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 Star-Spangled
Soccer
The Selling, Marketing and
Management of Soccer in the USA

Gary Hopkins
© Gary Hopkins 2010
Softcover reprint of the hardcover 1st edition 2010 978-0-230-23973-9
All rights reserved. No reproduction, copy or transmission of this
publication may be made without written permission.
No portion of this publication may be reproduced, copied or transmitted
save with written permission or in accordance with the provisions of the
Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988, or under the terms of any licence
permitting limited copying issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency,
Saffron House, 6–10 Kirby Street, London EC1N 8TS.
Any person who does any unauthorized act in relation to this publication
may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.
The author has asserted his right to be identified as the author of this work
in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
First published 2010 by
PALGRAVE MACMILLAN
Palgrave Macmillan in the UK is an imprint of Macmillan Publishers Limited,
registered in England, company number 785998, of Houndmills, Basingstoke,
Hampshire RG21 6XS.
Palgrave Macmillan in the US is a division of St Martin’s Press LLC,
175 Fifth Avenue, New York, NY 10010.
Palgrave Macmillan is the global academic imprint of the above companies
and has companies and representatives throughout the world.
Palgrave® and Macmillan® are registered trademarks in the United States,
the United Kingdom, Europe and other countries

ISBN 978-1-349-31624-3 ISBN 978-0-230-29273-4 (eBook)

DOI 10.1007/978-0-230-29273-4

This book is printed on paper suitable for recycling and made from fully
managed and sustained forest sources. Logging, pulping and manufacturing
processes are expected to conform to the environmental regulations of the
country of origin.
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
A catalog record for this book is available from the Library of Congress.
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
19 18 17 16 15 14 13 12 11 10
 To my wife Paula, who encouraged me to put pen to
paper and whose endless patience love (and cups of
tea) got me through it. My children David, Lindsay and
Veronica, who simply make me proud every day I am
their father, and my mom and dad who have loved and
supported me since the day I was born … what more can
you ask for? Also to my brothers Paul, Graham, Mick,
sisters Julie, Mandy, and nieces Kelly, Sophie and Lucy.

Finally to Doug Hamilton, Keith Heyes and Michael

Forte, friends I met through soccer in America
who sadly never made it to full-time. I had
some great times with all of them
This page intentionally left blank
CONTENTS

List of Figures and Tables x

Acknowledgments xiii

Star-Spangled Soccer 1
1 You’re Playing the World Cup Where? 6
Trinaaadad … we want a goal! 15
Italia 90: nine men, no goalie 17
A very Swiss coup 19
Just like a camera 24
2 Selling Soccer to America, the World Cup Years! 27
Does anyone care? 30
America goes to war 37
The Russians are coming 38
A foreign coach: are you kidding? 40
Build it and they will come: the World
Series of Soccer 42
The gringos to the north 44
Never go up against Michael Jordan … 47
The Boston soccer party 48
No home advantage 52
Paying the bills 56
3 World Cup 1994: Everyone’s a Fan 59
Kill the lawyers 60
$1,000 a ticket 61

v
vi Contents

Make Brazil travel 64

No hooligans – no terrorists 65
Live long enough to collect your pension 67
The World Cup arrives 68

4 Soccer goes Professional: The Launch of

Major League Soccer 74
A clean sheet of paper 76
Thanks for the tickets and goodbye 78
Two tickets and a bit of food – that will be
$300m please 80
Who else is in? 81
How do we make money? 83
The marketers step in 85
What’s in a name? 86
What the hell is a Cyber Bat? 91
Finding players: anybody want a game? 93
Transfer fees: the Americans still lag 95
Transfer policy: make them an offer they
can’t refuse, literally 96
Stadium strategy: “Is anyone out there?” 98
The sponsors return 99
MLS on TV, at a price 100
It all kicks off: the season begins (6 April 1996) 100
1997–1998: where did they all go? 102
If not D.C. United, then who? 103
Stadiums: the Achilles heel 104
Fans were not connecting 106
Kids would rather play 106
Why should we cancel practice? 106
Losing Hispanics, where’s Raul? 107
 Contents vii

The ex-pats – back down the pub 108

If you sit in the middle of the road 109
Not another museum 109
Television: is anyone watching? 111
Hemorrhaging cash: “the patient is dying” 114
The players’ revolt with help from the NFL 115
First leg: battered and bruised 120

5 Back from the Brink 121

The patient is getting worse 122
Anschutz versus Anschutz 127
Tampa Bay or Manchester United? 127
Miami Beach or the Miami Fusion? 128
Bricks and mortar – back to basics. 130
Owning not renting 142
The new boys 146
Is it a good investment compared to other sports? 147
Not good enough 147
It’s make your mind up time 150
Morning Joe 150
Beckham (or “goldenballs” as Posh quaintly
refers to him) 154

6 Soccer United Marketing 155

It’s “soccer” on the phone 155
Rolling up rights 157
Mexico: the best supported team in America 157
The Concacaf Gold Cup: help thy neighbor 158
Every kid a fan 159
Man United get booed 160
Multiple touch points 161
viii Contents

Rolling up television rights: soccer gets paid 163

The quid pro quo 165
An English viewpoint 166
Is it helping MLS? 166
Offset losses? 167
Bigger gates for MLS? 167

7 The Agents Arrive: There Must be Money

Somewhere … Or Is There? 169
Asking for more from MLS 183
Asking for more from US Soccer 184

8 Pony Tails and Dollars: “Anything a Man Can Do” 192

Chastain places the ball on the spot – she steps up 197
Women’s World Cup 1999: the girls of summer 198
The girls go professional: anything men can do,
girls can do (more expensively) 201
Where’s Mia? Star power and super heroes 203
Summary 217

9 The “Business” of Youth Soccer 218

That will be $5,000 please 220
The king’s shilling 221
Year-round commitment 222
A quick kick around 228
The National Soccer Coaches Association (NSCAA) 231

10 Viva Futbol/Viva Mexico! 233

The best supported team in America: Mexico 234
A $2m loss 236
Had a trial for Boca! 239
Concacaf: Trump Tower please 241
 Contents ix

11 Young Americans: Transfers and Lost Dollars 246

Nevan Subotic: let’s play Botswana 252
Giuseppe Rossi: the New Jersey “traitor” 253
Was Freddy much “adu” about nothing? 255

12 Soccer on American Television … It’s Bigger than

American Idol! 256
Is anyone actually watching? 259
Univision: the network that soccer built 265
ABC/ESPN 271
World Cup South Africa 2010: the tipping point? 275

13 The Making of a Soccer Nation 285

MLS 2022: a snap shot 295
Move over Italy, move over France 298
Cashing out 300
50 million soccer-mad Hispanics: let’s do the math 303
Every team needs a Beckham? 304

14 The World Cup Returns 308

Flash forward! 308
The end of the beginning 311

The Future of Soccer in the USA 314

Appendix 1: soccer in the USA “Organizational Chart” 317

Appendix 2: USA World Cup television ratings, English

and spanish language 1990–2006 318

Appendix 3: Grass-roots participation statistics for five

major professional sports in the USA 321

Glossary 323
Index 326
 LIST OF FIGURES AND TABLES

Figures
4.1 Major League soccer logos at launch 86
4.2 Authentic and soccer-focused sample logos
MLS 2010 season 88
11.1 Comparison of transfer fees earned from teams
competing against the USA in U-17 World Cup
finals 251

Tables
2.1 Key games and attendances for US Cup 1991–93 43
3.1 USA national team attendance 1990–94 72
4.1 Revenue and costs splits between league and
clubs as at 1996 84
4.2 Foreign versus American transfer fees 1996 96
4.3 Average Major League Soccer attendances
1996–99 104
4.4 Stadiums capacity figures for opening season
MLS 1996 105
4.5 Comparison of opening-day attendance,
1996–99 110
4.6 Sporting calendar for major pro-sports in the
USA and soccer seasons 112
4.7 Television viewers: Major League Soccer
1996–99 113
5.1 New stadium initiatives by MLS teams:
1999–2010 136
5.2 MLS fan attendance 1996–2009 143

x
 List of Figures and Tables xi

5.3 MLS team revenue and estimated values

(2007 season) 144
5.4 MLS financial performance and valuations
compared to major professional sports leagues
in the USA 148
6.1 Major attendances: summer of soccer 2009 162
6.2 Sample of sponsors highlighting strategy of
bringing multiple brands into soccer 163
7.1 Top 5 earning players: USA and foreign in the
MLS 2009 185
7.2 World Cup prize money South Africa 2010:
Total $420m 186
7.3 USA Men’s National Team bonus scheme
through World Cup 2010 187
7.4 USA team bonus for performing at World Cup
finals 188
7.5 Average bonus earnings over a typical 4-year
World Cup qualifying cycle 188
7.6 Player salaries for Major League Soccer 2007–09 191
7.7 Average salaries for other professional sports in
the USA 2009 191
8.1 Games that convinced Hendricks to launch
WUSA 196
8.2 Average attendances for WUSA 2001–03 206
8.3 WUSA losses 2000–03 211
8.4 First season attendance WPS 215
9.1 Sample of youth soccer club revenue potential 221
9.2 Estimates of registration income for organized
soccer in the USA 224
9.3 General participation numbers for US sports
that have major professional leagues 229
10.1 Growth of soccer Hispanics 1990–2050 233
10.2 USA versus Mexico: head to head 236
xii List of Figures and Tables

10.3 Average attendance for USA National Team

games by category of match 237
10.4 Concacaf Gold Cup record 1991–2009 244
11.1 Number of foreign players in top leagues and
their source 247
12.1 Growth in World Cup rights fees 1990–2014 258
12.2 USA television viewers for World Cup Final
Match 1990–2006 (English and Spanish) 260
12.3 TV audience for major finals, 2009 261
12.4 USA viewers for regular World Cup games,
1990–2006 261
12.5 TV audience for playoff games versus World
Cup regular games, viewers 262
12.6 Viewers for key USA World Cup games 263
12.7 Viewers for group games, Italia 1990 versus
Germany 2006 264
12.8 Spanish language viewers – Univision 270
12.9 Why soccer is important to Hispanic advertisers 271
12.10 Average soccer broadcast ratings in USA, 2009 281
12.11 Soccer broadcasts compared to other USA sports 282
13.1 Hypothetical international league USA 286
13.2 Other sports properties owned in full or part
by MLS owners 290
13.3 Possible future MLS Leagues 296
13.4 Proforma profit and loss model for MLS 297
13.5 2009 benchmark for projections 298
13.6 Some key drivers for MLS teams 299
13.7 Comparison of MLS to other professional soccer
leagues 2009–22 300
13.8 Key financial performance numbers for major
USA leagues 301
13.9 Average revenue and income for USA
Professional Sports Leagues compared to MLS 302
Acknowledgments

Star-Spangled Soccer could not have been written without the

support of friends and colleagues in the American soccer world,
many of whom have been there from the beginning. For the early
days Alan Rothenberg, Hank Steinbrecher, Chuck Blazer, Sunil
Gulati, Scott Parks LeTellier, John Guppy, Dan Flynn, Matthew
Wheeler, and Edward Leask were all generous with their time
and insights. For the past decade and the rise of MLS and Soccer
United Marketing, Don Garber, Mark Abbott, Ivan Gazidis,
Doug Quinn, Tim Leiweke, Joe Roth, Nick Sakiewicz, Clark
Hunt, Jonathan Kraft and Will Chang along with Doug Logan
all allowed me repeated – and, sometimes, I am sure – intrusive
requests for “just one more thing”. Agents Richard Motzkin,
Mark Levinstein and John Langel all gave hours of time without
sending a bill, for which I thank them!
Much of the story about soccer on American television was
written and lived by David Downs and John Skipper who, despite
World Cup bids and ESPN’s push to South Africa 2010, made
themselves available whenever I asked, as did Seth Ader at ESPN.
I speak little Spanish but an afternoon with Mal Karwoski at
Univision unveiled the true grass-roots story of the role soccer
played in building a network from someone in the trenches from
day one, while Dermot McQuarrie (Fox Soccer) provided a great
view into soccer’s 24/7 network.
Continuing with television, Mike Cohen (MLS) educated me
on the important influence of television production, commentary
and digital playbacks. If it’s been “sold” in soccer over the past
decades, chances are Randy Bernstein and Kathy Carter were
somewhere around it and their sponsor stories were greatly appre-
ciated, as were those of current sponsors from Russell Sargeant
(MLS). Perennially buying such sponsorships was Bruce Hudson,
a great soccer man whose dollars (from Budweiser) paid a lot of
bills. No one knows more about buying soccer than Bruce.
At the youth level, Larry Monaco, Bill Sage and Lynn Berling
Manuel all brought a perspective born of decades of involvement

xiii
xiv Acknowledgments

at the very core of the sport. At the team level, my thanks go to

Tom Payne (Galaxy) and Gary Wright (Seattle Sounders) for their
perspective from the “sharp end”, along with Dave Kasper (D.C.
United) who talked me through the complexities of player recruit-
ment and development. Charlie Stillitano (CAA) as ever provided
colorful insight into a sport that runs through his veins. Joe
Cummings (NSCAA) and Joe Quinn (ex-WUSA) helped enor-
mously with my understanding of professional women’s soccer,
while Chris Price (Xara), Antonio Zea (Adidas) and Ken Chartier
(ex-Adidas) assisted with the perspective of brands that make a
living from getting it right. And Garry Cook at Manchester City
gave an international viewpoint. The game is of course all about
players and thanks are due to Marcelo Balboa who provided solid
soccer perspective.
For his research, I would also like to thank Jack Gidney –
someone who knows more about soccer around the world than just
about anyone I know. Thanks also to Sue Bridgewater, Director
of the Center for Business in Sports at Warwick Business School,
for not only helping me secure a publishing contract, but also her
support and guidance throughout the process; and to Keith Povey
my copy editor at Palgrave Macmillan who defines the word
“patient”!
Finally, to all my friends and colleagues in American soccer …
many, many thanks.
Star-Spangled Soccer

As the trains started to arrive, it was clear something special and

momentous was happening. Painted faces, flags over their
shoulders, banners waving, thousands upon thousands of soccer
fans singing, laughing, chanting, roaring their support and
proudly stating their presence. Hour by hour the streets, bars
and restaurants filled with these marauding masses: songs echoed,
cheers went up, the banter and laughter was non-stop: to and fro
with the opposing fans, standing their ground, giving better than
they were getting, fearless and proud, passionate and fervent,
friendly yet watchful. At 1pm the roar that went up was a deafening
and almost surreal wall of sound: USA!… USA!… USA!… – not
necessarily original but stirringly powerful.
It started outside the station where fans had gathered and
journeyed along the narrow palisade that wound through the
town center. It flooded walkway cafes, restaurants, and bars, it
echoed through tight alleyways and overhead balconies, it drifted
through open shop windows and market stalls, drenching the
air with the fervent sound of unfailing patriotism that only soccer
fans can deliver. Locals stood in amazement, Czechoslovakian
fans stood back in begrudging respect. For on 12 June 2006 in a
small town called Gelsenkirchen, American Soccer came of age.
The thousands of fans, many of them fresh out of college, who
flooded the streets of Gelsenkirchen that day, out-sung the Italians
in Kaiserslautern five days later and “took over” the Nuremberg
stadium a week after that, made a statement missed by the soccer
world: a statement that reflected everything that had been happen-
ing for the past 20 years on soccer fields and in boardrooms from
Los Angeles to New York. For at the 2006 FIFA World Cup in
Germany a sleeping soccer giant awoke, “the American soccer
fan”, putting the world on notice that everything they thought they
knew about “football” in the USA was about to change forever.
Star-Spangled Soccer takes it lead from a single premise, that
the granting of the 1994 World Cup to the United States by FIFA
set in motion a chain of events that has led to a soccer explosion

1
2 Star-Spangled Soccer

in America and provided the catalyst for its now unstoppable

march forward. For make no mistake in America today a live
game between Real Madrid and Barcelona would out-draw
the National Football League, decimate Major League Baseball
and fill NBA arenas four times over. Why so confident? Well in
the summer of 2009, over 94,000 came out to see Barcelona
play the LA Galaxy, 72,000 bought tickets to see Real Madrid
beat D.C. United and 79,000 poured into Giant Stadium in New
York to watch Mexico defeat the USA. These were attendances
that no soccer nation in the world could ignore and made it clear
to anyone with an unbiased eye and a calculator that the USA
is already a soccer nation and one that is at the tipping point of
incredible growth. Many will say they have seen it all before,
with the glorious but ultimately failed North American Soccer
League, led by the legendary Pele and the incredible crowds
at World Cup 94, but they would be wrong. Soccer in America
today bears little resemblance to past times with 2010 bringing
a much stronger array of players, fans, stadiums, and investors
underpinning it, a rampant media and internet world connecting
it and a new soccer educated generation embracing it.
In America today a new breed of young players see soccer
as much a part of American culture and lifestyle as baseball,
basketball and football. Exposed to World Cup, Premiership,
Italian, Spanish and Champions League soccer aired daily on
Fox Soccer, ESPN and Univision, American soccer kids are as
likely to know Messi, Ronaldo and Rooney and the star power
of “United, Barca and Real” as they are the pitcher for the LA
Dodgers or the running back for the New York Giants. Their
idols and role models are just a click away on their computer,
a dial away on their television or ticket away from a summer
tour. Equally a new breed of American soccer fans are rebelling
against the slumber of the seventh-inning stretch in baseball and
the obligatory “Mexican wave” at a NFL game. Instead, they are
taking their lead from the throng of singing masses on the Kop
at Liverpool, the chaos of the Bombanera at Boca and the all-
encompassing passion of the Catalans at the Nou Camp. For
soccer is not only the “beautiful game”, it is also the global game,
and the shrinking media world is allowing soccer to encircle and
infiltrate America with its stars, its teams, its cultures and its
 Star-Spangled Soccer 3

passion, and with teams that are bigger and wealthier than the
Dallas Cowboys or the New York Yankees and stars that are
globally more powerful than A-Rod and Kobe Bryant. It takes
a certain naïvety to think American society is not changing and
that kids today are prepared to accept the status quo of American
sports and together with the simple fact that 25 percent of the
American population will be Hispanic by 2050, and 50 percent
will be of ethnic origin by the same date, it should send shock
waves through the American sporting world and have soccer
salivating at what can be achieved.
The road ahead is still a tough one with many challenges to
overcome and barriers to break down. The entrenched American
sports are certainly not going to roll over and play dead as
soccer seeks to steal its future fans, its sponsors and its TV time.
And it must be causing great concern to them that ESPN will
soon unleash on America the largest promotional campaign, for
any sport it has ever broadcast, in support of its coverage of the
World Cup from South Africa – exposure that could represent the
tipping point for soccer in the USA and the moment from which it
will never look back. Why? Because for the first time in American
soccer history there now exists a sustainable infrastructure and, if
you like, “operating system” for the sport in the USA, a structure
that can truly take advantage of the developing “perfect soccer
storm” appearing on the horizon. This infrastructure, both physi-
cal and human, consists of nine new soccer-specific stadiums in
the ground with more to follow, a powerful group of some of the
wealthiest and most sports-savvy investors in the country under-
writing the professional game, 16 million kids playing it, major
television networks airing it (including one dedicated to 24-hour
coverage) and some of America’s biggest sponsors supporting
it. Equally there are 35, and soon to be 50, million soccer-mad
Hispanics, who call America home, passionately in love with it.
In my opinion it will be the next decade that will decide the
future trajectory of soccer in the USA and whether it kicks on to
truly compete with the majors or tapers off to become a “nice”
alternative “also ran”. There are opportunities to grasp, hurdles to
overcome and potential missteps to take. Can Major League Soccer
capitalize on the 30,000 crowds in Seattle, the “sell outs” in
Toronto and the profitability of an LA Galaxy to build a sustainable
4 Star-Spangled Soccer

quality league to compete with the best? Can the US National

Team develop players capable of winning a World Cup and
populating the world’s best teams? Can the sport create enough
economic prosperity to entice the country’s best athletes to
choose soccer over “football” or basketball, for when it does the
soccer world will change forever? Can America turn a nation
of soccer players into a nation of soccer fans? Can American
soccer embrace the global game without it consuming them? Can
the American coaching system in all its forms and diasporas let go
of its often insular instincts, protectionist outlook and political
positioning, to come together to develop American players fully
prepared and capable to play in the best leagues and for the best
teams in the world – even if this entails losing control and money?
Can soccer in America become a viable TV sport generating the
millions that will underpin its economics, expand its professional
league and allow it to compete for the world’s best players?
There are many misconceptions about the game in the USA,
most driven by a condescending international media and entrenched
American sports writers or fans that fail (or refuse) to understand
that their country is changing, their kids are changing and their
sports are changing.
It’s very easy to bemoan the lack of quality in MLS, the media
coverage in national papers or the lack of perceived interest from
entrenched (read old) American sports fans, but smart investors
look to future earnings and growth, not the past and the funda-
mentals for soccer’s exponential growth over the next decade are
firmly in place. Nothing however will propel and fuel this growth
more than the return in either 2018 or 2022 of the FIFA World
Cup. It has nothing to do with economics, nothing to do with the
financial impact, nothing to do with elevating the status of US
Soccer with FIFA and around the world. It has everything how-
ever to do with turning America into a nation of soccer fans, a
developer of top-class talent and cementing forever the future of
the sport in the USA. For if the impact was huge in 1994 it will
be stratospheric and unstoppable if it returns.
Soccer’s journey to respectability in the USA has been a long,
exciting and often troubled one filled with tremendous highs, stom-
ach churning lows, Vegas-style gambles, dramatic elections, strong
personalities, incredible commitments, huge mistakes, necessary
 Star-Spangled Soccer 5

U-turns, and of course last-minute victories and extra-time

heartbreaks. It is a story of how an insolvent Federation convinced
FIFA to grant it the 1994 World Cup and how a “whip round”
among friends paid for it. How Brandi Chastain tore off her
shirt and sent the world into a media frenzy. How Phil Anschutz
saved Major League soccer from collapse by purchasing five of
its teams and how it then went on to become the greatest sports
turn-around story of the decade. How the US National Team
made an unexpected run to the World Cup quarter finals to
lift a soccer nation and instill hope in the future of the game.
How David Beckham shocked the world, and I mean world,
by signing for the LA Galaxy, and how American soccer has
transformed itself from a recreational participatory sport into a
professionally run soccer business and industry that today chal-
lenges the major American leagues and excites the international
soccer community with its growth and promise.
I hope that by the end of the book you will have an under-
standing of the great strides soccer has made in the USA over
the past 25 years on its road to becoming a soccer nation, and the
tough challenges and competitive forces it still has to overcome.
I equally hope you enjoy my depiction of soccer’s journey for
while Star-Spangled Soccer is a business book, it’s also about the
events, the people and the players who made this great journey;
personalities, great victories, crushing defeats, and heroic fight
backs and trust me, soccer in America has had them all.
 CHAPTER 1

You’re Playing the World Cup

Where?
It hardly caused a ripple in the American public psyche on 4 July
1988 when the announcement was made that the USA was to
host the 1994 World Cup. Media coverage was tepid and sparse
and American sports fans were uncaring and oblivious. Today’s
news, tomorrow’s fish and chip paper as they say in England. To
those that did care, i.e. the rest of the world, it was nothing more
than a corporate sell out: FIFA had lost its mind … how could it be
hosted in the States? … what did they know about “Football”? …
it’s all about money, a farce, a joke, but I suppose at least a joke
with benefits … we get to go to Disneyland and Las Vegas.
To Werner Fricker, the President of the United States Soccer
Federation, and a few USA visionaries it was the Holy Grail, and
the catalyst for everything they wanted to achieve for soccer in
the United States. To FIFA it was a huge new market to expand the
beautiful game and an economic powerhouse they were desper-
ate to harness, but for 95 percent of the American population they
could not have cared less. In a country where they proclaim the
winners of NFL SuperBowl World Champions the fact that an
event of true world inclusion and stature was coming to the USA
held no interest, offered no appeal. The fact that it was also soccer
doubly compounded the issue. Who the hell plays soccer? Only
wheezy kids that cannot make the football or baseball teams at
school or those crazy Latins and Europeans that play in the parks
at weekends. Oh and by the way, aren’t their fans always rioting
and killing each other? Probably all true at the time.
But, however it was achieved – like it or not, interested or
not – America was going to host the 1994 World Cup, the promise
of which and its ultimate success, underpinned everything good
that was to happen to soccer over the next 20 years. As the his-
tory of soccer in the United States is written it will be seen that

6
 You’re Playing the World Cup Where? 7

4 July 1988 was the day that the sport entered the modern era and
began its march towards international respectability. Respectability
founded on the improbable idea that the world’s greatest sports event
would be hosted in the land of Mickey Mouse and John Wayne.
Tremendous cynicism abounded as the world’s media questioned
why a country completely lacking in any soccer credibility was
awarded such a glittering prize. A country where the collapsed
North American Soccer League (NASL) and circus-like com-
motion of the New York Cosmos, Fort Lauderdale Strikers
and Los Angeles Aztecs with their gaudy shirts, fireworks and
crass half-time promotions, represented everything glitzy and
Hollywood that the soccer world, at the time, was not. This
was a place where Pele and Beckenbaur went to see out their
final years and take their last hugely rewarding pay checks, a
fun diversion, maybe later a movie – but not serious soccer. The
media were convinced that the World Cup would be turned into
some Spielberg-inspired production that would tarnish and trash
its image for ever. Surely the Americans could not possibly under-
stand the nuances and fineries of the “beautiful game” or treat it
with the reverence and subtlety it deserved – Americans after all do
not do subtlety! And they are notoriously not high on reverence!
So just how did it come about? How did the USA manage to
convince FIFA to hand over the keys to soccer’s crown jewel
risking the ire of traditional soccer nations and cynical soccer
press from around the world, particularly knowing full well that
95 percent of the country had no idea what the World Cup was
and cared even less if they thought it involved soccer. The answer,
as with many things in life, came down to a mixture of luck, prepa-
ration, hubris, vision and personal commitment. It started as most
things do with the vision and commitment of a few people who
believed in soccer and ultimately felt that an event of this magni-
tude might just be the catalyst for the sport’s explosion. There were
soccer people such as Werner Fricker, a Yugoslavian American,
who arrived in the USA with nothing, played for the US National
Team, built a highly successful construction company and then
went on to be President of the United States Soccer Federation.
There was also Chuck Blazer, now General Secretary of Concacaf,
Scott Parks LeTellier who would go on to be the Chief Operating
Officer of World Cup 94, and Sunil Gulati now President of the
8 Star-Spangled Soccer

United States Soccer Federation (US Soccer) – people who were

attracted to the game, administered or coached and had a passion
for seeing soccer develop in the USA and thought hosting a World
Cup would help. None however, I can guarantee, had any idea just
how big and how much this single decision would change the face
of soccer and indeed to a degree, culture in America.
It sounds like a great idea on paper but how do you go about
bidding for the world’s biggest sporting event when it was clear
you would need to use “air miles” (if they were around then) to
visit Zurich to convince FIFA you could do it! Basically insolvent,
US Soccer were forced to move from their Empire State Building
Offices to three “subsidized” rooms at an airport hotel near JFK
provided by a friendly patron of the sport and move its remaining
staff to free space in Colorado Springs. (No one mentioned this
to FIFA of course.) If this was not bad enough, its Olympic Team
was close to being evicted from its training camp hotel when it
became clear the Federation could not afford to pay for the extra
pot of coffee, morning paper or indeed (and more importantly) the
rooms the team were staying in. Only a last minute check provided
by sponsor, Budweiser (and delivered coincidentally by the now
General Secretary of US Soccer, Dan Flynn), saved the day and
of course the Olympic spirit! Suffice to say, times were tough
and US Soccer clearly had no right even contemplating bidding
for an event of such magnitude and gravitas.
From the outside, every ounce of business school and real-world
smarts would scream they were out of their depth and woefully
incapable of executing such an event and that FIFA would be crazy
to even entertain a meeting let alone a bid. But if twenty years of
living and working in the USA has taught me one thing, it is that
Americans are never afraid to punch above their weight and have
unflinching confidence in their ability to pull off the impossible.
It may not always work out but there is always an unfailing belief
that somehow it will, and because of this, it invariably does – and
in the World Cup 94 case, it did!
In fairness, despite its financial shortcomings soccer in the USA
had some strong headwinds helping it along, not least of which
was the very strong desire of FIFA to “crack” the American market.
They had been shocked by the success of soccer at the 1984 Los
Angeles Olympics where it had outdrawn track and field events
 You’re Playing the World Cup Where? 9

in attendance with 102,799 turning up to see France beat Brazil

2–0 for Gold, and 100,374 to see Yugoslavia beat Italy 2–1 for
Bronze, both staged at the Los Angeles Rose Bowl. Sitting in the
expensive seats the proverbial light bulb went on and the reali-
zation dawned that they might just might be witnessing the birth
of the next great soccer frontier. As such, when the time came for
bids to be accepted for the 1994 World Cup, the USA was gently
“encouraged” to apply. A few other things were at play here during
this time as it had not gone unnoticed by FIFA that a watershed
moment in world sports had just occurred. Usually a loss making
financial “white elephant” for host cities, Peter Ueberroth had
transformed the Olympics from a city-backed tourism brochure
into a financially profitable marketing, sponsorship, licensing and
television-driven property that had American corporations lined
up at the door to partner and Angelinos devouring every ticket
they could get their hands on. Witnessing all of this first hand was
FIFA salivating at the prospect of replicating this and understand-
ing immediately what the financial impact of turning American
Corporations onto soccer might mean.
The reality of the success of soccer in Los Angeles was how-
ever a little different. I was living in LA during the Olympics
and tickets were near impossible to get, with those for gymnas-
tics, swimming and track events almost impossible and being
scalped for ridiculous dollars. Compelled to get their Olympic
“fix” Angelinos grabbed on to any ticket they could. This is not
to undermine soccer and certainly soccer fans turned up but with
Carl Lewis and the USA track and field team sweeping all before
them it would be wrong to draw the conclusion that soccer was more
popular, because it was not. In truth it mattered little as impress-
ing FIFA was all that did. It reflects however a more a cautionary
note that was to be born out in later years to costly effect. Drawing
conclusions and spending millions based on Americans showing
up for “big events” can be a very expensive mistake. I will intro-
duce my own word here for a disease prevalent in American sports,
a disease often misdiagnosed with disastrous consequences. “Big
Eventism” defined in the medical dictionary as “the uncontrol-
lable compulsion to attend any big sporting event irrespective of
overall underlying interest” … watch for its appearance through-
out the book.
10 Star-Spangled Soccer

Apart from the incredible crowds and potential financial

windfalls, FIFA also bore witness to the great organizational and
operational skills of the Americans and in particular those people
involved in staging the soccer events. Commissioner of Soccer,
Alan Rothenberg, would go on to be the President of US Soccer and
World Cup 94, Organizing Committee. Scott Parks LeTellier, Chief
of Staff in 1984, would play a pivotal role in securing the World
Cup bid and go on to be the Chief Operating Officer of World Cup
and Hank Steinbrecher who worked on the Boston venue for 1984
would go on to be General Secretary of US Soccer. These were all
people who impressed FIFA, had established personal relationships
at the highest level and had instilled in them the confidence that
should the World Cup ever arrive on US soil it would have the
personnel and skill-sets to execute it.
So FIFA were interested in the USA making a bid, but it
still did not mean that US Soccer could afford to do so – not
something however that was going to get in the way. Like
all good soccer fans around the world, when looking to buy
some new uniforms or a new ball, the first instinct is to have a
quick “whip-round” among the lads to see what can be raised.
Well, US Soccer raised $500,000 from 100 soccer “lads”
who happily contributed $5,000 each with the promise of
good seats and a hot pie should they succeed (and member-
ship in US Club 94) and with another $750,000–$1,000,000
secured in the form of a loan from Werner Fricker’s Savings
and Loan Bank they were set. Lobbyists from DC were hired
to woo various governmental agencies and Ronald Reagan
engaged to send a video message expressing the full support
of the Presidency and the US Government (but interestingly no
money). Ultimately US Soccer submitted a professional, on the
point, bid document that covered all bases and could not have
failed to impress FIFA.
It’s an interesting note that US Soccer, along with the old
NASL, actually bid for the 1986 World Cup after FIFA decided
that the chosen site, Colombia, while making great coffee had not
quite mastered the art of building soccer stadiums yet and were, as
such, not ready to host. Looking for a quick alternative site, the
USA were invited to bid but submitted a document that even
the architects admit was decidedly amateurish, underwhelming
 You’re Playing the World Cup Where? 11

FIFA on every level, who granted the rights to Mexico, doing the
USA a huge favor.
So America’s bid was in, funded by a private initiative of an
insolvent Federation, a line of credit from a local bank and a
“whip round” among the “lads”. Compare this approach to those
of its main competitors, Brazil and Morocco, both of whose
bids arrived with the full backing and political influence of their
national governments, the full support and involvement of
their media outlets and the passionate support of their entire
population who really, really, really cared if they won or not.
Morocco could even call upon King Hassan 11 while Brazil of
course had the incomparable Pele, decades of World Cup herit-
age and the fact that they had not hosted the event since 1950.
To make matter worse for the USA, the President of FIFA, Joao
Havalanche, was Brazilian, which had to help the Brazilian cause.
As decision time drew closer, the USA, keen to know where they
stood, casually approached FIFA at a meeting in Toronto for a
sense of the direction of the prevailing wind (or simply, “do we
have a chance?”). Clearly unable to answer, FIFA did however
let it be known that in their opinion, and completely unscientifi-
cally, if a poll was taken that day among member nations it was
likely that Brazil would get 80 percent of the votes, the USA
10 percent while Morocco and Chile (who pulled out in support
of Brazil) would get 5 percent each. A body blow to all involved
and visions of some very tough discussions with a local Savings and
Loan Bank pending.
Sometimes however when you’re brave enough to start down a
path, events can conspire to work for you – events you could never
have predicted or planned for, yet ones that can turn failure into
success or of course success into failure. In the US Soccer case
it was fortunately the former. With scenes eerily similar to the
current financial meltdown, word was leaking out in the finan-
cial press that some leading countries were about to default on
substantial loans issued by American Banks, which if true could
send the issuing banks into bankruptcy. The biggest culprit was
Brazil, the USA’s main and only real competitor. This was bad
for the banks but great for US Soccer. It’s a little tough to claim
poverty and “stiff” American banks for billions in loans and
then go ahead and build 12 new soccer stadiums and nice new
12 Star-Spangled Soccer

motorways to connect them all! The President of Brazil seeing

the writing on the wall and a potential phone call from Reagan
in his future decided to remove his government’s support for the
bid and consequently any hope the Brazilian Soccer Federation
had of winning. Morocco, with just one stadium built and a lot of
sand where the other 11 would go, soon fell out of favor and so
when FIFA then announced that the decision on who would host
the 1994 World Cup would be made on American Independence
day, 4 July 1988, it was clear to all that the world’s greatest sporting
event was heading Stateside.
With tears all round, Fricker and LeTetellier stepped out to
meet the hundreds of flashing light bulbs, thrusting microphones
and probing questions of the world’s media. Stunned by the
enormity and ferocity of the exposure, Fricker had his first taste
of the media circus that surrounded the event. Never com-
fortable dealing with an aggressive and often cynical media, he
would one day pay the ultimate price, for the man whose vision
and money helped bring the World Cup to the USA would not be
the man to lead it.
Back in the USA, however, the world just went about its way.
No live camera shots from the steps of FIFA, no jubilant flag-
waving public from cities around the country, no countdowns to
the announcement on CNN or ABC. After all, it was not like the
Olympics were coming or anything the USA really cared about.
On the flight home LeTellier explained to a fellow American
passenger that they had just secured the World Cup of Football
for the USA who excitedly responded “I love that sport … those
scrums sure look like a lot of fun”. Politely explaining he was
confusing football with rugby, LeTellier returned to his seat,
dwelling on just how much work they had to do and wondering
if, after all the struggles, they might have bitten off a little more
than they could chew!
Winning the World Cup bid was one thing, convincing the
soccer millions around the globe they were justified winners,
quite another. To the rest of the world soccer in America was still
viewed as an interesting experiment, a summer’s diversion from
the real “football” taking place in the NFL. Confident that it was
all glitter and fluff and no substance, no one was either surprised
or disappointed when the old NASL collapsed. Soccer was just
 You’re Playing the World Cup Where? 13

not an American sport. It was not a sport they were any good at
and actually not a sport anyone was necessarily interested in them
becoming good at. The world did not expect soccer from America;
it expected great Hollywood movies and iconic stars, great west-
erns, rock and roll, Motown, Happy Days and corvettes. All over
the world people’s lives were touched and excited by these icons
of American culture, that were embraced, absorbed and envied.
(Who didn’t want to ride out of town heading a posse, beat Billy
the Kid to the draw, or ride into the sunset with John Wayne
and just what teenage kid did not want to be the Fonz … as kids
growing up in England, we all did.) These were our images of
America, distant, untouchable and inspiring: no one however
thought soccer when they thought of America. No one in the
1980s actually thought “soccer” at all; it was “football” – soccer
was something the Yanks called it (or saacer as Brits with lousy
American accents termed it), a lazy irreverent term that smacked
of American marketing. Simply put, the world’s expectations
were that America might ruin the World Cup, might turn it into
an over-hyped fiasco with cheerleaders, cowboys and Disney char-
acters clambering through the stands. The world’s media made
no secret of their fears and would spend years questioning the
validity of the decision. Come 1994 however, they would be here in
their thousands, downing hot dogs and coke and sneaking off to
Disneyland and Vegas! (Never underestimate the hypocrisy of
the European press.)
The world’s expectations were one thing, but the expectations
of the American soccer community quite another. For every
home-based US soccer player, coach, administrator and fan that
had toiled in relative obscurity on playing fields across the country,
the World Cup represented a momentous opportunity. To those that
had suffered the derision and condescending cynicism of American
football, baseball and basketball aficionados it was a chance at
payback. To those that had battled and fought to get soccer played
in schools and colleges, funds allocated, fields appropriated and
kids engaged, it was a chance to show how big the sport really
was. To every group of parents and coaches that fought with local
councils and cities to build new soccer fields, or allocate even 10
percent of a budget scheduled for baseball to soccer, it was to
strengthen their arm. To every expatriate and ethnic group that had
14 Star-Spangled Soccer

grown up in a country where soccer was life it was to be a chance

to say “this is why we love it”. To the few true soccer writers who
toiled to get column inches printed, or television presenters fighting
to get a spectacular goal “aired” this was their moment, for when
World Cup 94 arrived they would be the “go to guy”, the one with
the knowledge, the understanding of the game and the contacts for
tickets and access. It was their chance to say “I told you this sport
was big”. In fairness though, most had no comprehension of what
was about to hit them and the impact the event would have on their
soccer lives.
Arriving back in the States, with proclamation in hand, US
Soccer was immediately faced with a couple of pretty signifi-
cant and pressing issues, issues that if not handled could easily
see FIFA issuing a quick U-turn. Firstly they were still broke,
in fact less than broke, they were still in debt to the tune of
$750,000, further compounded when the Federal Government
raided the Savings and Loan Bank carrying the note and quickly
requested it be repaid. (Loaning money for World Cup “bids”
sort of explains the 1988–89 Savings and Loan crisis really.) In
fact, the new company set up to execute the event, World Cup
94 Inc, was penniless! A situation that was temporarily resolved
when LeTellier, the new CEO, funded operations from a private
$125,000 line of credit on his home. It was clear however that
this would not last long and a significant influx of cash would be
needed for the company and the event to survive. A white knight
did appear on the horizon in the form of Steve Caspers and Phil
Woosnam, two ex NASL executives who “generously” offered
to loan the company $2m in return for being allowed to control
all of the in-country marketing rights for both World Cup 1994
and the United States Soccer Federation. To make the offer even
more tempting they were also bringing NBC to the table (in the
form of Sportschannel America) who would agree to fund and
broadcast the entire tournament.
For an insolvent federation and penniless World Cup 94 Inc, it
must have been tempting and a seemingly obvious and easy way
out of their current dilemma. Had LeTellier accepted however, it
would have signaled the end for World Cup 94 and a financial
meltdown that could have crippled the sport. The devil is always
in the details and in this case it was most certainly was.
 You’re Playing the World Cup Where? 15

In return for providing a $2m line of credit and agreeing to

guarantee the $70m minimum payment due to FIFA from ticket
sales the new group would have the right to sell all the sponsorship
and marketing categories for US Soccer and all the television
advertising inventory on the local broadcasts. The strategy was
to acquire these rights, wrap as much World Cup equity around
them as possible and seize the market. As an added bonus they
would receive a 50/50 share of all ticket revenues above the $70m
guarantee to FIFA. You can’t blame a man for trying and after all
this is America, but while a great deal for the white knights, it was
a lousy deal for everyone else.
Had they achieved what they wanted, the world of soccer in
the USA as we know it today would not exist. There would have
been no $60m legacy, no professional league and a group of
wealthy marketers playing golf in the Cayman Isles. Fortunately,
LeTellier fought this off acquiring an $8m line of credit from
Hanover Bank secured against the unencumbered ticketing and
sponsorship income the event would surely generate. With his
home equity line replenished and boarders repelled, World Cup
94 Inc could concentrate on the task at hand, or so it thought!
The premise of this book is that securing World Cup 94 and
executing it successfully changed the future course of soccer in
the USA and directly shaped what it has become today. Much of
what was achieved however had its roots in the tumultuous times,
both on and off the field, surrounding the 1990 Italia World Cup
for during this period four momentous events took place in US
soccer that in isolation were exceptionally influential, but in
combination changed the face of American soccer forever.

Trinaaadad … we want a goal!

On 19 November 1989 at precisely 4pm a speculative 30-yard

volley from Paul Caliguiri rattled the back of the net at the
National Stadium in Port of Spain, Trinidad. Lost in a sea of red,
no more than 50 ecstatic US soccer fans (including yours truly)
leapt from their seats and celebrated as only soccer fans know
how. The unbelievable was taking place; the result the USA could
only dream of was unfolding before the eyes of the “massed”
16 Star-Spangled Soccer

USA ranks! Unfortunately for the real massed ranks, the 35,000
bedecked from head to toe in red, things were not going the way
their President had promised. The program notes had made no
mention that they might actually lose this game. Sunday had
already been declared “Red day” for the people and Monday a
national holiday in anticipation of a great and surely certain
victory – a victory that would send little Trinidad and Tobago
to their first ever World Cup Finals. It wasn’t as if they needed to
do much: just a single point against a faltering USA team that
had struggled in every game towards qualification; just a single
point to crown the greatest day in Trinidad’s sporting history; just
a single point to reward the smiling, always hospitable and fun-
loving “Tico” fans who turned every corner of the stadium and
every street in the country into a sea of patriotic brilliant bright
red. Today would surely be their day, how could it not be!
True soccer fans however know not to tempt the soccer gods
for fear of severe and painful retribution. Their ability to turn a
goal-bound shot onto the post or wicked deflection into the net is
legendary. Their decision that day to send a dipping 40-yard volley
over the keeper into the Trinidad net was cruel in the extreme.
The soccer gods however are not to be messed with, take them
for granted, as the whole of Trinidad did, and you will usually
pay a humbling and soul-destroying price. Against all the odds,
against 35,000 screaming fans praying for victory, and because
the President of Trinidad took his team on victory tour before the
kick off, the gods led the USA to a stunning 1–0 upset victory,
and shattered the dreams of a nation. It was certainly a surreal
feeling having 35,000 pairs of eyes focused entirely on you as
you celebrate the abject despair, desperation and utter disbelief
of a country: dreams shattered, hopes crushed, grown men crying
and children heartbroken. But as we all know that’s the beauty and
tragedy of the game.
“A Gift from the Soccer Gods” as Grahame Jones, editor of
Soccer International Magazine, announced to the world (well the
USA), the USA’s first qualification in 40 years. America’s best
soccer writer had got it right of course but missed one important
thing; it was not a gift everyone wanted. In truth it wasn’t just the
fun-loving Ticos who were suicidal over the result, the world
of soccer was not best pleased either. The international press
 You’re Playing the World Cup Where? 17

lamented the fact that the “Ticos” with their carnival of color and
smiling faces would not be gracing the cafes of Italy, replaced sadly
by the young fresh-faced rich kids from America. It was a much
better story had the small Caribbean island humbled the mighty
USA that day in Port of Spain and sent home a country where
soccer was only an afterthought in the sporting landscape conde-
scendingly tolerated by a nation brought up on the other “football”.
It was a much better story for the cynical international soccer press
if they could point to the USA’s failure to qualify as yet another
reason why they should not have been granted soccer’s richest prize
and that at the end of the day it really was all about money.
Although of course neutral, I am certain FIFA breathed a huge
sigh of relief. The USA under their own steam (though assisted by
the fact that Mexico had been banned for fielding ineligible players
in an under-20 tournament) had qualified for Italia 1990. It could
now claim, rightfully or not, that soccer in the USA was on the
rise and that great strides were being made in its development,
strides that would be given an enormous boost by the granting
of a World Cup. The USA’s qualification softened, if not quieted
the doubters, but gave FIFA the breathing room it needed to jus-
tify its decision. For US Soccer it meant they would be arriving
in Italy with their heads held high as qualifiers and participants
rather than just interested observers, looking to learn how to stage
a World Cup: an important distinction as they sought the interna-
tional approval of their peers.
As a side note, Grahame Jones wrote in Soccer International
that Paul Caliguiri had only scored one other goal in 5 years and
24 games playing for the USA team. This came in a World Cup
qualifier four and half years earlier to the day. The opposition
(yes you have guessed it) Trinidad and Tobago, the goalkeeper,
the same Maurice who was to wander just a little too far off his
line as Caliguiri swung his left foot that day. Let no one doubt the
soccer gods!

Italia 90: nine men, no goalie

There was nothing good about being beaten 5–1 by Czechoslovakia

in the opening game of your first World Cup for 40 years, a result
18 Star-Spangled Soccer

that clearly highlighted just how unprepared and naïve the US

National Team were to the scale and intensity of “big time” inter-
national soccer. There was equally not much to shout about when
finishing 23rd of 24 in the overall tournament (with just goal dif-
ference separating you from the last placed Arab Emirates). There
was however something very heroic about being expected to wilt
and crumble against the hosts Italy in front of 80,000 of their
most fanatical fans but instead putting on a performance that let
the soccer world know you were not as pathetic and hopeless as
they were portraying you. A gloating media had reveled in pre-
dictions varying from a 5–0 to 10–0 and that would be only if
the Italians played with nine men, no goalie and agreed to kick
with their least favored foot. The press room was full of witty
condescending jokesters plotting their next “yanks are planks”
headline. But as they were to do many times over the next four
years, the media underestimated the true metal and resolve of the
American players and in particular the group that stepped into
the cauldron of the Olympic Stadium in Rome on the night of
14 June 1990. Up stepped Doyle, Balboa, Harkes, Ramos and to
a man the USA fought, hustled, and battled to keep a rampant
“azzuri” and 80,000 fans at bay, falling to a late Giannini win-
ner, with only a late goal-line clearance preventing Peter Vermes
giving the USA what would have been a monumental draw. This
game however was not about whether the USA won or lost, it
was much bigger than that. It was about whether the USA play-
ers had within them the courage and pride to battle to the very
end, to fight and scrap for every inch of ground, to represent with
pride and respect the badge of United States of America. This
game had gone beyond tactics and systems; this was now about
just one thing, character! Did the USA players have it or not? That
night in Rome they proved to the soccer world they did. Lessons
were learned, bonds formed, character forged and pride restored;
the performance was the bedrock on which, over the next four
years, some of the greatest victories in US soccer history would be
achieved.
I walked out of the stadium that night with Tab Ramos,
delayed from a lengthy press conference, still slightly in shock and
“coming down” from the adrenalin of the game. For the first time
I got the impression he truly felt he and this team could compete
 You’re Playing the World Cup Where? 19

with the “big boys” and actually “belonged” at this level. It was
a mindset that was critical if the USA were to have any hope of
competing with the world’s best when they arrived on US soil
four years later.

A very Swiss coup

If on-field results were a disaster (leaving Rome aside), off the

field they were worse! Relations between the United States Soccer
Federation and FIFA were deteriorating rapidly as Werner Fricker
and his team battled with both FIFA and their marketing agents
ISL. Equally unskilled and unsuited to dealing with the scrutiny
of the international media, Fricker alienated and upset many,
with a very foreseeable end result: articles that seriously questioned
the USA’s ability to stage the event. (The Germans, apparently
circling, were letting interested media know they were ready and
willing to step in and save the day.) To make matters worse, with
an election to choose the next US Soccer President in just two
months, both Fricker and his main opponent Paul Steihl, decided
to air their grievances and fight their campaign on Italian soil
and in full view of soccer’s body politic, rather than quietly and
respectfully in Florida where the judgmental eyes of local youth
administrators would be less penetrating: as the somewhat amateur
bickering and petty squabbles undermined the credibility of an
already under scrutiny Federation. Very serious doubts were
emerging in the minds of FIFA that maybe, just maybe, they had
made a monumental mistake!
Just when it seemed it could not get worse (a common phrase
when writing about the early days of soccer in the USA) it of
course did! While the world’s eyes were on Italy, back in New
York, Soccer USA Partners, a British Sports Marketing Agency,
announced it had signed a multimillion-dollar eight-year agree-
ment with Werner Fricker and the United States Soccer Federation
to control all of their marketing, sponsorship, licensing, game day
events and television broadcast rights. A decision that at the end of
the day proved very profitable for US Soccer but one that caused
palpitations within FIFA and its marketing agents ISL. If it wasn’t
before, Fricker’s fate was now most certainly sealed and in true
20 Star-Spangled Soccer

Shakespearean fashion plans were afoot to overthrow the king.

Plans initiated, orchestrated and executed from within the secre-
tive walls of FIFA headquarters in Zurich, Switzerland; plans that
would result, just six weeks after the final ball was kicked at Italia
90, in a new President sitting atop US Soccer.
During the weekend of 2–5 August 1990, in one of the most
conspiratorial US Soccer elections of all times, and with FIFA
playing puppet master and orchestrator, a late entry was announced
on the US Soccer Presidential ballot and swept to victory in
a tidal wave of euphoria and support. Alan Rothenberg, a no-
nonsense Los Angeles attorney who had acted as Commissioner
for Soccer at the 1984 Los Angeles Olympics, and as such a
known and trusted friend of FIFA, assumed control. Supported by
Hank Steinbrecher (at the time a leading Gatorade executive and
later to become the General Secretary of the Federation) and, oper-
ating a hit-and-run campaign that would have made Washington
Lobbyists blush, votes were secured, promises made and “behind
the scenes” deals done. One thing was certain, Rothenberg had
not lifted his head above the parapet and entered a very public
election to lose. Using a sophisticated (by 1990 standards) com-
puter system to track support, he hosted lavish cocktail receptions,
schmoozed with delegates and charmed and cajoled all with
promises of a new tomorrow. Criticized as a “newcomer and
opportunist” by the opposition, Rothenberg refused to get drawn
into the petty acrimony between long-term candidates Paul Steihl
and Werner Fricker, each accusing the other of a variety of irreg-
ularities. It was indeed desperate stuff but on the fi nal day, maybe
recognizing the threat they faced, they combined to turn their
focus on the usurper Rothenberg. On the morning of the election,
Julie Cart reported (in Soccer International Magazine) that dele-
gates awoke to find a 1986 newspaper article critical of the way
the NBA’s Los Angeles Clippers were being run, all references to
Rothenberg (a member of the Clippers management group) had
been underlined in red. Hardly Watergate in scale and all very
high-school politics, but symptomatic of the desperation beginning
to set in as it became clear that some very powerful forces were
lining up against them.
Rothenberg had after all not arrived alone or unarmed. First,
there was FIFA, not a bad friend to have, particularly when they
 You’re Playing the World Cup Where? 21

were to bring an army of fellow “friends” with them including:

Peter Ueberroth, the charismatic head of the Los Angeles Olympics
and now a board member of FIFA’s official sponsors Adidas and
Coca-Cola; Pele, the world’s greatest soccer star and still the only
player most Americans had ever heard of; and, in case that wasn’t
enough, Dr. Henry Kissinger, the man who brought the Vietnam
war to an end – one of the most powerful men in world politics –
who let it be known he would “quite like” Rothenberg to win.
This was complemented by an array of US-based companies and
organizations that were equally insistent that change should take
place. Hank Steinbrecher, a Gatorade executive at the time, was
highly critical of US Soccer’s inability to support sponsors, a
view echoed by Bruce Hudson, a senior sponsorship manager at
Budweiser, whose concern reached further, stressing that with-
out change there was every chance the World Cup would be
“yanked”. The Soccer Industry Council of America, an amalgam
of soccer industry companies representing everything from shoe
companies to ball manufacturers, were the least politic of all,
stressing simply “it had lost faith in the US Soccer”.
As the weekend unfolded it became clear that anybody who
had any commercial or political “skin” in the World Cup being
a success lined up alongside Rothenberg: and behind the scenes
was FIFA, orchestrating like Fabregas – Arsenal’s mercurial
midfielder – at the Emirates. They wanted change and change
they would get. Just to cover their bets they even took the extra-
ordinary step of apparently offering Paul Steihl a World Cup
job should he pull out of the election and throw his support to
Rothenberg. This was clear intent of their seriousness and the
reality that with millions of dollars on the line they had no desire
to see the Cup moved. Steihl, unfortunately for him, mistook this
offer as a sign of panic and weakness and went on the offensive.
Claiming FIFA was in the midst of orchestrating a hostile take-
over of US Soccer, he portrayed Rothenberg as nothing more
than a FIFA puppet and stooge. In a “we will fight them on the
beaches” and “never, ever surrender to FIFA” moment, Steihl pro-
claimed that he and Fricker had patched up their differences and
were now best buddies working together for all that was great in
US Soccer. To reinforce the point the two former foes embraced
in a friendly hug in front of the voting masses as the orchestra
22 Star-Spangled Soccer

broke out and the lights faded. Unfortunately for Fricker and
Steihl no one was buying it and while they might have been will-
ing to fight FIFA on the beaches, no one else was. Rothenberg
prevailed in a landslide victory gaining 59 percent of the popu-
lar vote, Fricker 29 percent and Steihl just 12 percent. The truth
was that both had been outmatched by a new professional business
and political reality that was to sweep across the sport over the
coming years. Understanding that the key to success was splitting
the youth vote, which they did, and then ensuring the vote of the
professional leagues went their way, Rothenberg was in the envi-
ous position of simply needing the support and 30 percent voting
block of his long-time friend and former fellow NASL owner
Earl Foreman to secure victory. Needless to say it was delivered
and the rest is history.
Controversy and rumor surrounded the involvement of FIFA,
a matter put to rest when they openly admitted that its press sec-
retary, Guido Tognonoi, had placed the mysterious call to Steihl.
They stopped short however of making an apology, simply stating
that it was in the best interests of FIFA and US Soccer that Alan
Rothenberg be elected! No more to be said, mission accom-
plished, change initiated and the 1994 World Cup, in their minds,
back on track.
The Orlando election represented a clear turning point in
US Soccer on almost every level. First, and most importantly, it
clearly let the US know that the sport of soccer belongs in the
global not just national arena. FIFA and in particular the World
Cup are bodies and properties that offer a wealth of opportunity
and riches to those that embrace it. The privilege of hosting a
World Cup is offered to few and those few must play by FIFA’s
rules. Any hint of potential embarrassment or failure cannot and
will not be tolerated. If that means assisting change, then so be it.
FIFA sensed both of these were possible with US Soccer prior to
the 1990 election and stepped in to act. Second, FIFA had made
it clear that they were committed to “cracking” the very lucrative
US market – why else spend so much effort initiating change?
Some of the largest corporations on the planet either resided or
wanted to do business in the USA and FIFA wanted to ensure that
a World Cup event could deliver the market to them, turning on
250 million plus Americans to soccer was just too much to resist.
 You’re Playing the World Cup Where? 23

Third, US Soccer was being dragged kicking and screaming

into the commercial, professional and, some would say, merce-
nary world of professional sports business. Rothenberg was not
the man you asked to put up soccer nets, cut up oranges or make
T-shirts for the annual Thanksgiving Soccer Shoot-outs. He
didn’t mire himself in the bureaucratic nightmare of youth player
registration, state association politics, or Labor Day tournaments
which, while being the building blocks of grass-roots soccer and
home to committed and loyal soccer people, were distractions
that impinged on the bigger picture now required. It was time for
soccer to elevate itself above the amateur enthusiast and into the
arena of professional executives, savvy marketers, tough lawyers,
aggressive sales people, experienced event managers, accom-
plished TV broadcasters, astute financial directors and creative
entrepreneurs all committed to moving the business of soccer
to a higher level. Soccer in the USA was clearly entering a new
professional and commercial era. Its ability to embrace it would
determine whether it was to truly compete with the NFL, NBA,
MLB and NHL or forever remain in the shadows, a mere fun
pastime for suburban kids.
In Rothenberg, soccer had a leader who epitomized the new
way forward: a man who had never played the game and carried
no political baggage from years of youth soccer administration.
Foremost a lawyer and businessman he got his first introduction
to soccer as an attorney for Jack Kent Cooke, then owner of the
Los Angeles Wolves and later famed owner of the Washington
Redskins. Rothenberg’s baptism of fire in soccer was being given
$400,000 by Cooke, put on a plane to England and told to buy
an entire team of players for his LA franchise. With no ability
to choose good from bad he did what any smart man would do
and found a man that could. Put in touch with Ray Wood, the
ex-Manchester United goalkeeper and Munich air disaster survi-
vor, he signed Wood to a contract and told him he could use the
rest to buy his outfield! (Even in the 1970s however $400,000
did not buy a lot.) The team arrived in LA but did not last long.
Rothenberg however was hooked and soon became an investor in
the Los Angeles Aztecs, (George Best and all) in the bur-
geoning NASL. Free spending New York Cosmos however soon
pushed everyone to the brink of bankruptcy and teams folded
24 Star-Spangled Soccer

under the unsustainable financial demands of trying to compete

on the field, knowing full well the economic returns off the field
would never compensate. These were lessons learned that would
ultimately shape the underlying single entity structure of Major
League Soccer. In 1984, Rothenberg had acted as Commissioner
of Soccer for the LA Olympics, staging a tournament that ulti-
mately played a huge role in convincing FIFA that soccer had
a future in the USA and making a personal impression that six
years later would convince FIFA he was the man to deliver World
Cup 94. He had years of sports business experience, advising and
running the NBA Los Angeles Clippers and the National Hockey
League Los Angeles Kings and came with a wealth of powerful
political connections and a cadre of well placed and influential
friends. Soccer was entering a new era of professionalism and it
was clear Rothenberg was to lead it.

Just like a camera

In July 1989, the match USA versus Trinidad and Tobago in

Torrance, California, a World Cup Qualifier for Italia 1990, had
barely 3,000 people in the stands. The game was not well promoted,
the junior college stadium hardly befitting the event, with a snack
bar dispensing tepid coffee and donuts. The game was unremark-
able but a very meaningful 1–1 draw on the way to qualification
for Italia 90. It also marked the beginning of a business relation-
ship that was to transform the commercial landscape of soccer in
the USA forever. For strolling around the stadium that day was
an ex-Kodak Senior Marketing Executive, and the youngest ever
person to make Vice President at the company. He was a man
with a wealth of consumer marketing experience, an inventive
and creative mind and an understanding of corporate America
that over the next five years was to see soccer infiltrate some of
the most important boardrooms in the country. Michael Forte
was a diet-coke drinking, cigar-smoking maverick of a man: not a
soccer aficionado, had never played the game, never watched the
game and never really understood the game. He certainly would
not have made anyone’s list of the soccer people you need to know.
He couldn’t have named five past World Cup winners if his life
 You’re Playing the World Cup Where? 25

depended on it, but in Michael Forte the sport had found a man
who had a tremendous skill. He had the ability to translate the
“beautiful game” into the beautiful dollar. A man who analyzed
the sport like he analyzed a camera, a soda drink or a car – features
and benefits, needs and wants. He spoke the language of the
boardroom, thought with the psychology of an advertising agency
and sold with the enthusiasm and empathy that only the few
possess. Unfortunately, Michael was to die of pancreatic cancer in
2005 but his legacy lives on in the tremendous commercial success
of the sport.
Forte had been recruited by an English sports marketing agency
headed by former British Olympian Alan Pascoe and his partner
Edward Leask. Known for their strength in track and field events
and sailing, API had become one of the leading sports marketing
agencies in Europe. Neither of the partners were particularly inter-
ested in soccer but made the decision in 1990 to acquire the market-
ing and licensing rights to the United States Soccer Federation, the
financially impoverished organization that had miraculously pulled
off the World Cup bid, promising them $1.2–$2m per year for the
privilege for the next four years. It was a stretch to understand how
a company with little interest in soccer led by an ex-Kodak mar-
keting “hotshot” who knew next to nothing about the game was
going to succeed where everyone over the past decades had failed.
But in 1990 maybe this was the best that soccer in America could
have hoped for. The big traditional sports agencies had completely
ignored the sport and why not? Their clients were hardly screaming
“bring me soccer”: on the contrary they would not have recognized
a soccer ball if it bounced down the boardroom table, knocked over
their coffee and hit them square between the eyes.
Although a deal that finally sealed Fricker’s fate, Soccer USA
Partners (SUSAP), would go on to generate millions in revenue for
the Federation and deliver a level of professional sports marketing
expertise that the amateur organization could not have replicated
at the time. SUSAP also took a huge amount of risk in staging and
broadcasting games that often drew small crowds and lost very
serious money. There is no doubt Rothenberg and Steinbrecher
would have liked the deal to disappear and start with a clean sheet
of paper in the USA, but without it US Soccer would have
struggled mightily to replicate its achievements.
26 Star-Spangled Soccer

As a result, as 1990 came to an end, the soccer landscape in

the USA was taking shape.
Alan Rothenberg was the new President of US Soccer and while
not yet CEO of World Cup 1994 (a post he initially gave to Chuck
Cale, a political friend and a significant influence in his election run,
but took back in 1991) he was the “defacto” personality and leader
of all things soccer in the USA. There were no arguments and no
lack of clarity. You either agreed with his vision and methods or
you did not – if you did not you were out. LeTellier, the legal archi-
tect of the World Cup bid and a man who literally put his house
on the line, was justifiably given the role of Chief Operating Officer
while Hank Steinbrecher, one of the key players in the election
“coup”, was made General Secretary of the United States Soccer
Federation. Soccer USA Partners, having paid a sizeable guarantee
to US Soccer, were ready to hit the road running and knock down
the doors of corporate America: it’s financial success and indeed
very survival resting on the tenuous belief that corporate America
was ready to buy soccer and hopefully buy big. The USA national
team players bloodied and battered from Italia 90 were home and
smarting to prove that despite their overall poor performance, the
result in Rome was not a fluke and that they were made of better
stuff than the statistics portrayed. Reputations needed to be built,
careers fashioned and big money transfers secured. FIFA was content
it had its man, the World Cup was on track and their decision to
come to the USA justified.
Everyone in soccer realized that the next four years culminat-
ing in the World Cup Final on 17 July 1994 were to be the most
important in the history of US Soccer. Some people would make
fortunes, some would launch careers, some would get the big
transfer and some would fall by the wayside. Whatever happened,
this was soccer’s time and everyone knew it.
CHAPTER 2

Selling Soccer to America, the

World Cup Years!
There’s an old and well worn saying in US sports: Question: “How
do you make a million dollars in American Soccer ?”…. Answer:
“Start with $10m” – ominous and scary but unfortunately pretty
true. The American soccer landscape is littered with the bodies of
entrepreneurs, investors, passionate hobbyists and serious business
minds who had failed to make a dime in the sport. People who
had given their all, formed leagues, staged exhibition matches and
pounded the corporate corridors, but to a man failed and often
spectacularly so. How then was a British Sports Agency, with no
background in soccer, led by an ex-Kodak marketing executive who
knew even less, to succeed where all else had failed? The answer
at the end of the day was a pretty simple one that gave SUSAP a
clear advantage over all those that had come before it: it was the
advantage of being able to treat the business of soccer as just that,
a business. SUSAP was not interested in trying to get more kids to
play the game, not interested in preparing and developing players
to win matches or creating coaching curricula. These things were
someone else’s responsibility and purview. Edward Leask, the
Financial Director and part owner of the Agency, had little inter-
est in soccer as a sport and despite living in England, he could
probably not name one England National Team player, let alone
an American one. Michael Forte, his newly appointed CEO, knew
even less, barely understanding there were 11 players on each side
and that the game lasted 90 minutes.
This seemed sacrilege to many whose blood boils at the very
prospect of the “beautiful game” being placed in the hands of such
commercial heathens, but the truth of the matter was that the
sport needed people like this in the early 1990s. Forte looked at
the sport from a different viewpoint than most before him, that
of a buyer not a fan or soccer enthusiast. He clearly understood

27
28 Star-Spangled Soccer

that companies did not buy offside traps or 4–4–2 systems; they
did not buy long throws, goal kicks or the “diamond” midfield
formation. Corporations are only interested in “buying” what the
sport can do for them on their playing field and where they are
measured and evaluated: namely the cash register. Forte and his
team understood this and understood it very well. They also had
a pretty good idea that the corporations they would be selling to
knew even less about the sport than they did, living by the adage
that “in the land of the blind the one-eyed man is King”!
Soccer to most American corporations, and indeed Americans at
the time, meant just one thing: PELE: he of the great bicycle kick
and star of the New York Cosmos in the days when New York’s
finest and richest would beat a path to Giant Stadium to watch the
great man perform; he, who adorned the cover of Sports Illustrated
and filled the column inches of the New York Times; he, who for
one brief moment along with his compatriots Beckenbaur, Carlos
Alberto and Steve Hunt gave the USA a glimpse of what might be
possible. The balmy atmosphere laden nights when 70,000 fans
would come to pay homage to his silken skills, soaring headers
and of course, the unmistakable Pele party piece, the overhead
kick. These were heady days for soccer in the USA but eventually
even nights like this were not enough to ward off the grim reaper of
financial reality whose repeated appearance would eventually bring
the league to its knees and the grand experiment crashing down
around soccer’s ears.
Pele went home, Sports Illustrated photographers stopped click-
ing and New York’s elite returned to the upper east side, the opera
and the latest Broadway shows. Like the rubic cube or pet rock,
soccer had been an exciting diversion, the latest “hot thing” and
place to be seen. It had flickered brightly, some would say very
brightly, and nearly forced its way through the American sports
psyche to briefly challenge the NFL, NBA and Major League
Baseball, who quietly could not have failed to be impressed by
the size of the crowds flooding to Giant Stadium. Conspiracy
theories abound as to how these leagues conspired and colluded to
bring down the league, so worried of its potential that they con-
vinced the TV networks to boycott coverage – accusations that
were almost certainly unwarranted and unfounded. The harsh
reality was that soccer in the 1970s and early 1980s was just not
 Selling Soccer! 29

ready to capitalize on the exposure the glittering Cosmos circus,

with its star performers, was delivering, which aligned to the fact
that the overall business plan itself was unsustainable to all but
the Cosmos, meant the league had little chance of survival. When
it did come crashing down it simply added more fuel to the fire of
public opinion that soccer would never catch on in America and
that it was just a game for “ethnics” or high school wimps that
could not make the football, baseball or basketball team. This
was a game that belonged on the Spanish channel they flicked
past on their TVs and the inner city parks they sped past on their
way to anywhere but there. Ultimately the league failed and critics
everywhere joined in the chorus that soccer would never “sell”
in America, an opinion SUSAP had to change quickly or face
financial ruin.
Before passing from the demise of the NASL it would be
unfair not to praise the incredible part it played in shaping the
future of many great US soccer players and the role it played in
enticing kids around the country to start kicking a ball. US Youth
Soccer went through an incredible growth spurt during the late
1970s and 1980s, rising from just 100,000 players in 1976 to
close to 2 million by the end of 1989. Thousands of young kids
got their first fan experience by attending NASL matches and in
particular at Giant Stadium, home of the incomparable New York
Cosmos: the American Manchester United, Real Madrid or
Barcelona of its time. Three of these young kids, Meola, Harkes
and Ramos, who would go on to be stalwarts of the successful
1994 team, grew up just a goal kick away from Giant Stadium.
Harkes’s dad, Jimmy, would coach them by day and then take
them to Giant Stadium to complete their education by night.
Exposed to the floodlight nights of superstar players, rabid fans
and stirring football they were to absorb the emotional DNA that
drives all fans of the game: a failed league, yes; a failed expe-
rience for many, no. When Harkes, Ramos and Meola stepped
onto the field at the Rose Bowl in front of 90,000 partisan US
fans in their opening game of World Cup 1994 … it all came
together … the cold New York nights, the Peles, Beckenbaurs
and Chinaglias, the huge crowds. This time however they were
the stars: American soccer stars with 90,000 pairs of eyes glued
to their every move, absorbing the excitement and passion of the
30 Star-Spangled Soccer

overwhelming spectacle unfolding in front of them, visions of

Giant Stadium past and the incomparable Pele! The NASL has
a special place in the hearts of many people who still work in,
or support, US Soccer and without its existence the sport would
have been much the poorer.
Winding through the Lincoln tunnel on his drive home from
NFL’s New York office and coming out onto an almost “Close
encounters of the Third Kind” vision of a floodlit Giant Stadium,
Don Garber, now Commissioner of Major League Soccer, could
not help but be intrigued at the sight before him and amazed
by the atmosphere oozing from its rafters, little knowing
that one day his destiny would lead him into the heart of the
Mother Ship.

Does anyone care?

Setting up their office on 1533 Broadway, Soccer USA Partners

plugged in the phones, unpacked its desks and hired its first
employees – purposely locating in the heart of New York City,
the sports business capital of the world, and announcing to the
soccer world and all who cared that it had arrived. Its goals were
simple and unambiguous: to make money off the investment they
had just made in US Soccer. There was no room for failure, no
margin for error, and little time to lose. To do so however would
require every ounce of sales and marketing, sports business, event
management, and client service skills that Forte and his new team
could muster, and then some.
The challenges ahead of them were immense and the US
National Team program they inherited was sparse and under-
funded. Following the 1990 World Cup, just two main sponsors
remained: Budweiser, perennial supporters of soccer and sports
in general and Adidas, the team’s uniform supplier, between them
providing no more than $250,000 per year in revenues – certainly
not enough to fund any comprehensive or meaningful programs.
This went a long way to explaining why its teams were not far
off invisible on the American sporting landscape, with the men’s
team drawing just 3,000 fans to the important World Cup quali-
fier against Trinidad I mentioned earlier and the women’s team
 Selling Soccer! 31

attendance measured by the amount of family and friends in

town that day who didn’t have anything more exciting to do. All
of this had to change and change quickly if SUSAP was to have
any chances of recouping and hopefully profiting on the significant
investment they had made. It was no wonder Forte would take
the 5am train into New York each day contemplating just how he
could convince corporate America to spend its marketing dollars
on a sport few grew up with, even fewer understood and even
fewer still actually liked.
As with most things in business, it is the quality of the prod-
uct that ultimately dictates its level of success. This simple fact
however posed a huge problem. The USA Men’s National Team
was hardly a global force, having just come a last but one place
finish at Italia 90. While not a laughing stock, they were treated
with condescending acceptance around the world but more worry-
ingly, with complete indifference in the USA. Its players were not
great, the team were not winners, and its public profile was non-
existent. How then could this group of individuals sell product,
increase brand share and motivate a consumer? The answer was of
course, it could not. Most Americans could not have cared less
if Harkes drove a “Cadillac”, Doyle wore “Right Aid”, or Ramos
sported a “Swatch watch” – good for them but retailers would
hardly be backing up the trailers to support demand. SUSAP
however had to convince corporate America that soccer could be
used to “sell” their product or they faced financial ruin, for without
doing so they were dead in the water. It would not be an easy task!
Soccer was faced with the very tough challenge of carving out a
niche for itself in the already crowded American sports psyche at
both the corporate and consumer level. Just where did soccer fit in
the American sports landscape? What set it apart from other sports
and why should advertisers care? Why should TV Networks give
up valuable airtime to broadcast soccer? Just why should American
sports fans give up their seventh inning stretch and three hours of
slumber to attend a soccer game? All questions SUSAP needed to
work out or see millions of dollars evaporate.
Equally, there was little point in working out all of the above
if they could not deliver the sport to a place where people could
buy and consume it, a huge problem in the early 1990s. Most
other sports had their spiritual homes, the place where their fans
32 Star-Spangled Soccer

came to worship at the altar, their Yankee Stadiums, Wrigley

Fields or Redskins Parks, the places where each week loyalties
are reaffirmed, prayers answered and hot dogs bought. Soccer
however had none of these cathedrals of homage, no soccer sta-
diums to call home, and their abode was wherever cheap rent
could be found and a crowd mustered. The US National Team in
the late 1980s was at best nomadic: roaming the country looking
for a place to pitch their tent and put on a show, just like the cir-
cus or the Harlem Globetrotters, rolling into town one day and out
the next. Americans love the Globetrotters, but do not treat them
seriously or lose sleep when they lose (which of course they never
do) and they also love the circus but would not follow one abroad
to watch it. For soccer to gain meaning and importance it had to
distinguish itself as more than just a touring sideshow – it needed
identity, it needed structure, it needed meaning and it needed
people to care if it lost, go crazy if it won and understand if
it gained a hard fought and valuable draw. Off the field, it also
needed a clear identity and marketing position. In a straight
shoot-out with the NFL, NHL, MLB and NBA for the corporate
dollar, soccer needed to give a clear and compelling argument
as to why boardrooms should change years of entrenched spend-
ing habits and choose soccer over what has always worked in
the past. In the American marketing world no one had ever got
fired for buying a National Football League or Major League
Baseball sponsorship but might be escorted from the building
by “security” if they ventured to cancel the boss’s luxury suite
at the SuperBowl or World Series in exchange for two tickets to
USA versus El Salvador in New Haven. This could be a dangerous
and potentially suicidal career move!
So just what did soccer have that could be packaged and sold?
It did of course have the World Cup but that was still four years
away and just a three-week event at that. Soccer needed trac-
tion now, needed identity now and needed games now and it
needed something sponsors could latch onto and market. It had
no chance, at the time, of competing with the major sports who
had entrenched fan bases, television ratings, press coverage,
leagues, and star players along with decades of storied history.
As such it had to look for something new, something it could
sell, something that would set it apart from its competitors and
 Selling Soccer! 33

make corporate America sit up and take notice, or at least take a

meeting! In the end Forte would do what every other smart mar-
keter would do, he looked for the things his competitors did not
have, their weaknesses and gaps, areas that could be exposed and
exploited, positions they could not defend or protect. It was not
easy and sometimes difficult but ultimately a strategy emerged
and a marketing position established that would differentiate
soccer from their competitors. The obvious however would not
work. Sure, soccer was a global game and the world’s biggest,
but with less than 7 percent of the US population holding a pass-
port at the time, this was not going to fly. Equally the Marketing
Directors that needed to be impressed were looking to sell product
in Minneapolis not Moscow. Certainly, soccer was a fun game
for kids, but so too was baseball, basketball and football. Sure,
the World Cup was arriving but as already said, that was four
years away and would not pay the bills today. Ultimately Forte
combined three major forces of the American psyche to crack
open the corporate vault and wallet. Patriotism, Feminism and
“Big Eventism” (while not a real word you get my meaning!). In
a majestic piece of positioning, soccer called on America to get
behind it as it battled world powers, embrace it as it recognized
the emerging strength and power of the American female, and
support it as it demonstrated once again, to the entire watching
world, that when it comes to big events, nobody does it better.
Let’s look at these three positions.
The most powerful and emotive feeling in all American sports
and indeed American life is that of patriotism. Deemed hokey and
sometimes overbearing to many around the world, the Pledge of
Allegiance recited every morning at schools and the Star-Spangled
Banner sung at the beginning of every major sports event are
constant reminders of the emotion and passion Americans feel for
their country and which form the fabric that binds the multicultural
society as one. David Beckham has openly expressed the view
that one of the major reasons he finds America so appealing is the
unashamed pride the people have in the Red, White and Blue, and
their unapologetic willingness to openly express their allegiance.
Soccer’s first move was to take ownership of this emotion and
quickly position itself as the only sport (outside of the Olympics)
that could legitimately allow sponsors the rights to wrap their
34 Star-Spangled Soccer

brands around the flag of the USA. An offer the “majors”, for all
their economic power and media reach, could not match. For
while these sports had Detroit versus New York and Los Angeles
versus Boston, Soccer could deliver USA versus Mexico, Russia
versus Czechoslovakia and West Germany versus England. Soccer
had the stuff of wars and global power, marauding armies and sin-
gle minded fanaticism all wrapped up in centuries of politics and
culture. It’s pretty hard to get excited about the history of Kansas,
the trials and tribulation of Tampa or the struggles of Toledo but the
azzuri of Italy evokes images of the Romans, Mussolini, tragic
operettas, The Godfather 1 and 2 and the Coliseum. The St George
flag of England and Union Jack encapsulates the Battle of Britain,
the Queen, fighting back the Germans (twice), Shakespeare and
Henry VIII (plus of course the birthplace of soccer). Russia, dark
and sinister, represents the true enemy, communism, spies, drop
boxes and the Kremlin and of course vodka. These may all be
very stereotypical and flippant but they underpin a key advantage
soccer had as it looked to set itself apart from the rest of American
sports: patriotism.
Take the Olympics for example, millions of Americans tune in
to watch the USA out-tumble Russia at gymnastics, out-swim the
Germans in the pool and out-run the world on the track. Millions
stay up late into the night to watch their weightlifters out-lift the
Bulgarians or their table tennis players out “ping pong” the Chinese
(it doesn’t happen but they still watch). Whatever the sport, what-
ever the time of day, if it’s the Olympics and the flag, Americans
will watch and watch in big numbers. Three weeks of flag-waving
fervor and expert analysis on the “triple backward somersault”
after which most would rather watch repeats of Lost than tune into
a track and field event from Oregon or swim meet from Omaha. But
without a doubt, the one thing you can take to the bank – and the
Olympics does every four years – is that the American flag sells,
and sells big!
Soccer as such had found its key differentiation, found the
one thing that it could sell that could not be ambushed. It wasn’t
power hits or touchdowns, it wasn’t three point throws or home
runs and it wasn’t cracker jacks or popcorn. How could it ever
dare to compete with these bastions of American culture? Instead
it was to hijack for its own use America’s most prized possession,
 Selling Soccer! 35

the Star-Spangled Banner that was the American flag. Soccer was
smart enough to ask America to not just support Harkes, Doyle
and Lalas but to support Harkes, Doyle and Lalas take on the
world: take on the global soccer powers that had ruled over them
for decades and were now coming to American shores to rub it
in. Along the way it was to latch onto soccer moms, soccer kids
and reluctant fathers. It was to make believers and supporters of
Americans that had never played, watched or read about soccer
but who, draped in the flag, came out to ensure those Russians
never got the upper hand or those Mexicans handed us another
soccer humiliation. Never bet against the power of American
patriotism, the strategy was to work like a charm!
With the first pillar of its positioning in place, soccer turned to
the second most powerful attribute it possessed: its ability to reach
and influence the all-powerful American mother and her kids.
With a buying power dwarfing most European nations the soon to
be infamous “soccer mom” was to play a critical role in convinc-
ing corporate America that soccer was the next “great” thing and
opening up previously unreachable budgets.
The prevailing corporate wisdom about soccer in the early
1990s was that only ex-patriot Brits, Europeans and Hispanics
were interested in playing soccer and as such sponsorship (if any)
should come out of their multicultural or ethnic marketing
budgets. What almost all had missed and needed much convincing
of, was the fact that over the past two decades a groundswell of
grass roots involvement in soccer had been developing throughout
the country. City by city and state by state, hard-working volun-
teers, passionate coaches and supportive parents had been toiling
almost unnoticed in the sporting shadows to bring soccer to the
masses. Soccer programs were being expanded daily, additional
fields requisitioned, and thousands of clubs and teams formed.
With no great fanfare or media coverage, state and national cham-
pions were being crowned at all age levels for both boys and girls
alike. Unbeknown to most, millions upon millions of kids and
their families were swarming over the fields of America, enjoy-
ing being involved and playing the great game of soccer. The
sport was organized at a level that would shame many so-called
sophisticated soccer nations, run by thousands of passionate,
enthusiastic and committed volunteers. It was equally run, as no
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table, and swallowed a gin and bitters. He felt rather tired physically,
and a little depressed also. His limbs had suddenly felt cramped as
he left the motor car, the wild exhilaration of their fun had made him
tired and nervous now. His bad state of health asserted itself
unpleasantly, his forehead was clammy and the palms of his hands
wet.

No champagne for him! Rita should have champagne if she liked,

but whiskey, whiskey! that was the only thing. "I can soon pull
myself together," he thought. "She won't know. I'll tell the fellow to
bring it in a decanter."

Presently she came to him among the people who moved or sat
about under the lights of the big, luxurious vestibule. She was a little
shy and nervous, slightly flushed and anxious, for she had never
been in such a splendid public place before.

He gathered that from her whispered remarks, as with a curious and

pleasant air of proprietorship he took her to the dining rooms.

There was a bunch of amber-coloured roses upon her plate as she

sat down at their table, which he had sent there a few minutes
before. She pressed them to her face with a shy look of pleasure as
he conferred with the head waiter, who himself came hurrying up to
them.

Lothian was not known at the hotel, but it was always the same
wherever he went. His wife often chaffed him about it. She said that
he had a "tipping face." Whether that was so or not, the result was
the same, he received immediate and marked attention. Rita noticed
it with pride.

He had been, from the first moment he entered the Library in his
simple flannel suit, just a charming and deferential companion.
There had been no preliminaries. The thing had just happened, that
was all. In all her life she had never met any one so delightful, and
in her excitement and pleasure she had quite forgotten that he was
Gilbert Lothian.

But it came back to her very vividly now.

How calmly he ordered the dinner and conferred with the wine-man,
who had a great silver chain hanging on his shirt front! What an
accustomed man-of-the-world air there was about him, how they all
ran to serve him. She blushed mentally as she thought of her simple
confidences and girlish chatter—and yet he hadn't seemed to mind.

She looked round her. "It is difficult to realise," she said, as much to
herself as to her host, "that there are people who dine in places like
this every day."

Lothian looked round him. "Yes," he said a trifle bitterly, as his eye
fell upon a party of Jews who had motored down from London,
—"people who rule over three-quarters of the world—and an entire
eclipse of the intellect! You can see it here, unimportant as it is,
compared to the great places in London and Paris—'the feasting and
the folly and the fun, the lying and the lusting and the drink'!"

Rita looked at him wonderingly, following the direction of his eyes.

"Those people seem happy," she said, not understanding his sudden
mood, "they are all laughing and they all seem amused."

"Yes, but people don't always laugh because they are amused. Slow-
witted, obese brained people—like those Israelites there—laugh very
often on the chance that there is something funny which eludes
them. They don't want to betray themselves. When I see people like
that I feel as if my mind ought to be sprinkled with some disinfecting
fluid."

As a matter of fact, the party at the other table with their handsome
Oriental faces and alert, vivacious manner did not seem in the least
slow-witted, nor were they. One of them was a peer and great
newspaper proprietor, another a musician of world celebrity.
Lothian's cynicism jarred on the pleasure of the moment. For the
first time the girl did not feel quite en rapport, and was a little
uneasy. He struck too harsh a note.

But at that moment waiters bustled up with soup, champagne in an

ice pail, and a decanter of some bright amber liquid for Lothian. He
poured and drank quickly, with an involuntary sigh of satisfaction.

"How I wanted that!" he said with a frank smile. "I was talking
nonsense, Miranda, but I was tired. And I'm afraid that when I get
tired I'm cross. I've been working very hard lately and am a little run
down," he added, anxious that she should not think that their talk
had tired him, and feeling the necessity of some explanation.

It satisfied her immediately. His change of voice and face reassured

her, the little shadow passed.

"Oh, I am enjoying myself!" she said with a sigh of pleasure, "but

what's this? How strange! The soup is cold!"

"Yes, didn't you know? It's iced consommé, awfully good in hot
weather."

She shook her head. "No, I didn't," she said. "I've never been
anywhere or seen anything, you know. When Ethel and I feel
frightfully rich, we have dinner at Lyons, but I've never been to a
swagger restaurant before."

"And you like it?"

"It's heavenly! How good this soup is. But what a waste it seems to
put all that ice round the champagne. Ice is so dreadfully expensive.
You get hardly any for fourpence at our fishmongers."

But it was the mayonnaise with its elaborate decoration that

intrigued her most.
Words failed at the luscious sight and it was a sheer joy to watch
her.

"Oh, what a pig I am!" she said, after her second helping, with her
flashing, radiant smile, "but it was too perfectly sweet for anything."

The champagne and excitement had tinted her cheeks exquisitely, it

was as though a few drops of red wine had been poured into a glass
of clear crystal water. With little appetite himself, Lothian watched
her eat with intense pleasure in her youth and health. His depression
had gone, he seemed to draw vitality from her, to be informed with
something of her own pulsing youth. He became quite at his best,
and how good that was, not very many people knew.

It was his hour, his moment, every sense was flattered and satisfied.
He was dining with the prettiest girl in the room, people turned to
look at her. She hung on his words and was instantly appreciative. A
full flask of poison was by his side, he could help himself without let
or hindrance. Her innocence of what he was doing—of what it was
necessary for him to do to remain at concert-pitch—was supreme.
No one else knew or would have cared twopence if they did.

He was witty, in a high courtly way. The hour of freakish fun was
over, and his shrewd insight into life, his poetic and illuminating
method of statement, the grace and kindliness of it all held the girl
spellbound.

And well it might. His nerves, cleared and tempered, telegraphed

each message to his brilliant, lambent brain with absolute precision.

There was an entire co-ordination of all the reflexes.

And Rita knew well that she was hearing what many people would
have given much to hear, knew that Lothian was exerting himself to
a manifestation of the highest power of his brain—for her.
For her! It was an incredible triumph, wonderfully sweet. The
dominant sex-instinct awoke. Unconsciously she was now
responding to him as woman to man. Her eyes, her lips showed it,
everything was quite different from what it had been before.

In all that happened afterwards, neither of them ever forgot that

night. For the girl it was Illumination.

. . . She had mentioned a writer of beautiful prose whom she had

recently discovered in the library and who had come as a revelation
to her.

"Nothing else I have ever read produces the same impression," she
said.

"There are very few writers in prose that can."

"It is magic."

"But to be understood. You see, some of his chapters—the passages

on Leonardo da Vinci for instance, are intended to be musical
compositions as it were, in which words have to take the place and
perform the functions of notes. It has been pointed out that they are
impassioned, not so much in the sense of expressing any very
definite sentiment, but because, from the combination and structure
of the sentences, they harmonise with certain phases of emotion."

She understood. The whole mechanism and intention of the writer

were revealed to her in those lucent words.

And then a statement of his philosophy.

"In telling me of your reading just now, you spoke of that progress
of the soul that each new horizon in literature seems to stimulate
and ensure for you. And you quoted some hackneyed and beautiful
lines of Longfellow. Cling always to that idea of progress, but
remember that we don't really rise to higher things upon the
stepping stones of our dead selves so much as on the stepping
stones of our dead opinions. That is Progress. Progress means the
capability of seeing new forms of beauty."

"But there are places where one wants to linger."

"I know, but it's dangerous. You were splendidly right when you
bade me move from that garden just now. The road was waiting. It
is so with states of the soul. The limpet is the lowest of organisms.
Movement is everything. One life may seem to be like sunlight
moving over sombre ground and another like the shadow of a cloud
traversing a sunlit space. But both have meaning and value. Never
strike an average and imagine you have found content. The average
life is nothing but a pudding in a fog!"

Lothian had been talking very earnestly, his eyes full of light, fixed
on her eyes. And now, in a moment, he saw what had been there
for many minutes, he saw what he had roused.

He was startled.

During this delightful evening that side of their intercourse had not
been very present in his mind. She was a delightful flower, a flower
with a mind. It is summed up very simply. He had never once
wanted to touch her.

His face changed and grew troubled. A new presence was there, a
problem rose where there had been none before. The realisation of
her physical loveliness and desirability came to him in a flood of new
sensation. The strong male impulse was alive and burning for the
first time that night.

A waiter had brought a silver dish of big peaches, and as she ate the
fruit there was that in her eyes which he recognised, though he
knew her mind was unconscious of it.
In the sudden stir and tumult of his thoughts, one became
dominant.

It was an evil thought, perhaps the most subtle and the most evil
that can come to a man. The pride of intellect in its most gross and
devilish manifestation awoke.

He was not a vain man. He did not usually think much about his
personal appearance and charm. But he knew how changed in
outward aspect he was becoming. His glass told him that every
morning at shaving time. His vice was marking him. He was not
what he was, not what he should and might be, in a physical regard.
And girls, he knew, were generally attracted by physical good-looks
in a man. Young Dickson Ingworth, for instance, seemed able to pick
and choose. Lothian had often laughed at the boyish and conceited
narratives of his prowess. And now, to the older man came the
realisation that his age, his growing corpulence, need mean nothing
at all—if he willed it so. A girl like this, a pearl among maidens, could
be dominated by his intellect. He knew that he was not mistaken.
Over a fool, however lovely and attractive by reason of her sex, he
would have no power. But here . . .

An allurement more dazzling than he had thought life held was

suddenly shown him.

There was an honest horror, a shudder and recoil of all the good in
him from this monstrous revelation, so sudden, so unexpected.

He shuddered and then found an instant compromise.

It could not concern himself, it never should. But it might be

regarded—just for a few brief moments!—from a detached point of
view, as if it had to do with some one else, some creation of a fiction
or a poem.

And even that was unutterably sweet.

It should be so, only for this night. There would be no harm done.
And it was for the sake of his Art, the psychological experience to be
gathered. . . .

There is no time in thought. The second hand of his watch had

hardly moved when he leant towards her a little and spoke.

"Cupid!" he said. "I think I know why they used to call you Cupid at
your school!"

Just as she had been a dear, clever and deferential school-girl in the
Library, a girl-poet in the garden, a freakish companion-wit after
that, so now she became a woman.

He had fallen. She knew and tasted consciousness of power.

Another side of the girl's complex personality appeared. She led him
on and tried to draw back. She became provocative at moments
when he did not respond at once. She flirted with a finished art.

As he lit a cigarette for her, she tested the "power of the hour" to its
limit, showing without possibility of mistake how aware she was.

"What would Mrs. Lothian think of your bringing me here to dinner?"

she said very suddenly.

For a moment he did not know what to answer, the attack was so
direct, the little feline thrust revealing so surely where he stood.

"She would be delighted that I was having such a jolly evening," he

answered, but neither his smile nor his voice was quite true.

She smiled at him in girlish mockery, rejoicing!

"You little devil!" he thought with an embarrassed mental grin. "How

dare you." She should pay for that.
"Would you mind if my wife did care," he asked, looking her straight
in the eyes.

"I ought to, but—I shouldn't!" she answered recklessly, and all his
blood became fired.

Yet at that, he leant back in his chair and laughed a frank laugh of
amusement. The tension was over, the dangerous moment passed,
and soon afterwards they wandered out into the night, to go upon
the pier "just for half an hour" before starting for London.

And neither of them saw that upon one of the lounges in the great
hall, sipping coffee and talking to the newspaper-peer Herbert
Toftrees was sitting.

He saw them at once and started, while an ugly look came into his
eyes. "Look," he said. "There's Gilbert Lothian, the Christian Poet!"

"So that's the man!" said Lord Morston, "deuced pretty wife he's got.
And very fine work he does too, by the way."

"Oh, that's not his wife," Toftrees answered with contempt. "I know
who that is quite well. Lothian keeps his wife somewhere down in
the country and no one ever sees her." And he proceeded to pour
the history of the Amberleys' dinner-party into a quietly amused and
cynical ear.

The swift rush back to London under the stars was quiet and
dreamy. Repose fell over Gilbert and Rita as they sat side by side,
repose "from the cool cisterns of the midnight air."

They felt much drawn to each other. Laughter and all feverish
thoughts were swept away by the breezes of their passage through
the night. They were old friends now! An affection had sprung up
between them which was to be a real and enduring thing. They were
to be dear friends always, and that would be "perfectly sweet."

Rita had been so lonely. She had wanted a friend so.

He was going home on the morrow. He had been too long away.

But he would be up in town again quite soon, and meanwhile they

would correspond.

"Dear little Rita," he said, as he held her hand outside the door of
the block of flats in Kensington. "Dear child, I'm so glad."

It was a clear night and the clocks were striking twelve.

"And I'm glad, too," she answered,—"Gilbert!"

He was soon at his club, had paid the chauffeur and dismissed him.
There was no one he wanted to talk to in either of the smoking
rooms, and so, after a final peg he went upstairs to bed. He was
quite peaceful and calm in mind, very placidly happy and pleased.

To-morrow he would go home to Mary.

He said his prayers, begging God to make this strange and sweet
friendship that had come into his life of value to him and to his little
friend, might it always be fine and pure!

So he got into bed and a pleasant drowsiness stole over him; he had
a sense of great virtue and peace. All was well with his soul.

"Dear little Rita," were the words he murmured as he fell asleep and
lay tranquil in yet another phase of his poisoned life.

No dreams disturbed his sleep. No premonition came to tell him

whither he had set his steps or whither they would lead him.
A mile or two away there was a nameless grave of shame, within a
citadel where "pale Anguish keeps the gate and the Warder is
Despair."

But no spectre rose from that grave to warn him.

END OF THE FIRST BOOK

BOOK TWO

LOTHIAN IN NORFOLK

"Not with fine gold for a payment,

But with coin of sighs,
But with rending of raiment
And with weeping of eyes,
But with shame of stricken faces
And with strewing of dust,
For the sin of stately places
And lordship of lust."

CHAPTER I

VIGNETTE OF EARLY MORNING. "GILBERT IS COMING

HOME!"

"Elle se repand dans ma vie

 Comme un air imprégné de sel,
Et dans mon âme inassouvie
Verse le goût de l'éternel."

—Baudelaire.

The white magic of morning was at work over the village of Mortland
Royal. From a distant steading came the thin brazen cry of a cock,
thin as a bugle, and round the Lothians' sleeping house the bubble
of bird-song began.

In the orchard before the house, which ran down to the trout
stream, Trust, the brown spaniel dog, came out of a barrel in his
little fenced enclosure, sniffed the morning air, yawned, and went
back again into his barrel. White mist was rising from the water-
meadows, billowed into delicate eddies and spirals by the first
breeze of day, and already touched by the rosy fingers of dawn.

In the wood beyond the meadows an old cock-pheasant made a

sound like high hysteric laughter.

The house, with its gravel-sweep giving directly on to the unfenced

orchard, was long and low. The stones were mellowed by time, and
orange, olive, and ash-coloured lichens clung to them. The roof was
of tiles, warm red and green with age, the windows mullioned, the
chimney-stack, which cut deep into the roof, high and with the grace
of Tudor times.

The place was called the "Old House" in the village and was a
veritable sixteenth century cottage, rather spoilt by repairs and
minor extensions, but still, in the silent summer morning, with
something of the grace and fragrance of an Elizabethan song. It was
quite small, really, a large cottage and nothing more, but it had a
personality of its own and it was always very tranquil.
On such a summer dawn as this with the rabbits frisking in the
pearl-hung grass, on autumn days of brown and purple, or keen
spring mornings when the wind fifed a tune among the bare
branches of the apple-trees; on dead winter days when sea-birds
from the marshes flitted against the grey sky like sudden drifts of
snow, a deep peace ever brooded over the house.

The air began to grow fresher and the mists to disperse as the
breeze came over the great marshes a mile beyond the village. Out
on the mud-flats with their sullen tidal creeks the sun was rising like
a red Host from the far sea which tolled like a Mass bell. The curlews
with their melancholy voices were beginning to fly inland from the
marshes, high up in the still sky. The plovers were calling, the red-
shanks piping in the marrum grass, and a sedge of herons shouted
their hoarse "frank, frank" as they clanged away over the saltings.

Only the birds were awake in this remote Norfolk village, the cows in
the meadows had but just turned in their sleep, and not even the
bees were yet a-wing. Peace, profound and brooding, lay over the
Poet's house.

Dawn blossomed into perfect morning, all gold and blue. It began,
early as it was, to grow hot. Trust came out of his barrel and began
to pad round his little yard with bright brown eyes.

There was a sound of some one stirring in the silent house, and
presently the back door, in the recess near the entrance gates, was
flung wide open and a housemaid with untidy hair and eyes still
heavy with sleep, stood yawning upon the step. There was a rattle
of cinders and the cracking of sticks as the fire was lit in the kitchen
beyond. Trust, in the orchard, heard the sound. He could smell the
wood-smoke from the chimney. Presently one of the Great Ones, the
Beloved Ones, would let him out for a scamper in the dew. Then
there would be biscuits for the dog Trust.
And now brisk footsteps were heard upon the road outside the
entrance gates. In a moment more these were pushed open with a
rattle, and Tumpany swung in humming a little tune.

Tumpany was a shortish thick-set man of fifty, with a red clean-

shaven face. He walked with his body bent forward, his arms
hanging at his sides, and always seemed about to break into a short
run. It was five years since he had retired even from the coast-
guard, but Royal Navy was written large all over him, and would be
until he tossed off his last pint of beer and sailed away to Fidler's
Green—"Nine miles to windward of Hell," as he loved to explain to
the housemaid and the cook.

Tumpany's wife kept a small shop in the village, and he himself did
the boots and knives, cleaned Gilbert's guns and went wild-fowling
with him in the winter, was the more immediate Providence of the
Dog Trust, and generally a most important and trusted person in the
little household of the Poet.

There was an almost exaggerated briskness in Tumpany's walk and

manner as he turned into the kitchen. Blanche, the housemaid, was
now "doing" the dining-room, in the interior of the house, but
Phoebe, the cook—a stalwart lass of three and twenty—had just got
the fire to her liking and was giving a finishing touch of polish to the
range.

"Morning, my girl!" said Tumpany in a bluff, cheery voice.

Phoebe did not answer, but went on polishing the handle of the oven
door.

He repeated the salutation, a shade less confidently.

The girl gave a final leisurely twist of the leather, surveyed her work
critically for a moment, and then rose to her feet.
"There are them knives," she said shortly, pointing to a basket upon
the table, "and the boots is in the back kitchen."

"You needn't be so short with a man, Phoebe."

"You needn't have been so beastly drunk last night. Then them
knives wouldn't want doing this morning. If it hadn't been for me the
dog wouldn't have had no food. If the mistress knew she would have
given you what for, as I expect your missis have already if the truth
were known."

"Damn the mistress!" said Tumpany. He adored Mary Lothian, as

Phoebe very well knew, but his head burned and he was in the
uncertain temper of the "morning after." The need of self-assertion
was paramount.

"Now, no beastly language in my kitchen," said the girl. "You go and

do your damning—and them knives—in the outhouse. I wonder
you've the face to come here at all, Master being away too. Get out,
do!"

With a very red and sulky face, Tumpany gathered up the knives and
shambled away to his own particular sanctum.

The ex-sailor was confused in his mind. There was a buzzing in his
head like that of bees in a hive. He had a faint recollection of being
turned out of the Mortland Arms just before ten o'clock the night
before. His muddy memories showed him the stern judicial face of
the rather grim old lady who kept the Inn. He seemed to feel her
firm hands upon his shoulders yet.

But had he come back to the Old House? He was burning to ask the
cook. One thing was satisfactory. His mistress had not seen him or
else Phoebe's threat would have meant nothing. Yet what had
happened in his own house? He had woke up in the little parlour
behind the shop. Some one had covered him with an overcoat. He
had not dared to go upstairs to his wife. He hoped—here he began
to rub a knife up and down the board with great vigour—he did
hope that he hadn't set about her. There was a sick fear in the man's
heart as he polished his knives.

In many ways a better fellow never breathed. He was extremely

popular in the village, Gilbert Lothian swore by him, Mary Lothian
liked him very well. He was a person of some consequence in the
village community where labourers worked early and late for a wage
of thirteen shillings a week. His pension was a good one, the little
shop kept by his wife was not unprosperous, Lothian was generous.
He only got drunk now and then—generally at the time when he
drew his pension—but when he did his wife suffered. He would
strike her, not knowing what he did. The dreadful marks would be on
her face in the morning and he would suffer an agony of dull and
inarticulate remorse.

So, even in the pretty cottage of this prosperous and popular man—
so envied by his poorer neighbours—surgit amari aliquid!

. . . If only things had been all right last night!

Tumpany put down his knife with a bang. He slipped from his little
outhouse, and slunk across the orchard. Then he opened the iron
gate of the dog's kennel.

The dog Trust exploded over Tumpany like a shell of brown fur. He
leapt at him in an ecstasy of love and greeting and then, unable to
express his feelings in any other way, rolled over on his back with his
long pink tongue hanging out, and his eyes blinking in the sun.

"Goodorg," said Tumpany, a little comforted, and then both he and

Trust slunk back to the outhouse. There was a sympathetic
furtiveness in the animal also. It was as though the Dog Trust quite
understood.
Tumpany resumed his work. Two rabbits which he had shot the day
before were hanging from the roof, and Trust looked up at them with
eager eyes. A rabbit represented the unattainable to Trust. He was a
hard-working and highly-trained sporting dog, a wild-fowling dog
especially, and he was never allowed to retrieve a rabbit for fear of
spoiling the tenderness of his mouth. When one of the delicious little
creatures bolted under his very nose, he must take no notice of it at
all. Trust held the (wholly erroneous) belief that if only he had the
chance he could run down a rabbit in the open field. He did not
realise that a dog who will swim over a creek with a snipe or tiny
ring-plover in his mouth and drop it without a bone being broken
must never touch fur. His own greatness forbade these baser joys,
but like the Prince in the story who wanted to make mud pies with
the beggar children, he was unconscious of his position, and for him
too—on this sweet morning—surgit amari aliquid.

But life has many compensations. The open door of the brick shed
was darkened suddenly. Phoebe, who in reality had a deep
admiration for Mr. Tumpany, had relented, and in her hand was a
mug of beer.

"There!" she said with a grin, "and take care it don't hiss as it goes
down. Pipes red hot I expect! Lord what fools men are!"

Tumpany said nothing, but the deep "gluck gluck" of satisfaction as

he drank was far more eloquent than words.

Phoebe watched him with a pitying and almost maternal wonder in

her simple mind.

"A good thing you've come early, and Mistress ain't up yet," she said.
"I went into the cellar as quiet as a cat, and I held a dish-cloth over
the spigot when I knocked it in again so as to deaden the sound.
You can hear the knock all over the house else!"
"Thank ye, Phoebe, my dear. That there beer's in lovely condition;
and I don't mind saying I wanted it bad."

"Well, take care, as you don't want it another day so early. I see
your wife last night!"

She paused, maliciously enjoying the anxiety which immediately

clouded the man's round, red face.

"It's all right," she said at length. "She was out when you come
home from the public, and she found you snoring in the parlour.
There was no words passed. I must get to work."

She hurried back to her kitchen. Tumpany began to whistle.

The growing warmth of the morning had melted the congealed

blood which hung from the noses of the rabbits. One or two drops
fell upon the flags of the floor and the Dog Trust licked them up with
immense relish.

Thus day began for the humbler members of the Poet's household.

At a few minutes before eight o'clock, the mistress of the house

came down stairs, crossed the hall and went into the dining room.

Mary Lothian was a woman of thirty-eight. She was tall, of good

figure, and carried herself well. She was erect, without producing
any impression of stiffness. She walked firmly, but with grace.

Her abundant hair was pale gold in colour and worn in a simple
Greek knot. The nose, slightly aquiline, was in exact proportion to
the face. This was of an oval contour, though not markedly so, and
was just a little thin. The eyes under finely drawn brows, were a
clear and steadfast blue.
In almost every face the mouth is the most expressive feature. If the
eyes are the windows of the soul, the mouth is its revelation. It is
the true indication of what is within. The history of a man or
woman's life lies there. For those who can read, its subtle changing
curves at some time or another, betray all secrets of evil or of good.
It is the first feature that sensual vices coarsen or self-control
refines. The sin of pride moulds it into shapes that cannot be hidden.
Envy, hatred and malice must needs write their superscription there,
and the blood stirs about our hearts when we read of an angelic
smile.

The Greeks knew this, and when their actors trod the marble stage
of Dionysius at Athens, or the theatre of Olympian Zeus by the hill
Kronian, their faces were masked. The lips of Hecuba were always
frozen into horror. The mouths of the heralds of the Lysistrata were
set in one curve of comedy throughout the play. Voices of gladness
or sorrow came from lips of wax or clay, which never changed as the
living lips beneath them needs must do. A certain sharpness and
reality, as of life suddenly arrested at one moment of passion, was
aimed at. Men's real mouths were too mobile and might betray
things alien to the words they chanted.

The mouth of Mary Lothian was beautiful. It was rather large, well-
shaped without possessing any purely æsthetic appeal, and only a
very great painter could have realised it upon canvas. In a
photograph it was nothing, unless a pure accident of the camera had
once in a way caught its expression. The mouth of this woman was
absolutely frank and kind. Its womanly dignity was overlaid with
serene tenderness, a firm sweetness which never left it. In repose or
in laughter—it was a mouth that could really laugh—this kindness
and simplicity was always there. Always it seemed to say "here is a
good woman and one without guile."

The whole face was capable without being clever. No freakish wit
lurked in the calm, open eyes, there was nothing of the fantastic,
little of the original in the quiet comely face. All kind and simple
people loved Mary Lothian and her—

"Sweet lips, whereon perpetually did reign

The Summer calm of golden charity."

Men with feverish minds and hectic natures could see but little in her
—a quiet woman moving about a tranquil house. There was nothing
showy in her grave distinction. She never thought about attracting
people, only of being kind to them. Not as a companion for their
lighter hours nor as a sharer in their merriment, did people come to
her. It was when trouble of mind, body or estate assailed them that
they came and found a "most silver flow of subtle-paced counsel in
distress."

Since the passing of Victoria and the high-noon of her reign, the
purely English ideal of womanhood has disappeared curiously from
contemporary art and has not the firm hold upon the general mind
that it had thirty years ago.

The heroines of poems and fictions are complex people to-day,

world-weary, tempestuous and without peace of heart or mind. The
two great voices of the immediate past have lost much of their
meaning for modern ears.

"So just
A type of womankind, that God sees fit to trust
Her with the holy task of giving life in turn."

—Not many pens nor brushes are busy with such ladies now.

"Crown'd Isabel, thro' all her placid life,

The queen of marriage, a most perfect wife."
—Who sings such Isabels to-day? It is Calypso of the magic island of
whom the modern world loves to hear, and few poets sing Penelope
faithful by the hearth any more.

But when deep peace broods over a dwelling, it is from the Mary
Lothians of England that it comes.

Mary was very simply dressed, but there was an indescribable air of
distinction about her. The skirt of white piqué hung perfectly, the
cream-coloured blouse with drawn-thread work at the neck and
wrists was fresh and dainty. On her head was a panama hat with a
scarf of mauve silk tied loosely round it and hanging down her back
in two long ends.

In one hand she held a silver-headed walking cane, in the other a

small prayer-book, for she was going to matins before breakfast.

She spoke a word to the cook and went out of the back door, calling
a good-morning to Tumpany as she passed his shed, and then went
through the entrance-gate into the village street.

By this hour the labourers were all at work in the fields and
farmyards—the hay harvest was over and the corn cutting about to
begin—but the cottage doors were open and the children were
gathering in little groups, ready to proceed to school.

There was a fresh smell of wood-smoke in the air and the gardens of
the cottages were brilliant with flowers.

Mary Lothian, however, was thinking very little about the village—to
which she was Lady Bountiful. She hardly noticed the sweet day
springing over the country side.

She was thinking of Gilbert.

He had been away for a week now and she had heard no news of
him except for a couple of brief telegrams.
For several days before he went to London, she had seen the signs
of restlessness and ennui approaching. She knew them well. He had
been irritable and moody by fits and starts. After lunch he had slept
away the afternoons, and at dinner he had been feverishly gay. Once
or twice he had driven into Wordingham—the local town—during the
afternoon, and had returned late at night, very angry on one of
these occasions to find her sitting up for him.

"I wish to goodness you would go to bed, Mary," he had said with a
sullen look in his eyes. "I do hate being fussed over as if I were a
child. I hate my comings and goings spied upon in this ridiculous
way. I must have freedom! Kindly try and remember that you have
married a poet—an artist!—and not some beef-brained ordinary
fool!"

The servants had gone to bed, but she had lit candles in old silver
holders, and spread a dainty supper for him in case he should be
hungry, taking especial care over the egg sandwiches and the salad
which he said she made so perfectly.

She had gone to bed without a word, for she knew well what made
him speak to her like that. She lay awake listening, her room was
over the dining room, and heard the clink of a glass and the gurgle
of a syphon. He was having more drink then. When he came
upstairs he went into the dressing room where he sometimes slept,
and before long she heard him breathing heavily in sleep. He always
came to her room when he was himself.

Then she had gone downstairs noiselessly to find her little supper
untouched, a smear of cigarette ash upon the tablecloth, and that he
had forgotten to extinguish the candles.

There came a day when he was especially kind and sweet. His
recent irritation and restlessness seemed to have quite gone. He
smoked pipes instead of cigarettes, always a good sign in him, and
in the afternoon they had gone for a long tramp together over the
marshes. She was very happy. For the last year, particularly since his
name had become well-known and he was seriously counted among
the celebrities of the hour, he had not cared to be with her so much
as in the past. He only wanted to be with her when he was
depressed and despondent about the future. Then he came for
comfort and clung to her like a boy with his mother. "It's for the sake
of my Art," he would say often enough, though she never
reproached him with neglect. "I must be a great deal alone now.
Things come to me when I am alone. I love being with you,
sweetheart, but we must both make a sacrifice for my work. It
means the future. It means everything for both of us!"

He used not to be like this, she sometimes reflected. In the earlier

days, when he was actually doing the work which had brought him
fame, he had never wanted to be away from her. He used to read
her everything, ask her opinion about all his work. Life had been
more simple. She had known every detail of his. He had not drunk
much in those days. In those days there had been no question of
that at all. After the success it was different.

She had gone to his study in the morning, after nights when he had
been working late, and had been struck with fear when she had
looked at the tantalus. But, then, he had been spruce and cheerful
at breakfast and had made a hearty meal. Her remonstrances had
been easily swept away. He had laughed.

"Darling, don't be an old goose! You don't understand a bit. What?—

Oh, yes, I suppose I did have rather a lot of whiskey last night. But I
did splendid work. And it is only once in a way. I'm as fit this
morning as I ever was in my life. But I'm working double tides now.
You know what an immense strain it is. Just let me consolidate my
reputation, become absolutely secure, and—well, then you'll see!"

But for months now things had not improved, and on this particular
day, a week ago now, the sudden change in Gilbert, when the
placidity of the old time seemed to have returned, was like cool
water to a wound.

They had been such friends again! In the evening they had got out
all her music and while he played, she had sung the dear old songs
of their courtship and early married life. They had the "Keys Of
Heaven," "The Rain Is on the River," "My Dear Soul" and the "Be My
Dear and Dearest!" of Cotsford Dick.

On the next morning the post had brought letters calling Gilbert to
London. He had to arrange with Messrs. Ince and Amberley about
his new book. Mr. Amberley had asked him to dine—"You don't
perhaps quite understand, dear, but when Amberley asks one, one
must go"—there were other important things to see after.

Gilbert had not asked her to come with him. She would have liked to
have gone to London very much. It was a long time since she had
been to a theatre, ages since she had heard a good concert. And
shopping too! It seemed such a good opportunity, while the sales
were on.

She had hinted as much, but he had shaken his head with decision:
"No, dear, not now. I am going strictly on business. I couldn't give
you the time I should want to, and I should hate that. It wouldn't be
fair to you. We'll go up in the Autumn, just you and I together and
have a really good time. That will be far jollier. For heaven's sake,
don't let's try to mix up business with pleasure. It's fatal to both."

Had he known that he was to be called to London? Had he arranged

it beforehand, itching to be free of her gentle yoke, her wise,
restraining hand? Was that the reason that he had been so
affectionate the day before he went away? His conscience was
uneasy perhaps . . . ?

And why had he not written—was there a sordid, horrible reason for
his silence; when was he coming back . . . ?
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