Gut Instinct: Soccer to Me

LAST FRIDAY MORNING, I pulled on a pair of mustard-stained pants and headed into Manhattan for a work meeting. After convincing my editors to assign me enough stories to pay next month’s cellphone bill, I departed into the hot morning sun—and a seemingly deserted Downtown.

The bleached cityscape was bereft of people, as if everyone were spontaneously re-creating I Am Legend, Will Smith’s scifi flick about a plague-decimated New York. Or was there another bomb threat? A dirty bomb? Should I duck and cover like the kids in those 1950s film reels, hoping that hands clasped above my head will prevent radiation from polluting my gene pool, turning potential children into future employees of the Coney Island freak show? Do mutants earn a respectable hourly rate?

I strolled toward Alphabet City, searching for signs of life, when the roar began. It sounded like 10,000 bears rearing on hind legs and unleashing their primal scream. So this is how it ends, I thought, wearing condiment-smeared clothes in the East Village. The howl continued, building louder. But instead of animal cries, I started to discern letters. Was that a g? And an o? Oh, and that’s an l. Goal. I followed the sound to its source, German beer hall Zum Schneider. Inside, the delirious throngs—packed like a rush-hour L train—leapt around as if everyone had simultaneously won the lottery.

“What happened?” I asked a gentleman wearing a soccer jersey. His glassy, bloodshot eyes spoke of hours suckling a bottle. “The U.S. scored!” Ah, yes. The World Cup. A better American might’ve stuck around to tip back a pint and watch the U.S. tie Slovakia. However, I had stories to write back home. Even for a booze journalist such as myself, sporting a liver swollen like a beach ball, 10:30 was too early to imbibe.

EVEN ALLOWING FOR summertime adjustments, New York City’s worker productivity has dipped to an historic low. Blame goes to the World Cup. The 2010 edition is underway in South Africa, meaning games run from roundabout 7 a.m. till 5 p.m.—that is, the standard workday.

Instead of posting Facebook updates, office workers are furtively watching online streams of soccer matches and refreshing virtual scoreboards. Or folks are playing hooky, packing bars that are open and pouring brews at hours typically reserved for caffeine intake. Sports: making morning alcoholism socially acceptable!

Now, I’m the last soul to stand on a soapbox. Hell, my pedestal is constructed from empty six-packs and crushed

aluminum cans. It’s true: Watching sports is an outlet for our id, allowing passionate fans to paint their chests and stroll around shirtless, curse a blue streak about opposing players’ mothers and devour the deep-fried limbs of flightless fowl. Alcohol greases these actions, perhaps fuzzying a simple fact: We’re watching grown men and women play with bouncing balls.

I strolled toward Alphabet City, searching for signs of life, when the roar began. It sounded like 10,000 bears rearing on hind legs and unleashing their primal scream.

That viewing sports enables louche behavior is no breaking-news headline. Just last week, I screamed at a bartender who rooted for the victorious Los Angeles Lakers too loudly, disturbing my delicate Boston Celtics sensibilities. But the World Cup matches’ early start times has cast a high-noon spotlight on daytime drinking. “Sure, sure,” I hear you say, “but what about football? American football. Games always start at noon or 1 p.m., and people tailgate even earlier.”

That’s a valid point. These games are played on weekends, however, when our 9-to-5 culture does not frown upon turning your afternoon into an alcoholfueled black hole. There’s a big difference between drinking a Sunday Bud at noon and chugging a brewski at 10 a.m. on Tuesday. But in its weird way, the World Cup makes it your patriotic duty to drink. This beer’s for America! The Ivory Coast! Mexico! Who cares if it’s not noon—it’s tequila time! Lick, suck, swallow. You’re doing your country proud.

Given our town’s diversity, each day’s slate of games read like a road map to unprecedented inebriation. If Italy is playing, head to Arthur Avenue in the Bronx for a Peroni. If Japan is on a pitch, book it to St. Mark’s Place for sake with a Sapporo chaser. South Korea merits a trip to Midtown’s neon-drenched 32nd Street for frosty soju or a cool Hite beer. Go on, get daytime drunk. An opportunity like this only comes along once every four years.

WHERE ARE YOU WATCHING THE WORLD CUP? TELL ME AT [JBERNSTEIN@NYPRESS.COM](mailto:JBERNSTEIN@NYPRESS.COM).