Soccer is for girls

Posted on: June 13, 2010

Notwithstanding the excellent film, Bend It Like Beckham, which, I understand was a pure love story, ball meets girl, there is no game but hockey.

Soccer just does not have the balls.

They are similar. In both games there is a goalie. There is also a  face off of sorts. In both games the object  is to crush the goalie’s vocal chords with the ball. Or puck.

There is passing, tripping, head butting, kicking and elbowing. Canadians like that. I get very excited, nationally speaking, with the possibilities, too, of gouging, spearing and knocking teeth out. That’s where real sports passion lives. Giving your cartilage for your country is something Canadians understand deeply.

Did I say spearing? Aye, there’s the rub. For how, in that spear to deaf-en, or to inflict what injuries to come, when we carry not a mortal foil, must give us pause. No hockey shtick.

The hockey stick is a weapon so cleverly disguised as a necessary tool of ice warefare, er, sportsmanship, that it boggles our beer befuddled minds. This is what is lacking in soccer. We simply do not understand it. How can you dig an eye out with no stick? Use your fingers? How barbaric! Is this what civilization has come to? I beg you, give us a civilized sport. Let us glide on ice with the wings of birds, the speed of sparrows, to flit and twirl not kick like girls.

I notice in soccer (the English mistakenly call it “football,” proving they’ve never attended a Grey Cup), I say again, I notice in soccer even the goalies are ashamed to be on the same team. They never wear team colours. What’s up with that? Fashion statement? Oh dear. Say no more. Give us a man’s game, I beg you.

Let us enjoy sport (read “hockey”)  the way God intended. Give them sticks. Let us watch Uruguay bash Nigeria the way Canadians bash each other. With pine, steamed and cured for that just-right feel when you connect with someone’s skull and hear that lovely crack sound just right.

Let us cheer an expert Irish backhand drop pass to fool English defenders and an Englishman cracking the blade of his hockey stick through a German or Mexican mouth, resulting in a beautiful slow-motion replay shower of molars spraying the field like welcome snow flakes on a cold crisp Canadian Christmas day.

Now, I ask you.  Isn’t that, gentlemen, what a good sport is made of?



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