My mind's a little blank tonight as to what to write about so I'll just go with the first thing that pops in my head. Let's see.......football, a.k.a. soccer to us.
Shockingly, it's not so much the want to watch "Kathy Griffin: My Life on the D-List" or "Pawn Stars" that is egging me towards flipping on the tv. It's the damn World Cup.
I say this is surprising, because I've never been what you would call a "sports fan". I tried to play some as a kid. You know, the kind your parents enroll you in before you have a chance to object, like soccer and softball. Plus my dad was always either an assistant or actual coach, (Didn't most of us have fathers that did that?) so then I really couldn't get out of it. But it was always pretty fun, for us kids anyway. No matter how many drills they made us do it always seemed that the skills ended up elsewhere while we scrambled around just trying to either kick or hit the ball as hard as we could. Meanwhile we would take pleasure at hearing our own parents screaming at the top of their lungs and watching their faces get purple as they disagreed vehemently at the poor rent-a-ref. They demanded justice for their little Susie, a redo, a recall. All we, and little Susie, wanted was for the game to be over so we could get our orange slices (or sometimes if we won, to get ice cream or pizza).
That, and then an attempt at basketball and softball in middle school (and a season of cross country in high school) basically summed up all my affiliation with the world of sports. I tried to watch football but it seemed too tedious and confusing. Baseball was simpler, but that made it even MORE boring. I figured I was just one of those girls that couldn't get into it. And I figured I never would.
Then when I went to college and befriended the English guys, Matt and Dave, on our floor in the dorm rooms, I became reintroduced to the world of soccer, ahem, football. They tried to get my friend Ashley and me into it by watching a game whenever one was going on. But this being America, places rarely showed games, let alone European ones.
Finally when Ashley and I made the trek out to visit them in England, one of our intended purposes was to sit together and watch a match. We walked to a pub near Matt's house and after we had our beer in front of us, I really sensed the difference in watching a sport there as opposed to the typical ones in America. Usually at sports bars there is so much going on, you barely hear or notice the game. Instead, all faces were turned to the big screen, and except for the minor comments here and there, courtesy of Dave trying to explain each call or flag that we asked about, the place was pretty quiet. It was kinda nice. It made the experience seemed special in a way, and we were able to be a part of it.
Of course, that nice easy experience might have been due to the fact that Matt's house resides in a quiet little neighborhood. The next time Matt came around to the states, we found ourselves in a "pub" ready to watch another country v. country game. This however, was not the quiet little evening we had had before. Instead the place was packed wall to wall with hardcore "football" fans, decked out in their country's jerseys. It was definitely more riled, but that made it more exciting. I found myself screaming at the screen just as much as the others around me.
Finally, when I decided to study abroad, I knew slightly what to expect. The guys I befriended there were also interested in learning more about this international sport, so whenever there was a game on we'd try to get to the Union Pub as early as possible to grab seats.
Towards the end of our trip, we realized we wanted to see a live game. The city of the school we attended, Norwich, just happened to have their team in the Premiership (basically the highest level). But since they weren't doing terribly well, we figured we ought to see them as soon as possible before we leave...and they get knocked down to Division One.
We arrived at the stadium early, obtained tickets, and waited for it to open up. When it finally did we found our seats, happily surprised that we actually had a good view. There we were, a couple of Americans infiltrating this wildly popular sport, screaming along like regular fans, booing a bad judgment and cheering at a goal. We had a blast, but were left wondering...why ISN'T America part of this?
Now I'm sure I'm going to get a schooling as to why this is (go ahead Gulliver, I know you are dying to), but in any event, even if America is just starting to catch up, I still feel proud to have learned as much as I have so far about it. Granted, I am by NO MEANS an expert, and there are still things that confuse the hell outta me (I still don't understand how to read the stats).
But I do like to watch if I can, either by myself or with a group of people who care and are really into it. I'm telling you, the excitement is infectious if you are with the right people, whom I was lucky enough to be around.
So go, grab a lager, and get into it.
Showing posts with label study abroad. Show all posts
Showing posts with label study abroad. Show all posts
Thursday, June 24, 2010
Tuesday, May 25, 2010
Highway Crossing Bott
"Come on! Before they close!" Joe yelled to me from across York Road earlier tonight. At least, that's what I think he was shouting, as it was difficult to tell because of the constant whooshing of cars that separated us. I stood stranded by the car wash on the other side of the road, waiting for a break in the traffic. He finally came closer to the edge and yelled that there was nothing coming for miles. And with a quick glance to confirm (and a big breath of courage), I booked it like Flo Jo, for all 4 secs it took to cross the street. To further solidify that my fears were baseless, Joe proceeded to count the seconds before the next car came along (11 secs if you are wondering).
But it doesn't matter. People have all kinds of fears: heights, spiders, snakes...peaches (yeah, if you ever watched that episode of Maury- pretty sure it was Maury- you would know what I'm talking about. Apparently the girl was freaked out by the skin or something). So is it really so unreasonable that I have a small problem crossing streets? And since I have known a few people who have actually BEEN hit by a car, I'm gonna go ahead and continue to be absurdly cautious.
I don't really know where this fear first developed. I was never hit by a car, I never witnessed someone getting hit by a car, I never had a dog that got hit by a car. And yet, if you walk along with me outside and we come to a point where we need to cross the street, don't be surprised if it takes me an extra 20 min (and I get out some binoculars to check the horizon for headlights) before I budge.
My fellow study abroad friends found that out first hand when we toured around Europe. I had always heard that driving in foreign countries was a little crazier, so naturally my ability to cross the streets worsened. I'd take even longer checking back and forth for signs of cars, and waited like a sprinter waiting for the second the "Walk" sign lit up. As it turned out, in most of the major cities we visited, the driving tendencies weren't so different than the bustling of New York City. I learned fairly quickly the technique of huddling together within a large crowd (somehow the thought of being surrounded by soft bodies which would protect me from a careless driver comforted me..it's sick I know) and moving with them when they crossed the street was useful. For some reason either Alex or Jay has actual video footage of me trying to cross the street in Paris. I'm not sure which is funnier: the fact that it took me actual minutes to do it, or they felt compelled to film it.
After several years, Joe has become quite accustomed to this particular idiosyncrasy. I think it has gone from being a cute thing, to an oddity, to an annoyance, and finally to a defined characteristic. He even often jokes about how he wants to create a game similar to "Frogger " and call it "Highway Crossing Bott." I guess I should be glad that he has managed to accept this quality, but I really should still try to work on it. After all, it can't exactly be fun for people to want to keep moving while I'm stalling.
I guess that's how I tend to be with all things in my life: overly cautious, fear-ridden, and constantly looking to be mowed down. I need to try and be more bold and take a confident step forward, not be so terrified of what's eventually coming down the road. We'll see. In the meantime, I'll keep looking both ways...
But it doesn't matter. People have all kinds of fears: heights, spiders, snakes...peaches (yeah, if you ever watched that episode of Maury- pretty sure it was Maury- you would know what I'm talking about. Apparently the girl was freaked out by the skin or something). So is it really so unreasonable that I have a small problem crossing streets? And since I have known a few people who have actually BEEN hit by a car, I'm gonna go ahead and continue to be absurdly cautious.
I don't really know where this fear first developed. I was never hit by a car, I never witnessed someone getting hit by a car, I never had a dog that got hit by a car. And yet, if you walk along with me outside and we come to a point where we need to cross the street, don't be surprised if it takes me an extra 20 min (and I get out some binoculars to check the horizon for headlights) before I budge.
My fellow study abroad friends found that out first hand when we toured around Europe. I had always heard that driving in foreign countries was a little crazier, so naturally my ability to cross the streets worsened. I'd take even longer checking back and forth for signs of cars, and waited like a sprinter waiting for the second the "Walk" sign lit up. As it turned out, in most of the major cities we visited, the driving tendencies weren't so different than the bustling of New York City. I learned fairly quickly the technique of huddling together within a large crowd (somehow the thought of being surrounded by soft bodies which would protect me from a careless driver comforted me..it's sick I know) and moving with them when they crossed the street was useful. For some reason either Alex or Jay has actual video footage of me trying to cross the street in Paris. I'm not sure which is funnier: the fact that it took me actual minutes to do it, or they felt compelled to film it.
After several years, Joe has become quite accustomed to this particular idiosyncrasy. I think it has gone from being a cute thing, to an oddity, to an annoyance, and finally to a defined characteristic. He even often jokes about how he wants to create a game similar to "Frogger " and call it "Highway Crossing Bott." I guess I should be glad that he has managed to accept this quality, but I really should still try to work on it. After all, it can't exactly be fun for people to want to keep moving while I'm stalling.
I guess that's how I tend to be with all things in my life: overly cautious, fear-ridden, and constantly looking to be mowed down. I need to try and be more bold and take a confident step forward, not be so terrified of what's eventually coming down the road. We'll see. In the meantime, I'll keep looking both ways...
Tuesday, April 13, 2010
How I Met Your Mother's Two and a Half Men's Big Bang Theory...
Sometimes I have moments in my life where I swear I'm being filmed for some sort of second-rate sit-com (hence the title). And just in case this blog outlives me and/or people don't know what I mean, I intend to provide documentation. Therefore, as stories come to mind I thought I'd provide them as episodes of my own crappy little life.
Here's what I mean...
Episode 1: "Home Sweet yet Uncomfortable Home"
When I was preparing to study abroad to England I was told that part of the program required a weekend home visit with an actual English family. At first I became incredibly nervous. Granted it's not a terribly foreign country, but I was already feeling the high-school fear of making friends but add on top a heaping pile of spending-a-weekend-with-a-bunch-of-strangers-that-are-forced-to-feed-and-shelter-me. But when I was told that often people are paired off to one family I was able to relax. I figured, as bad as it could be at least I wouldn't suffer alone.
As time went on I kept hoping that by some overlook they would forget all about the visit. But, of course, they didn't and the day arrived.
We all gathered outside where the buses usually were. I stood around with my friends and soon the families began arriving. I noticed younger parents and some hip looking 30 and 40 yr olds. I began to think maybe the weekend wouldn't be too bad. Little by little my fellow students were picked away until I was standing alone. I stood holding my pathetic little backpack as it got darker and darker. I felt like an orphan waiting for my new family to come get me and they forgot the date. After what felt like an eternity of waiting, watching the program directors go back and forth to figure out what was happening, and hoping that I might be able to just go back to my tiny shoebox dorm room a small station wagon finally pulled up. And out popped a gray-haired couple. My hope of a pair of party-goers quickly evaporated.
I joined them into their car and we actually made pleasant conversation. She was originally from Brittany, a small region of northwestern France with alot of connections to England (the name translated means "small Britain" I think she said). Actually, the husband didn't talk too much, which is fine but it just added extra pressure on me and the wife. Fortunately, she was talkative, just not really for anything about me. She kept telling me about their last student-visitor who was a singer. I told her about how I was an aspiring writer or teacher or whatever to try and compete with that (which didn't totally work). Instead I decided to take the role of talk-show host and just sputter out question after question like a damn computer survey (which did work).
They turned in around 9, but being in Friday Night mode I didn't feel tired so I stayed up until nearly 2 a.m. watching TV.
The next day they dropped me back into the town to meet up with the group for a tour of the city's castle. I felt pangs of intense jealousy as I listened to my friends regale in their experiences--some were near pubs and went out with their families, others stayed in and drank. Everyone was having spring break, meanwhile I was having a visit with my foreign grandparents.
Afterwards, they picked me back up and we went out to dinner. We were having a nice time actually, but when a lull in the conversation hit I reached for my conversational Ace: I asked them how they met. Figuring that most couples, especially elderly ones, LOVE telling young folks about when they were young and in love, I thought I had just opened the door to a good couple of hours of conversation. Instead, you'd think I just tossed a dead rat into their Yorkshire puddings. They exchanged glances, she told a quick little story and then briskly changed the subject. We barely recovered but thankfully it was towards the end of the dinner. We headed home and I had another late-night TV watching session before heading to bed around 1.
Finally it was Sunday. And one of the things they advised us to bring to our families was a gift from our hometown. Being from the Jersey shore I thought salt-water taffy would be nice. I wanted to shoot myself in the foot as I handed these poor folks a big box of pull-your-teeth-out candy. They were nice enough, saying they'd give some (or I'm sure all) of it to their kids and grandkids.
As they drove me back to the school and we said our goodbyes, I couldn't say it was terrible. They were kind and hospitable, certainly nice enough. I'll never forget them for that (and the fact they taught me about Brittany and proved that Fate has a sense of humor). And I wanted to believe they'd remember me as well as that singer. But more likely I'm gonna be like that taffy...something sweet that lingers for a while yet a bit difficult to swallow.
Here's what I mean...
Episode 1: "Home Sweet yet Uncomfortable Home"
When I was preparing to study abroad to England I was told that part of the program required a weekend home visit with an actual English family. At first I became incredibly nervous. Granted it's not a terribly foreign country, but I was already feeling the high-school fear of making friends but add on top a heaping pile of spending-a-weekend-with-a-bunch-of-strangers-that-are-forced-to-feed-and-shelter-me. But when I was told that often people are paired off to one family I was able to relax. I figured, as bad as it could be at least I wouldn't suffer alone.
As time went on I kept hoping that by some overlook they would forget all about the visit. But, of course, they didn't and the day arrived.
We all gathered outside where the buses usually were. I stood around with my friends and soon the families began arriving. I noticed younger parents and some hip looking 30 and 40 yr olds. I began to think maybe the weekend wouldn't be too bad. Little by little my fellow students were picked away until I was standing alone. I stood holding my pathetic little backpack as it got darker and darker. I felt like an orphan waiting for my new family to come get me and they forgot the date. After what felt like an eternity of waiting, watching the program directors go back and forth to figure out what was happening, and hoping that I might be able to just go back to my tiny shoebox dorm room a small station wagon finally pulled up. And out popped a gray-haired couple. My hope of a pair of party-goers quickly evaporated.
I joined them into their car and we actually made pleasant conversation. She was originally from Brittany, a small region of northwestern France with alot of connections to England (the name translated means "small Britain" I think she said). Actually, the husband didn't talk too much, which is fine but it just added extra pressure on me and the wife. Fortunately, she was talkative, just not really for anything about me. She kept telling me about their last student-visitor who was a singer. I told her about how I was an aspiring writer or teacher or whatever to try and compete with that (which didn't totally work). Instead I decided to take the role of talk-show host and just sputter out question after question like a damn computer survey (which did work).
They turned in around 9, but being in Friday Night mode I didn't feel tired so I stayed up until nearly 2 a.m. watching TV.
The next day they dropped me back into the town to meet up with the group for a tour of the city's castle. I felt pangs of intense jealousy as I listened to my friends regale in their experiences--some were near pubs and went out with their families, others stayed in and drank. Everyone was having spring break, meanwhile I was having a visit with my foreign grandparents.
Afterwards, they picked me back up and we went out to dinner. We were having a nice time actually, but when a lull in the conversation hit I reached for my conversational Ace: I asked them how they met. Figuring that most couples, especially elderly ones, LOVE telling young folks about when they were young and in love, I thought I had just opened the door to a good couple of hours of conversation. Instead, you'd think I just tossed a dead rat into their Yorkshire puddings. They exchanged glances, she told a quick little story and then briskly changed the subject. We barely recovered but thankfully it was towards the end of the dinner. We headed home and I had another late-night TV watching session before heading to bed around 1.
Finally it was Sunday. And one of the things they advised us to bring to our families was a gift from our hometown. Being from the Jersey shore I thought salt-water taffy would be nice. I wanted to shoot myself in the foot as I handed these poor folks a big box of pull-your-teeth-out candy. They were nice enough, saying they'd give some (or I'm sure all) of it to their kids and grandkids.
As they drove me back to the school and we said our goodbyes, I couldn't say it was terrible. They were kind and hospitable, certainly nice enough. I'll never forget them for that (and the fact they taught me about Brittany and proved that Fate has a sense of humor). And I wanted to believe they'd remember me as well as that singer. But more likely I'm gonna be like that taffy...something sweet that lingers for a while yet a bit difficult to swallow.
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