Take Me Out to the Ballgame, Or Soccer Pitch

It’s a play on the classic nature vs. nurture debate, one I’ve been thinking a lot about lately.

Since my late father worked for the government in overseas hot spots while I was growing up, us kids lived with mom—who is British—for a few years in London. One of my most cherished memories is of playing football—the soccer kind—on school playgrounds while attending elementary school.

As you know, soccer is the world’s sport, and nowhere are fans more fanatical than England. British soccer stars were my heroes; picture books were strewn about my bedroom floor, and action posters hung from the walls.

The national soccer obsession had its way with me, as with any lad. But it didn’t last long, as dad eventually took an assignment to Washington, DC and moved his family to a leafy suburb in Maryland. I still played soccer, but my obsessions soon centered around the American national sport: baseball.

My dad, who once tried out for the New York Yankees (his throws from the outfield took a little too long to reach home plate), played catch with my brother and me and gave tips on our hitting strokes. It wasn’t long before we were playing catch all day, mimicking pro players’ batting swings and obsessing over a baseball dice game where we kept season-long statistics.

Trips to the ballpark were common, and during one memorable game dad caught a foul for me and for my brother.

Dad watched me play soccer, but it was his influence that turned me into a baseball freak that continues to this day. I never thought that dad -- a true American who grew up on Long Island, was a prisoner of war in WWII and worked as a US foreign service office until his retirement -- would take to soccer. But that changed when he landed an assignment in Brazil. I visited him more than once, and each time was surprised at his newfound love for Brazilian futbol. Instead of debating the Yankees and Red Sox, I learned about the impassioned rivalry locals had between two Rio de Janeiro clubs, Flamengo and Fluminense, which came to life for me at a live, rowdy game at Rio’s famous Maracana stadium.

My dad had come to love soccer in part because he’d remarried into a Brazilian family. But also because, during the pre-Internet days, futbol was just about his only option in satisfying his love of sport.

Today, I still follow baseball, even if the hometown Mariners may just be the worst in the majors. More heartening is the success of the Sounders and the devotion of their soccer-crazed fans. A Sounders game at Qwest Field is not unlike that at Maracana. There's scarves, cheers, songs and a deep knowledge of the sport.

I have two girls who want nothing to do with sports, so I’m working on my nephew, a huge basketball and Seahawks fan. He’s gamely tried watching a few Sounders game with me on TV, but nothing takes. It’s the old saw: not enough scoring. My descriptions of unfolding strategies on field don’t hold much sway.

I still have hope. My nephew wants to travel someday, and I’m pulling for a trip to England or Brazil.