and he’d be suspended for the next game — which prompted the loudest angry shouting in my house that morning. Tension in our family room was thick and was curdling the coffee in my stomach.

While some Liverpool fans think VVD got his foot on the ball while tackling a Newcastle player, the referee “deemed Van Dijk’s foul on [Alexander Isak] to be a denying an obvious goal-scoring opportunity (DOGSO), leading to the red card,” according to Liverpool.com. A what now? A Dogso? Do dogsos get along with magpies? (I know. Stupid mom humor. I’ll stop now.) The commentators were agog saying this red card “brandished in his face [was] for the first in seven years.”

While Liverpool goaltender Alisson Becker made a dramatic save – even Casey blurted, “Hooollly cow” in serious admiration – the talk in our house at halftime was about whether the rumors about Mo Salah going to the Saudi Pro League for a massive, otherworldly payday were legit. This topic further darkened Jonah’s mood.

The Reds’ luck changed in the second half and people in my living room became markedly less grumpy. After coming off the bench in the 77th minute, Darwin Nunez (above) outmaneuvered a Newcastle player and scored, yielding the day’s first loud exclamations of the happy variety (accompanied by Tedy’s yappy barking sending its indiscriminate message).

The happiness was short lived as, four minutes later, Nunez received a yellow card because, like Alexander-Arnold, he disposed of the ball (kicked it away) like an angry child instead of just giving it to the ref. Has the dude not been paying attention? They’re down a player already? I thought but didn’t say out loud. However, said dude redeemed himself minutes later with his second goal, lighting up the resident birthday boy’s face watching the game with me. As the whistle blew and Liverpool emerged victorious, the commentators employed lame, Dad-joke puns like, “A Darwin evolution is underway.”

Image credit: This is Anfield.

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adventures in british football: apparently, i’ll never walk alone

Scene: A pub in Amherst, Mass. in February 2023.

Participants: My then-24-year-old grad student son, my then-21-year-old undergrad son, my spouse, and me (if you can call me a participant).

Subject: Whether a bicycle kick by a Southampton football club player to the head of Chelsea’s football club’s captain warranted a red or yellow card.

For the entirety of our lunch before we headed to campus to see the University of Massachusetts’ men’s hockey game, I could not work my way into the conversation, not during drinks, not during appetizers, not during the main meal, not even during dessert. I couldn’t get the three male members of my family to change the subject to something in which I was conversant, like U.S. politics or the spy balloon that’d been flying over the U.S. or pop culture. Since I couldn’t take part in their animated debate because I had nothing to contribute, I pulled out my phone and began taking notes. Some of the gems they uttered:

What kind of crack are you on?

You’re asking the wrong questions!

You can usually, visually gauge intent!

Just because it’s subjective, doesn’t mean it’s crap.

That’s one of your dumbest takes ever.

The old fashioned I rapidly drained while chronicling their conversation didn’t chill me out nearly enough to cope with, what I described as, “this all-encompassing conversation where all the oxygen goes to British, fucking, soccer.”

By the end of the meal I reached a decision: In order to engage with them, I need to join them. I need to become the last member of my family of five to select a Premier League team and rabidly root for it, because what is British soccer without the rabidness of its fans? My daughter, like her twin brother, is a Liverpool fan. My younger son is a Chelsea fan. My husband tries (rather unsuccessfully) to be the human equivalent of Switzerland, someone who claims to be fans of both teams, but his poker face isn’t as good as he thinks it is.

Personally, I never cared much about soccer – hereafter known called football – aside from watching the U.S. Women’s National Team in World Cup or Olympic matches. A lifelong Boston Red Sox fan who weathered many losing years (1986 … just … no) before the gloriously historic 2004 season which snapped an 86-year losing streak, I’ve also enthusiastically followed my alma mater’s teams (specifically University of Massachusetts hoops and hockey). A fair-weather Celtics fan, I don’t really follow the Boston Bruins or the New England Patriots, although if friends and family gather to watch a big game, I’ll watch with them. 

But European football … I’ve never really understood why my family is so enthralled with it and why my late-sleeping sons willingly rise early ON WEEKENDS to watch matches. However, following that aggravating lunch at Johnny’s Tavern in February, I decided I need to figure out why.

I announced to my football-mad relatives that I’d follow the U.K. Premier League when it starts its season in mid-August. I then asked for input on which team I should follow – I didn’t want to choose between my kids’ favorites – adding that I was looking for a club with history, heart, authentic fan passion, and a bit of an underdog vibe. I wanted to ally with folks similar to loyal Red Sox fans. For example, if I hadn’t been born a Red Sox fan, I’d likely follow the Chicago Cubs because I admire their grit and undying loyalty to their club even after enduring 108 long years before they won the World Series in 2016.

Casey, the Chelsea fan, suggested I root for Aston Villa, a 149-year-old football team from Birmingham because he said the club represents the qualities I named: history, passion, and an upward trajectory in the league.

Jonah, my Liverpool-loving son, argued for Newcastle United because he said they’re moving up in the Premier League.

Abbey, my Liverpool-loving daughter, and Anthony, her Manchester United-loving boyfriend, argued for Brighton because they said Brighton is “kind of an up-and-coming team” and “they’re decently placed in the league and unlikely to be relegated … plus, nobody really hates them that much.” 

Although they did offer suggestions, Abbey and Jonah made me rethink my approach of selecting a Premier League team out of thin air in order to try to understand the undeniable gravitational pull of British football fandom.

Why, they asked, didn’t I just root for Liverpool, which is owned the Fenway Sports Group, named after Fenway Park, the home of the Boston Red Sox? Liverpool’s connection to the Sox is, afterall, how they became Reds fans in the first place. I didn’t have a good response other than to repeat the mantra that I was hesitant to pick favorites between my children.

I did some research and had a lot of conversations about the Premier League. What I ultimately realized is that I couldn’t artificially muster enthusiasm for a club which, on paper, might seem like as if it meets my criteria. I wasn’t feeling it for any of the teams they suggested, and if there’s one thing I’ve learned from watching my family go football crazy, it’s that emotional connection is paramount. I couldn’t deny the pull of the name “Fenway,” in spite of the current, seriously lackluster Boston Red Sox season. After thinking about all these factors, as well as watching videos of Liverpool fans singing — as if they are one, thoroughly off-key body — the club’s unofficial theme song, “You’ll Never Walk Alone,” I couldn’t help but sense some “Sweet Caroline” kindred-spirit magic.

Starting on the morning of Sunday, August 13, when Liverpool faces off against Chelsea at 11:30 a.m. Boston time, I’ll be rooting for the Reds. Part of me will feel as though I’ve chosen Abbey and Jonah over Casey, however, I hope Casey will be pacified by my promise to root for the Blues whenever they’re playing any other club other than Liverpool (which Jonah says is indicative of the fact that I won’t be a “true” Liverpool fan … let the shit-talking begin).

My football learning curve will be steep. I’ll likely mess up the lingo and offer myriad bone-headed takes, but that’s what happens when you start something new. Just know that I’m drawn to the passion that formed an infuriatingly impermeable wall of verbiage at that lunch table in late winter, and I want to be part of the conversation.