There is nothing like soccer. Nothing beats playing a soccer game on a hot summer afternoon. It feels really liberating. There is no rush like going to the soccer stadium. The forest of flags, the exalted songs, and the crowd feel like a combination of freedom and ritual communion. When the World Cup comes around, real fans don’t want to miss even one game. The cafés, bars, and restaurants showing the games feel electric. The human bonding is intoxicating—minus the alcohol and drugs. After the World Cup, you follow your favorite clubs, as well as various regional and international tournaments. It seems that you can never get enough of the game: the millions of fans worldwide who form one transnational soccer tribe. You get the soccer virus early in life and it never leaves you. I got injected by the soccer virus. Dad injected me and mom let me play with reckless abandon.
For all that this beautiful game has given me, this book is my debt of gratitude. I dedicate this book to all those who have been involved with “the beautiful game” since it was first institutionalized in England in the latter part of the nineteenth century. These fans learn many lessons from soccer. The love billions of us feel for soccer adds spice, passion, and beauty to the world.
As a North American, I call the game soccer throughout the book but recognize that it is called football or variations of football in most of the world. In Spanish the game is known as fútbol, in French football (or le foot), in Dutch voetbal, in Czech fotbal, in Portuguese futebol, in Filipino futbol, and in Esperanto futbalo. In Mexico, the game is sometimes called fútbol-soccer. When I quote others or use official titles such as the International Federation of Association Football, I maintain the original usage of the word football.