Their Passion

As Steven Gerrard lined up for a free kick 28 yards from the goal in the 92nd minute of the match, the Hull Students Union Asylum Bar sat on the edge of their seat. The Liverpool captain eyed the goal as he felt the pressure of the potential 1-0 loss on his shoulders. Students screamed like bloody hell as they saw Gerrard's kick dishearteningly hit the wall set up just inside the penalty box. It seems the English pride for the national team's central midfielder had diminished as fans, for both opponent Arsenal and the aforementioned Liverpool, called Gerrard a barrage of names questioning his manhood. Chairs were tossed and beer glasses finished as everyone put on their coats in preparation for the snowy English night. The calm was short lived, however, as the instant replay was shown.

It looked as though Gerrard's kick wasn't as bad as previously thought. It looked as though the kick was actually a near perfect strike bound for last second glory. The perpetrating factor preventing Liverpool heroics was the hand Arsenal's Fabregas. Calling upon Maradona's hand of God, Fabregas' hand raised above his head after Gerrards strike and was quickly hit by the fast traveling ball. It was not a question of accident or interpretation, but rather a sign of referee mistake. Fabregas may as well have had on a goalie jersey and some gloves, for his hand stopped the ball in the most pivotal of moments. Gerrard and fellow Liverpool players screamed at the refs in disgust, but to no avail. The game was over and the whistle had been blown. The refs surely recognize their mistake now, but were unable to recoil their decision in the wake of such a dramatic finish.

Would the ball have ended up in the back of the goal? Who knows. What I did know this night, was that the pub was seating a majority of Arsenal fans. For the shocking instant replay did not produce the expected cacophony of groans and profanity, but rather a muffled laughter as Arsenal fans sheepishly zipped up their coats and pretended not to see the replay. So it goes in European football I suppose.

The excitement in tonight's game was unrivaled by anything experienced in America. And this was not the Superbowl. We watched that at 11:30 pm on Sunday in a pub down the road from here. While it may have been for the British announcers or lack of English commercials, but the excitement was unparalleled to English Premier League Soccer. Even in a pub full of American friends, the NFL only presented a showcase of overpaid athletes competing in what a local coined as 'a pussy version of rugby.' The soccer over here is not a reason for people to get together and converse. It is to watch their team, placing their love and livelihood on every kick of the ball. Players get knocked in the head and are constantly spitting out blood, stopping only under the referee's demands.

This game is life over here. Every game, no matter who is playing, is accompanied with masses of amazed fans. For two nights a week over here, it is Iowa City when Iowa is in the National Championship. The British love their game. They live for their game. 4 games and 2 weeks into our adventure over here, us Americans are trying to do the same.