Story of the Club

Saturday June 23rd, 2012 – Detroit City FC 1, Cleveland 1

Arsenal had Highbury and big stars and huge crowds and the whole weight of history on their back; Cambridge had a tiny, ramshackle little ground, the Abbey Stadium, less than four thousand watching at most games, and no history at all – they had only been in the Football League for six years…

What I enjoyed most of all, however, was the way the players revealed themselves, their characters and their flaws, almost immediately. The modern First Division player is for the most part an anonymous young man: he and his colleagues have interchangeable physiques, similar skills, similar pace, similar temperaments. Life in the Fourth Division was different. Cambridge had fat players and thin players, young players and old players, fast players and slow players, players who were on their way out and players who were on their way up…

It was impossible not to feel a warm, protective fondness for them.

-Nick Hornby, Fever Pitch

Whenever local mass media put out stories on Detroit City FC, they inevitably give the team the “minor league” or “semi-pro” label. Though technically correct – the NPSL is a minor American soccer league and most of its players are unpaid – I think these labels give the wrong impression to the casual reader/viewer. When I hear “minor-league,” I think of AA and AAA baseball teams and wacky promotions: Nobody Night, Office Space Night, etc.

Players on a minor league baseball team treat it as a stepping stone; most if not all of them are striving to make it to the show. To be fair, I’m sure most of the college players on DCFC have their sights set on eventually making it to higher levels, but there are also those who speak of being a member of the team as their greatest athletic accomplishment.* Also, when you hear “minor league,” the term “diehard” doesn’t come to mind – I’m not aware of any supporters’ groups for the Richmond Flying Squirrels or the Albuquerque Isotopes.

I prefer the term “fourth division.” Since it’s generally not used in other American sports and therefore lacks “minor league’s” connotations, we can mold it however we want. Like the NPSL and PDL, England’s fourth division is where young players cut their teeth and try to make a name for themselves, and where older players simply play because they love the game. The difference here is that our lower levels are not just breeding grounds for up-and-coming players, but for teams as well.

* [This is where I was going to link to the NPSL Radio Show where Zeke Harris said this, but I can’t do it because their website is atrocious – Angelfire/Geocities Web 1.0 level – and I can’t find it. Trust me, he said it.]

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When Cleveland came to town for the second time, the inaugural Rust Belt Derby was on the line. A win for City would give them the marvelously ugly-yet-beautiful trophy while a draw or loss would win it for Cleveland.

Everything went according to plan – a goal from St. Louis midway through the first half, the greater share of possession and chances to City – until about 5 minutes from full-time when Cleveland’s Tommy Schmit pulled his team level. Like any great and humble sportsman would, he then sprinted over to the DCFC supporters’ section and proceeded to taunt and gesture at the crowd, forever cementing his place as a Northern Guard favorite.

In the last minutes, Keith Lough almost won the trophy singlehandedly. He rounded the keeper and sent the ball towards the open net, only to have a defender appear out of nowhere to clear it off the line. Then, after a foul at the edge of the box, he hit an excellent free kick towards the top corner that was kept out only with an equally excellent save.

Seeing the away team celebrating on your home field is obviously disappointing, but looking back on it now, I feel there is an upside. Winning is fun, but the joy you experience in the highest moments is only made possible by the pain that is felt in the lowest ones. Losing can help weed out the bandwagoners and endear your team to you, as long as the losses are hard-fought and not too frequent (see Cubs, Chicago, and Lions, Detroit). Winning the Rust Belt in 2012 would’ve been nice, but losing it at the last moment made winning it this year much more special.

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Detroit may not always be a fourth division town. There are pros to this: bigger crowds, more prestige for the club, more well-known players, bigger prizes to win. And there are cons: less stadium freedom for supporters, higher ticket prices, fewer homegrown players, more corporatization.

For me, the biggest positive of playing in a higher division would be that I would have more games to go to. Then again, the shortness of the NPSL season makes each game feel more important and meaningful (btw, 7 months to go if you’re counting). There’s a quote about life being more of a journey than a destination and even though it’s cheesy, it’s pretty much right. What we have right now is fun, exciting, and only getting bigger. I’m enjoying every minute of it and I hope you are too.

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Personal PSA: Buy a 2013 Detroit City FC Scarf. Why? It’s only $16, I didn’t see enough of them last winter, and I want an excuse to high-five random people on the street.

Saturday, May 26^th, 2012 – Detroit City FC 3, Erie 0

(Lyrics)

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I hate Detroit.

I hate being in parts of a major American city that look like a ghost town with not another soul in sight. I hate the sad, helpless feeling I get when I see the homeless and beggars. I hate that there is more maturity and constructive conversation in the average kindergarten classroom than there is in the Detroit City Council chambers. I hate the snarky, ignorant assholes that make jokes about burning cars and dead bodies even though they’ve never set foot in the state. I hate Bubba, and I hate myself for saying that after reading the incredibly depressing story of his life.

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I love Detroit.

I love its name and that it is synonymous with industry and hard work. I love the “us against the world” mentality and feeling tougher than I am simply because of my geographic location. I love hearing the reactions of outsiders who come here for the first time and have a much more positive experience than they expected. I love that people have finally realized that their city’s government is so corrupt and inept that they must take matters into their own hands – whether it is by planting community gardens on vacant lots, starting mini-businesses and neighborhood services, or simply creating public art.

I love its football club.

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The official supporters’ anthem of Detroit City FC is “Dirty Old Town,”, but, inexplicably, we’ve yet to sing it during a match. This is disappointing to me since the song encapsulates many of my feelings about Detroit. For me, the moniker “Dirty Old Town” fits the city perfectly – expressing disgust but also affection.  The lyrics of Ewan MacColl describe a place that is smoky, dreary, depressing, but also a place where he fell in love and “…dreamed a dream.” One of the last verses even seems to echo the sentiment of some Detroiters who want to “bulldoze the whole thing and start over.”

I’m gonna make me a big sharp axe

Shining steel tempered in the fire

I’ll chop you down like an old dead tree

Dirty old town

Dirty old town

Detroit is full of ugliness but there is also beauty, even if some refuse to open their eyes to it.

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I’ve missed three City home games over two years, and the first against Erie is the one I regret the most. Since I wasn’t there, I don’t have any vivid memories or anecdotes to share, but I can relate what was said in the days and weeks that followed. Aside from the fact that it was the club’s first home win (by a score of 3-0), it was also the point at which the novelty started to turn into something more serious.

Several players, coaches, and owners said that this was the game where they realized something special was happening. Despite the pouring rain, the supporters turned up and provided an even better atmosphere than the opener.

While parts of our city are crumbling, there are also many bright spots; obviously chief among them in my mind is our football club. I’m not naïve enough to think that a sports team can save a city – no single organization or policy can – but DCFC and the Detroit City Futbol League have had an undoubtedly positive effect on the local community.

The truly special thing that happened at this match was not the win, the debut of Knox Cameron, or the birth of Sgt. Scary, but the growth of City from mere club into a movement.

I smelled the spring

On the smoky wind

Dirty old town

Dirty old town

I planned to write something about Detroit City FC’s short and long-term future before next season, and I still probably will, but with all the talk about the downtown stadium proposal, I thought now would be a good time to put a few thoughts down.

As I mentioned in my piece, Two Obsessions, I fell in love with the game of soccer in 2006 and waited six years before I had a club to call my own. “City Til I Die” is not just a phrase to me, it is a declaration of passion and loyalty. Detroit City is my club, and will be until it ceases to exist or I do, whichever comes first. This may seem melodramatic, and it even slightly feels that way to me since, in the grand scheme of things, sports are an exceedingly minor and insignificant part of life.

On the other hand, they are also our greatest form of collective experience, and some of the fondest memories of my short life have been made in the past two years at the narrow, bumpy field off of Grand River. I’ve had more fun among a crowd of 1000 than I ever have in Ann Arbor with 110 times as many people. With major teams, you could theoretically go to every home game without seeing the same person twice, but at City games, there are always dozens of faces I recognize, even though I’ve never met most of them.

City’s greatest strength and the main reason for its success is that it is tied to the community. Founded by five men who met through a local league, based in the heart of the city, made up mostly of local talent – this story is not very different from that of Liverpool, Celtic, Manchester United. The difference is those clubs’ stories unfolded over a hundred years ago, and ours has just begun.

It’s very exciting to be in on the ground level of something like this, and I intend to follow it wherever it goes, be it USL-Pro, NASL, MLS, or even just NPSL (although if the current rate of growth continues, I don’t see this as a viable long-term option).

Putting aside all the talk of job creation, revenue generation, and proper use of resources, if, by some chance, a non-DCFC MLS expansion franchise is awarded to Detroit, I will not support it. This isn’t out of bitterness – I would wish the team and its supporters all the best and be happy for them if they were successful.

The simple fact is I already have a club.

Allez Le Rouge

Forevermore Rouge et Or

City Til I Die

Saturday, May 12^th, 2012 – Detroit City FC 1, AFC Cleveland 1

First, a confession: I don’t remember every single moment of every single City game I’ve been to. Alcohol had nothing to do with this since I’m not much of a drinker, it’s just that three and four goal beat-downs of hapless opponents tend to blend together over time. Once you’ve seen Knox Cameron box-out and turn a 5’9” center back a dozen times, it loses a bit of its novelty.

That being said, one match that I do remember, almost photographically, is the very first one. I remember not wearing my scarf because I didn’t think anyone else would. Not sure what was going through my head, but I never made that mistake again. I remember standing at the fence near the restrooms watching Cleveland warming-up and thinking “Man that one guy [now known as Vanilla Ice] has a stupid haircut.” I remember being surprised at how many people were wearing City jerseys and t-shirts despite the fact that the team hadn’t actually, you know, played a game.

Maybe the most vivid memory I have is from when the players took the field for the first time. Here came Cleveland with no warm-ups and wearing uniforms that looked more appropriate for a cash-strapped high school team. And here came City, wearing gorgeous, brand new white jackets with the tags still attached and professional-looking, Nike-made jerseys. As someone who grew up watching such classic films as The Mighty Ducks and Little Giants, the thought crossed my mind that City were the rich, cocky team about to be upset by a plucky band of underdogs. All Cleveland needed was a wise-cracking chubby kid and our fate would be sealed.

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But as the game unfolded, it became evident that City had substance to go with its style – Rogers and Bedell broke up attacks at the back, Spencer Thompson made hard tackles and barked at the ref in midfield, and Stefan St. Louis made dangerous-looking runs up top. When the striker bagged The First Goal early on, a nice backheel redirection off a low cross, my childhood sports movie-induced anxiety disappeared.

What stood out to me most, aside from the play on the field, was the crowd. At the sporting events I’d been to, mainly Tigers, Red Wings, and Michigan Football, the crowd was passive. We sat around waiting for something bad to happen and cheering out of relief when it didn’t. This group was different – they chanted and sang and set off smoke throughout the entire 90 minutes. Although the supporters’ section was in its infancy – some empty seats, flags but no tifos, no Sgt. Scary (at least in his current form) – they kept with the theme of the day: a good start.

Cleveland equalized later on in the first half, a good finish from a bouncing long ball, but City controlled possession and created more chances, especially toward the end. Cleveland’s manager, standing about 20 feet from where I was, clapped his hands and seemed quite happy to escape with the draw when the final whistle blew.

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With the first match in the books, the building of Detroit City’s foundation was complete. The club’s identity (name, crest, colors, etc.) was a total success, the attendance (1047) was double what the owners had expected, and most importantly, a competitive team of promising young players mixed with a few veterans had been assembled.

The shirts that the City players wore were not signs of status or privilege but of ambition. If the goal as a player or a club is to be successful and eventually compete at a higher level, why not look the part from day one?