My first live and in-person Revolution match against MLS competition was a good one: New England beat an excellent FC Dallas team 2-0 at Gillette. What surprised me most about my experience at last night’s game was my own confidence throughout most of it that the Revolution would prevail. That confidence was hardly justified given the Revs’ abysmal recent history of late-game collapses, and it was personally surprising since I’m one of nature’s pessimists. Not wishing to tempt fate, I did try to mask my optimism, as when Rajko Lekic scored the game-sealing goal in the 85th minute and I turned to my companions and said, “Dallas has us right where they want us, I assure you.”
But as I say I never really feared Dallas would win. They had the lion’s share of possession—virtually all opponents do against this New England team—but the Revolution created more quality chances and deserved the three points. New England not only scored two goals, they could’ve pretty easily scored more. Near the end of the first half, for instance, Milton Caraglio sprinted on to an errant back-pass to Dallas keeper Kevin Hartman, dribbled around Hartman, and fired a shot into the side netting of the open goal.
Going to the game also reaffirmed for me the old notion that witnessing an event in person is very different from watching one on TV. Sitting in a stadium can be monumentally distracting, especially when the spectators aren’t uniformly consumed by the action on the field. Last night’s audience consisted largely of pre-teen suburban youth soccer players and their parents, just like my daughter and me. My eleven-year-old daughter went with me to the game not so much to see soccer as to hang out with her best friend, which is okay by me and no doubt speaks to her mental good health. In any case, most spectators in our section weren’t especially concerned with the game. During one stretch of play, for example, our entire section rose to its feet. Only, the spectators rose not to watch soccer, but to wave frantically at the Gillette Stadium cameraman, who had walked down the stadium steps to take crowd shots for the JumboTron. It was all a far cry from my usual soccer-watching experience, which includes sitting in a quiet living room taking notes on a computer and rewinding the DVR when I feel like it, all while my kids are asleep and my wife’s in bed reading young-adult fiction.
Some other “highlights”: having a conversation with my seat mate about why the Ocean Spray company would pay to have its logo plastered on the blue mesh fabric the Kraft Group uses to cover up the seats it can’t sell in the section behind one of the goals (“We’re Ocean Spray: Think of us, and think of a decaying fan base.”); spotting a fan wearing a floppy knit cap in Ghana’s colors and noting that there was probably a higher percentage of spectators of African descent at last night’s Revs’ match than at any of the Red Sox, Patriots, or Celtics games I’ve attended; recalling an African friend of mine saying that the Revolution would draw many more local fans originally from soccer-loving nations if only Steve Nicol’s charges played a more stylish brand of “football.”
Yes, all very distracting, but all worthwhile. I also “tailgated” for the first time in my life last night, a pretty pathetic statement from a 44-year-old guy who’s been to hundreds of sporting events, but then again I grew up in D.C., not exactly the epicenter of tailgating. Anyone who, like me, is on a budget and considering going to a Revolution game should know that parking is free and that you can tailgate in lot P6. Tailgating was a blast. Our group cooked DePasquale’s sausages on a little propane grill, drank some overpriced “craft” beer, kicked around the soccer ball, bonded with a group of five in the next parking space over that took me for three dollars in a game of Left Center Right. I did not begrudge them taking my money, especially as they’d graciously given us some of their grilled steak.
Our seats for the game were relatively cheap but not bad, in fact perfect for taking in the best play of the night, which started in the 14th minute near the midfield circle. Shalrie Joseph ran onto a loose ball and beat two Dallas players, one of whom was my man Brek Shea, who unfortunately was mostly invisible during his 46 minutes. Joseph dribbled strong towards the goal and passed to the right flag. Caraglio tracked the pass down and back-heeled the ball to newcomer Monsef Zerka, who crossed it in to the six. Joseph ran on to it and slammed home a header for his eighth goal of the year, a beauty.
What else can I say other than that we had witnessed some very good soccer? And seeing Joseph’s goal live and up close was of course different from seeing a goal on the small screen. The players looked bigger and more powerful, the ball seemed to move faster, the lighting appeared whiter and more brilliant as it reflected off the players’ uniforms, the turf, and the white goalposts.
Finally, when you see a game on TV, you might be tempted to think that maybe, just maybe you could be thrust out there and not embarrass yourself, if only for a minute or two. But when you see world-class athletes perform right in front of you, you know better. You know they’d run right through you. When Joseph fearlessly ran on to Zerka’s cross and slammed his header into the narrow gap between the keeper and the near post, even my daughter cheered.
