My friend had suite tickets for the FC Cincinnati game this past Saturday, and I jumped at the chance to attend the match in the lap of luxury, as did my mother. Not only was I jazzed about lounging in the suite’s posterior-pleasing stadium chairs, I also took the opportunity to shore up my karmic crib sheet by passing along my season tickets to the daughter of a friend. All around, a banner day for the giving and receiving of good will.
Game day started well. Earlier in the afternoon, the aforementioned friend (Paul) and I met up at Danger Wheel, an annual event in Pendleton, the neighborhood adjacent to my own. The crux of Danger Wheel revolves around beer consumption and adult human beings racing tricycles down a hilly street, hurtling over ramps and dodging obstacles whilst being pelted with water balloons hurled from the hands of well-wishing, enthusiastic onlookers. The motto of the race? “No Brakes, No Worries.”
Serendipitously, Paul and I were able to weasel our way in to a prime viewing spot right at the finish line. Just a few yards past the finish line was positioned a six-foot high pile of baled and loose straw, its purpose to confound the inertia of the speeding tricyclists and reduce, as much as possible, any chance of permanent injury. Beers in hand, we watched pair after competing pair of volunteer riders come screaming down the hill, cross the finish line, and barrel into the somewhat less-than-forgiving flaxen barrier. Sometimes the drivers managed to spin their trikes in an effort to avoid a head-on collision with the grain; sometimes not. The drivers were of all of all sexes, generationally mixed, and all were employees of, or sponsored by, local businesses and organizations. To a man, or woman, not one of the daredevils received a dollar of compensation, playing only for pride.
Sixty-four teams started the competition and, after each round of single-elimination heats, the course was made more difficult through the addition of ramps and, for one heat, blindfolding the drivers themselves. Alas, Paul and I were not able to stay through to the championship round, as we had obligated ourselves to attend the FC Cincinnati game, and were to meet up with my mother for pre-game beers. Two hours before game time, we three joined the throng of FC fans at The Pitch, a bar located directly across the street from the stadium. New friends were made and a good time was had by all. After leaving The Pitch, we even stopped by the FC store and loaded up on some new team gear before making our way to the suite.
The suite seat was everything I hoped for, hugging my buttocks like a friend with benefits. The game was good, too. That is, the game was good until certain members of both teams started doing the thing I despise about professional soccer/futbol. Indeed, it is a thing I loathe with the heat of a thousand exploding suns.
The fake fall knee grab.
Now, I have it on good authority (from a Moroccan acquaintance) that some teams actually practice the fake fall knee grab as tactic of the game. And what’s the purpose of the tactic? Well, it’s to take the momentum away from the other team. At least that’s what my Moroccan acquaintance says. As far as I can tell, however, the regular offenders appear to be rather random in their employment of the shameful maneuver. Watching the game, it seemed the fake fall knee grab was often rendered…just because. Just because someone’s jersey was grazed by someone else’s jersey. Just because a player is tired. The reasons could be myriad, or not. I can’t say for sure because I’ve not had the opportunity to ask an actual player. (It’s on my To-Do list.)
Of course, having been raised on American sports, where it is still considered shameful to act hurt, even if you are, I find the idea that a grown man would flop around on the ground like a beached fish abhorrent. In my estimation, the fake fall knee grab is, I dare say, unmanly. Why not just play the game to the best of your abilities and see who wins? Why play pretend in front of twenty-five thousand fans?
And speaking of playing pretend, is it possible all these players have the same acting coach? I ask because, from where I was (very comfortably) sitting, the move was the same across the board. The script is as follows: 1) Wait for a moment where it, at least, looks like someone from the other team touched you inappropriately. 2) If the referee is close by, fall down without actually hurting yourself. 3) Grab one knee (it doesn’t matter which) with both hands and rock side to side, until you hear a whistle. 4) As soon as penalty is called, miraculously recover or, if a penalty is not called: 5) Argue with the referee.
Equally frustrating is that the referees fall for it over and over again. They seem blissfully unaware of the nauseating tactic, though literally everyone in the stands recognizes it for what it is. BS.
I watched this over and over again, until my cranium was barely able to contain the expanding brain within. Indeed, I allowed it to distract me from the fun of the game itself. And the game was fun. Our team seems to get better every game.
But, in the end, I couldn’t help but draw the comparison between the well-paid, somewhat pampered athletes on soccer field, fake falling and knee grabbing all over the place, and the volunteers of Danger Wheel. Those intrepid tricycle drivers, breathlessly brakeless, careening down a hilly street, protected only by motorcycle helmets, long-sleeved shirts, and bales of straw purchased from a nearby farm. They were the true heroes of the day.
Soccer does have an advantage over Danger Wheel. More games. I have to wait a whole year for the next Danger Wheel.
—Mark E. Scott is author of the novel Burning Buildings.
