Tag: Boston Red Sox

adventures in british football: a 2-nil liverpool win in DAR-bee

Why is the word “derby” pronounced “darby” by Premier League fans and British sports announcers? Why don’t they call it a local rivalry instead of using the word Americans associate with horse racing?

When my Chelsea-fan son kept referring to the Oct. 21 Liverpool match against Everton as a Merseyside “Darby,” I initially thought I misheard him. It was easy enough to think I’d misheard him on the morning of the game seeing as though when I woke for the 7:30 start, I had one of my horrific migraines and felt as though my brain functioning was impeded by thick sludge. (Medicine and coffee helped clear it up by halftime.)

I later learned that there are so many English football teams which play in such close proximity that when they face one another it’s referred to as a derby. (I’ve yet to learn what’s up with the weird pronunciation.) I didn’t realize that Liverpool FC (which stands for Football Club) is not the only Premier League team in Liverpool, England. Less a mile from Anfield, where the Reds play, is Goodison Park, home to the Everton FC. This seems crazy to have two teams with stadiums so close to one another playing in the same league. In New York City — whose population dwarfs Liverpool’s — there are two baseball teams but one plays in the American League (Yankees) and one in the National League (Mets). When they face one another, it’s nicknamed the Subway Series and takes place at one of their stadiums which are roughly seven miles apart. In Chicago, the stadiums of their American League team (White Sox) and their National League team (Cubs) are about eight miles apart.

This Merseyside (the county in which Liverpool is located) rivalry dates back to 1894, according to the Bleacher Report. There was “a falling out between Everton and the owner of Anfield, Mr. John Houlding, in 1892,” the Bleacher Report said. “Having been the original tenants of Anfield, the Blues were forced to move across Stanley Park and found Goodison Park, which remains their home ground today.”

In England, I was shocked to discover that there are seven Premier League teams in London alone. That’s a lot of teams from which to choose. Factor in the practice of relegating teams to lower professional football leagues and promoting teams from lower leagues to higher leagues, and the potential for adjacent neighborhood teams to regularly play one another is high. That’s something around which I’m still trying to wrap my American brain.

My Chelsea-fan son tells me that, in addition to my lack of understanding of the importance of derbies, I likewise don’t really understand the depths of the passion British football team fans have for their clubs. This fervor, he says, pales in comparison to heated American sports rivalries, including the Red Sox-Yankees rivalry which hit its recent apex in the mid-2000s. (This past season the teams were duking it out for last place in the American League East. We’re far removed from the days of on-field fisticuffs of the Jason Varitek-Alex Rodriguez variety. See above pic.)

My son may be entirely right. In U.S. sports, we don’t tend to erect physical barriers between fan sections nor do we mandate that if you’re sitting in the “home team” seats you are prohibited from wearing an opposing team’s gear and colors. (A recent Red Sox-Los Angeles Dodgers game I attended at Fenway Park in late August saw multitudes of Dodgers-gear-wearing fans intermingled with Sox fans as the supremely vocal Dodgers crushed the hometown team.) The realization that the rules are different with professional soccer first hit me years ago when I bought tickets for my Premier League-loving family to see Liverpool play Sevilla in Fenway Park. While online, I had to designate for which team’s section I was seeking tickets. Once I selected Liverpool, there was a disclaimer that ticketholders in that section couldn’t wear Sevilla gear. Part of the reason, I’ve learned (courtesy of my son and the Welcome to Wrexham documentary), is due to the intensity of English football “hooliganism” and the deadly violence that can ensue at international football games is the reason for these protective measures. (I’ll tackle this in a subsequent post.)

However, on the rainy October morning of the Liverpool-Everton match, as I sat on the sofa wearing my candy-apple red Liverpool jersey and blue pajama bottoms bearing multi-colored cartoon sheep and moons, I wasn’t thinking about the intensity of a derby or football hooligans. I could only sip multiple cups of coffee, pop migraine medicine, enjoy the fact that two of my three adult kids were home for a visit, and pray for my head and eyes to stop throbbing.

All I have in my notebook from the scoreless first half of the much-touted derby when my migraine was at its worst, are snatches of conversation like this:

“I like Trent [Alexander-Arnold] with longer hair.”

“Why don’t you send him a letter?”

There were lamentations about Mo Salah’s performance such as, “Salah’s been a dead-end today.”

The banter was as lackluster as the first half which concluded with even the announcers nakedly trying to manifest something interesting to occur.

By the beginning of the second half, my head cleared and the pain was almost gone. I was much more engaged in the game, which really didn’t pick up tempo until the previously proclaimed “dead-end” Salah secured both of Liverpool’s goals. Before those goals (in 75th and 97th minutes), an announcer labeled the match an “unmemorable derby,” adding that it was “crying out for someone to make their mark.”

There was some yellow card action when Liverpool’s Ibrahima Konate practically tackled an Everton player in the 50th minute. Sixteen minutes later, Konate (below) was lucky he wasn’t tagged with a second yellow for running into another Everton player, which would have resulted in a red card and left Liverpool with one fewer player for the remainder of the game. (Everton fans and its coach vigorously protested the call. Liverpool coach Jurgen Klopp pulled Konate immediately after Everton’s failed free kick to avoid just such a scenario.)

My Chelsea-mad son (who currently lives with us) didn’t join the rest of the family until the 69th minute, after Darwin Nunez took the field. “I only came downstairs because [Jurgen] Klopp stopped his anti-Darwin hate campaign,” he said while sporting a cobalt blue Chelsea jersey amid the sea of Liverpool gear on everyone else.

Two plays went to VAR (video assistant referee), but, unlike with the Tottenham game, these calls went in Liverpool’s favor, with one leading to a penalty kick which Salah shot into the net to break the nil-nil tie. This seemed to energize the Reds because they got off several more shots on goal — including one by Harvey Elliott that an announcer said “was hit with venom” — as the weather in Liverpool shifted from sunny to a torrential downpour.

After a Darwin breakaway down the pitch, followed by a crisp pass to Salah who sunk it into the goal, time was called and Liverpool won 2-nil.

My headache was gone. I had my three adult children in the same room. Our two dogs were deliriously happy to snuggle up alongside them as the rain fell outside our window, saturating the bright New England foliage. What a great way to start the day … migraine notwithstanding.

Image credits: ESPN, Google, Getty Images via Liverpool.com.

adventures in british football: so many games … so little time, plus a choice: church or liverpool

It’s been a crazy couple of weeks in my world. There’ve been three Liverpool games since the last time I blogged. And they’ve won them all. Beating the Wolves in a come-from-behind win, 3-1. Beating LASK in Europa Cup group match, 3-1. Beating West Ham, in a come-from-behind win, 3-1. Hmm, sensing a trend?

Keeping up with all of this football has been fairly challenging when one is trying to do something called life. I’m teaching, three, college-level courses (all writing classes) which involve a tremendous amount of input and a lot of class prep. Throw in the fact that I’ve got several ongoing writing projects — including organizing my research for a new book and editing my second fiction manuscript — as well as a Rosh Hashanah celebration with the extended family, and attending in-person Boston Red Sox games (my favorite team), and, I don’t know, inconsequential things like sleeping and eating … and things have been a touch chaotic. Shoehorning Liverpool’s Prem games, plus games for other competitions like the Europa Cup, into my daily life, was much simpler before the fall semester began.

To watch the last two Liverpool games required serious multitasking on my part, something I have to imagine many American fans need to accomplish in order to follow football matches taking place on another continent, during hours when Americans would typically be working. Or sleeping.

For example, when Liverpool — resplendent in their lavender kits (above) — took on LASK (which stands for Linzer Athletik-Sport-Klub, an Austrian professional football club) in group play for the regional football tournament, the Europa Cup, I streamed it, split-screen, on my laptop. On the right half of the screen was a tiny box streaming the action, and on the other, a manuscript I was editing and into which I had to try not to accidentally input “Nunez,” “Europa,” or “Diaz” while I listened to the announcers. I stopped editing and pulled the game onto the full screen when the Reds finally came alive in the 56th minute after Darwin Nunez scored a penalty kick, followed by Luis Diaz’s 63rd-minute tap-in. “Liverpool are alive and Liverpool are in the lead!” a commentator shouted. In the 88th minute, the always-reliable Mo Salah nutmegged (kicked the ball through an opposing player’s legs) a LASK player and scored in what a commentator said has become Liverpool’s “usual way:” a come-from-behind win.

During the latest Liverpool game against West Ham United at home in Anfield, watching this 9 a.m. kickoff meant I had to juggle some things. My initial plan was to watch the first half at my house, drive to church, deposit myself in a back pew, and silently stream the second half from my phone. However, our Peacock account was maxed out on viewers so I wouldn’t be able to stream it. I had a choice to make: Church or Liverpool? Luckily, I could choose both because the Massachusetts church streams its services live. I watched the Liverpool game on the TV and church on my laptop. (See below) I texted Rev. Laurel — about whom I’m working on a book about being a Millennial minister — to explain my scheduling dilemma and she thought it was funny. I spent the second half petrified that I’d accidentally turn on my mic and have my cheers or my shouts of, “Shit!” ring through the church sanctuary speakers.

As has become rote thus far in Liverpool’s season, the club was cold at the beginning of the game, playing like they needed serious infusions of coffee (or tea, as they were playing in the land of tea). But the lackluster playing dissipated by the 16th minute when Salah easily scored on a PK. West Ham tied it by halftime, only to have Nunez score in impressive fashion in the 60th minute. Afterward, Nunez showily kissed his arms and wildly gestured toward the appreciative home crowd. I was even more impressed by the Diogo Jota goal in the 85th minute off of a very odd headed pass from Virgil van Dijk, who had just returned from a multi-game, red-card banishment.

Simultanously, my husband Scott was sitting across from me in the family room streaming the Chelsea game on his phone and my resident Chelsea fan son was in his room watching his preferred team, the Blues, which lost. And whenever Chelsea loses, a grumpy pall is cast over the house. No one is to speak about the game for at least 24 hours.

The only recent, Liverpool game to which I was able to devote my full attention was the Saturday, Sept. 16 match against the Wolves. That weekend, my house was filled with my three adult children and my daughter’s boyfriend. Football fans, all. We all got up early to watch the Liverpool game before I made dishes to bring to a family Rosh Hashanah dinner in the afternoon. (I made mini-potato kugels in cupcake tins, a salad whose components hailed from a local farm, and brought bottles of wine. My daughter baked an apple pie.) Outside, powerful winds from the dregs of Hurricane Lee which swept up the US East Coast, rattled the family room windows as rain poured intermittently. I gulped down several cups of coffee to wake myself up, seeing that the game kicked off at 7:30 a.m. Boston time.

The match began with the Reds playing … poorly. The Wolves were able to slice through their lackluster defense like a hot knife through butter. It was no surprise when the Wolves struck first, scoring the game’s first goal through the legs of Andy Robertson in the seventh minute. My ardent Liverpool fan son Jonah was edgy, 10 minutes in, “They’re on the ropes already!” For the bulk of the game, the Wolves’s lead felt more substantial than 1-nil because Liverpool was playing so badly.

Then … Salah.

In the 55th minute, Salah sent Cody Gakpo the ball who converted it into the first Reds goal. Thirty minutes later, Robertson’s goal (pic above) caused Jonah to raise his right fist in triumph, “He NEVER scores!” The room’s dour mood shifted like quicksilver as a Liverpool W seemed possible. A Liverpool win was cemented by an unlucky own-goal by the Wolves’ Hugo Bueno (he accidentally tipped the ball into his team’s net) making it 3-1 Liverpool.

Next up for the Reds in the Prem: A match at Tottenham (my nephew’s favorite team) on Saturday, Sept. 30 at 12:30 ET.

Random bits:

  • I’ve now learned that it’s routine behavior for defensive players who are lining up to block a direct kick on goal, to not only protect their crotches, but to also jump vertically. Additionally, one player lies facing toward the goal — away from the opposing team’s kicker — should the kicker try to send the ball rolling on the pitch beneath the jumping defensemen. (This nugget of info was gleaned after I asked my kids, “Why is that dude lying on the ground?”)
  • Several weeks into the Premier League season, I haven’t quite memorized the Liverpool players’ names and often struggle to identify them on the pitch, especially if I’m not wearing my glasses. I’m working on it.
  • XG. Who knew that XG means “expected goals,” meaning, how many goals each team and/or player is expected to deliver in any given game? Everyone in my family except for me, the football newbie. I likened XG to a Major League Baseball pitcher’s ERA or a hitter’s batting average. However any time I liken football to baseball in my attempts to understand it, I get eye rolls. Nonetheless, I persist!

Image credits: Sky Sports, ESPN and Google.

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. 

‘another game day’ essay in narrative medicine lit mag

I was honored to have my essay, “Another Game Day,” published by Intima: A Journal of Narrative Medicine.

The essay — structured around my disappointment about having to miss yet another Boston Red Sox game due to multiple sclerosis — is an exploration of how, since being diagnosed with MS in 2014, I’ve been on a long learning curve adjusting to my new normal, adjusting to an unpredictable life with chronic illness.

The essay begins this way:

It was game day.

I had tickets to see my beloved Red Sox play at historic Fenway Park. They were in the hunt for a Wild Card playoff spot.

But I couldn’t attend the game.

Again.

Why? Because it was going to be hot and humid. Because the weather conditions – not the spate of uneven Red Sox performances – would make me ill. Because multiple sclerosis has caused damage to the area of my brain that controls my temperature and, when I’m in hot and humid conditions, that damage causes me to, essentially, short-circuit.

Marleen Pasch

Over on Intima’s blog, Crossroads, writer Marleen Pasch, compared themes in “Another Game Day” with a newly-published essay of her own, “Rocks and River.”

Pasch (on right) said, “O’Brien understands the need to assess risk then listen to and heed the more protective voice of wisdom.”

Read Pasch’s Intima essay here.