Letter Eleven | 11/30 | Miles

| another guest today. welcome, Miles—we’re glad to have your elevated eye |

Dear Ryan and Russ,

Thank you for letting me contribute. Following the beautiful letters of others, I’m worried about my fragmentary thoughts, written on my notes app over several days. Call it thinking out loud, or stream of consciousness. Perhaps another day I’ll write something unified, total. Today, however, is not that day.

         Monday, 10:30 AM Eastern Time:

30 hours before the game begins, it’s already a shitshow. The U.S. soccer federation’s attempt to show solidarity was well-meaning, superficial, useless, and guaranteed to provoke. Iran was equally adolescent; the questions directed at Tyler Adams and Greg Berhalter were clearly directed from above, if not dictated outright. The Atlantic is running headlines about how the geopolitical situation adds even more tension to the game. It doesn’t, but their wishcasting is telling.

         Tuesday, the non-time of the plane:

The game is starting. I am on a plane, and because I refuse to watch anything involving Alexei Lalas—including a pre-game show—I have no clue what the lineups are. I get my bearings quickly, as does the US. Pulisic immediately goes on a run; though his nutmeg to beat the last line fails, it’s a good sign. 

I have finally figured out the lineup. It seems fine. Despite his tactical brilliance against England, I remain unconvinced by Berhalter.

Weah’s header! Uncomfortable with his surroundings, anxious about the defenders behind him, he strives upwards, towards the heavens, towards abstraction, when it would’ve made so much more sense to stay grounded, within the realm of the concrete. Perhaps I am projecting here. 

Speaking of altitude, watching “live” television on the back of an airplane headrest is odd. The game freezes and jumps back several times, leaving me—and the rest of the plane, judging by the cheers and groans—minutes behind.  Furthermore, the monitor has no depth. Every time the ball leaves the ground, I lose my bearings.

         When the goal comes, a scattered cheer goes through the plane. It dies off quickly, as if we expected everyone on the jet to be watching, and are made suddenly acutely aware that this isn’t the case. We’re above Zion National Park, in southern Utah. This feels significant in the moment, though I am not sure why. 

         The second half is miserable. With each minute that passes, it feels more like watching Australia after they took the lead against France. The question is not whether the equalizer will come, but when.

Americans, as a rule, are not much on defense. Perhaps it is too long spent as a superpower, or the fact that we have oceans protecting us from the rest of the world, or some remnant of the frontier, the way we rewrite ourselves as the very indigenous groups we attempted to genocide: performing hit-and-run raids, not bunkering down and waiting for attack like settlers (see: the narratives of the revolutionary war we’re told). 

It’s probably no surprise that it was Patton who got a late-empire big-budget movie, and not Bradley or Eisenhower. “No one ever defended something successfully. There’s only attack and attack and attack some more.”

We’re not a nation that prides itself on defending. The one time in our mythology we tried it—Remember the Alamo—we got absolutely routed. 

Instead, America tends to attack in the name of defense. The war on terror, our sanction-regimes against North Korea, Iran, and Cuba, and the “pre-emptive” invasion of Iraq were all offensives in the service of “defense.” In global politics, this produces misery, death, and destruction. But it is necessary for soccer. Defense must have an offensive component. I never thought I’d say this, but maybe Berhalter can learn some pointers from Kissinger.

The game is almost done, we have nearly survived. My plane is 500 feet from the ground. An American Airlines jet is directly alongside us. It is the 97th minute when the wheels touch down, and the tv cuts out. The plane groans, but perhaps it’s for the best. “Watchful eyes are too hard on the soul,” as Townes Van Zandt says. I’m suggesting someone learn from Henry Kissinger, so he might be right. Thankfully we won, and I can hate Kissinger again. 

Best,

Miles