IM lovin it

About 450 days ago, I thought soccer was the European equivalent of four-square. About 450 days ago, I thought soccer was what kids who couldn't make the baseball team played. About 450 days ago, I thought soccer was about as far from being a sport as speed walking or trampolining.

Damn, was I wrong.

As much as I'd like to give the credit for my f??tbolucation to Mr. Posh Spice (er, David Beckham), those hot Nike commercials with the Brazilian team in the airport, or the US holy-cow-when-did-they-get-good success at the last World Cup, I owe my soccer spirit to good ol' Tufts athletics -- that's right, intramural soccer.

My floor played together last fall in the freshman league as the Mad Cows (get it, Metcalf?). It was me and a few other lanky, uncoordinated Yanks on D, an Armenian, a Russian, a Chilean, and a Swiss striker, and a Cheese-Eating Surrender Monkey in goal.

Needless to say, we rocked those other first-years like Dylan at Budokan. If you win the IM championship, you're supposed to get a t-shirt and a free dinner. We got the shirts a couple months later, but -- pssst -- we're still waiting on the food.

Before I go on, let's get one thing straight -- I am terrible at soccer. The only goal I scored that whole season was a fluke one-timer in a 17-6 rout of a bunch of middle-school girls (read: Haskell) in our opening game.

But I got into it. I started learning the lingo, like "nice header," "down on the pitch," and "sloppy back-pass." I even started following a pro team. My current roommate was the captain of our team, and because he's a huge Manchester United fan, I started pimpin' Keano, Giggs, and Van Nistelrooy too.

Since it's tough to get a sense of the speed and grace of the beautiful game by just reading ESPN.com's SoccerNet and the BBC's Premiership page, we would go watch the games every weekend at the Irish Embassy pub near North Station.

Where else can you see a bunch of drunken Irishmen in scarves hugging and cheering at 9:30 in the a.m.? All of these construction workers with accents thicker than kosher wine would come over from the Big Dig and get hammered at the ass-crack of dawn just to cheer Man U on to a 2-1 win on aggregate.

Unfortunately, the Man had to shut down the Irish Embassy, so now we go to the Phoenix Landing in Central Square. For British soccer fans, the people there are about as dry as, well, kosher wine. Sure, the games are still great, and who wouldn't prefer a $13 grilled-cheese sandwich to an Irish breakfast and a swig of Guinness during halftime, but it's tough to get that same working-class team loyalty feeling in Cambridge.

So when we came back to school this fall, I was more than psyched to lace up my Sambas and kick some intramural rear -- all school style. Our team had split into two, and let's just say I didn't end up in the more talented half.

Our first game this season was a resounding success -- the other team didn't show up. We shouldn't have shown up for the next week's game, because be got blown away like the evil pit-woman in Army of Darkness