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| The question-askingest SoB I know. |
Up until a few years ago, I thought that I had heard every sports-related cliché and metaphor in existence. Then I started watching soccer. It didn’t take me long to realize that soccer commentators – my favorite is the darkly humorous yet empathetic Ian Darke – possess a diverse, insightful vocabulary all their own, perfectly suited to mirror the nuance of The Beautiful Game and - if I can be grandiose for a moment - life.
I’ll share two expressions which I had never heard before I started supporting Liverpool Football Club of the English Premier League (imagine you were the parent of a bright child whose behavior and performance in school fluctuated so violently that you alternately believed he should apply to Harvard or be given up for adoption – that’s what supporting Liverpool is like, in case you need a frame of reference). The first is “asking the question,” and the second is “chasing the game.” I want to examine both of these expressions for their significance on and off the pitch.
“Asking the question” can be loosely defined as “prodding your opponent in a variety of ways, hoping to discover a weak link in their defenses.” Obviously, the concept itself isn’t unique to soccer. A quarterback hurling a deep ball early in the first half to gauge how well a cornerback is covering a star receiver is “asking the question.” Watch any basketball team try to penetrate a zone defense and you’ll see what appears to be a series of non-committal and innocuous passes, but what you’re really observing is a series of increasingly pressing questions. The offense just needs one to go unanswered, and they’ll strike.
In soccer, the potential payoff for “asking the question” is more immense than in any other sport I can think of. A goal is approximately equivalent to two touchdowns in American football, a twenty to nothing run in basketball, or a Grand Slam in baseball – it doesn’t represent an unconquerable deficit, but it makes the going very tough for the opposition. And so teams whip crosses into the penalty area, push their right and left backs up the field to increase pressure on the defense, attempt intricate pass combinations designed to catch a defender wrong-footed, and rip twenty-five yard rifle-shots just to make sure the keeper is on his toes, all in the interest of procuring that most critical accomplishment in the entire sport: the break-through goal.
If you watch soccer, you might be nodding along at this point. If not, you’re likely thinking, ‘Well, obviously. Why the hell doesn’t everybody just “ask the question” until they get a goal or three?’ The answer is simple. “Asking the question” is a risk every time, and mitigating risk is a huge part of what most soccer teams do during their ninety minutes on the pitch. Often, mid-level clubs achieve success by toothlessly passing back to their own keeper and pushing forward only slightly, rarely daring to “ask the question” in any serious capacity. By playing it safe, they hope to keep the game close against more dynamic clubs and, at worst, eke out a draw. “Asking the question” is too dangerous for them to attempt with any real flair or consistency, because more capable sides will often have a ready answer. They’ll clear a probing cross to safety and surge forward in a fluid counter-attack, visibly, tangibly shifting momentum and catching their meeker, milder counterparts with their pants down.
Yes, “asking the question” is always a risk, but the dominant clubs, ones to whom adjectives like “inspired,” “powerful,” “invigorated,” and “masterful” can be routinely applied, “ask the question” constantly. They don’t delude themselves into believing that mere possession equals dominance. Possession is an illusion of a statistic. Soccer isn’t about safely cradling the ball between the midfield and center backs. Possession is only as valuable as what you do with it, and “asking the question” is the best way to make possession count.
Chasing the Game
Goalless draws are admittedly abhorrent. In fact, I’d bet that the primary reason that soccer isn’t more popular in America has less to do with its ill-grasped nuance or the lack of an elite domestic league. Rather, I think that the concept of draws - altogether repugnant to the American sports audience as a collective, goalless draws doubly so - kills the idea of soccer before it's given an honest chance. We just don’t like the idea of subjecting ourselves to ninety-plus minutes of a contest in which neither side achieves their objective. We love meritocracies and hierarchies, and feel like sports should reflect this love.
I’ve seen the dull side of the game and mostly come to terms with it. Of course it’s still maddening to watch a team deliberately hold out for a draw instead of “asking the question” of the opposition even once during a lifeless back-pass-fest, but those games are actually rarer than the average soccer-hater would have you believe.
What happens more often is that the teams feel each other out - “asking the question” a few times and applying all that open reconnaissance to a developing strategy - until one of them gets a goal. Then, something changes. Faced with a one goal deficit, the team on the short side of the scoreboard has a critical strategic (and moral, really) decision to make. They can keep doing what got them a goal down, or they can “chase the game.”
A team that “chases the game” is a little desperate, they feel cornered, and, backs to the wall, they’ve realized that their last best shot is to come out swinging. It might start with a more aggressive formation or more persistent attempts to pass the ball into attacking position, but no matter the strategy, a team “chasing the game” is a team qualitatively different from that more reserved version of itself. The change in perspective ignites something in a team that’s a goal down. They often spark to life as though a switch has been flipped and their confidence builds, they push up the field and take chances, firing balls into empty spaces filled almost magically by their sprinting teammates, they pass and cut and put the other team on their heels. And then, they score.
Watching the deciding moments of a soccer match level at a goal apiece is almost like watching a different sport. With little time left and a lot to be gained by clear victory, both sides are “chasing the game,” and the pitch suddenly seems wide open. The mad scramble for the winning goal results in fluid, dynamic soccer that represents the way the game was meant to be played, the best it has to offer. And when you see this, the same thought will likely occur to you that occurs to me every time I watch it unfold: ‘Why don’t they play like this for the whole ninety minutes?’
But the answer is the same as the answer to the earlier question: fear. Worry. Risk-mitigation. There is something inside players and managers, especially those who play for a side that doesn’t have the financial or geographical advantages of a Manchester City or Barcelona, that compels them to play things close to the vest, maybe send the occasional long ball in to a striker, and hope for an early break-through. I’ve seen it time and time again. That first goal, the one that shoots more conservative game plans all to hell and forces the losing team to “chase the game,” is sometimes the very thing that actually wins the game for the team that gave it up, because suddenly just holding the ball and waiting for something lucky to happen doesn’t make sense any more.
The Beautiful Game
I’ve been teaching high school English for four years now. I have a pretty cushy gig by high school English teacher standards, actually. Four sections of AP English Language and Composition with a roster of kids who are almost all decent and courteous and intelligent and serious about their school work. I like the people in my department and get along well with the administration, plus I’m pretty good at the job itself.
None of these things is all that important, however, because I can count on one hand the number of days in four years that I’ve come home from work and felt fulfilled or content. My job does nothing for my spirit. It doesn’t speak to my purpose, or offer me a chance to express my talent and intelligence in their highest forms. This is just a fancy way of saying that I don’t much like what I do.
I never wanted to be an English teacher, I just thought I did. I thought this because I assumed that there exists a relationship between loving to read and write and teaching English. This may surprise you, but the two have almost nothing to do with one another. It didn’t take me long to realize this, and for four years, I’ve been holding the ball in the midfield, booting it left to right, dropping it to the center back, then to the goalie, half-heartedly “asking the (occasional) question,” waiting for something lucky to happen. I’m sure you can imagine how much fun this would be to live through. Just like watching a goalless draw. I haven’t been losing, really, because I’ve done some writing, and I have a job that’s at least tangentially connected to my interests, but I’ve not been winning either.
These thoughts and dozens of others like them have been weighing on me for a while now, and at some point during the last couple of weeks, those forces in my life which are opposed to my joy and satisfaction scored a break-through. I was suddenly down a goal, shocked at how quickly it had all happened, seriously wondering about my capability to recover. The choice resulting from this blow was simple, though not easy. I could choose to stay the course, knocking the ball around and hoping for a break that wasn’t likely to ever come.
Or, I could “chase the game.”
I started pushing back against those oppositional forces. I started “asking the question” again and again. What do I want to do? And what has to change for that to happen? At first, the opposition repelled my advances. Fears over finances and security and failure countered my attacks ferociously. But I kept pushing, and finally, the opposing defenses broke down.
It started, of all things, with an argument my wife and I had. Like a lot of arguments, this one started over nothing particularly important, but led to a revelation: It’s awful doing a job that feels in no way like what you’ve been built to do. I said this to my wife, and her only response was, “Then do it. We’ll make it work.”
I’ve never stood on the pitch at Anfield, Liverpool’s home stadium, sweating, exhausted, staring a deficit in the eye, only to have 50,000 flag-waving supporters rise to their feet and belt out Liverpool’s club anthem, “You’ll Never Walk Alone,” but I think it would feel something like hearing those seven words from my wife: Then do it. We’ll make it work. It’s risky, I know. But the choice to chase my passion is my equalizer.
The game is level at a goal apiece, and I’ve got the opposition on its heels.
But the answer is the same as the answer to the earlier question: fear. Worry. Risk-mitigation. There is something inside players and managers, especially those who play for a side that doesn’t have the financial or geographical advantages of a Manchester City or Barcelona, that compels them to play things close to the vest, maybe send the occasional long ball in to a striker, and hope for an early break-through. I’ve seen it time and time again. That first goal, the one that shoots more conservative game plans all to hell and forces the losing team to “chase the game,” is sometimes the very thing that actually wins the game for the team that gave it up, because suddenly just holding the ball and waiting for something lucky to happen doesn’t make sense any more.
The Beautiful Game
I’ve been teaching high school English for four years now. I have a pretty cushy gig by high school English teacher standards, actually. Four sections of AP English Language and Composition with a roster of kids who are almost all decent and courteous and intelligent and serious about their school work. I like the people in my department and get along well with the administration, plus I’m pretty good at the job itself.
None of these things is all that important, however, because I can count on one hand the number of days in four years that I’ve come home from work and felt fulfilled or content. My job does nothing for my spirit. It doesn’t speak to my purpose, or offer me a chance to express my talent and intelligence in their highest forms. This is just a fancy way of saying that I don’t much like what I do.
I never wanted to be an English teacher, I just thought I did. I thought this because I assumed that there exists a relationship between loving to read and write and teaching English. This may surprise you, but the two have almost nothing to do with one another. It didn’t take me long to realize this, and for four years, I’ve been holding the ball in the midfield, booting it left to right, dropping it to the center back, then to the goalie, half-heartedly “asking the (occasional) question,” waiting for something lucky to happen. I’m sure you can imagine how much fun this would be to live through. Just like watching a goalless draw. I haven’t been losing, really, because I’ve done some writing, and I have a job that’s at least tangentially connected to my interests, but I’ve not been winning either.
These thoughts and dozens of others like them have been weighing on me for a while now, and at some point during the last couple of weeks, those forces in my life which are opposed to my joy and satisfaction scored a break-through. I was suddenly down a goal, shocked at how quickly it had all happened, seriously wondering about my capability to recover. The choice resulting from this blow was simple, though not easy. I could choose to stay the course, knocking the ball around and hoping for a break that wasn’t likely to ever come.
Or, I could “chase the game.”
I started pushing back against those oppositional forces. I started “asking the question” again and again. What do I want to do? And what has to change for that to happen? At first, the opposition repelled my advances. Fears over finances and security and failure countered my attacks ferociously. But I kept pushing, and finally, the opposing defenses broke down.
It started, of all things, with an argument my wife and I had. Like a lot of arguments, this one started over nothing particularly important, but led to a revelation: It’s awful doing a job that feels in no way like what you’ve been built to do. I said this to my wife, and her only response was, “Then do it. We’ll make it work.”
I’ve never stood on the pitch at Anfield, Liverpool’s home stadium, sweating, exhausted, staring a deficit in the eye, only to have 50,000 flag-waving supporters rise to their feet and belt out Liverpool’s club anthem, “You’ll Never Walk Alone,” but I think it would feel something like hearing those seven words from my wife: Then do it. We’ll make it work. It’s risky, I know. But the choice to chase my passion is my equalizer.
The game is level at a goal apiece, and I’ve got the opposition on its heels.
By Josh Corman
Follow me on Twitter @JoshACorman
