Although our family recently moved from London to New York one aspect of my life has remained constant: Pacing the sidelines at my son’s weekend Soccer games. I don’t know about Sarah Palin’s family but in mine and most of the others I see each weekend on both sides of the Atlantic the Soccer Dads outnumber the Soccer Moms by about three to one.
There are however a number of key differences between the "Footie" in England and Soccer in the US. First it must be sadly admitted is the quality of play. In London Walter’s polyglot teammates were Dutch Italian German Mexican English and even expat American but they played beautifully coached by every parent’s dream of the perfect coach-hero. Throngs of tourists would stop to watch these eight-year olds play in the shadow of Kensington Palace. Back in New York it must be admitted that the skills of the sons do not rise to the enthusiasm of the fathers. Passing is unheard of (except quixotically across the mouth of the goal) player positions are only indicative of where these free-roaming electrons might wish to start play and all eight players seem often to be playing out a pantomime of the gravitational force by converging into one dense black hole around the ball.
There is at least one aspect in which the Americans have it over the Brits: game organization. First signing-up for one of the leagues in New York is about as easy as applying for a US visa in Kandahar. Once the hapless dad has navigated this online maze comes myriad health forms and litigation releases a match schedule that can be downloaded into multiple PDA formats and near-hourly emails instructing the family as to what type of half-time snack (orange sections cut into eights longitudinally no doughnuts or candy until after the game etc.). Never has so much been organized by so many for so few.
Finally comes game day and one other major difference becomes apparent from the sidelines: there is not an umbrella in sight.