In the summer of 1996 I was twelve years old. I was an honor student and loyal boyscout, as well as one of the finest 1st year trumpet players at my school. My favorite foods were pizza and cookies n’ cream ice cream and my favorite band, I’m still ashamed to say, was Hootie and the Blowfish. I had been raised to be unquestioningly proud of my country, my family and my school. I was sure to attend an illustrious college where I would meet and marry the girl of my dreams, before beginning my career as America’s next great author. The life I lived was unrealistically simple, and my mind was utterly unquestioning. It was exactly one year before punk rock would tear through my life like a rabid gorilla on experimental steroids.
For a young, simple, unquestioningly patriotic mind like mine, the 1996 Summer Olympic Games in Atlanta, Georgia were the most fascinating, glorious, awe-inspiring spectacles fathomable. I had looked forward to them for years. I made sure to see the torch when it passed through St. Louis. Once the games started I watched NBC’s coverage religiously, taping what I couldn’t see live. I whistled the Olympic theme song in summer day camp until the counselors forbade it. I remember watching Michael Johnson win gold medals in the 200 and 400 and Amy Van Dyken win four gold medals in swimming. I practically bounced off the walls of my family’s living room when Kari Strug landed a dismount on a broken leg to secure a gold medal for U.S. Women’s team gymnastics; and yes, I cheered for the U.S. when we won the first Olympic gold medal for women’s soccer.
As puberty and punk rock took a collective stranglehold on my life the Olympics, along with patriotism, pride and hope, fell off my radar. The trumpet was replaced by the electric guitar, honor grades were replaced by an apathetic 2.3 grade point average, sports were replaced by vandalism and punk rock shows, and Hootie and the Blowfish were replaced by the Ramones and the Stiff Little Fingers... okay it wasn’t all bad. It wasn’t until after the 2002 World Cup thatI began to take an interest in U.S. Soccer, although even this has to be attributed in some measure to punk rock, as it is the goal of many American punk rockers to emulate the British as much as possible.
Almost 12 years after the 1996 Olympic Games, I found myself in Nashville, Tennessee, again rooting for potential American Olympians. This of course was last week, at the CONCACAF U-23 Championship semi-final against Canada. The three of us who drove the five hours from St. Louis to Nashville were myself; Justin, in my mind one of the best drummers you’ll find in a U.S. Supporter’s section; and our friend Johnny, the self-proclaimed U.S. Soccer cowboy. We met at a bar across the river from LP Field with other supporters, who included four more from St. Louis, about ten from New York, several from Nashville and at lest one each from Chicago and Atlanta. I apologize to anyone whom I’ve left out, as I know there were more. The New Yorkers, I believe, knew each other as Red Bull fans, and many of them had traveled to Montreal to support the U-20's in the World Cup last year. There is no doubt that these NewYorkers brought the noise, and much of the fantastic support you could hear on Fox Soccer Channel’s broadcast is credible to them. They came up with many of the songs, provided a strong base of voices and clapping, and generally kept the supporter’s section riled up. The fantastic drumming was that of Justin, and the smoke bombs... well let’s just say they were from St. Louis, too.
My life isn’t what I thought it would be 12 years ago. In some ways worse, in some ways better, but all-around more realistic. My patriotism has been back for a few years now; someone once told me that you have to hate the country before you can truly love it. I allow myself to take quiet pride in certain elements of my life, and believe that there is hope for myself, my country, and yes, for U.S. Soccer. In the 90th minute of last Thursday’s game, with the U.S. up 3-0 and having virtually secured a place in this summer’s Olympics, the New Yorkers led us in the singing of the Olympic theme song. As I belted it out with them, it was impossible not to be reminded of the summer of ‘96. Though I can’t be sure where my life is going, I have as good an idea as I've had since that summer twelve years ago. And I can say honestly that, for the first time since that summer of 1996, I am looking forward to the Olympics.
Ben Girard (aka BMGSouthCity)
For a young, simple, unquestioningly patriotic mind like mine, the 1996 Summer Olympic Games in Atlanta, Georgia were the most fascinating, glorious, awe-inspiring spectacles fathomable. I had looked forward to them for years. I made sure to see the torch when it passed through St. Louis. Once the games started I watched NBC’s coverage religiously, taping what I couldn’t see live. I whistled the Olympic theme song in summer day camp until the counselors forbade it. I remember watching Michael Johnson win gold medals in the 200 and 400 and Amy Van Dyken win four gold medals in swimming. I practically bounced off the walls of my family’s living room when Kari Strug landed a dismount on a broken leg to secure a gold medal for U.S. Women’s team gymnastics; and yes, I cheered for the U.S. when we won the first Olympic gold medal for women’s soccer.
As puberty and punk rock took a collective stranglehold on my life the Olympics, along with patriotism, pride and hope, fell off my radar. The trumpet was replaced by the electric guitar, honor grades were replaced by an apathetic 2.3 grade point average, sports were replaced by vandalism and punk rock shows, and Hootie and the Blowfish were replaced by the Ramones and the Stiff Little Fingers... okay it wasn’t all bad. It wasn’t until after the 2002 World Cup thatI began to take an interest in U.S. Soccer, although even this has to be attributed in some measure to punk rock, as it is the goal of many American punk rockers to emulate the British as much as possible.
Almost 12 years after the 1996 Olympic Games, I found myself in Nashville, Tennessee, again rooting for potential American Olympians. This of course was last week, at the CONCACAF U-23 Championship semi-final against Canada. The three of us who drove the five hours from St. Louis to Nashville were myself; Justin, in my mind one of the best drummers you’ll find in a U.S. Supporter’s section; and our friend Johnny, the self-proclaimed U.S. Soccer cowboy. We met at a bar across the river from LP Field with other supporters, who included four more from St. Louis, about ten from New York, several from Nashville and at lest one each from Chicago and Atlanta. I apologize to anyone whom I’ve left out, as I know there were more. The New Yorkers, I believe, knew each other as Red Bull fans, and many of them had traveled to Montreal to support the U-20's in the World Cup last year. There is no doubt that these NewYorkers brought the noise, and much of the fantastic support you could hear on Fox Soccer Channel’s broadcast is credible to them. They came up with many of the songs, provided a strong base of voices and clapping, and generally kept the supporter’s section riled up. The fantastic drumming was that of Justin, and the smoke bombs... well let’s just say they were from St. Louis, too.
My life isn’t what I thought it would be 12 years ago. In some ways worse, in some ways better, but all-around more realistic. My patriotism has been back for a few years now; someone once told me that you have to hate the country before you can truly love it. I allow myself to take quiet pride in certain elements of my life, and believe that there is hope for myself, my country, and yes, for U.S. Soccer. In the 90th minute of last Thursday’s game, with the U.S. up 3-0 and having virtually secured a place in this summer’s Olympics, the New Yorkers led us in the singing of the Olympic theme song. As I belted it out with them, it was impossible not to be reminded of the summer of ‘96. Though I can’t be sure where my life is going, I have as good an idea as I've had since that summer twelve years ago. And I can say honestly that, for the first time since that summer of 1996, I am looking forward to the Olympics.
Ben Girard (aka BMGSouthCity)
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