So here’s my dark soccer secret. As deep as my passion for the game runs, I don’t actually watch all that much of it. Sure, I go for wild for the World Cup, and I’ll tune in to a Champions League Final. But my knowledge of, say, EPL player rankings or the rivalry between Boca Juniors and River Plate is pretty thin, and forget about keeping up with the latest transfer talks.

It also means I don’t have a team, which makes for awkward moments when new ballers I meet ask who I support, as they inevitably do during the pre-game banter. “All of them,” I might joke, since telling the truth is too much of a conversation stopper, especially if I go all in and admit that I’m more of a baseball guy. Gasp!

What can I say? Outside of Telemundo, there wasn’t a lot of soccer on TV in the 80s during my formative fandom years. But baseball, specifically Yankee baseball, was everywhere. Phil Rizzuto’s meandering WPIX commentary is part of the soundtrack of my youth. Yankee fever got into my blood young and quickly transfused. Remember the “Hit Man” poster of Don Mattingly (aka “Donnie Baseball”), the one where he’s dressed in a pinstripe suit, holding his bat like a Tommy gun? That thing hung over my bed.

That’s what being a fan is all about, a dyed-in-the-wool compulsion that’s as much an identity marker as your home town or family name. Which means it’s hard to manufacturer late in life. But is it impossible? About a year ago, I decided to try to answer that question. 

The first step was finding a club to support. Given my Yankees allegiance, NYC FC, with its home field shoehorned into the House That Ruth Built, might have been an obvious choice. But I just can’t muster much enthusiasm for the MLS, as much as I’d like to see the league achieve world-class status.

A bunch of Brooklyn guys I play with are hardcore Kopites, so I had a passing fling with Liverpool. The club is fun to watch, no doubt, and it’s always nice rooting for a winner, but I couldn’t shake the feeling that the relationship wasn’t quite right. 

It did, however, help me settle on the Premiere League as the best grounds for finding my match. I spent five superb years in London in my twenties, working and going to grad school, so the country holds second-home status in my heart. Plus, there’s a strong case that the EPL serves up the best soccer in the world.

But which of the 20 clubs? (Or 19 since the Reds had been ruled out by lack of chemistry). As a kid in New Jersey, my longtime travel team was the Westfield Hotspurs. Might Tottenham pluck on those heartstrings? Not feeling it. Drank a lot of Newcastle in college. Maybe the Magpies? Still nothing. What about Leicester City, source of the greatest sports shocker of all time with its 2015-2016 title run? Helluva story, but no thanks.

The more I mulled over the EPL table, the more I kept coming back to a certain lion-crested insignia colored gold and royal blue. Chelsea. Of course, it had to be Chelsea.

For starters, there are the aforementioned London years. That could’ve led me down the high street to Arsenal or West Ham or Crystal Palace. But I was always a west end boy during my time there, making Stamford Bridge the geographical favorite.    

Up next: the Pulisic factor. The jury is still out on whether the American wunderkind will achieve true international stardom. But the fact that he’s even in the conversation is enough for me. I admire his skill and ingenuity—and his passion! In the USMNT’s monumental collapse against Trinidad and Tobago in the 2018 World Cup qualifiers, he was the only one who seemed to give a shit. When he brought us within one in the 46th minute, I thought the Captain America moment was on. It wasn’t, of course. But I appreciated the effort. And I like that Lampard and company seem to feel similarly, even awarding him the coveted number 10 jersey. 

One other point about Pulisic: he hails from Hershey, Pennsylvania, best known for its chocolate, but also a well-respected eastern soccer hub where I played a ton of tourneys as a kid, always capped by a visit to the water park. Those are some of the best memories of my life. Somehow that factors into the synchronicity of Christian, Chelsea, and me.

Finally, there’s the Chelsea supporters I’ve met over the years on the field of play. It’s not that they’ve always been the best, though some are definitely top-tier. But the overall caliber is consistently high. In short, I’ve come to view Chelsea as the playing man’s club.

With Tetsu, fellow Blues supporter and fan-club mentor, after a recent morning match in Brooklyn. If memory serves, our side took the contest 10-4, channeling Chelsea all the way, a hopeful harbinger of the massive season in store for 2020-2021.

I floated this theory by a few royal-blue ballers from my orbit. None of them would go all in on it—too many players, too many games, etc. But it wasn’t rejected outright, either. Says Marc, a Brit expat banger who I used to ball with in Fort Greene Park: “Every pitch you have some guys who just dribble, don't defend, and they tend to be the Man U/ Barca/ Real fans. I guess it’s true that the leagues I’ve played in, the few Chelsea fans tend to have a good tactical knowledge of the game.”

Adds Tetsu, a regular at my morning game in Brooklyn, known for dropping dimes out of the backfield: “A lot of Millennial players out here came of age in the 2000s, when EPL was becoming widely available on cable TV. Chelsea was an emerging powerhouse at the time, so a lot of the guys were drawn to its ruthless counter-attack and dynamic 4-3-3 style of play under Mourinho, as opposed to the traditional long-ball. It was also a system with a strong defensive core, where the club could be built around a guy like Makélélé.”

I can’t claim Millennial status, and I obviously wasn’t glued to the tube during any of those epic seasons from the 2000s. But I like aspiring to the box-to-box brilliance of Chelsea’s golden era, especially now that club seems to be on the cusp of a whole new one, thanks to Abramovich’s billions—first Chilwell and Ziyech, now Havertz and Thiago (see that, I’m keeping up!).

So there you have it. Still a lot of work to do before I can claim true Blue status. And I’ll always belong to the new breed of global Chelsea supporters. But as far as I can tell, even the most ardent fans don’t take themselves too seriously, as evidenced by the running joke among them (and fan site of the same name), “We ain’t got no history.”

Sounds about right for me.

That said, I fully intend to make the pilgrimage to the Bridge. It’s fifteen years since I set foot on London soil, so that part of the indoctrination can’t come soon enough. Like the song goes, “Blue is the color, football is the game.”

As my life turns the corner into its 47th year, I wanted to take stock of all that I’m thankful for through the first forty six. This has been a difficult twelve months, and that was true even before COVID-19 dropped like an anvil from the sky. Lots of heartache and loss, and yet here I am, with half a life still to go, God willing. This exercise in gratitude, serving up one thanks for every year on earth, is a way to stay alive, present, and positive. I recommend it at any age. The first thirty or so came easily enough for me (which is not to say I take them lightly or for granted). But then I had to dig deeper, even reflecting on things I'm grateful for about myself. That might be the most important thanks of all.

1. Rebecca, naturally 

2. Emmy and Alexander, eternally 

3. The rest of my family, near and far, blood and in-law 

4. Memories of mom and Jess

5. TJ, for showing me how and why to practice gratitude 

6. Coach Rich and the rest of my BK FIT fam   

7. FTFC, shout out to all the OG’s and crack organizers—Mikey, Seb, Kyle. Tuesday 9’s, let’s bring it home! Pick you up Jamar… 

8. Street FC—looking at you Coop 

9. Rooster Cup—Robinho!

10. Sunday-morning 3-touch, led by Condo and the Kaiser

11. JC Hammers—Danny planning, Par pep talking  

12. Round Top Tourney

13. WHS alumni game, coach Shaw and Chris 

14. Park Slope United, coaches and community

15. AYSO  

16. Broga with Kahlila 

FIRST CLASS The inaugural Rooster Cup took place in July on a pristine grass pitch in the Catskills, surrounded by mountains and intermittent storm clouds. It was mostly ballers from First Touch FC, the morning game I play in as often as possible in Williamsburg, BK. Team pink punched its ticket to the finals, above, but we couldn’t get past the big blue wall. Countdown to 2021!

17. My JHCWJB thread—you boys really pulled me through. Hotspurs forever!

18. All of A&L 305—shout out to Miss Yael for the T1D support and so much more  

19. Artshack, Mckendree at the helm

20. Von King Park 

21. New York Edge

22. Park Slope Food Coop—5am receiving! 

23. Clinton Hill CSA  

24. Fig Tree, toda Rachel

25. Violin with Nora

26. Cranford Cougars and the Last Dance heroics, #2 most of all     

27. The Yanks—still miss you Jeets

28. Chelsea FC (more on that to come) 

29. BDJ, for the future

30. Upper 90 BK, including those SoccerShape classes  

31. Colbert, my nightly balm

32. PBS News Hour, my nightly lullaby    

33. The staff at Mount Sinai pediatric endo clinic

34. Wellfleet, especially Newcomb Hollow and Dyer Pond  

35. Many awesome work colleagues 

36. Lisa’s dealing and support       

DECK DAYS I met my good friend Mark Powers twenty years ago, when we were both cutting our teeth in the magazine business at This Old House in NYC. This summer, Mark brought his artisanal skill and creativity to the renovation of our back deck. Here he is giving Alex a quick lesson in carpentry. Most days we’d break for lunch together and shoot the breeze, just like we used to do in the offices of TOH.

37. Mark’s master craftsmanship 

38. Jim’s deft touch in the garden

39. Family skiing

40. Running the loop in Prospect Park 

41. My health, as long as it lasts

42. My hair, as long as it lasts  

43. Being okay with vulnerability

44. Believing in positive change

45. A willingness to persevere  

46. The Second Half—thanks for listening  

It’s been a while. I’m not sure where to pick up The Second Half thread, so I’ll just start here: October 30, 2019, about 3:30pm.

I’m at a coffee shop in Brooklyn, finishing up a bit of work. October is my favorite month—the leaves, my son’s birthday, perfect soccer weather, post-season baseball—so I remember feeling good about life in that moment. 

Then my phone rang. It was my oldest sister, Jennifer. “I have some hard news,” she said. “Jessie tried to take her life yesterday.” 

My other sister Jess was my hero for a long, long time. In 1988, she co-captained the Westfield High School girls soccer team to New Jersey’s Group IV State Championship. Four years later, I’d be part of my own state title team, but as a reliable foot soldier, not captain of the squad.  

FRESH FACED Here’s Jess with the ‘85 Freshman Girls Soccer Team. I remember her as a clever, crafty player, qualities I tried to embrace in my own game. I checked in with a few of her old teammates, including Marli, to her left in the photo. She talked about Jess’s talent and grace, but also the fact that she was “always calm, even under stress, always fair and supportive to those who didn’t have her skill set. I always loved playing with her and watching her do her thing.” You and me both, Marli.

It was always like that. Jessie had a charisma and creativity that made her a leader in ways that I’m simply not. I followed her everywhere—or tried to at least. When, as an early teen, she covered her bedroom walls with artful drawings and snippets of song lyrics from the Beatles and Bob Dylan, I did the same. Only mine looked like the mad ravings of an inmate who’d been stuck in solitary confinement for too long. “Hey, those are cool!” Jessie said. She was endlessly loyal and supportive. And fun. We had many, many outrageous times.

Of course, it wasn’t all wine and roses. Jess had her quirks, which became more jagged and pronounced as her life became increasingly complicated. And I’m no picnic either. But even after our most heated blow-up (Jess: “You never say anything!” Me: “Yeah, well you never shut up!”), we found our way back. As Bruce put it, you can’t forsake the ties that bind.

Back to Brooklyn, the hard news from Jen was a surprise. I had last seen Jess in August at our father’s 80th birthday. He rented a house in the Poconos for the whole family, about 20 of us in all. It was a happy occasion. Jess had been off the booze for a while and seemed at peace—maybe a little too into the online sobriety community she’d found, but I wasn’t about to judge. Especially since the drinks started flowing by noon for the rest of us.

Jen filled in more of the details, including the fact that Jess had been in a downward spiral for several weeks, deeper and darker than anything from her decades of depression and mental illness. I regretted being so unaware. But for now, at least, Jess was safe at a treatment facility in southern Vermont. “Maybe you can give her a call in the morning?” Jen offered. I said that I would. We hung up. Not five minutes later, my phone buzzed again. It was the babysitter.  

“I think Alex broke his wrist,” she said, then quickly added, “no, he definitely broke it.” 

After a half-mile sprint from the coffee shop to the schoolyard, I saw what she meant. The bone hadn’t busted through, but it was close. Cue twelve hours of ER mania. At one point, the affable doctor turned to my wife Rebecca and, with a nod at me and the polyester soccer gear that Alex and I were both wearing, joked, “Let me guess, this is all this guy’s fault.” Alex had to be transported to another hospital for surgery, so I headed home to be with our daughter. I still hadn’t told Rebecca about Jessie, because, well, there wasn’t really a good moment.

The next day was Halloween. It was stressful. Alex was in a lot of pain, but desperate to trick-or-treat with his pals. Rebecca had a tough work situation that was blowing up. I found a moment to fill her in on the situation. It wasn’t pretty, for a lot of reasons. 

I’ll cut to the chase here, since these other details aren’t all that important.  

At some point in the overnight hours, while under the care of medical staff in Vermont, Jessie had found a way to all but finish the mission. She ended up on life support for a few days while her daughters made their way from as far as Mexico, and all the necessary arrangements were made, including the eventual donation of several organs. She died on November 4th.

I can’t pivot back to me and soccer and body mass index without sounding like a major asshole. But I will say that the game was one of the things that Jessie and I shared deeply. I remember countless hours knocking the ball around in our backyard as kids. As adults, I recall looking for any excuse to get away from the grown-up stuff to go and juggle. The World Cup was our quadrennial obsession.

Here’s one particularly vivid memory. Ten or so years ago, I went to visit Jessie and her family in Vermont. Her marriage was coming undone, which had been apparent for some time. There was an old barn on the property. I woke up one morning and heard a steady thump, thump, thump. It was Jessie, taking her touches and striking the ball cleanly against the barn wall. 

“This is what keeps me sane,” she said, as I walked out to join her. 

Man, how I wish she could have kept banging away. 

So what now? It’s been nearly a year since we lost Jess—but a COVID year, so family and friends haven’t been able to do all the things you do when someone goes. Like others in this situation, I feel so bad that I wasn’t able to save a person I loved so deeply. But maybe with Jessie, I can take the lead and do what it takes to not just save myself, but be the best I can be. And so, it’s onward with The Second Half.           

Looking to hang with fellow Kopites at this weekend’s Liverpool match? Or maybe you bleed sky blue and want to be surrounded by Man City faithful? Whichever English Premiere League side you support, there’s a spot to watch them shoulder-to-shoulder with like-minded loyalists.

I’m putting together the definitive bar guide to English Premiere League action throughout New York City. Rather than rely on Google, I’m hoping to crowdsource the compendium with tips from real fans—like you!

I jumpstarted the list with hot spots for some of EPL’s most popular clubs. Lower-ranking teams are proving more of a challenge, so if you’re a fan of, say, Watford or Norwich City, let me know the best place to watch the lads stave off relegation.

I’ll also build out the guide with additional picks throughout the five boroughs for top clubs with established fan bases. And stay tuned for similar meet-ups to the Bundesliga, La Liga, and other premier leagues from around the globe.

Arsenal
The Blind Pig
233 East 14th Street, Manhattan
212-209-1573
Gooners gather at this East Village watering hole, home of the official supporter club of Arsenal FC, and widely considered the best place away from Highbury to watch a match. Afterward, soak up the suds with some hearty pub grub, like the loaded mac ‘n cheese or pulled pork flatbread.

Chelsea
Football Factory at Legends
6 West 33rd Street, Manhattan
Legends isn’t strictly for Chelsea—the website actually lists more than 30 supporters groups—but the NY Blues are the staunchest of the lot, so if Chelsea is playing, you can bet that most of the 20 big screens will be showing the match.

Everton
Turnmill Bar
119 East 27th Street, Manhattan
646-524-6060
For years, New York City Evertonians flocked to Mr. Dennehy’s, an Irish pub in Greenwich Village, but it poured its last pint in the spring of 2018. Nowadays, supporters of the Toffees head for the Turnmill, a casual sports bar with standard grub in Manhattan’s Flatiron District.

Liverpool
The Monro Pub
481 5th Avenue, Brooklyn
718-499-2005
Vinny, who owns the Monro with his wife Nicole, is a true souser and named the place after his favorite local in Liverpool. Reds come from far and wide to watch the match, nosh on traditional fare, including steak and cheese pie, washed down with a pint.

Manchester City
Mad Hatter
360 3rd Avenue, Manhattan
212-696-2122
A Citizens wonderland, this Murray Hill local is the official home of Manchester City Football Club Fans and Supporters in New York. The bar menu features all the flavors of home, including bangers ‘n mash and beer battered cod. And the patio out back provides glimpses of blue sky for the sky blue faithful.

Manchester United
Smithfield Hall
138 West 25th Street, Manhattan
212-929-9677
Located a few blocks from Madison Square Garden, Smithfield Hall doesn’t discriminate against other sports, but if Man U is playing, you can bet the place will be awash in red. Members of One United USA, the team’s biggest supporter club this side of the Atlantic, are even treated to a 10-percent discount on food and drink.

Tottenham
Banter Bar (pictured above)
132 Havemeyer Street, Brooklyn
718-599-5200
When the Spurs are on, the COYS ring out from this Euro-style pub in the heart of Williamsburg. The rotating selection of 24 taps will please craft brew enthusiasts, though the $3 Carlsberg is the lager of choice for those wearing lilywhite. Doors open fifteen minutes before all English Premier League matches, whatever the hour.

More to come…

I set out to answer that question by surveying as many ballers as possible in and around the five boroughs, from the dirt pitches of Brooklyn to turf fields of Manhattan to hard surfaces throughout Queens. I even ventured over the border to Jersey find out what ballers there are donning these days.

I worked for ten years at Consumer Reports, so I love a good survey story—not that my informal canvassing meets that organization’s high standards of statistical excellence. The reason why gets wonky fast, but in short, survey rigor comes down to two things: sample size and sample framing. I asked more than 100 players about their shoe preferences, which is a decent sample size (even a sample of 50 can be considered statistically significant by data scientists). My framing, however, was a little soft, since the ballers were primarily from soccer games I play in, which makes it too self-selecting. For a survey to be truly representative, the sample needs to be drawn from a random sample of the population, says my former CR colleague Donato Vaccaro, Ph.D., now with the research institute NORC, at the University of Chicago.

And so, to borrow a line from WNYC’s Brian Lehrer, I ended up with an informal, unofficial, thoroughly unscientific survey of the most popular soccer shoes in New York City. But if you’re in the market for new boots, or just curious about what’s out there, you might find it useful.

Clash of the titans
New York City, like much of the soccer world, is primarily a two-brand town. Of the 106 players surveyed, 86 of them were wearing either Adidas or Nike. At 55 percent, Adidas has the largest market share, compared with 38 percent for Nike.

The two companies have so much influence over the retail channels that it’s tough for other brands to gain shelf space. I was chatting with a player who had on a pair of well-worn Pelé turf shoes that he loved, but that are now impossible to find. “I went back where I got this pair and the guy said that the big brands told him, ‘you sell the Pelés, you can’t sell us’.” Another baller, an expat from Britain, lamented the fact that he can’t get his hands on any Umbros, a favorite boot back home.

Of course, you can find other brands in New York, including Puma, Joma, and Diadora. But Adidas and Nike dominate the field. So which is the favorite?

And the winner is…
The two behemoths each had about half a dozen separate models come up in my survey. Out of that base, one clear winner emerged: the Adidas Mundial Team Turf, which 27 survey respondents were sporting. (Full disclosure: I’m a Mundial man myself and have been for as long as I can remember).

Most of the players I spoke to conceded that it’s not the flashiest shoe, but they described it as a solid, dependable boot with a comfortable, supportive fit. They had similar things to say about the Adidas Copa Mundial Cleat, another classic, and the number two vote getter in our survey. New York City is mainly a turf town, but players wearing Copas felt that the low molded studs offer solid traction on most synthetic surfaces, in addition to natural grass. And, of course, everyone gushed about the soft kangaroo leather, which sets this shoe apart from most of the pack.

Capturing the youth vote
While Adidas was tops in the survey, its demographic clearly skewed older. In fact, 80 percent of Mundial or Copa wearers were in the 35-and-up age bracket, and nearly every fiftysomething baller pledged allegiance to the old-school Adidas; many of the old boys lauded the shoe’s the firm construction, which provides much-needed stability for weak ankles, tight Achilles, and other ailments that arise from decades of play.

Not that no younger players were wearing Adidas, but the race with Nike got a lot tighter in the under-35 bracket. Case in point: roughly 60 percent of Nike Tiempo ballers were under 35; similar majorities emerged for the brand’s Mercurial, Magista, and Hypervenom lines. (Note: here’s where the self-selected sample size is statistically problematic. I’m 45. If a 25-year-old had conducted the survey, he or she would have probably engaged a younger sample base, which would have led to different results—more Mercurials, perhaps, and fewer Mundials).

Nike fans generally liked their shoe’s lightweight design and quick break-in. They tended to be a more discerning lot as well. For example, more than one wearer of Nike Tiempo cleats was adamant that it’s the best shoe for synthetic turf, bar none.

Price might be a factor as well, since you can find a lot of Nike boots in the $50 to $75 range, versus the $150 you’ll spend on a new pair of Copas. Then there’s aesthetics. Several veteran ballers I spoke to believe firmly that black is the only color for a soccer shoe, and the traditional palette is hard to come by in many of the newer Nike lines.

Adidas has made steps to brighten up its brand. I saw quite a few colorful Adidas boots out there from the Nemeziz Messi Line. And a new boot that’s generating a lot of buzz is the Adidas Copa Turf, available in brighter palettes.

Examining the outliers
It’s always fun seeing the single-vote getters in a survey. I already mentioned the one pair of Pelés I spotted. Most of the other outliers were imports from expat players. There was the white-hot Pantofolas sported by an Italian baller during league play at Manhattan’s Nike Field. Another head turner: the neon orange-accented Kipstas worn by a twentysomething Frenchman at a pickup match at Brooklyn’s Bushwick Inlet Park. “Where did you find those?” I asked. “Paris,” he answered. “You can’t get them here.”

Readers of this blog will know that a couple years back, I found myself thirty pounds overweight and, as a result, woefully unable to keep up with younger, fitter players on the pitch. Deciding enough was enough, I embarked on a soccer-based fitness program, which included intensive training with a professional coach, Stephen Hoogerwerf, who I knew from pickup play in Brooklyn.

At first, it was just the two of us, but other ballers soon joined in, often half a dozen or more. Coach Hoog, who is the Director of Coaching at Chelsea Piers Soccer Club and Head Soccer Coach at the Collegiate School in Manhattan, took us through a series of drills and small-sided games focused on agility, endurance, speed, technique, and fitness.

I thought our group sessions were unique, but it turns out that adult soccer class is a big and growing trend, in New York City and around the country. It’s part of the larger movement around group training, which was second only to high-intensity interval training on the American College of Sports Medicine’s list of top fitness trends for 2018.

“It’s the idea of game-ified fitness,” says Jonathan Borrajo, a member of the New York Cosmos and co-founder and NYC Director of SoccerShape, which started offering adult soccer classes at the Upper 90 facility in Astoria, Queens in the spring of 2018. “Grown-ups enjoy laughing and having a good time during their workouts as much as kids.”

Spin classes and running clubs are common examples of group training, which is designed to create a sense of community and comradery that keeps members engaged and motivated. But soccer is getting in on the act.

Here are a few options to choose from:

SoccerShape
Started in Miami in 2017 by Borrajo and two of his then teammates at Miami FC, the SoccerShape program is based on dynamic movements, speed improvement, cardio progression, and, of course, soccer skills. All coaches play at the professional level, which makes for a pretty cool and unique experience. “SoccerShape is for adult players who may not be where they’d like to be in terms of fitness, or for those trying to get better technically for their league games,” says Borrajo. “We offer programs where they can work on both aspects—soccer and fitness—in a fun, supportive environment.” Following Borrajo’s move to the New York Cosmos in early 2018, SoccerShape started holding Sunday morning classes in Astoria; $20 for the hour-long workout. Classes are now held at the Upper 90 store in Brooklyn on Atlantic Avenue.

Futbol Rebels
In partnership with NY COED Soccer, Futbol Rebels offers adult soccer classes at Manhattan’s Grand Street Mini Field, over by the Williamsburg Bridge. The program is soccer-centric, with sessions built around speed, agility, and quickness, plus a different skill each week, like dribbling, passing, and finishing. There’s one group for beginners and another for more advanced players. Pay $250 for 10 weeks or $30 drop-in.

SoccerBeyond
German-born Frank Hauser started SoccerBeyond to build community around the game of soccer. Lessons are competitively priced at $15 per session. Most are held at Pier 25 in Manhattan. In addition to drills and skills, each session includes an actual game of soccer. And there’s an opportunity to join one of the Beyond F.C. teams that play at all levels in and around NYC.

If you’re keen on getting in shape, upping your game, and making new friends along the way, check out one of these adult soccer classes. Speaking from experience, I promise it will deliver on all counts.

Looking for a fast-paced start to your weekend? Link up with NYC Sala FC, a new futsal club that started up at Hunter’s Point Community Park in Long Island City, Queens. The hour-long games, which kick off most Saturdays at 8am, are a feisty, competitive, high-intensity workout that will sharpen your ball skills while honing your soccer IQ.

For those not familiar, futsal is a variation of soccer that’s played the world over on small, hard-surfaced courts, usually in five-a-side competition. The ball is smaller, harder, and less bouncy than a standard soccer ball.

NYC Sala FC was co-founded by Eduardo Han, an Argentine-born baller who’s been a fixture of the New York soccer scene since coming to the city in 2011. We caught up with Eddie after a recent morning match to find out more about the club.

Why did you decide to start a futsal club?
EH: Soccer is getting bigger in the U.S., but for American players to compete with the best in the world, they’re going to have to develop a more creative style of play. All the best players, from Pelé on down to Messi, Neymar, and Ronaldo, they all have amazing footwork, which is something that’s inherently developed in futsal. In a sense, I think futsal is to the world what street basketball is to the U.S.

Do you see futsal getting bigger here?
EH: Absolutely, there’s not a lot of it in New York City, or around the country. But within the next five to ten years, as more money is poured into soccer, we’re going to see futsal flourish. As a soccer fan who played all his life, I want to do my part to help take U.S. soccer to the next level even if it’s at a small scale.

How does futsal make for better soccer players?
EH: Futsal is very fast game. It requires quick feet, tight dribbling, precision passing, and quick, sharp shooting. Those skills are the building blocks of soccer, so if you can be good at futsal you’ll probably have success on the big field as well. From a tactical standpoint, because it’s a small-sided game, you always need to think quickly and know your next few moves. Futsal tends to develop very smart and creative players.

Is it a good workout?
EH: It’s a great workout. You’re basically sprinting the whole time. You need to counterattack as quickly as you can. And because it’s a small space, there’s never a chance to catch your breath. 

Who can play in NYC Sala FC?
EH: It’s open to everyone. Whenever I travel, I always bring my shoes, because I know I’ll find a game. I’ve played in Germany and throughout Europe and South America. That’s the culture we’re looking to create with NYC Sala. Men, women, kids, 60 year olds, it doesn’t matter. As long as you come in with a good attitude, and you’re willing to hustle, you can play with us.

To get in on the next NYC Sala FC match, visit the club on MeetUp or Facebook. And if you know of other futsal games in the city, drop us a note in the comments box below. 

Writing and playing have always been passions of mine, so the language of soccer is naturally an interest as well—all the various words and phrases players use to communicate on and off the pitch. Some are universal, like “man on” and “play simple,” while others are more esoteric.   

I think back to freshman year in high school, summer double sessions, when an upper classman barked at me to “six it!” during scrimmage play. I took a touch of the ball and incurred his fast wrath, only to later learn that “six it” was code for “dummy,” or let the ball pass through your legs to the trailing player (from the six position on an analog clock face). 

Watching Belgium’s game-winning goal unfold in its World Cup match against Japan (picture above), I wondered if Nacer Chadli said something like that to his teammate Romelu Lukaku, inducing what one commentator called “the greatest dummy in World Cup history.”

We’ll probably never know. Like I said, much of the best soccer lingo is only understood by those in the know. Here are a bunch I’ve been hearing lately. Got others? Ping me in the comment box below, or reach out on Facebook or Instagam.        

“Different level” This one comes from the Sunday pickup game I play with out in Jersey. When a baller there makes a particularly sublime play, a teammate will recognize it with “different level.” It’s often awarded for deft tactical maneuvers, say a needle-threading pass that splits the defense or a no-look heel flick reminiscent of Mbappé in the WC finals.                   

“House” A variation on “man on,” used to warn teammates that a defender is closing in fast. I first heard the term from one my Jersey mates, who says it’s short for “in your house.” Checking Google, it seems to be common among Irish ballers, so the Emerald Isle might be its original source.

“Bangu” Another tactical command, used to tell a player who is dribbling towards the opposition’s baseline to play the ball back at an angle into the penalty box.

I also like to say “six” in this situation, referring to the six-yard line. That’s not to be confused with “six it,” described above. Though I recall one memorable goal from high school, where the two terms collided. I was making the attacking diagonal run into the box and called “six” to my teammate on the baseline. As his centering pass came in, I heard “Danny, six it!” from our trailing midfielder. I obliged with a dummy, freezing their keeper in his tracks as my teammate tapped the ball into the open net.           

“Olé” Popular with Spanish-speaking players, from its associations with bullfighting, where crowds cheer the matador on with chants of “olé.” On the pitch, it usually accompanies a special play, say a dazzling strike or stellar defensive take down, but I’ve also heard it after serious mishits, like the shot that sails twenty feet over the cross bar.

“The only thing worse than your first touch is your second” There are no shortage of insults exchanged between players, often in good fun. Here’s one that might be directed at a player who’s having a particularly rough go of it. It reminds me of one my high school coach used on me once: “DiClerico, you couldn’t score in a whore house with a stack of fifties.” Ah, the 90s…     

“Magic Ball” This one comes out a lot during games with Fort Greene Football Club, especially among West Indian ballers, though it’s been adopted by everybody out there. It’s like “different level” and "olé," recognizing exceptional skill or creativity.

“Modelo” Here’s another favorite from the Jersey game, issued when a player is the ignominious victim of a nutmeg. According to tradition, his first drink during the post-match libations will have to be one of the Mexican cervezas, an inferior brew with this bock and lager loving crew.       

“Second Ball” A battle cry for a player who just fought for a fifty-fifty ball that wasn’t won decisively by either side. Beyond that specific usage, I hear it applied more broadly to motivate players and/or teams to turn up the intensity.

There are, of course, other motivational phrases out there, including ones with far more colorful language. “BMF” comes to mind. Its translation isn’t fit for print, but if you ever hear it out on the pitch, with a defender bearing down on you hard, brace yourself. You’re about to get banged. 

It’s been one year since I kicked off the Second Half, the soccer-based health and wellness program I created to help unleash my best self. Much like the game itself, the experience has had ups and downs, including moments of glory and times when nothing seemed to go my way.   

I don't have any plans of letting up, but to mark the one-year anniversary, I wanted to take stock of the biggest lessons from the past year, starting with the one that’s become a mantra for the project: the game is decided in the second half. Whatever misfires or errant runs I made in the past, they’re behind me now. The second half is what counts. I’ve found this idea very liberating, and empowering too. As one of my yoga instructors put it during a recent class, quoting an ancient Chinese proverb, “By letting go, it all gets done.” Namaste to that. 

Here are the other big takeaways from the Second Half so far: 

Community is key. I’ve met more people in the last year than in the entire decade prior. I started to count them up but gave up after a few hundred. The actual number might be in the thousands. Many are passing acquaintances, like the gang at the neighborhood gym I joined or fellow attendees from the coach’s convention I caught back in January. But a lot of meaningful friendships (and mentorships) have formed as well, no easy feat in middle age, at least for me.

I’ve also reconnected with a bunch of people from my past, which has given the last year a kind of gravitational pull for my life as a whole. Most of all, though, the regular interactions with passionate, positive, like-minded people has made me a happier person, and that mental health is worth its weight in grain bowls.

MOUNTAIN OF YOUTH Back in June, I headed to Round Top, New York, deep in the Catskills, to take part in an over-40 tournament with the Jersey crew I play pickup with on Sunday mornings. Our team, Shilelagh FC, crashed out in the quarterfinals to a superior side from Poland, but it was still a highlight of the year. Most of the guys have been doing this tourney for more than a decade, and a couple of them even used to watch their fathers play in it back in the 1970s. As evident in this year's team photo, the next generation is waiting in the wings.  

Role modeling is great motivation. Even without the rigors of the Second Half, this has been one of the most challenging year of my life, as both of my kids were diagnosed with Type 1 Diabetes—Alexander in August and Emmy in February. Nutrition and exercise are crucial to the treatment of this chronic disease, so the fact that I’ve been able to model positive behavior has made a tough situation more manageable.

Not that I’ve lived a perfect program, but even the lapses into old bad habits have been a chance for me to model resilience. And in a sort of virtuous cycle, I’ve been inspired by my kids’ toughness and resolve, whether it’s Emmy going out for the travel soccer team or Alexander forging his own high-jinks passion for the game, on the playground at school or through this summer's World Cup action. 

ROUND TWO Though Emmy had lost some weight in recent months, her T1D diagnosis in February came as a shock to everyone. We knew the diabetes drill from Alex, so we were only in the hospital for one night. I was reading The Away Game, a riveting new soccer book about the search throughout Africa for the game's next superstar. Inspiring stuff, with plenty of heartache for the millions of kids who fall short of their dream, all of which helped keep things in perspective.   

Variation gives balance. Soccer is the nucleus of the Second Half, but as the year unfolded, I brought more activities into the mix. There’s the weekly “broga” class I joined and the Crossfit membership I signed up for. I also experimented with different healing treatments, including acupuncture, massage therapy, and restorative yoga. 

The variation has meant a more holistic workout for my body and it’s also given me mental equilibrium (there is such a thing as too much footie!). With the soccer too, I’ve tried to expand my world, joining more organized leagues, for example, which has exposed me to a higher level of play and forced me to push myself as a player, both technically and tactically. 

SWEAT SHOP The CrossFit gym that opened a couple blocks from my house has become a core part of my fitness regimen. Its close proximity helps with one of the main challenges of staying in shape: finding time to work out. I usually hit the 6am class, which means I'm back home before the kids are up. Two months in, I'm already feeling stronger—though I'm still waiting for my first official muscle up!    

There’s freedom in vulnerability. The original idea for the Second Half came from the belief that I never reached my full potential as a younger player. How good could I be if I applied myself completely, even allowing for declining age? Fair question, but also one that left me exposed to some potentially harsh truths. Sure enough, though the intensive training and conditioning has made me a better baller, I’m finding that I'm still a pretty average Joe out there, especially in high-intensity league play filled with smarter, more skillful players. That could be a bitter pill to swallow, but the truth is it’s allowed me to ease up on myself and find pleasure in the game, not another source of self-criticism.

I still plan to work hard and find ways to get better as a player, but I’m not out to prove anything. I don't think I would have found that freedom if I didn’t put myself out there and embrace the vulnerability. "By letting go, it all gets done." There’s another part to that quote, which goes, “The world is won by those who let it go. But when you try and try. The world is beyond the winning.”

After a lifetime of trying and trying, I’m learning how to let go and just play the game. Heck, I might even end up winning. The Second Half is far from over, plus I'm hoping for extra time.  

FULL CIRCLE Earlier this summer, I got the chance to play the role of returning alumni at a high school training camp in my home town of Westfield, New Jersey. Thirty years earlier, I was a freshman on that same field, sitting where those kids sat, fighting for a spot on the team. I'm not fighting anymore, but I'm still out there, trying to find the game and grow as a player. Soccer gods willing, I always will be.   

It’s been many weeks since my last post. I wish I could say I’ve been too busy to write, hustling between training and tournaments and soulful yoga retreats. But the truth is I’ve lost my way a bit with the Second Half. After six months of hard work and clean living, resulting in some of the best soccer of my life, the last three months have been one long backslide into oblivion. To use the game-clock metaphor (albeit an American football one), I had a career first half, followed by a horrific third quarter.

Fortunately, there’s still time to turn things around in the fourth, before the whistle blows on this little year-long experiment.

The setback started with the holiday slide in December, followed by a string of nagging injuries in January that kept me from training hard. But the real dagger came on February 16th, the day my 10-year-old daughter was diagnosed with type 1 diabetes. If you’ve been following the blog, you’ll recall that my 5-year-old son received the same diagnosis back in August, about six weeks into the Second Half. That was tough, no doubt, but I remember feeling inspired to stay the course of healthy living, knowing it would give me much-needed strength to deal and cope.

When we got the news about Emmy, the only thing I felt was a huge case of the fuck-its. 

That’s more or less been my mindset for the last two months. I think (hope) I’ve been there for the kids, as we continue to adjust to life with double T1Ds. But any claim to living my best personal life—physically, mentally, or spiritually—would be a bunch of crap. This is evident in many ways, from the steady weight gain to the marital strife to the social withdrawal. But the clearest indication is my abysmal performance on the field. I have no touch out there, no engine, and no confidence. I honestly can’t remember the last time I found the back of the net. 

It took me four months to drop 30 pounds and reach my target training weight of 175 lbs. I started to put the pounds back on over the holidays, with the biggest gain happening in the last two months. The goal now is to get back down to 175 pounds by July 14th, then hold it there.   

It doesn’t help that my slide has coincided with the chance to join a few different league teams, as opposed to the usual pickup. The faster pace has shined a 1000-watt light on my lack of endurance. Sure, there’s a tactical element as well: I haven’t played organized soccer in many years, so my positional awareness and feel for the game aren’t particularly sharp. But six months ago, when my confidence was soaring, I think I would have been a quick study. Instead I’m a lost puppy dog.

Like I said, there’s still time to turn it around, 77 days, to be exact. That’s how long until the one-year mark of the start of the Second Half. The up-and-down journey has taught me many things about the way my mind and body work. It’s time to use that learning and self-knowledge to get back on track and finish at the top of my game—not the best player on the field, but the best player I can be. 

What happens then? I’ll have to sort that one out in stoppage time.