"Good Lord, Kid! Is the World Cup still going on?" demanded my friend, Karl.
Well, yeah, I said, it’s about six-and-a-half weeks long. We were sitting at Klompen, our favorite Dutch-themed bar, for an early lunch. It was the day after Spain defeated France in the semi-finals. Klompen’s regular traffic had slowed down over the last few weeks after the Netherlands were knocked out by Morocco, although there was still a healthy World Cup crowd. I was there to watch England and Argentina face off in two hours, and I had tricked Karl into joining me.
"I’m bloody well sick of the entire thing," he said, slapping his hand on the bar. Nicky, our Dutch bartender, took that to mean that Karl wanted something.
"What can I do for you, Karl?" said Nicky.
"Nothing," said Karl. "I was just emphasizing a point I was making."
"Well, emphasize your point a little more quietly, please. Some of us are still in mourning." Nicky was taking this loss rather hard, since the Netherlands had had an outside shot of winning the entire thing. Karl apologized.
I thought you liked soccer, I said, after Nicky headed back to the kitchen to grab our lunch order.
That’s just part of the game, though, I said. We’ve had diving and whining for as long as I can remember. A player gets tapped on the ankle, and he crumples to the ground like a marionette whose strings were cut.
"It’s dishonorable, is what it is," said Karl. "They’re lying and abusing the foul rules. Players who dive are players without honor."
Nicky returned from the kitchen and set our burgers in front of us: a cheeseburger with a fried egg, peanut butter, and jalapeños for me; a mushroom-and-Swiss for Karl, plus chocolate milkshakes for us both.
Karl took a bite of his burger, chewed a few times, then said, "Hey, you know how McDonald’s is giving away commemorative cups of World Cup stars? Do you know why they didn’t have one for Neymar?" He was referring to the Brazilian player famous for taking dives during games.
Uh, no, I said.
"It kept falling over without anyone touching it." Karl cackled. He took a huge bite of his burger and then wiped his mouth; I laughed as well: Neymar was known for his fakery.
I said, To be fair, when I played soccer in college, we would be running so fast that a slight collision or even a nudge from a foot could send another player to the ground.
"And I suppose you had no other way of keeping your feet?" said Karl.
I wouldn’t know. I was the collider, not the collidee, I said. I raised an elbow to illustrate my point. Karl snorted a laugh into his chocolate milkshake.
"Diving is so prevalent in the men’s game," he said when he recovered. "I don’t see it happening in the women’s game, though. When you watch some of these men get a nudge, they go down screaming and writhing around, like their leg got chopped off. But the women soccer players? They pop right up and keep playing."
Yeah, but you can’t compare the men’s and women’s games.
"You’re damn right you can’t. Do you remember Abby Wambach and the US women playing against Mexico in a 2010 World Cup qualifier? She collided on a header with a Mexican player and went down. A few seconds later, her head is streaming blood, like someone turned on a faucet—"
Do you mind? I’m trying to eat! I protested.
"Shush," Karl said. "Anyway, the staff used medical staples to close up the wound on her head, and she kept playing. Massive Headwound Harriet’s running around the field, still playing, but the men are rolling around like they’re experiencing the worst pain ever. They can’t ever just play a straight game without any fakery."
Yeah, but—
"And! And!" interrupted Karl. "The same thing happened to Abby in 2007 against North Korea when she collided with another player. Only they had to give her stitches on the field that time because they didn’t have the capabilities for medical staples at the time."
I’m still eating! I said.
"Oh, grow up," he said.
I flipped him a middle finger.
"Oh, and let’s not forget Alexandra Popp, the German striker. She was playing in a semifinal against the US in 2015 when she collided with Morgan Brian. Morgan was being evaluated for a concussion, but Popp got up, blood gushing from her scalp. The trainers used a medical stapler right there on the field. They wrapped a bandage around her head, and what happened? She goes up for a header on the very next play."
Karl, seriously! I protested. I agree with you about women’s soccer and the men being big babies. I think the men play without honor and whine and cry, while the women just tough it out and keep playing. Are you happy? Now, I just want to eat my burger without discussing bloody head wounds. Is that so wrong?
"Whoa, whoa," said Karl, holding his hands up. "You don’t have to roll around on the ground about it."
Photo credit: CNC33 (Wikimedia Commons, Creative Commons 4.0)
My new humor novel, Mackinac Island Nation, is finished and available from 4 Horsemen Publications. You can get the ebook and print versions here.