In recent years, Team USA has suffered a few set backs in the core athletic venues. Hiccups in preparation for the basketball team led to embarrassing (though deserved) losses at past Olympic games and World Championships. Baseball too has seen increased global parity. On the world’s biggest stage, the soccer pitch (or football as some prefer), American’s remain nonplused. Success is applauded, but a loss remains to great extent meaningless. Mention of a loss in the press is fleeting. Analysis minimal.

The times are, however, changing. USA Soccer is building. The national team is beginning to show signs of true promise and potential on the world’s biggest stage is becoming more interesting.

This summer’s victory over Spain, during Confederations Cup was heralded as the biggest win in United States soccer history. The 1950 win over England, it must be said, is more myth than memory. Spain, beaten off US soil, was rightfully seen as a major development and boost to national interest in the sport.

Well before the USA upset Spain in South Africa, I had booked a trip to the USA v. Mexico World Cup qualifier at Azteca Stadium in Mexico City. There is no doubt the boarder battle with Mexico is the one true American rivalry in Soccer. The rivalry, spurred by several 2-0 US wins over the years (most recently in February’s tie in Columbus, Ohio) and all the things that one could imagine, might make a Mexican fan’s blood boil.

But playing in Mexico City is an altogether different challenge. Azteca stadium is a place of footballing lore: it is the place of Maradona’s “hand of god” and cathedral to the game, seating close to 100,000 fans. As an American, no place is farther from home. Azteca is a battleground – and one where the stars and stripes rarely come out on top..

My experience as a sports’ fan has brought me to several “hostile” environments. I have cheered Georgetown basketball in almost every Big East Arena. I wore a Danny Ferry Spurs’ jersey to the 2003 NBA Finals at Continental Airlines (now Izod) Arena. In each venue I was met with suspicion, but ultimately only meek insults and weak taunts. I’d never truly been the enemy before.

I wanted that feeling. Azteca promised to fulfill the need.

Match day, Wednesday August 5, 2009.

To get the full USA  “Away” experience, my travel companions and I chose to join an official support tour put together by Ole Ole. This provided drinks, food, and transport before and after the match.

It also made us an open and clear target to Mexican supporters.

Having grown up reading John King’ books (and here, “England Away”, is best reference), I longed for the camaraderie and pride associated with cheering on the national side.

Our group was intensely excited for the match. These were the rare USA fans who held stake in what transpires on the pitch. They had traveled before. They avidly support their local MLS team for the simple love of soccer.

Decked in jerseys and draped in flags, all together we filled two large coach busses, which with police escort, ferried us from hotel to stadium.

The ride to Azteca, from our hotel, took over an hour. As we approached, the sounds grew louder and the streets filled with men and women dressed in green adidas tops. With kick-off at 3pm, the scene was something akin to a most loved public holiday. Everyone was out and everyone was cheering for the home side.

Our group, excited as it was, appeared a bit ramshackle. They also reflect the odd amalgam of European and South American versions of fandom that infect the American terraces. The songs are mixed. Chants on one side (not unlike those in England) and beating drums on the other. Outfits too show the unease of being a true American fan. Jersey’s are common. So is face paint. One man had a USA tattoo on his neck (and skeletal tattoos on his hands… and a Taylor Swift shirt in his waist band). There’s little consistency in uniform.

The attempt, it seemed, was to put up a National front.

Success in this venture fell a bit flat.

Police found us at our bus parking point and swiftly moved us toward the stadium. The atmosphere was jovial as we traded “fuck yous” with the Mexicans. Nothing was hurled except insult. Once inside, this would change.

EIGHT minutes into the match Charlie Davies scored. The US section erupted. High fives delivered all round. For a brief moment the Stars and Stripes were on top. And then, subtle reminders that we were the away team.

Bottles. Beers. Pieces of plastic. These came fast and furious from all sides. It was the beginning of an onslaught that would follow in waves throughout the remainder of the 90 minutes.

While not terrifying, these moments were uncomfortable and constant reminders that we were, dressed in red and separated from the majority of the crowd, the minority. A small boy sat beside me, and I was genuinely concerned for his well being.

Mexican goals brought with them furious taunts and projectiles toward the US support. As the match neared end, the celebration focused on further insult to the Americans. Riot police surround the section, pulling us from Azteca and halting Mexican exit. Fans in Green spat on us from above.

The moving target marched from stadium to bus suffering worse than we had inside and much worse than we had on arrival. We were stuffed into the buses and told to close all the curtains. Once filled, the buses were whisked away by escort. The return trip to the hotel lasting just 15 minutes.

While fear of true harm never entered the mind, the notion that we were unwanted was clear. American fans away expected good treatment, expected to feel as they might going one state away for a baseball game. Instead, they found bottles and insults hurled their way. The ultimate insult – we’d been spit on.

To some, this was a reprehensible act.

For me, the type of thing that made being “America Away” true.

For the first time in its short history, the MLS has been somewhat inescapable. Pundits fumble over the intricacies of football, all in hopes of offering dazzling sound bites about the sports most recognizable face — David Beckham. The man who football fans have watched change haircuts as much as he bends balls hasn’t failed to capture a little attention in American media, and again has people wondering if soccer will properly root itself as a major professional sport. In the truest literary sense of the word his relocation has sparked sensation.

Even our favorite trend setting blog spots (here is my obligatory nod to streetwear), were bitten by the bug, debuting the Galaxy’s new Adidas kit on their pages. The jersey isn’t notable at all besides being worn by Beckham. In my memory only one jersey has ever graced these sites before, the LV inspired PSG shirt of last year. That made sense; it reflected a merger of leisure wear and couture (athletic apparel always having some link to streetwear). There wasn’t the stink of over promotion.

I am almost ashamed to say that Beckham’s arrival in LA has made me interested in the league for the first time. I was among the many that bad mouthed the play in the MLS without ever even watching a full match. Having now viewed several matches, I can safely comment that it is indeed pretty crap. But, nonetheless I have been entertained. The 5-4 victory of the New York Red Bull (a really bothersome name for so many reasons) over Beckham’s Galaxy was extraordinarily amusing. Matches without Beckham featuring DC United or the Red Bull’s young striker Jozy Altidore have secured some interest. While neither will supplant Arsenal from my affection, they have filled the void on the occasional Saturday night.

The branding of professional football in America is undeniable; there is even a book about it, Brand NFL by Michael Oriard a professor at Oregon State. An advantage the NFL has, no surprise, comes in people growing up knowing how to be a football fan. The MLS, as my brother suggests, has only vague notions of how fans act in Europe and South America to guide it. Sure this results in excited sounds and a minor sense of community, but does not adequately foster an idea of how the game is supposed to be played at a professional level. I very loosely view soccer in America being similar to basketball in the UK. Both sports are marginalized and have recently received a boost, albeit very different, from a notable athlete.

In contrast to the Beckham hype, Chicago Bulls standout Luol Deng quietly debuted for Great Britain a few weeks back. His fledgling international career has started with a string of strong performances, and as little attention as seems possible for true NBA star. His decision to play for Britain is somewhat baffling. There is little glory in international basketball to begin with, and for Deng the major task is actually carrying Britain into the “A” division of European play, not even battling for a medal. Each summer, Deng travels back to Brixton in South London to play and teach on the court where he got his start. Like his international caps, this act yields limited publicity. In both cases he comes home to help out, raising the profile of the game simply by playing.

British Basketball doesn’t really have much going for it. The most notable event revolving around an Englishman and the sport has been John Amechi’s decision to come out. Despite a clear lack of glamor, the people that love basketball in Britain are filled with genuine passion. My lone attendance at a BBL game was to see former Cal player Randy Duck, and I am happy to report I was the only member of the crowd excited to view a single competitor. The rest were there to watch, share time with family, and for the serious players, to discover a few new tricks. Merchandising was kept to a minimum, the court was far less impressive than many Indiana high school venues and by virtue of proximity to a giant pool the whole event was cloaked in a powerful smell of chlorine. It was really just about the game, nothing more. Spectators simply learning, slowly, to appreciate the sport, free of forced revelry and inorganic marketing ploys.

I have just compared apples and oranges. Yet, a lesson remains in the distinction between forced and natural growth. Soccer (universally misunderstood as an Americanism, when it is actually derived from English school boy slang) has grown rapidly at the grass roots level. While a viable professional league will certainly bolster the sports profile, contrived tournaments like the SuperLiga and red carpet entrances for celebrities at Home Depot field are disingenuous. Where it is a delight to watch a player like Deng take a risk to give back, the only striking things about Beckham’s arrival have been his graceful free kicks… sadly, the very Sports Center type highlight clip that fails to adequately capture the tenor of the beautiful game.

One final note for today in memory of the passing of Pavarotti and his indelible mark on my football watching life:

I will always remember Pavarotti not for his performances, but for a story once told by Ron Williams. Nessun Dorma had served as the BBC’s official world cup song for Italia 90, and Ron claims this had profound impact on local youth. One afternoon, Ron claims he was confronted by the brilliant sounds of a child choir outside. Peering through the window Ron found a rogue assortment of young men belting out Nessun Dorma. The song completed, they prepared for kick off. Whether true, or not, this story always comes to mind when I see Pavarotti and hear the song. Today is a sad day and my tears will only be matched by those of Gazza as he was forced to leave the pitch during the tournament that brought the great singer to my attention.

Some scholars (like Grant McCracken) later pushed the need for investigating cultural constructs surrounding consumer goods and the formation of a social self in object study. With this type of model, the life of an object and how its cultural associations are formed are considered. Thinking about streetwear in 2007, I am struck by how much information the consumer can learn about any given product prior to release. The artists back story is readily available, the shop owners biography and leaning, and all the hands at play in a given shirt are understood. We are told how and why an object is culturally important even as it has yet been put to the test. Sure, all of the information we are fed becomes part of the cultural constructs, and in an odd way reinforces an idea I have been kicking around (alone, to myself) about streetwear’s subtle corollary to modernist design.

Certainly streetwear is not about forging a utopia, and the theoretical underpinning is less complex. However, there is something about formulating a purposeful identity that brings new meaning to an objects social self (established before by many greater thinkers than I). Sure, this linkage is tenuous, and the supposition is about why something is dope rather than why something works. I still believe there is a minor thread of expressed functionality that somehow draws the two together in my imagination. The interest in modernist silhouettes when streetwear company’s branch into furniture and the influence of Joseph Albers’ color theory on Nike make a far more compelling an argument for the connection. Aron sure as hell isn’t Bruno Taut, but with enough internet buzz one can sense that he might be on to something that people will follow. It’s perfection in shared ideals rather than faultless design.

Ahead of the internet became streetwear’s preferred playing field, and before there were even a handful of specialized sneaker boutiques, my battles were fought in the pages of Eastbay and the floors of various chain athletic shoe stores. By no means do I mean to inflect an air of generational hostility. Instead, I point to a fundamental difference in my consumption habits from youth to adulthood. And that brings me to what I knew then.

In my early days of sneaker fanaticism, digesting the pages of Eastbay and memorizing model names and colorways options, I was overly aware of the market place at large. I understood how my choices were distinct from the mainstream, not only because they were different from the majority of my mates, but also because my purchases involved direct comparison. It started simply, which of these colorways are likely not to excite my peers? By virtue of a broad outlook, I actually knew what general releases looked like; I actually knew the product line of more than two or three companies.

Nowadays I know only what the niche that has captured my attention has to offer (with the rare exception of a few outdoors brands I follow), and the excitement of discovery and search has dissipated. I was reminded by this in part by reading Peter Thornton’s Casuals. Unfortunately, I wasn’t a young Liverpoodlian traversing Europe on train and stumbling on the most fascinating foreign sportswear. I was just a young New Englander passing through ski shops, skate shops, malls and catalogues always finding new things to piece together into a pseudo-organic identity. My story is definitely not exciting and I was certainly not breaking new ground.

What I was doing was learning how to piece together a series of seemingly unrelated goods on my own power. Today, I know much more than I did back then. I buy things that have some degree of quality and design savvy. Then, I just worked to find something that spoke to me on its own terms. And, so when I say that I fear I know much less even with a newly formed education, it is because there was a time before the internet and before boutiques where my purchases were made outside an overt social construct. I knew the names of every product, today I only know how to look at them.