The Jersey
This is a love story. A tragic love story about a boy and his Jersey. Get comfortable. We’re heading back to the 1970s.
As a kid, soccer was my best sport but it wasn’t the sport I followed. This was pre-internet and 10,000 surfable channels time. No soccer on TV other than Soccer Made in Germany on PBS, which didn’t excite me. I didn’t identify with the teams or the players. Why should I care about Borrusia Moenchenladbach? And who can even pronounce Borrusia Moenchenladbach without injuring their larynx?
I was a good Wisconsinite. Spent my adolescence worshipping our local sports teams and players. I didn’t like or play baseball but I loved the Milwaukee Brewers. When Yount, Cooper, Molitor and the gang led the Brewers to the ’82 World Series, I didn’t miss a pitch. And when they lost, I cried a full throated “Why would God do this to us?!”
I studiously followed and researched the Green Bay Packers, worshipped all things Lombardi and even had in-depth knowledge of the Lambeau years. I felt sure each new Packer season would be a return to the Glory Years. When our Polish kicker Chester Marcol miraculously scored a touchdown against the Bears in overtime in the 1980 opening game, after they blocked his field goal attempt, I knew we were going to be invincible. I was an idiot. The Packers went 5-10-1, lost their second game to the Bears 61-7 and wouldn’t get good until a hillbilly named Favre took the reins in ‘92.
I fell asleep at night to legendary local sportscaster Jim Irwin’s play by play of Milwaukee Bucks games. In my driveway, I recreated the moves of my hardcourt heroes Sydney Moncrief, Marques Johnson, Brian Winters and Bob Lanier– the resemblance uncanny. Coach Don Nelson was a genius and the Bucks, I was sure, were poised to win a second NBA title. Like I said, I wasn’t very bright.
What does this have to do with The Jersey? you ask. Patience, I’m getting there.
While I loved playing soccer, world soccer culture didn’t become part of my reality until July 8, 1982. Yes, I remember the exact date. I was in my basement dribbling a soccer ball through a complex obstacle course of my creation. Taking a break, I turned on the TV, surfed all three channels and happened upon France vs West Germany in the World Cup Semi-Final. I plopped down on the couch and didn’t move for the next two and a half hours. I immediately decided I liked the French more than the Germans. This decision was reinforced, when, in the 55th minute, German goalkeeper Harold Schumacher nearly decapitated French forward Patrick Battiston. When Battiston left the field unconscious, I decided I hated the Germans. Schumacher wasn’t even called for a foul. He should’ve been arrested. This was a morality play disguised as sport.
In overtime, Marius Tresor’s side volley and Allain Giresse one touch laser put the French up 3-1. I was ecstatic. A French victory would be just – I’m thinking the Nazi’s versus the French Resistance. Suddenly, the big Arian (or so he looked to me as I was about 5’4” at the time)[1], Karl-Heinz Rummenigge brought the Germans back to 2-3. When Klaus Fischer knotted the score with a gloriously disheartening scissors kick, I felt sick. The Germans prevailed in penalty kicks, and the villainous Harold Schumacher was the game’s hero – at least for those who thought the Germans should have won the war.
But importantly for me, my allegiances had undergone a profound shift; now, for the first time in my life, I not only played soccer, I identified with it. All of it – the World Cup with its soccer hero storylines, national styles of play, and the rivalries equal part soccer and politics. So much to learn and unfortunately, four years till the next viewing.
The Jersey. The Jersey. It’s coming.
In 1986, I was ready and waiting for the approaching World Cup. I knew nothing about the tournament, except it would air on Telemundo and ABC. I scoured the only available article about the event – the Sports Illustrated World Cup Preview. It’s where I first heard the name of the most famous soccer player in the world, Diego Maradona. Today, that seems insane. How could a 16-year-old soccer fanatic not know who the best soccer player in the World was? Today, every soccer-playing kid knows Lionel Messi and Christiano Ronaldo. Hell, they even know who Harry Winks is. I didn’t know squat.
The article introduced Maradona as a “5’5” superstar who sometimes carries too much weight.” In other words, as I too was a short guy who carried too much weight, my doppelganger. I couldn’t wait to see me – I mean him – play.
Maradona didn’t disappoint. He wasn’t mortal. In fact, he was the most artistic, mesmerizing, intimidating and unpredictable player I’d ever seen. There was nothing he couldn’t do. When he scored his notorious Hand of God goal versus England in the quarter-finals, then encored it minutes later with a slaloming masterpiece often called “The Goal of The Century,” I understood I was witnessing a deity on grass. The England quarter-final gets so much attention, fans and historians seldom talk about Maradona’s semi-final performance versus Belgium. He humiliated the Belgians, scoring two goals and orchestrating the rhythm of the entire match.
The ‘86 World Cup final between Argentina and West Germany was held on June 29. I was in Pikes Peak, Colorado for a soccer tournament. My team was eliminated prior to the final. However, my brother’s team was playing for the championship during the World Cup final. I had to choose between family and Maradona – sorry brother!
The evil Harold Shumacher still tended the net for Germany. Saintly Maradona captained the Argentinian side. Oh my, did I want Maradona and Argentina to win. West Germany’s Lothar Matthaus was charged with marking Diego. Useless, I thought. Not so, Matthaus harassed my hero the entire match. Nevertheless, Argentina built a 2-0 lead. Then Germany made its run, charging back and knotting the score 2-2. I panicked. Dear God, Don’t let the Germans win. Don’t let Schumacher be the hero again. Maradona was playing well but Mattheus wouldn’t allow him any space to display his dribbling mastery. But in the end he didn’t disappoint. With one beautiful touch, he deftly slipped a one-time through ball to Jorge Burrachaga, who sublimely passed the ball by the loathsome Schumacher. Argentina 3-West Germany 2! I was in soccer love.
OK – The Jersey.
Up to that point in my life, despite my love of sport, I had never owned or even wanted a jersey. Sure, I loved my hometown teams, but why would I want a jersey? Maybe I didn’t want one because baseball, football and basketball weren’t my sports. Also, given my size and skill level, whom could I properly emulate? But at 16 years of age, after watching the ’86 World Cup, I didn’t just want an Argentina jersey, I coveted an Argentina jersey. I didn’t need Maradona’s name on it. I didn’t need his number 10. I just needed a white and blue vertical striped Argentina jersey. Once I started playing everyone would make the connection – “Hey, look, there’s little Maradona.”
So I purchased Jersey at our local soccer store, Soccer World. It fit perfectly as I had a physique allowing it to both hug my torso while fluttering around the legs of my 5’6” slightly chubby frame. I wore it to soccer practice. I wore it when practicing in my driveway. I wore it to my friends’ houses. I wore it out at night. I wore it under my school clothes. I wore it to bed. I wore it to church, funerals, weddings. I wore it while dancing with a pretty girl at the USA Cup in Minnesota. We were inseparable, we were in love, me and Jersey.
But Jersey had a problem, one you’ve probably guessed by now. It’s a problem a lot of jerseys’ have, and it’s a problem most owners of a jersey would easily correct. Made of polyester, Jersey apparently absorbed body odor. That is, anyone with the bad fortune to get within 20 yards of me and Jersey was assaulted by the noxious scent of a 16-year-old carnivore, who although he showered regularly failed to offer his best friend Jersey the same courtesy. My love for Jersey and worship of Maradona had shut down my olfactory senses. Who has time to smell when you’re busy being Maradona. I moved like Diego when I wore it. I inspired and perspired in that magnificent blue-striped garment.
Interestingly, my friends never mentioned any strange odors – at least not to my face – though later I learned, Jersey became a source of gut-wrenching, nostril twisting entertainment among my circle of friends. If that’s what you want to call them.
One hot sticky summer night me and Jersey went out. I was looking hip and feeling pretty cool when Susan, a family friend of my parents, pulled me aside and said, “Rob, you might want to change that jersey you’re wearing, it’s pretty ripe.”
Suddenly, my olfactories kicked in. What is that musty, rotting odor? Smells like something I make fun of. No worse than that – it smells like humiliation. Then in a flash, all those innocuous comments and strange looks over the past 12 months suddenly began to make sense. When my mom asked, “Are you still wearing that jersey?” she wasn’t asking because she wanted me in a nicer shirt. When my friends asked, “Are you wearing the Argentine jersey tomorrow?” they weren’t jealous because they didn’t have a jersey like it. When my coaches, seeing me in Jersey for multiple days in a row, tilted their heads and raised their eyebrows slightly, it wasn’t because they admired and respected my commitment to Jersey, and by association my love for the game of soccer.
That night, that moment, the affair ended. Jersey and I broke up. I never wore Jersey again. I don’t miss Jersey, but interestingly my friends still like to ask. “Hey, Harry, do you still have that Argentina jersey? You should wear it to the High School reunion. That’d be really cool.”
Who knows, maybe I’ll take them up on the suggestion – break Jersey out someday, rekindle the affair. I mean, you should’ve seen me dribble in Jersey. Come to think of it, maybe I’ll dribble around in Jersey for an hour before I get to the reunion. I’ll make a grand entrance. Whether they see me or not, they’ll know I’m there. That’ll show ‘em.
[1]2 inches shorter than my current height
