There are two kinds of soccer fans in this world.
The ones who fold like lawn chairs at a gentle breeze and beg the ref for emotional support…
…and then the rest of us.
I didn’t grow up dreaming of perfect swan-dives on turf.
I grew up running.
Flying down the wing like the air owed me space.
Two age groups up starting at eight — that wasn’t by accident.
I wasn’t trying to truck people — I wasn’t built for that cartoon.
I was built to slide past them.
Fast feet. Quick cuts. Vision. Balance.
The “ankles disappear, defender rethinks their life” package.
At 14, football came calling — real football, helmets and Friday night lights.
Not because I tapped out of soccer, but because I wanted to hit space instead of grass.
I wasn’t the dude lowering the shoulder.
I was the dude making the linebacker miss and then smiling about it.
But soccer wasn’t done with me.
That sport has a funny way of sneaking back into your life like a remix of your childhood you didn’t know you needed.
From 14 to 22?
No soccer.
Nothing.
Didn’t know clubs.
Didn’t track players.
I was busy juking teenagers into mid-semester identity crises.
And then one day… 2012.
Landon Donovan running like the soul of America owed him backpay.
Bob Bradley pacing like he was auditioning to coach a military unit.
Patriot energy crackling through the screen.
I’m sitting there… and then Clint Dempsey hits the pitch like he showed up to fight fate itself.
Instant awakening.
Instant favorite.
No offense to Landon — legend forever — but Dempsey had that I’ll play you in a garage in Texas for free and still drop two on you aura.
That’s when it hit me:
I didn’t just like soccer.
It was still in my blood — waiting, simmering, stretching like it had unfinished business with my heart.
Now I’m here, full-tilt back in the chaos
And I didn’t ease in all gentle.
I cannonballed.
Football Manager since 2016 — lost months of my life happily.
Always Sunny since 2008 — yes, my humor is broken in the best way.
Ryan Reynolds man-crush? Fifteen years strong.
I heard about Wrexham before they even announced ownership — hooked before the rest of the world had subtitles.
AC Milan because Pulisic is pure sauce.
Wrexham because destiny sometimes wears a red dragon on its chest.
Inter Miami because Beckham was my first football hero and Miami feels like a fever dream on turf.
Manchester United… yeah listen, let’s not talk about the Glazers pipeline. Tampa raised me, I clicked emotionally before I researched financially. We all make mistakes.
And above all: USMNT.
Because when this country gets it right on the pitch?
When our kids start cooking?
When the ball moves and suddenly we’re playing like a nation that believes in magic?
I lose my mind in the happiest way possible.
And that’s the thing — I’m not the angry fan
I don’t yell like the sport owes me child support.
I don’t meltdown like a tactical finance bro losing crypto.
I get animated — absolutely.
But it’s joy.
It’s hype.
It’s loud wonder.
I celebrate little moments like they built the pyramids with one-touch football.
A clean give-and-go? I’m standing up like church just hit the big note.
A perfect through ball? I’m clapping like a proud uncle at a youth recital.
First-touch control in traffic? I levitate. Spirit leaves my body for a second.
People flop and roll?
Can’t stand it.
If you aren’t actually hurt, get up.
I’m here for football, not community theater auditions.
Simulators Anonymous isn’t support for divers —
it’s a support group for the rest of us who love honest football and still somehow survive this circus.
We love the beauty.
We love the skill.
We love the movement, the chess, the grit, the poetry.
We stand up.
We stay up.
We celebrate the game that deserves celebrating.
Welcome to the club
Bring joy.
Bring passion.
Bring your scarf and your serotonin.
We’re not here to rage.
We’re here to love this game so loudly it echoes — without throwing tantrums like we’re living in the Villa fan forum.
Simulators fall.
We rise.
And we clap like maniacs every time a midfielder escapes pressure with a perfect touch.
Class dismissed — see you at kickoff.
For the ones who love football… not theater class with shin guards
There are two kinds of soccer fans in this world.
The ones who fold like lawn chairs at a gentle breeze and beg the ref for emotional support…
…and then the rest of us.
I didn’t grow up dreaming of perfect swan-dives on turf. I grew up running. Flying down the wing like the air owed me space.
Two age groups up starting at eight — that wasn’t by accident. I wasn’t trying to truck people — I wasn’t built for that cartoon. I was built to slide past them. Fast feet. Quick cuts. Vision. Balance. The “ankles disappear, defender rethinks their life” package.
At 14, football came calling — real football, helmets and Friday night lights. Not because I tapped out of soccer, but because I wanted to hit space instead of grass. I wasn’t the dude lowering the shoulder. I was the dude making the linebacker miss and then smiling about it.
But soccer wasn’t done with me. That sport has a funny way of sneaking back into your life like a remix of your childhood you didn’t know you needed.
From 14 to 22? No soccer. Nothing. Didn’t know clubs. Didn’t track players. I was busy juking teenagers into mid-semester identity crises.
And then one day… 2012.
Landon Donovan running like the soul of America owed him backpay. Bob Bradley pacing like he was auditioning to coach a military unit. Patriot energy crackling through the screen.
I’m sitting there… and then Clint Dempsey hits the pitch like he showed up to fight fate itself.
Instant awakening. Instant favorite.
No offense to Landon — legend forever — but Dempsey had that I’ll play you in a garage in Texas for free and still drop two on you aura.
That’s when it hit me:
I didn’t just like soccer. It was still in my blood — waiting, simmering, stretching like it had unfinished business with my heart.
Now I’m here, full-tilt back in the chaos
And I didn’t ease in all gentle. I cannonballed.
Football Manager since 2016 — lost months of my life happily. Always Sunny since 2008 — yes, my humor is broken in the best way. Ryan Reynolds man-crush? Fifteen years strong. I heard about Wrexham before they even announced ownership — hooked before the rest of the world had subtitles.
AC Milan because Pulisic is pure sauce. Wrexham because destiny sometimes wears a red dragon on its chest. Inter Miami because Beckham was my first football hero and Miami feels like a fever dream on turf. Manchester United… yeah listen, let’s not talk about the Glazers pipeline. Tampa raised me, I clicked emotionally before I researched financially. We all make mistakes.
And above all: USMNT.
Because when this country gets it right on the pitch? When our kids start cooking? When the ball moves and suddenly we’re playing like a nation that believes in magic?
I lose my mind in the happiest way possible.
And that’s the thing — I’m not the angry fan
I don’t yell like the sport owes me child support. I don’t meltdown like a tactical finance bro losing crypto.
I get animated — absolutely. But it’s joy. It’s hype. It’s loud wonder.
I celebrate little moments like they built the pyramids with one-touch football.
A clean give-and-go? I’m standing up like church just hit the big note. A perfect through ball? I’m clapping like a proud uncle at a youth recital. First-touch control in traffic? I levitate. Spirit leaves my body for a second.
People flop and roll? Can’t stand it. If you aren’t actually hurt, get up. I’m here for football, not community theater auditions.
Simulators Anonymous isn’t support for divers — it’s a support group for the rest of us who love honest football and still somehow survive this circus.
We love the beauty. We love the skill. We love the movement, the chess, the grit, the poetry.
We stand up. We stay up. We celebrate the game that deserves celebrating.
Welcome to the club
Bring joy. Bring passion. Bring your scarf and your serotonin.
We’re not here to rage. We’re here to love this game so loudly it echoes — without throwing tantrums like we’re living in the Villa fan forum.
Simulators fall. We rise.
And we clap like maniacs every time a midfielder escapes pressure with a perfect touch.
Class dismissed — see you at kickoff.
