Was Paraguay that bad? Was the U.S. that good? After some thought, I’d say the latter is the more accurate assessment. The United States men were that good yesterday in Los Angeles before 70,000-plus fans in SoFi Stadium.
A solemn space at the Los Angeles Memorial Coliseum.
Larry, Scott, and I prepared for the big event by attending the FIFA Fan Zone in the Los Angeles Memorial Coliseum, itself a grand venue. Another former teammate of mine, John Ryan, from my Florida playing days, had traveled to L.A. with his girlfriend to attend the match (the two of them are also making their own journey up the coast to Seattle during this World Cup) and we met them at the coliseum.
Scott, Larry, and James outside SoFi before the match.
All was orderly and efficient at the match stadium, entry lines moving briskly, excitement visible. Reuniting with Larry and Scott for the tournament has been a surreal experience for me, and that sensation was heightened as I thought back to our Germany days. Fußball was and is front and center for us; we were in our safe space.
The K-Town trio at SoFi.
I won’t go on about the match. I enjoyed it thouroughly. Pulisic was splendid in the first half (he was substituted out at the half after sustaining a “kick” to a calf), there were two stellar goals — one from Balogun, one from Reyna, the latter my favorite, a curling piece of poetry that he curved around the keeper — and the U.S. side played a nearly flawless match. If they play close to this level against Turkey on the 25th things will really become exciting for U.S. supporters.
We will now enjoy Saturday in Los Angeles, take in the Brazil-Morocco match at home, and prepare for the journey toward Seattle. And what’s that I hear? It’s Die Mannschaft calling — Germany kicks off its tournament tomorrow, and I’ll be watching as we head up the coast.
Though I love good coffee, and drink it daily, I have measured out my life with World Cup tournaments.
The 1982 edition marked the actual, live beginning of my journey with the moveable feast; Spain was the host country, I was attending school in Germany. I had, of course, seen footage of Pelé and his magic, and had a few years earlier commenced my research into the history of the tournament. But now I was in Germany, in Europe, and the sport was with me 24 hours a day.
I began playing Fußball in New Hampshire, as a junior high school student, and continued in Clearwater, Florida, on school and club teams. Germany was next. My father was ordered to duty in Kaiserslautern, a small city in the Rheinland Pfalz. My mother, two sisters, and I accompanied him.
One of my coaches in Florida, Otto Lohmann, was a German, and I learned a lot from him. He was my first genuine coach, an individual who knew the sport and knew how to manage players. At the time I had no idea I would one day play and live in Deutschland, but I prefer to think that it was my destiny. In Florida I became a fan of the television show “Soccer Made in Germany,” which was moderated by the great Toby Charles and broadcast on PBS channels.The program was a Sunday-morning priority, and Charles brought the Bundesliga into my life. I watched what would soon become my club team, 1 F.C. Kaiserslautern, on that show.
On to Germany. That’s where it all shifted into overdrive.
I attended a Department of Defense school, for which I played soccer. I also tried out for a German club team, T.S.G. Kaiserslautern, and became a member of the A-Jugend squad. Life was perfect.
In May of 1981 I found myself at the home of the Kehls, watching Germany play Brazil in a friendly. I was also there for dinner; Frau Kehl had cooked pork and red cabbage. We drank riesling that Herr Kehl made his son and me dilute with water. I had already adopted Die Mannschaft as my national team, but that match firmly placed the team in my being. Herr Kehl was my trainer at T.S.G., and I admired him greatly. He was the best trainer I would ever have. Germany lost that friendly 2-1.
The KAHS Red Raiders, a good team. Scott Babos is second from left on the bottow row, Larry Day third from left, and I am sixth from left.
Larry Day and Scott Babos were among my best friends in Kaiserslautern. They were fellow Air Force Brats, and they were my DoD school teammates. We spent hours together on the training pitch, on buses traveling to away matches and home again, and playing together for the Kaiserslautern American High School Red Raiders. Scott and I had a standing appointment at a local raquetball facility near my house, at which we played endless one-on-one matches to improve our dribbling and ball control in tight spaces. The small plexiglass window on the door of the court was the target of our free-kick competitions. Larry joined us as often as he could at outdoor three-on-three matches to stay in shape during the brief off seasons. They both played for German club teams as well.
Larry and Kelli Day in Tokyo earlier this year.
The World Cup is back, and my journey continues. This tournament is especially meaningful to me, because my two friends and I are, beginning this evening, writing another chapter of our friendship. At the beginning of this year Larry phoned and asked me to get in touch with Scott. “I’ve got an idea for us,” he said. A few days later we heard Larry’s idea: He wanted to buy tickets for the three of us to World Cup matches taking place in Los Angeles, my home, and Seattle, where Scott lives. The last time the three of us were together was in late 2000.
Scott Babos, left, two of his grandchildren, and his son, Alexander, at an FC Dallas match.
Larry is, as I write, in the air between California and New Hampshire, and Scott is somewhere between Seattle and L.A. They are joining me here in Los Angeles this evening, and tomorrow we will be in the stands watching the U.S. battle Paraguay. On Sunday morning we take to the roads in an RV, headed up the beautiful coast, Seattle our ultimate destination, where we will attend the match between Australia and the U.S.
I am measuring out this thing called life. Larry and Scott will meet Angela for the first time. These two men who mean so much to me, who became part of my story, my existence, will now become part of my World Cup journey. It’s going to be our journey. It will be, I am certain, epic. And I’ll be documenting it here.
Yes, food and cooking and eating are important to me. But so is football, the real football (which is also known as soccer). And even if you are not a fan of the beautiful game, you are possibly aware that the World Cup kicked off today in Brazil, the birthplace of Pelé, the greatest player ever.
It promises to be an outstanding tournament, Sepp Blatter notwithstanding. I am looking forward to it, as the Cup has been a ritual for me for a long time. It is the grandest and most beautiful sporting event known to man. It moves me, infuriates me, brings tears of pride and joy to my eyes, and inspires me. It is integral to life. (That also describes my relationship to food.)
I am lucky, because I support two teams: Germany and the United States of America. I went to high school in Germany, and watching Die Mannschaft has been a religious experience for me ever since. Beckenbauer, Briegel, Brehme, Walter, Klinsmann, Breitner, Klose, Mueller, Schumacher .. those names, and others, are part of my education and history.
Herr Kehl. my trainer at TSG, and a great man indeed. Rest in peace, my friend.
The first time I saw the team play, their opponent was Brazil. I was at the Kehl family’s home for dinner, and Frau Kehl made delicious stuffed cabbage. We drank beer and wine and watched the match. Herr Kehl was my trainer at TSG Kaiserslautern, and he was the best coach I ever had. He died several years ago, and I miss him dearly. I spent some time with Frau Kehl in 2012, and I look forward to seeing her again soon. The Kehls live a stone’s throw away from the Betzenberg, my favorite stadium. It is the home to my club team, 1. FC Kaiserslautern. I am an American, but my blood runs the colors of Deutschland where football is concerned. In my brain is the profound memory of an all-white ball, a warm, late-spring day, the odor of the grass on the training field at TSG. We played as if our lives depended on that ball. Perhaps it did. I climbed the hill to the Betzenberg twice a month to see my beloved FCK, and return there every chance I get. It was a great time of my life. It changed me for the better.
This stadium is legend. The Betzenberg is in my heart and soul.
I played here, for a great trainer and with some great teammates.
Kaiserslautern American High School … a good side. (I am second from right, bottom row.)
Holger Westing, a talent in the kitchen and on the field.
The US is another matter. I started playing soccer in Florida, but I learned to play Fussball in Germany, through the hands and spirit and mind of Herr Kehl, and with my teammates at TSG, including Holger Westing, still one of my closest friends. (I also played for my American high school team in Kaiserslautern, under a German coach, Herr Konrad. The dual training regimens and match schedule benefitted my fitness.) At that time, the US national team was a nonentity. Sure, they defeated England at the 1950 tournament, 1-0, but it would be 40 years before the Yanks qualified for another World Cup. I did not follow the team, I did not know much about it, and what I saw of it was not worth seeing. That has, of course, changed. In 2002, the US defeated Portugal twice, with aplomb, and beat Mexico with flair on the way to a quarterfinal meeting with Germany. Yes, that Germany. It was a 1-0 result, Germany moved on, but the US had arrived. The American program has continued to improve. In 2010 the team finished first in its group, ahead of England (the team I love to hate; more on that later). In my opinion, the caliber of the 2014 squad is inferior to that 2002 side, and they drew a Group of Death for Brazil: Ghana, Portugal, and Germany. Smart money would bet on Portugal and Germany going through to the next round, but I am hoping for a Germany – US 1-2 finish.
The ball continues to roll. Here’s to Germany’s fourth World Championship, great Fussball, and some fine food. I am happy to be alive.
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