In my fridge, I have a bottle of what is labeled “Irish mustard.” How it got into my refrigerator is not important; suffice it to say that this came from a neighboring state, with a sterling recommendation from some residents of said neighboring state.

I won’t bring up the name of the company that sells this mustard because there’s no reason to drag them into the discussion, but there is a story on the side of the bottle. According to this legend, the recipe originates with a local with an Irish surname, who made homemade mustard that was locally famous.

You can find a lot of foods, especially condiments, with similar stories on the side of the bottle; they are the ones that are on the top shelf at the grocery store and generally cost at least 50% more than the most widely sold version of the same condiment. The stories are plausible without sounding true, like a campfire story.

This “Irish mustard” is fine, tasty even, but it doesn’t really taste like mustard. It certainly doesn’t taste like American mustard, the kind that comes in a big yellow bottle and tastes like a little like mustard and a little like turmeric. It also doesn’t taste like brown mustard or Dijon mustard or whole-grain mustard or any other familiar mustards.

What it does taste like is sugar. In this, I suppose it’s most comparable to honey mustard, though even honey mustard is probably more tangy than this “Irish” mustard. It tastes like if Sweet Baby Ray made a mustard barbecue sauce, and also didn’t care whether one tablespoon had more sugar than an entire can of Mountain Dew.

The thing that really has made me ponder about this mustard is this: why “Irish”? Though I am not a mustard expert, the Irish mustard in my fridge doesn’t seem to have anything to do with the Emerald Isle. If anything, the Internet says that Irish mustard is whole-grain mustard that’s whiskey- or Guinness-infused; this mustard is neither of those things.

Technically speaking, almost any regionalism could have gone on the bottle, as long as you came up with a plausible surname to plug into the story. And given that mustard is pretty close to a worldwide condiment, one of those spices that connect the cuisine of Europe and Asia and the Americas and Africa, almost anything is technically in play.

However, knowing that this one is being sold in the north-central United States, it’s interesting to consider the regionalisms that wouldn’t work. “French” suggests either Dijon mustard or French’s yellow mustard and so must be eliminated. “German” is too associated with the type of whole-grain brown mustard that you get if you order a bratwurst at a German restaurant. “Canadian” is out because this mustard doesn’t taste like maple syrup.

When you consider the whole range of worldwide cuisines that use the mustard seed, the surprising part is probably just how few regionalisms could even be considered for a Midwestern mustard like this one. It almost certainly would have to be “from” a Northern or Eastern European country. It probably couldn’t be Scandinavian, because Midwesterners would assume it was a thinly-disguised cream sauce. It probably couldn’t be British, because we’d assume that it was something else entirely, given the Anglo-American differences between (for example) pudding.

And so, I give you the following ranking of potential regionalisms for theoretical Midwestern mustards, based on how delicious I think they would theoretically be.

1. Polish mustard
2. Hungarian mustard
3. Ukrainian mustard
4. Irish mustard
5. Czech mustard
6. Belgian mustard
7. Bulgarian mustard
8. Dutch mustard
9. Slovakian mustard
10. Romanian mustard
11. Swiss mustard (ranking dropped significantly thanks to existence of Swiss chard)
12. Icelandic mustard
13. Austrian mustard
14. (tie) (any other former Soviet republic) mustard

Mid-season form

The European soccer season ended on Sunday with the finals of the European Championships, and began again yesterday with the beginning of preseason friendlies.

Arsenal played at Hibernian, and it was like the offseason never happened. Actually, because all of the players Arsenal loaned out were back in the fold, it almost felt like most of last season had never happened. There’s Ainsley-Maintland Niles. There’s Sead Kolasinac. There’s Willian, whanging passes that land twenty yards from anyone. I was expecting Mesüt Özil to stroll onto the field, arm-in-arm with Gunnersaurus, just to complete the whole group.

Proving that time is a flat circle, Arsenal gave up a comedy goal that came after a brain-dead back-pass and a goalkeeper air-kick, missed a penalty, and lost 2-1. It was all very familiar! I am very aware that pre-season friendlies mean absolutely nothing, that any reaction other than “huh” is silly given that pre-season training started about three days ago, but still.

The most amazing thing to me, though, was how I watched the game. For UK viewers, possibly across Europe, I read on one site or another that Arsenal members could email the club for free access to watch the game on the club’s website, but otherwise, those fans would have to purchase an outrageously-priced pass.

That’s not what I did! I clicked on ESPN, where the game was being broadcast both in English (on ESPN3, online) and Spanish (on ESPN Deportes, on actual TV).

Every so often, I remember to be amazed at the amount of soccer that I can watch, in America. It’s true that I subscribe to a near-embarrassing number of services and packages, including both old-fashioned cable and online, but even with basic cable, or only ESPN+, or only Paramount+, or only one of several other packages, it’d be a never-ending smorgasbord.

For the longest time, I was as caught up as anyone in the evangelistic nature of American soccer fandom, and I’ll admit to you it was purely selfish. I just wanted soccer to be popular enough that the games, especially the big games, were on TV so I could watch them (without paying $20 for pay-per-view, as I remember doing for big Premier League games back when I did not have $20 to be throwing around on such things). Now I can watch Arsenal play Hibs in a meaningless friendly in two different languages.

Fortress Wembley

“We run a stadium, not a fortress.” – Football Association chief executive Mark Bullingham, quoted in The Athletic, upon being asked why Wembley Stadium didn’t have more security for the Euro 2020 final

Sunday, thousands of fans managed to force their way into Wembley Stadium to watch England play Italy in the Euro 2020 final. It was a throwback to the bad old days, in the sense that these stories were commonplace at one time in English soccer; there’s a chapter in Nick Hornby’s “Fever Pitch” about going to Wembley, finding that people had broken into the stadium and stolen his seats, and being able to do absolutely nothing about it.

In another sense, of course, it wasn’t a throwback at all. The video footage of people rushing at barriers until they broke, of crowds stampeding where they weren’t supposed to be, of random acts of violence utterly not in keeping with the location and the occasion, is obviously fairly familiar to anyone who has watched American news at any point over the last year or so.

The same day as the Wembley incidents, the U.S. men’s national team played its own home game in a continental championship, taking on Haiti in Kansas City in the Gold Cup. The stands were maybe half full, because tickets were ridiculously expensive, as they always are for the national teams. The real shock was that anyone at all paid that kind of money to watch the USA’s B-squad struggle against Haiti in a game that most people will have forgotten by this time next week.

And so, I can’t quite come up with a good American soccer comparison, or even an American sports comparison, for England playing in its first major-tournament final in 55 years, at home. Maybe if the Dallas Cowboys played in the Super Bowl in their home stadium, except that it was also the last Super Bowl ever played, and also maybe they were playing a team of extra-terrestrials for control of Earth?

The experience of watching soccer in England has changed entirely from the old stories you read about, where fights and stampeding crowds and hooliganism were weekly occurrences. Every once in awhile, though, those stories break through, like a TV broadcast that bounced off a far-flung planet and was reflected back to Earth, fifty years later.

Messi isn’t coming to Miami

Every time Lionel Messi was rumored to want out of Barcelona, there would be rumors that what he really wanted was to play in Miami, where he could… be reunited with Gonzalo Higuain? Play for Phil Neville? Frankly I could not understand anything you put after “could” in that sentence, but it’s all moot now, as ESPN reports that Messi has signed a new five-year contract with Barcelona.

He also is said to have taken a “significant” pay cut, but given that his last deal paid him $149 million a year (according to that same article) (I can’t believe that’s not a typo), he may well be able to afford a few years of relative poverty. Especially since Barcelona are famously out of money and are currently trying to sell anything that’s not nailed down.

Inter Miami continues to be one of the most remarkable clubs in MLS history. Not for what they’ve done on the field, but even if they win the next six MLS Cups, it will never not be funny that in their first year, they secretly signed five designated players, got fined huge amounts for doing so once the very obvious fraud was discovered, and still finished in 19th place.

“Not a chance. These have been the best six weeks of my life.” - England backup center back Conor Coady, when asked if he regrets not playing a minute in the European Championships despite being part of the squad

The soccer season is a long, long season. Europe is consumed between the beginning of August and the end of May, give or take a few weeks at either end or in the middle. Terrible weather in the United States forces MLS takes the three worst months of winter off, and even that short break is one of the longest breaks of any league in the world.

This makes it easy to forget that there’s anything important besides club soccer. That there are three or four competitions all going at the same time contributes to the breathless quality; speculation abounds whether (say) Manchester City can conquer the Champions League, finally, and if they can defend their Premier League title, or win the League Cup again, or the FA Cup, or all four at once.

And because of this, the media and the fans spend all year assigning glory to teams and coaches and players based on what they accomplish with their clubs. Pep Guardiola and Jürgen Klopp have reached near-sainthood; Ole Gunnar Solskjaer has redeemed himself from (insert redemption arc here if we can ever figure out what he did wrong except be reasonably successful); Jose Mourinho has been cast into the pit of fire, or at least sent to Rome.

Then the summer tournaments roll around. Then the players form these temporary teams – yes, they play during the year too, but only for weeks at the time, as minor interruptions to the clearly more important things like the Champions League group stage or the FA Cup sixth round – and after a couple of weeks of training and a few games, it becomes obvious.

These big international tournaments, these temporary brotherhoods and sisterhoods, these times where entire nations come together: they mean way, way more to everyone than club trophies.

England’s trip to second place at the Euros has been notable on the pitch, sure. Wise Norwegian sage Lars Sivertsen probably put it best:

In my lifetime England have been this weird team with great players whose legs and minds suddenly turn to mush when they play tournaments.

This summer the players looked like themselves, were one of the best teams in the tournament, got to the final.

This is huge progress.

— Lars Sivertsen (@larssivertsen) July 11, 2021

What’s happening on the pitch isn’t the most notable thing about England, though. Off the pitch, it seems like the team has all fallen in love with each other, and in turn, the country has fallen in love with the team. Every player has publicly spoken about the brotherhood of this team, the deep bonds of the shared experience, and this from the country that absolutely pioneered the “national team broken apart by club rivalries and also possibly conflicts between significant others” model.

It’s not to say that this is guaranteed, of course; France is still stuck in the throes of a reckoning about what one player’s mom said to, and about, another player’s dad. And don’t dismiss this just because they are, you know, French; after winning the 2018 World Cup, everything I said about England could probably have been said about France. Winning breeds brotherhood, it’s true.

Of course, if there’s anyone who shouldn’t forget about the importance of the national team, of the profound and unshakeable bond among a national team and in turn between fans and the team itself, it’s people in the United States. We’re currently in the midst of another epoch of dominance by the U.S. Women’s National Team, and all of the greatness that England has just re-discovered is stuff that we’ve seen for going on five, or ten, or 35 years now.

I could spend four thousand words just buried in statistical minutiae, trying to paint a complete picture of how great the USWNT has been, but in the context of England I’ll go with this one: the England men’s team went 55 years without reaching the final of a major tournament. Since FIFA finally deigned to play a Women’s World Cup in 1991, and the Olympics started playing a women’s soccer tournament in 1996, the longest the USWNT has ever gone without reaching a major-tournament final is five years.

This is also their longest drought without winning a World Cup or a gold medal, in case you were wondering.

The point, though, is that every time the USWNT wins one of these tournaments, the quotes from the players don’t focus on how much talent is on the team or how great the NWSL is for players or how the culture of the national team breeds success. It’s on how close the team is – “23 best friends,” as one of the 2019 World Cup winners said.

This brotherhood and sisterhood is important because it paints a picture of how important and special these experiences are for the players. But while they’re important to the players, for the fans it’s absolutely the pinnacle of the fan experience.

As all-consuming as the Premier League and the Bundesliga and MLS and Serie A are, I rarely hear stories of how the club game sucked in new fans, except in the sense that those fans were indoctrinated by parents and grandparents and siblings and uncles and aunts. There’s a certain inevitability to the “my dad took me to watch [club] every week” story; it’s like telling someone that you’re six feet tall because your dad was six feet tall.

National teams, though, bring in people who were never fans before. Half the men’s soccer fans in the United States are fans because of the 1994, 2002, or 2010 World Cups – and given the instability in women’s club soccer, the percentage of women’s soccer fans with similar stories about the too many USWNT triumphs to list has to be far, far higher.

When these international tournaments roll around, it’s so easy to be blinded by the myopia of club soccer. The European Championships seem like too much to ask of players, after the longest club season ever. That the NWSL and MLS take a break around summer tournaments seems broadly unfair, even more so when you consider the teams who lose players for national-team duty.

And then the tournament takes over, and we remember. For the players, this experience can be the pinnacle of their careers. For the fans – new fans and old fans – these tournaments are the time of their life. For everyone, this experience is far more meaningful than anything club soccer will ever have.

Tonight, Argentina meets Brazil in the Copa América final. Tomorrow, England meets Italy in the Euro 2020 final.

These are similar games, in that they’re the continental championships of soccer’s two biggest continents. Brazil and England are both playing home games, somewhat unexpectedly — Brazil because it’s only hosting the tournament after Colombia and Argentina couldn’t, England because Euro 2020 is a strange pan-European beast, but they had to put the final somewhere. (And also it’s a surprise because England’s in it.) Which brings up the other similarity, which is that both have a strong “can they stop the streak” flavor; Argentina hasn’t won anything since the 1993 Copa, England hasn’t won anything or even played for anything since the 1966 World Cup.

Even so, though, these games are going to feel remarkably and wildly different. Brazil-Argentina at the Maracanã, England-Italy at Wembley, it’s hard to come up with fixtures that are much bigger than that. But Wembley will have 65,000 fans, 64,000 of which will be living and dying with every English action. The Maracanã will be at… 10% capacity, it sounds like? Seven or eight thousand fans?

Fullish stadiums have been slowly coming back for awhile now. Most American states have ended restrictions on large gatherings, and so MLS games are back to full capacity (or in the case of Dallas, their usual 40% or so — zing, tip your waitresses, try the veal, etc). The CONCACAF Nations League final between the USA and Mexico put 37,000 fans in Denver’s NFL stadium, about half capacity, enough that there were roars on both sides like the usual Stateside cross-border game.

The one I’ll really remember, though, was the first match at Puskás Aréna in Budapest, for the game between Hungary and Portugal in the group stage at the Euros. They mostly packed it, with more than 54,000 baying Hungarian supporters in the stands, and after a year of empty stadiums, even the televised experience was overwhelming.

The noise! The roars shook the camera and rolled through the stadium like water in a bathtub. Every time the referee called something against Hungary, the dismay from the crowd was palpable, almost physical. A year and a half ago, this would have been normal; after all this empty-stadium time, it was almost overwhelming, even on TV. I expected the stadium announcer to plead with the fans: PLEASE, FOLKS, THE REFEREE IS JUST DOING HIS JOB. CAN WE HAVE QUIET? QUIET, PLEASE, FOR THE SOCCER.

It was like seeing the sun after a day trapped in a basement, or putting a bucket over your head and screaming after being shushed in a library. I forgot about that! I forgot about that physical sensation of crowd noise, that earthquake of people that shakes the camera and affects the game.

And that, of course, was one of the reasons that sports are great. They call soccer “the beautiful game,” but the truth is that in every single sport, you can find someone writing about it in idyllic terms — about the crack of the bat in baseball or the sound of skates on ice in hockey or the powerful WHOOMP of a car going by in auto racing.

It’s reductionism, an attempt to find meaning in the game itself, and it’s valid as far as the in-person experience goes, or the experience of playing a sport goes. Hitting a perfect shot in golf is to feel like the universe is at your command. Seeing someone hit a top-corner volley in soccer is to feel the life of the universe flow through you.

As it turns out, though, that experience is interesting on television, but in the same way that the Weather Channel is interesting. If you stick around for an hour, you’ll find yourself murmuring about low pressure and cold fronts, but sticking around for an hour is a challenge; either you’ve got a passion for meteorology for its own sake, or you’re life-threateningly bored, or a combination of both.

Without the crowds in the stands, soccer — and all sports —turned out to be no different. I watched a lot of sports without crowds over the last year and a half, and I enjoyed them, but not nearly in the same way. Unless I had a personal rooting interest or a genuine curiosity, like I wonder how Kimmich and Goretzka are going to fare in the same midfield against PSG — you know, something utterly crucial and important like that — it was hard to get involved, even for a genuine nutcase like me. I spent a lot of the year turning on a game and failing to get interested in it because I couldn’t remember which team was which. Without crowds, it’s just red-shirted people against white-shirted people, kicking a ball.

And so I find myself trying to find specific things to get interested in with Brazil and Argentina tonight. There are lots! Starting with Messi! Lionel Messi has lost final after final with Argentina, un león con varios gatos, and he’s running out of chances. He’s driven the Argentinian bus, foot on the gas, through the whole tournament, but he usually does that; can he finally drag his team through Brazil, which has been a juggernaut lately? More to the point, how will he play — facilitator or protagonist, scorer or assister, calm or desperate, joyful or angry? They could put the camera solely on him and it’d be its own opera.

But England-Italy, now that is going to be some Sports right there. Brazil-Argentina is a film, but England-Italy is going to be a movie, the Movie-Going Experience Of The Summer, See It In Surround Sound and Gorgeous 3D. Sinews will be strained. Italian names will be shouted. (Try it yourself, it’s genuinely joyful: Locatelli! Insigne! Immobile! Chiellini! Donnarumma!)

Everyone wants fans back in the stands. Fans want to be there, teams want them to support the team and spend some money, TV broadcasters need the roars — and as much as anything, we all want the pandemic to leave us alone, and large group gatherings have become as much of a sign of that as anything, as the first thing banned and the last thing to return.

The Bundesliga was the first league to come back, in 2020, and the first week it came back, the Borussia Monchengladbach ultras put a sign in the stands that said FOOTBALL WITHOUT FANS IS NOTHING.

After this last year and a half, I understand how right they were. And if you watch tonight’s game and tomorrow’s game, I expect it’ll make sense to you too.

Man, Euro 2020 (*2021) was sure fun to watch. And Copa América was too! And we here in the United States now get to watch our own continental championship: the Gold Cup, which is a poor imitation.

For the Star Tribune, I wrote about what the United States can do about this. The answer probably isn’t a change of circumstances, but a change of attitude

For all the talk about tactics, international soccer will never be a playground for the same smoothly-purring machines that we see in club soccer. The teams are one step beyond all-star teams, but the games are so meaningful that we love them anyway.

At the Star Tribune, I wrote about why the teams aren’t as good, how the U.S. Women’s National Team is an exception to this rule - and why we love international soccer all the same.

The European Super League would have concentrated all the money and all the power in the hands of a few elite superclubs in Europe. Now that it’s dead, possibly forever, we’re left with a system where… all of the money and all of the power are concentrated in the hands of a few elite superclubs.

For the Star Tribune, I wrote about how the European Soccer League is dead, but the current system isn’t really that much different.

I don’t like that MLS plays games during international tournaments like the World Cup and Copa América and the Gold Cup, but its spring-to-fall schedule virtually requires it. The league needs a summer break for tournaments, and a winter break for weather - so I’m thinking it’s time to go to a two-seasons-per-year schedule, like Mexico.

Christian Pulisic is off to Chelsea, and Soccer Insider - back for 2019! - couldn’t be more excited.

On the way to Sunday’s Twins game with my brother, I mentioned something offhand, that I’m sure a lot of people were thinking on their way to Target Field: If this was going to be Joe Mauer’s last game, I was glad we were going to be there for it.

I have made as many Mauer jokes as anyone, all of them centered on his ability to be private in public: Joe is bland. Joe is boring. Joe is too decent and polite to be interesting. Back when the Twins used a scoreboard to show lightweight biographical facts about players, I remember Mauer’s biggest fear displayed as “disappointing his parents.” It all seemed too normal.

That was Mauer’s persona: normal. It never seemed forced or calculated or cunning, like it does with some athletes, especially the greats that want to come across as Everyman for marketing purposes - just guarded. Mauer, who was inarguably great, just seemed normal. His defining characteristic was his lack of defining characteristics. He seemed exactly like the ten thousand other Minnesotans I’ve met, even though he’s been locally famous since he was a teenager. All my jokes were, really, a wish for intimacy, a desire to know Mauer’s genuine, authentic self: please, Joe, we want to know who you really are. Tell us what you’re really like.

I knew how good he was, the numbers spoke for themselves. It wasn’t until he signed his contract extension, and started becoming the subject of endless ill-considered and mean-spirited criticism, that I started really pulling for him. I felt protective of him, I guess, because it seemed so unfair that some people treated him so poorly – a sense of injustice that only multiplied when a concussion cut his catching career short.

As Sunday’s game wore on, I wasn’t surprised to find myself rooting hard for him to do something good on his last day, since it suddenly seemed so obvious that he would retire after the game. Unexpectedly, the Twins pulled out the stops to honor him; his twin girls were on the field pre-game, the scoreboard showed a few old favorite advertisements he’d done, and every time he came to the plate, he was greeted with a standing ovation.

He hit a couple of ground balls – more fodder for the critics, I squirmed internally – and when he came to the plate in the seventh inning, it was obvious that this could be his last time up. What if he struck out? One final at-bat, and it felt like it was a referendum on his entire career, and after all that had happened to him, the worst thing would be if the critics won, in the end.

When he lined the ball to left field, I was afraid it’d be caught. When it landed, and he rounded first base at speed, I was terrified he’d be thrown out. When he slid safely into second, I was overwhelmed by relief – he did it! – and then not properly on guard for the outpouring of emotion. The crowd was ecstatic. Mauer gestured to the dugout and the fans and touched his heart. Of course it was a double to the left-center gap. Could it be anything else? I had tears in my eyes.

I thought that was the end. I thought that the Twins would let him take the field in the ninth inning, then put in a defensive replacement, to give the fans one more chance to express their gratitude and appreciation. When the fans nearest the Twins dugout started roaring, before the ninth inning began, with the field completely empty, I knew I was wrong.

Players always want a chance to go out on top, and fans want that too, but in some ways Mauer’s goodbye was better. Alone on the field, with his catching gear on, behind the plate where he had always wanted to be. He fought back the tears, and won, sort of. The camera found plenty of fans who lost that battle.

Maybe Mauer’s most impressive accomplishment, in the end, was getting a bunch of stoic Minnesotans to cry in public.

It was cathartic, it was heartwarming. He was happy, and knew we loved him; we were happy, and knew he loved us.

It occurred to me then that I’d been wanting Joe Mauer to show us who he really was for two decades, beyond the politeness and the respect and the niceness and the normality. I’m the same age as Mauer, give or take a year. My friends and I played every sport we could and went to Minnesota high schools and married Minnesota girls, and now we have kids and are dealing with oft-failing, creaking bodies and graying hair. Joe isn’t one of my friends, but he always seemed like he could have been, and like the rest of my friends it’s not so important who they claim to be as who they genuinely, authentically are.

What I had failed to realize until Sunday is that maybe the politeness and the respect and the niceness and the normality was Mauer’s way of showing us who he genuinely, authentically was, all along.