The Curious Case of Soccer in America

The stands are packed for a soccer match ... in America? (photo by Jeff Goodman)

It's about as predictable as an announcer's lung-testing wail after a goal: Any time the United States is remotely relevant on the international soccer scene, the national public discourse revolves around the future of the sport in the Land of the Free.

Is it stagnant? Is it growing? Is the ever-increasing coverage a sign of burgeoning interest in "The Beautiful Game," or is it merely reflective of technological advancements in the age of Twitter and 24-hour news? One barometer: If the pundits are still having the "Has soccer taken off in America?" debate, it probably hasn't taken off yet.

Indeed, the centrality of futbol in the lives of average American kids has a somewhat puzzling trajectory; it begins with AYSO and soon becomes "Eh, so?" Youngsters go from playing soccer every four days to watching soccer every four years. It's as if soccer teaches them to run ... and then they run away from it.

Like clockwork, however, they return as spectators for international competition, much as they did for the 2011 edition of the FIFA Women's World Cup. It was, by many accounts, a precious moment for both genders in the nation's soccer movement. Ratings were up. Sales were up. Marriage proposals for not-currently-single Cal alumna Alex Morgan were up. Even after losing the final to Japan in penalty kicks despite leading 2-1 with three minutes left in overtime, the U.S. women's national team was lauded -- mistakenly, in my opinion -- for its awe-inspiring effort. (It should take more than losing to advance a sport's status, shouldn't it?)

Jeld-Wen Field in Portland (photo by Jeff Goodman)

But maybe that unconditional praise speaks to the reason -- namely, patriotism -- Americans tune in to international soccer in the first place. Because let's face it: are they really watching in droves because they love soccer? The game, at its core, isn't visually pleasing to the untrained eye. In some ways, it's like watching an invisible puppeteer as he struggles to untangle his dolls. In other ways, it's like watching a painfully inept pinball player for 90 minutes straight. You could shell out 40 bucks -- or pounds, or euros, or whatever -- and never see the scoreboard change!

And yet, millions of people around the world are drawn to soccer matches each year. Just this week, Jeld-Wen Field in Portland was packed for the Timbers' exhibition against Argentine club Independiente. The Timbers, who recently joined Major League Soccer, have developed an impressive local following in a city that could probably fill a stadium with rain before it could with people.

These aren't just fair-weather fans, either. They came out in full force to sing the national anthem for the team's home opener in April; their now-famous cheering section, the green-clad Timbers Army, chants everything from "You are my sunshine" to "Burn, destroy, wreck and kill!" Regardless of whether these examples say more about the loyalty of people in Portland or about their passion for the game, you'd never know by attending a Timbers game that soccer is the No. 5 sport in the States.

Certainly, it feels like there's more to soccer in America than Volvo-driving moms and viral videos of fake injuries. At least for now, though, the relationship between country and sport is less like a successful marriage and more like a prolonged game of Footsie. When the two do decide to get serious -- that is, when soccer scores in the U.S. -- we'll know about it. Because there will be a hoarse announcer sharing the news with the world, shouting endlessly into his microphone: GOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOAL!

So Many Bad Grammar, So Few Time

News flash: Grammar is going the way of the, uh, newspaper.

In an age of information when speed trumps accuracy, it's no surprise to see unforgivable errors in sentence construction, spelling and punctuation across the media landscape. But while many of these gaffes are probably the results of innocent typos, some of them suggest a more pervasive trend of linguistic ineptitude in places where English proficiency should be expected.

For instance, there was a story Wednesday morning about bombings in Mumbai that zoomed into the lead space on the Los Angeles Times website. It was grave news, especially for a city that is no stranger to terrorist attacks. However, it was hard to ignore the glaring mistake in the headline:

"Series," as the headline writer surely knows, is the subject of the headline, rendering incorrect the usage of "kill" in this case. Of course, there is a scenario in which the above headline would be correct; indeed, if there had been multiple series of blasts, "kill" would be appropriate. (After all, the word "series" is the same as a singular or plural noun.) But a quick scanning of the story made it clear that Mumbai had endured one set of blasts, not more, and that the subject-verb agreement was out of sorts.

Essentially the same mistake was seen the following day in The Daily Californian, the independent student newspaper at UC Berkeley. Alas, the frustration that should have been directed at the news of another hefty tuition increase was instead pointed at an avoidable grammatical error:

Now, the Daily Cal is an excellent publication. It even has a copy blog of its own. And hey, everyone makes mistakes. But what made this particular blunder so outrageous was the fact that the grammatically correct version of the same headline could be found a few inches below the gaffe in the breaking-news banner. Hermes does not approve.

PATTY DOWN: The Original

Name: The Original
Location: 300 SW 6th Ave., Portland, OR 97204 (map)
Website: www.originaldinerant.com
Twitter: @theoriginalpdx

Burger at The Original in downtown Portland (photo by Jeff Goodman)

There's a small Oregon town roughly 70 miles south of Portland, a place that only a few hundred people call home. It's a city whose post office was established more than 150 years ago, a city whose official area is less than one square mile. A city whose main street is called Main Street.

That pea of a place -- Scio, Ore. -- isn't exactly an economic juggernaut. But it can take credit for exporting at least one delicious product: beef. That's because it is home to Highland Oak Farm, a family-owned business whose mission is to "produce the finest and most nutritious beef possible in a responsible, sustainable fashion." Highland Oak, a hormone-free farm, provides quality meat to about a dozen Portland-area restaurants.

One of those restaurants is The Original, a self-described dinerant where restaurant-quality food is served in a sleek, modernized diner setting. It offers comfort-food favorites with gourmet-style twists, like the hamburger with shallot aioli ($9.95 including fries).

At this point, it should go without saying that the highlight of the burger is the meat. (That probably sounds silly, but too many restaurants engage in sly games of cover-up.) It is thick, juicy and flavorful, prominent in every bite. It's almost a blessing in disguise that the aioli is surprisingly weak; the patty does just fine with its closer friends (shredded lettuce, tomato, pickle chips and a couple onion slices). If anything, the aioli acts as eye-catching menu fodder.

The fries, meanwhile, are not oiled-into-your-brain memorable, but they aren't at all bad. They're tasty, carefully seasoned and uniquely presented in a waxy paper bag -- almost like a snack you'd eat while walking around at a county fair.

And the fun doesn't stop there. For instance, The Original dares its customers to finish a 5-pound basket of fries -- topped with cheese curds and gravy -- in 30 minutes or fewer. The downtown restaurant also features adult punch during its happy hour, Froot Loops pancakes on its brunch menu and a Pecan Waffle Sandwich on its dessert menu.

For its last trick, The Original uses a squeeze bottle -- one that would normally contain ketchup, mustard or mayonnaise -- to dispense soap in its bathroom. Wait ... was that surplus shallot aioli?

THE SCORE: Drops of 'Drift Away' in Her Hair

There are only so many appealing chord progressions in music. Even with synthesizers and other technological developments, artists often find themselves navigating through sonic waves that were staples of their predecessors. And so, as time passes, it seems inevitable that contemporary songs -- subconsciously or not -- borrow from ones that were written decades earlier.

Take the Offspring's seemingly effortless (and decade-old!) radio hit, "Why Don't You Get a Job?," whose similarities to the Beatles' "Ob-La-Di, Ob-La-Da" did not go unnoticed. To be sure, there are probably hundreds -- if not thousands -- of examples. There's even a cleverly satirical performance by stand-up comedian Rob Paravonian about the almost-unavoidable recycling of classical music.

Here's a juxtaposition that can be added to the proverbial list, although it should be noted that other listeners have heard the connection as well:

• Dobie Gray -- "Drift Away" (1973)
• Train -- "Drops of Jupiter (Tell Me)" (2001)

Not surprisingly, the chord constructions in the corresponding choruses -- (B-F#-E) and (C-G-F) -- are essentially congruent. But, as is audible below, the resemblance is more obvious than letters on a screen might suggest:

Dobie Gray didn't write this classic, but his version is perhaps the most famous:

Nearly 30 years later, Train's "Drops of Jupiter" dominated the charts for months:

When you put them together, it comes out something like this ... sort of. Give him the beat, boys.

The House That Jackson Built

Jackson Tower, formerly the Journal Building

Buildings, inanimate though they may be, are like nostalgic grandparents; they too tell the stories of yesteryear. They spin tales with each detail, bringing forth history with every layer of brick, steel and paint. Before I go all Ted Mosby on you, though, I'll continue with what really matters about buildings:

They weave worlds together.

These thoughts swirled in my head as I walked through the glass doors on one of my first days of work in downtown Portland, admiring Jackson Tower's classic touches: its aging clock tower, brass trim and analog elevator displays. Inching toward its 100th anniversary, Jackson Tower stands above Pioneer Court Square as an aesthetic and historical icon, a tribute to this city's past.

For instance, the glazed terra-cotta structure -- located on SW Broadway just south of Yamhill Street -- is a testament to a time when the newspaper industry wasn't crumbling. Indeed, it was known for many years as the Journal Building because it housed The Oregon Journal, a now-defunct publication that rivaled The Oregonian.

That fact was enticing enough considering my interest and experience in the field. But what really turned this building into an embodiment of the is-this-fate-or-is-this-a-coincidence question was the ever-present legacy of the former newspaper's owner and editor, Charles Samuel Jackson. The Virginia native journeyed west and became a prominent publisher, donating a large plot of land on Marquam Hill to the University of Oregon medical school.

Except now, the land that was once the University of Oregon medical school is now Oregon Health & Science University -- the reason my girlfriend and I live in Portland in the first place.

And so, in closing, a quote from Barney Stinson about architects: "Think about it; you create something out of nothing. You're like God. There's nobody hotter than God."

SHOOTER'S TOUCH: Grampa Simpson Goes to Rome

The Fourth of July is a day to honor America's everyday heroes -- like Abraham "Grampa" Simpson, for instance. He's a war veteran. He eats the same mashed food as his baby granddaughter. And, well, he managed to raise one of our country's most easily identifiable cultural icons.

We'll honor him this Independence Day with a photo of his likeness that was taken at the Colosseum in Rome in 2008:

Who's more American than Grampa Simpson?

Happy Fourth! I'll leave you with a piece of classic Grampa dialogue from a 1993 episode called "The Front": [writing a letter] "Dear Mr. President, there are too many states these days. Please eliminate three. I am NOT a crackpot."

Which three? I'm sure they're in Grampa's will.

PATTY DOWN: Burgerville

Name: Burgerville
Location: 3432 SE 25th Ave., Portland, OR 97202 (map)
Website: www.burgerville.com
Twitter: @BurgervilleUSA

A fast-food chain -- with compost bins?

It sounds strange, yes, but these Pacific Northwest hot spots serve their meals with a side of sustainability and an extra helping of everything else you probably wouldn't expect at a drive-through diner.

The food is fresh. The meat is hormone-free. Many of the ingredients are locally grown. The chain's slogan -- "Fresh, Local, Sustainable" -- is emblazoned on in-store merchandise. It almost feels uncomfortable at first, as if these two worlds were meant to be mutually exclusive. Sit down with a Colossal hamburger, fries and vanilla shake at Burgerville, though, and ... hey, no wonder this place has been around for 50 years.
 

Colossal Burger, fries and vanilla shake at Burgerville

The burger is served with lettuce, tomatoes and pickles as well as ketchup on one side of the sesame seed bun and the restaurant's special sauce -- likely some combination of mayonnaise, mustard and diced pickles -- on the other. It was a nice touch on an otherwise straightforward sandwich (one that loosely resembled an onion-less and gastronomically lighter version of the Whopper at Burger King).

Burgerville is often compared to In-N-Out, the California-based chain known for its cleanliness, tastiness and simplicity. I would probably choose Burgerville's fries over In-N-Out's; they're plumper, firmer and not quite as salty. The shakes are similar in that upgrading your soda to a rich, cold treat is a wise move at both establishments. (For what it's worth, there's something about In-N-Out's burger that, at least for me, would give it the nod in a comprehensive showdown.)

One thing that might give Burgerville a few bonus points, however, is its rotating cycle of seasonal specialty items: fried asparagus spears, fresh strawberry shortcake and Oreo mint sundaes, to name a few. And to think -- "asparagus at a fast-food restaurant" was once used as a synonym for "flying pig." Perhaps pigs fly now?

Nutritional information on the Burgerville receipt

Speaking of pigs ... The discourse on obesity in the United States, it seems, always centers around the evils of fast food. Burgerville's solution: including your meal's nutritional information on your receipt, presumably to force you to evaluate your diet as your wait hungrily for your food. The lesson, apparently, is that "fresh" and "sustainable" should not be blindly associated with "healthy." Indeed, the receipt is an unintentionally quizzical marketing strategy because it ironically suggests, "You probably shouldn't be eating here."

Don't let the receipt spoil your meal, though. Just put it face-down on the table and throw it into the recycling bin on your way out. And remember: Almost all of the other remnants of your meal belong in the compost receptacle.