So … yeah … I’ve been a tad incommunicado here on this blog where I said I’d be chronicling my nascent Liverpool fandom. I’ll share with you some of the reasons why because I like to hold myself accountable:
I spent December wrapping up the fall semester and grading dozens of submissions from students in my undergraduate journalism class and two master’s of fine arts classes. When I completed that task, I revised three syllabi and three sets of online course modules for the spring 2024 semesters for three courses.
Additionally, there was the whole Christmas holiday prep — buying presents for the family and spending hours wrapping, planning the menus for two holiday dinners, cooking/baking, cleaning the house, and squeezing in a mid-December trip to visit my daughter Abbey and her boyfriend Anthony in their Bronx apartment.
In addition to helping my senior citizen father with his weekly medicine, paying his bills, and taking him to his medical appointments, I had meetings for the National Multiple Sclerosis Society (where I’m a member of the local chapter’s Board of Trustees, as well as an MS Activist, which means I lobby state and federal officials for bills which help those with chronic illnesses). I also did some more research for my work-in-progress about a Massachusetts Millennial minister, and, this is my low-key announcement, started working with a publisher to prep my second novel for a February 2025 publication date.
So … yeah … maybe taking on this British football project was a tad too ambitious. I realized early in December that I just would not have the opportunity to pull together blog posts for each game I watched. And I did watch all but one Liverpool game since I last blogged about the Reds. (I missed the Dec. 6, 2023 game against Sheffield United — which Liverpool won 1-nil — because there were too many people logged onto our streaming account. We’ve remedied the situation by purchasing our Liverpool-fan son Jonah an online streaming subscription for Christmas.) I watched eight games during December and one on New Year’s Day in my Boston area home, in our family’s Cape Cod place, en route to and in church, at Sean’s Bar & Kitchen in New York City, and at an in-law’s house during a holiday event. I took notes while watching most of these contests, but lost the ones I jotted on a Sean’s Bar & Kitchen napkin.
The Reds have compiled an impressive record during the past 10 games, winning seven, tying two, and losing one, the Europa group league game vs USG, which my Chelsea-fan son told me didn’t matter because Liverpool was advancing out of group play anyway, so I’d say they had a good December, in spite of my blogging lapse.
While I’ll post some highlights from my notes below, one question has been haunting me over the over-packed month of December: How can fans possibly keep up with all these games? Do they watch all of these games or some of them?
I, for example, don’t watch every Boston Red Sox game, given that they have 162 of them a season, and I still call myself a fan. I think I’ve been unduly influenced by my Chelsea-fan son who’s of the mind that only real fans watch every football game. (Yes, he’s employed.) I now realize that it’s unlikely that I’ll be able to blog about every game, and that’s okay. I’ll still watch as many as I can, taking notes when I can, and posting as I can.
As a British football newbie, I still find all these concurrent tournaments — EFL, Europa, never mind players leaving to play for their national teams’ continental football tournaments (like Mo Salah leaving Liverpool to participate in the Africa Cup of Nations for much of January) — befuddling. I’m unaccustomed to trying to balance all of the competitions in my mind. I think following just the Premier League would be simpler, but my Chelsea-mad son has strongly implied that would be very “plastic” of me. And, God knows, I don’t wanna be plastic.
Okay, so the Reds have fallen into a teeny, tiny slump as of late. In Premier League play, they fell to Tottenham 2-1 in a hotly-contested match filled with more cards than a stationery store and, a week later, they tied Brighton 2-2 in a game in which they had the lead until late in the contest. In Europa League group stage play, they beat Union Saint-Gilloise 2-nil.
Tottenham: I watched that dreadful, aggressively-officiated Sept. 30 Tottenham game between two unbeaten Prem teams (there were a dozen cards issued during this match!) from my living room, where I shouted repeatedly when Curtis Jones received a yellow card 26 minutes in, but, after the officials reviewed it via VAR (video assistant referee), the braintrust decided Jones actually earned himself a red card and a time out … which will last for three games. (An appeal of that ruling failed.) This also meant that Liverpool had to play Tottenham with one fewer player on the pitch.
After Liverpool goalie Alisson Becker made two tremendous saves in a row, fans’ spirits were on the upswing. They were thoroughly lifted in the 34th minute when Luis Diaz scored a quick shot. Jubilation. Celebration … wait … what? The on-field ref said Diaz was offside so the goal was “disallowed?” Reader: Diaz was most definitely on side and the goal should have counted.
In what ESPN called “the biggest error the Premier League has seen” when it comes to officiating, the refereeing team miscommunicated and the on-field official misconstrued what the VAR folks were saying and gave the ball to Tottenham for a free kick. VAR realized that the goal was actually legit, but the on-location official misunderstood. “Seven seconds later,” ESPN reported, “the VAR team realized their error. Panic set in, but they decided they couldn’t go against protocol, so they let play continue.” Seriously? They knew Diaz’s goal was legit, but decided to let “protocol” — which is supposed to assure fairness and accuracy — triumph in the face of a nakedly obvious error?
My mood darkened even further when Liverpool was forced to play with only nine players (instead of the usual 11) because those sterling officials hit Diogo Jota with a second yellow card in the 69th minute, after awarding him a yellow card in the 68th minute. According to Prem rules, when you receive two yellow cards, like Jota did, that equals a red card and you get sent off the field.
To make matters exponentially worse, in the 96th minute, Liverpool’s Joel Matip scored an own goal (meaning he accidentally hit the ball into his team’s net) giving Tottenham the 2-1 win, an atrocious cherry on top of that wretched Tottenham sundae.
While I ranted on social media along with Liverpool fans about the disallowed Diaz goal which would’ve made the difference between a loss or a tie, Liverpool’s club issued a statement saying that the erroneous Diaz offside call “undermined sporting integrity,” while Liverpool Manager Jurgen Klopp said the game – which would’ve been 2-2 if Diaz’s goal counted – should be replayed, sparking mockery from Liverpool haters everywhere. (The VAR refs who handled this call weren’t allowed to officiate games the following day, so the refs knew they screwed up.)
Honestly, I’m still kinda salty about the whole affair, even a week later. While I spent more time than I would have liked debating my Chelsea-fan son (who agreed the offside call was wrong) by saying that, in the face of such a costly error (think of the monetary and business implications), the Prem should remedy the mistake, he kept telling me it was a pipe dream. But they know it was a mistake, I kept saying. They had it within their power to fix it. They could, like the Olympics does when it’s revealed that someone was doping or a judge was bribed, modify the results to reflect the new information. Apparently, according to my son, I’m a naive idiot for thinking this way.
Europa League Group Play: The next time a Liverpool game was on TV was the Oct. 5 Europa League group stage match against USG (the Belgian Royale Union Saint-Gilloise team). This wasn’t a good day for me. By game time, I felt drunk and high. And not in a good way. I’d received a combo flu and COVID vaccines the previous day and the cumulative effects, coupled with the insomia I experienced, hit me with unexpected force yielding chills contrasted with bursts of heat, muscle achiness, severe foggy-headedness, weakness, and lightheadedness. I spent the morning of Oct. 5 feeling not-at-all-right while I laid in bed listening to CNN anchors and reporters discuss the chaos inside the US House of Representatives after the Republican party booted its own speaker. I was proud of myself that, despite feeling ill, I remembered there was a Liverpool game on TV that afternoon. But, because I was feeling so lousy and didn’t want to fetch my laptop or the Roku device, I opted to watch the game on a channel that broadcast in Spanish (a language I do not speak) because that was the only station on which I could watch the game from my bed.
In spite of the haziness of my brain, I was still able to take handwritten notes on what I witnessed. My notes say I was impressed by Jota’s 92nd-minute goal after he outran his opponents and blasted a shot into the bottom corner of the net with his left foot, afterwards, celebrating by pantomiming pulling back on a bow and releasing an arrow into the crowd. Why? I have no idea. Did I, in my post-vaccine fog, imagine all of that? No, an online search revealed, I did not. My notes were indeed correct, at least about the Jota bow-and-arrow thing. Liverpool won, 2-nil. And, unlike with the card-mad Tottenham game, officials tagged players with a grand total of … zero cards.
Brighton & Hove: By the time the Oct. 8 game at Brighton & Hove started on a Sunday morning, I was already dressed, ready for church, and had informed those who use our family streaming account that I planned to watch the game on my phone. Luckily, during there were no issues with streaming access. Unluckily, Brighton drew first blood in the 20th minute with a triumphant goal, however, by the time I was ready to leave the house, good old Mo Salah evened it up. Salah then added a second goal to the scoreboard via a penalty kick just before halftime. Two-one, Liverpool.
The second half began five minutes before I pulled into a parking spot next to the church in downtown Westborough, Mass. With the game streaming on my phone, I turned the volume off as I stepped into the 19th century building and chatted with one of the greeters for several minutes. I resisted the urge to turn my phone over — I’d pressed the screen into my thigh — so I could check if the score had changed. When I finished the conversation, I felt proud of myself for being completely present during that exchange and then felt relief that the score was unchanged.
Once I settled into one of the pews in the back of the sanctuary, I found it difficult to prop the phone up so I could clearly see the tiny screen. I didn’t want everyone to notice that I was watching British football during church; I was trying to be subtle, respectful. I opted to rest the phone atop my right leg which was crossed over my left, as I tried to angle my face toward the pulpit and only use my eyes to look at the phone. However when the minister began to read the statement the president of the Unitarian Universalist Association released about the murderous attacks in Israel that took place the day before, I put the phone on the pew cushion beside me and gave the minister my full attention. It just felt wrong not to do so.
After that, I left the device upon the crushed, red velvet pew cushion in order to rise and “sing” — I can’t really carry a tune all that well — a hymn. (I have yet to figure out a way to record streaming Liverpool games so I don’t have to multi-task.) Once the hymn concluded, I was relieved to see that the score hadn’t changed … until the 78th minute when Brighton tied it up. Unable to shout to express my disappointment, I silently clenched and unclenched my free hand and screamed internally. Game officials handed out two yellow cards by the end of the game – one to Joe Gomez (only six minutes after he entered the game), one to a Brighton player – and the match was over by the time the collection plate was passed. A 2-2 tie.
After I got home, my Chelsea-fan son gleefully informed me that people online were mocking Klopp by sarcastically asking if he would demand to replay the Brighton game as well as the contested Tottenham game. Ha, ha.
It was eight weeks into this season, and Liverpool still ranked significantly above Chelsea in the Prem standings. I let him yammer on while I kept that little dagger of truth to myself.
I’ve got questions. Lots of ‘em. Stupid questions, pointed questions, legit questions. Let’s start with the ones that’ve been really nagging me.
International breaks
Why are there so many breaks in the Premier League’s season? I’d never even heard of such a thing until the end of the last Liverpool game against Aston Villa, when announcers mentioned that the next game would occur AFTER the international break.
The international … what?
I did a round of internet sleuthing and learned that the English Premier League has loads of players who participate in the Euro Cup for their home countries’ teams, as well as for the Asia Cup and the Africa Cup of Nations, according to Metro UK. So the Prem accommodates them — most of them anyway — with breaks. Several of them, as outlined by the Metro:
So this led to my having to read up about the 2024 Euro Cup, for which national teams must endure months of qualifying rounds, similar to the World Cup. There are qualifying matches in September, October, and November before the semi-finals in March 2024 and finals in June and July.
I struggled to find a comparable situation in American professional sports. There are pauses, for example, for the World Cup in American pro soccer, but that’s only every four years, and, I believe their schedule isn’t affected by the World Cup, at least it wasn’t last year. With Major League Baseball, there’s a midseason break for the All-Star game and associated festivities; the World Baseball Classic takes place during MLB’s spring training so there’s no need for a league-wide break. One American professional sports league, the National Hockey League, refused to take a break from play before the 2022 winter Olympic games. The NBA similarly opted to keep the regular schedule going during the rescheduled 2021 summer Olympics, so the concept of multiple “international breaks” proved befuddling to this American fan.
What do the breaks mean for the Liverpool team, my chosen PL club? According to the team website, these players are participating in qualifiers for international teams:
Alexis MacAllister — Argentina
Alisson Becker — Bolivia
Luis Diaz — Colombia
Kostas Tsimikas — Greece
Dominik Szoboszlai — Hungary
Caoimhin Kelleher — Ireland
Cody Gakpo and VVD — Netherlands
Diogo Jota — Portugal
Andy Robertson — Scotland
Darwin Nunez — Uruguay
“Trent Alexander-Arnold has withdrawn from England’s squad … due to injury,” according to Liverpool. Mo Salah is slated to play with Egypt in the Africa Cup qualifiers, the Reds’ site said, adding that Wataru Endo will join the Japanese team to play friendlies. But because the bulk of the Africa Cup runs from January through February — during which the Prem will only take a pause from Jan. 14-30 — that means if a player’s national team does well, that player could miss one or two Prem games, according to TalkSport.com. For Salah, the website reported he could miss Liverpool’s matches against Chelsea and Arsenal if Egypt’s national team is still alive in the Africa Cup’s later rounds.
Plural or singular?
Seeing that I’m a word nerd, it’s been bugging me to hear people refer to football teams’ host cities in the plural format. For example, when I discuss the Boston Red Sox, I say, “Boston is miserable this year.” I use a singular verb, “is.” Boston is one city. There is one baseball team represented by the name “Boston” in that sentence. However, when people discuss the Liverpool Football Club, I’ve noticed they say things like, “Liverpool are doing well so far.” The word “are” is generally used when describing the actions of more than one entity. The Liverpool Football Club is a singular organization.
Listening to people say, “Liverpool are winning,” is cramping my brain. It was during one such brain cramp when I wound up in a big argument with Chelsea-fan Casey about this very subject. He pointed out that I refer to the “Red Sox” in the plural form. (“The Red Sox are losing.”) I replied by saying using the word “are” makes sense when most American sports’ teams nicknames are plural, as in, more than one sock, more than one Yankee, more than one Patriot, etc. But when you’re talking about Liverpool or Chelsea, you’re only talking about one team. We went round and round for a while until my head ached and I wound up fleeing the room. When I took to the internet again, I discovered a site that proved football-mad Casey correct:
“In the Premier League, all football teams are singular in form (Arsenal, Manchester Utd, Chelsea),” said the website Premier Skills, “but, in British English, we use a plural form when we are referring to the football team and their actions. For example: ‘Arsenal are on the attack. Chelsea have won again.’”
Okay, Casey, you were right. Again. At least when it comes to how the English refer to their football clubs.
Names on jerseys (okay, they’re called ‘kits’ in the UK, and football cleats are called ‘boots’ but the spikes at the bottom are called ‘studs’ in England, I think … )
I was super confused a few weeks ago after Darwin Nunez came off the bench and scored Liverpool’s only two goals to defeat Newcastle. Why? Because his jersey has the name “Darwin” on the back. So when commentators started going on about “Nunez,” I was thinking, Who’s Nunez? Darwin is the one who scored. (I was similarly thrown when everyone was referring to the goalkeeper, Alisson Becker, as “Alisson,” but at least the back of his jersey says, “A. Becker.”)
Later, I learned that I was thinking like an American sports fan. In the US, players’ surnames are on the backs of their jerseys, not their first names or their nicknames. Red Sox legend David “Big Papi” Ortiz had “Ortiz” on the back of his jersey, not “Big Papi” or “David.”
Research informed me that if the Premier League gives its okay, players can put their first names or nicknames on their shirts. So when you mix in first names, nicknames, and surnames, that can lead to a lot of confusion to those new to the sport.
According to theDaily Mirror, the Prem’s rules about names on jerseys was “relaxed” in 2000. “Shirts should feature the player’s last name or such other name as approved in writing by the Premier League Board,” the Mirror reported. “These can be nicknames adopted from abroad which are more likely to be accepted if featured in other leagues.”
Well, okay then. Another bizarre rule for this Yank to wrap her head around, along with messed-up verb tenses and more breaks than an American member of Congress. Onto Saturday’s match.
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.”
During my second week of watching the Prem as a Liverpool fan — I was told to stop writing the “Premier League” because it makes me sound like the football newbie that I am — I had to do so on a tiny cell phone screen because I was joining my husband Scott and my Liverpool fan son Jonah to move my Liverpool fan daughter Abbey’s belongings to her new apartment in the Bronx as she starts a Physician Assistant Program. Abbey, who attended a Liverpool game at Anfield in May and likened its atmosphere to my beloved Fenway Park, drove and listened to the Liverpool v Bournemouth match audio while I rode shotgun and held aloft that diminutive screen.
It was definitely an inferior experience watching the game a cell phone while keeping an eye on the other two vehicles in our move-Abbey-to-the-Bronx caravan. Additionally, I couldn’t totally get into the spirit of things because I wasn’t wearing my brand new (retro version) Liverpool jersey which had recently arrived because I didn’t want it sullied as I unpacked boxes. Instead, I opted to live dangerously by wearing a Boston Red Sox tee while the Sox were playing — and beating — the New York Yankees just a few miles away from Abbey’s new digs at Yankee Stadium.
As for Liverpool’s come-from-behind 3-1 victory, it was initially quite grim inside our vehicle as not only were we stuck in atrocious traffic from Boston to NYC, but we were witnessing Bournemouth land two shots on target and one goal in the match’s opening minutes. And Liverpool, as an entity, was playing like a wet dish towel. I kept thinking about the video Jonah had shown me hours before in our kitchen, where Liverpool scored nine goals against the Cherries in a prior season. Had we unknowingly jinxed the game by musing about a possible repeat performance? I’d had Jonah knock on wood because, well, I can be a tad superstitious.
Feeling as though, after my reading about and watching of EPL football, I could speak with a teeny bit of verve about the match, I started live-tweeting. Luckily, after my first disgruntled post — “WTF @LFC @LFCUSA? Good God. Is this going to be a 9-1 but with the Reds on the wrong end? @premierleague” (the 2022 game was 9-0, I later learned, but you can’t edit tweets) — things started looking up. As Eurosport put it, “It took Liverpool half an hour to wake up but they hit two [goals] in nine minutes thanks to [Mo] Salah and an acrobatic finish from Luis Diaz.”
That Diaz goal, a quasi-bicycle kick move … a chef’s kiss of deliciousness to lift the gloom inside our vehicle as we remained stuck in stubborn traffic. Add in Salah’s goal on the rebound after his penalty kick (PK) was saved, and Abbey and I went into halftime quite happy.
Even though I’m quite new to British football, I thought the red card issued to Alexis MacAllister was bogus. Here’s what I wrote in my Notes app on my phone while watching the game on my daughter’s microscopic iPhone: “MacAllister gets bad red card. No malice. Learned that they [Liverpool] had to now play with 10 [players].” Another new football rule I filed into the recesses of my brain: red card = playing with only 10.
The issuance of that card came just 24 hours after Abbey, who’d been packing up her childhood room (!), came across the red and yellow card packet she had from her youth soccer reffing days. She never did find the right moment to flash either color card. However after watching the video of the controversial call (after our caravan took a breather at a rest area) former youth soccer ref Abbey concurred that it should’ve been a yellow.
The least surprising response to this red blunder came from my football-mad, Chelsea-supporting son Casey who did not make the trip with us. Via text, he said he agreed with the ref, adding that MacAllister’s studs were up and over a foot off the ground, a clear violation of the rules, which he’s read thoroughly. Two days later, I sent Casey a screenshot of an Instagram post from a (biased) Liverpool fan site, LFC Newsroom: “As widely expected by everyone with reasonably adequate eyesight, LFC have formally appealed for Alexis MacAllister’s red card to be overturned. … Surely it gets overturned. It was a clear mistake by the referee to give MacAllister a red card, even Bournemouth manager Andoni Iraola said it wasn’t a red card.”
Those anti-red card folks were vindicated when the call was later overturned. I may have gloated (*I absolutely did*) in my family’s group text. Score one for the football novice.
Other tidbits:
Red = angry: The MacAllister red card seemed to inspire Liverpool to play a more aggressive style of football in the second half against Bournemouth, fueling a barrage of powerful shots. After the beginning of the game during which it seemed like the Reds were sleepwalking, this was refreshing.
Salah staying put: For the past few days, the internet has trembled with rumors that Salah was being wooed to leave Liverpool with the lure of a massive paycheck. Fortunately, those rumors have been dispelled. For now. (*fingers crossed and knocking on wood*)
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.
Meredith OBrien 
