What’s so great about a miserable score of one to one? I’m the type who needs more points—more goals, people!—to stay entertained. (Good thing Director Park had a beer garden to keep me amused.) Near the end of the match, the JumboTron outside Nordstrom showed groups of crazed fans from New York and Chicago, screaming barbarically at the camera. They all were thrilled to have tied—to have scored one goal.
Perhaps it’s my preference for basketball—a fast-paced sport with which my family is obsessed—or the fact that at age twelve, I was forced to watch my eight-year-old sister play countless games of “soccer” (otherwise known as kick-the-ball-and-chase-it-even-though-there’s-no-plan-and-you-don’t-know-which-way-your-own-goal-is) against my will, but I’m not much one to get pumped for a soccer match. Soccer’s just too dang slow.
After USA’s “victory” (I still don’t get it), our group eats and drinks at On Deck on NW 14th and Kearney in the Pearl, and then we relocate to another park—this one with real grass and trees and folks lounging on blankets in the shade—where we sit in a circle and play childhood games such as Duck, Duck Goose and Frisbee. I borrow a baseball and a glove and talk three different people into playing catch with me, something I haven’t done since I was sixteen.
Minus the booze, Saturday is reminiscent of summertime as a kid. It’s picture perfect.