Soccer in America

Last week I made the trip to Yankee Stadium for the Spain vs. Ireland friendly…for a soccer match…that you watch…that you don’t compete in.  They also didn’t know what team was playing.  Apparently going to soccer games in the US means “wear anything soccer related to the game”.

Unfortunately I didn’t snap pictures of the infinite shameful Irishmen/want-to-be Irishmen that flooded the B train en route, but  I saw everything from a loudmouth pasty white-boy wearing a Nani jersey, to a functioning alcoholic wearing an O’Shea Mets T-shirt broing out with a puke-green Under Armour frat bro. Sprinkle in vile women with bulging muffin tops and disappointed children and you get the picture.  All I wanted to do was pelt them with Idaho potatoes, but that was apparently just a taste of the sub-humanoid migration. When I got to Yankee stadium there was no shortage or useless, vacuous dipshits.  If I had a License to Kill,  trust me, I would have gone Bill ‘The Butcher’  and chopped everyone to bits–minus the children.

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Why would you wear a Portugal jersey to a Spain vs. Ireland game? I understand Barca and Madrid jerseys–you have players on the pitch, but Portugal? You know that’s a country over from Spain, right? They’re not the same thing, you dumb pizza chit. Portugal has heroin and unemployment, Spain just has unemployment.

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Are those turf shoes?  They really grip that hard cement they’ll be touching when your ass is in a seat. Or are you wearing them so we know you play soccer?  I know you weren’t just wearing them and just so happened to end up at a soccer game in a baseball stadium.  Maybe you were distracted because your brylcreem hair smelled like absolute shit.  Put your beaner shoes back on and show off your grass stains.

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Balotelli? Do you say mutzarelllllllll too? Did you bring a capicola sandwich and a copy of the Gaadfatha’? The kid looks to be under 18, so I will cut him some slack. I don’t want the NSA hacking my life apart because I ranted on a tween. Also, I like chicken marsala and gelato.

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After the game we passed the always classy Yankees bars strung under the train tracks.  What happens when Ireland loses to the top soccer team in the world? Like moths to a flame.  We had the actual Irish (who were shit drunk falling over, and hitting on girls with one eye open), we had the ‘Merican Irish embracing the .000001% of Irish blood he brags about yelling for another shot, and then we had this guy.

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All I heard this guy say was “Hi, is that my beer?” “Ok” and that was that. Through all the pseudo machisimo Irish pride, the one endearing this left is the repose of an Irish drunk.  Keep it up, old man. Drink that guilt away.

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