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Quadrennial poseurs
Hipsters invade enemy territory for the Cup
Dear Hipster:
My hipster friends, normally not soccer fans, insist on watching the World Cup. They’re even calling it “football.” Did I miss something?
— Andy the Baseball Fan
Just as the Olympics gives regular people a chance to pretend they care about gymnastics and ice-skating, the World Cup gives hipsters all over the country a chance to feign an interest in soccer. Even the most sports-neutral hipster will perk up for the quadrennial championship, donning a jersey, professing much love for a player with only one name, and viciously rebuking non-hipsters who insist on referring to the game as “soccer.” These once-in-a-blue-moon footie fans would never go to Carson for a Galaxy game or to TJ for a Xolos match, but having the global contest piped into the nearest craft-beer bar makes fandom easily accessible. It doesn’t hurt that the World Cup provides everyone — not just hipsters — a chance to get whipped up into a harmless jingoistic fury over nothing of real consequence. Hating another country and all its people becomes a game. For the average hipster, who can only enjoy nationalism and/or racism under the strictest ironic controls, and for whom “the Game” is enemy territory, held by legions of angry bros, World Cup years offer a chance to indulge in the guilty pleasure of sports without resorting to something as mainstream as MLB.
Here's something you might be interested in.
Quadrennial poseurs
Hipsters invade enemy territory for the Cup
Quadrennial poseurs
Hipsters invade enemy territory for the Cup
Dear Hipster:
My hipster friends, normally not soccer fans, insist on watching the World Cup. They’re even calling it “football.” Did I miss something?
— Andy the Baseball Fan
Just as the Olympics gives regular people a chance to pretend they care about gymnastics and ice-skating, the World Cup gives hipsters all over the country a chance to feign an interest in soccer. Even the most sports-neutral hipster will perk up for the quadrennial championship, donning a jersey, professing much love for a player with only one name, and viciously rebuking non-hipsters who insist on referring to the game as “soccer.” These once-in-a-blue-moon footie fans would never go to Carson for a Galaxy game or to TJ for a Xolos match, but having the global contest piped into the nearest craft-beer bar makes fandom easily accessible. It doesn’t hurt that the World Cup provides everyone — not just hipsters — a chance to get whipped up into a harmless jingoistic fury over nothing of real consequence. Hating another country and all its people becomes a game. For the average hipster, who can only enjoy nationalism and/or racism under the strictest ironic controls, and for whom “the Game” is enemy territory, held by legions of angry bros, World Cup years offer a chance to indulge in the guilty pleasure of sports without resorting to something as mainstream as MLB.
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