I’m of two minds when it comes to American soccer

As someone who considers himself a true believer in “The Beautiful Game,” I’m having a bit of an existential crisis these days.

Scott Adamson opines about The Beautiful Game periodically in Sidewinder Insider.

Instead of questioning whether my life has meaning, purpose or value, though, I’m questioning whether my feelings toward American soccer have meaning, purpose or value.

To say they’re mixed would be a huge understatement.

On the one hand, I strongly favor the world model – and the engine that runs the world model is promotion and relegation – so I want fundamental change in the way the United States conducts the business of soccer.

I agree with virtually every word that’s been written which criticizes our closed pyramid, stunning gender inequality, and a youth soccer club structure that stifles diversity and is often more dependent on mommy and daddy’s money than the skill of the kids.

And the election of Carlos Cordeiro as United States Soccer Federation president likely means little will change in the umbrella organization. He is an insider who came into the election as the sitting vice president of the USSF, and it’s doubtful he’ll push for any kind of meaningful reform.

That suggests the people who run American soccer (and vote for the way it is run) like the way things are, and the way things are dictates that Major League Soccer is the country’s only first division league.

You can’t play your way into it, you can only buy your way into it via a $150 million franchise fee. It’s the standard American professional sports model and it’s anathema to the spirit of soccer’s intended international structure.

But …

I like MLS … always have.

I remember sitting in my living room on April 6, 1996, watching Eric Wynalda score the lone goal in the San Jose Clash’s victory over DC United in the first game in MLS history.

I’ve never even been to San Jose, but I leapt into the air as though they had just scored the greatest goal in the history of association football.

I was so happy to see North America bring back “top tier” soccer I wasn’t thinking about things like promotion/relegation, fan ownership, or the fact that some of the best soccer players in the United States and Canada might never get a real chance to grow because they can’t afford to play for their local elite club teams.

I was part of more than 55,000 fans packed into Bobby Dodd Stadium to watch Atlanta United FC make their league debut against the New York Red Bulls last March, and it was one of the most enjoyable fan experiences I’ve ever had.

It was a real soccer crowd and a real soccer experience.

And I always make a point to watch the Seattle Sounders face the Portland Timbers. The fans (the Emerald City Supporters on one side and Timbers Army on the other) create an atmosphere that practically bleeds through the television. Being in the crowd for one of their matches is near the top of my soccer bucket list.

MLS is closing in on half a century of existence and has put down deep and sturdy roots in North America. After a bit of a shaky start, it survived and now thrives, with cities vying for its affections and construction of soccer-specific stadiums becoming the rule rather than the exception.

The United Soccer League is a solid second division circuit, and next year D3, the USL’s third division league, debuts.

But remember what I said about the American sports model?

That works out fine for the current owners, coaches and players in MLS. And it’s obvious there are millions of people who are cool with the Americanization of the sport.

Yet if the United States ever wants to get in line with the rest of the soccer world, it’ll probably have to find a way outside MLS because MLS – with its single entity structure – has no reason to change.

Just last summer the league rejected a $4 billion TV deal that came with the stipulation of pro/rel. MLS commissioner Don Garber and the league’s stakeholders wanted no part of it.

“We are playing the world’s game but we are playing it here in North America that has a very, very competitive structure that has proven to work very well for the other major leagues that are in many ways the model for professional sports throughout the world,” Garber told ESPN FC in 2016.

While I never anticipate a day when MLS replaces the English Premier League, Bundesliga or Scottish Premier League as the primary object of my pro soccer affections, I still enjoy it.

Of course I wish it would adopt pro/rel, but I’ve taken a “don’t hate the player, hate the game” attitude when I watch, especially since so many players I covered in college now play in the league.

However, I am going to start thinking with more of a grassroots mentality.

I’m going to follow with great interest any renegade league and renegade idea that comes along, whether it’s Jacksonville Armada owner Robert Palmer’s “Division Zero” initiative (a pro league not sanctioned by FIFA) or the continued evolution of the fledgling National Independent Soccer Association.

I’ve said since its formation the NISA might just be the start of something revolutionary.

I hope it is.

I’ll support my local team, Greenville FC, which makes its National Premier Soccer League debut in May, and I’ll continue to cheer for the venerable Atlanta Silverbacks.

The 20-year old club has started a trust that will help fans buy 25 percent of the team.

As soon as I get some disposable income, I might just make a contribution.

And I want to see a stable women’s league and the United States Women’s National Team treated with the respect – financial and otherwise – it deserves.

I want to believe we’ll eventually come to the realization that the tried and true model of “soccer from the ground up” is the only model that will give us the chance to be a real soccer nation, and it will become the rule, not the exception.

This harangue reminds me of a line from the 2005 movie “The Game Of Their Lives,” which chronicled (in a very Hollywood way) the United States’ stunning victory over England in the 1950 World Cup.

“You want to know why soccer is the world’s greatest sport? I’ll tell you why. Because all you need is the ball and an open space. You don’t need fancy equipment or special fields. You don’t have to be big or strong or tall. It’s the most democratic of all the sports. The people’s game. Your people’s game. And America’s game in the future.”

Will it be a closed pyramid future? A pro/rel future? A future that features both options?

Shoot, I can even envision a future in which our men’s national team qualifies for the World Cup again.

Regardless, I’ll be there for it all – probably still trying to come to grips with my own mixed emotions.

My home truly is Animal House

Are you an animal person?

Brain Farce is an alleged humor column written by Scott Adamson. It comes out basically whenever he feels like writing it. Follow him on Twitter @adamsonsl

Technically, you are.

If you’re a human being you’re an animal, and if you’re a human being you’re also a person.

However, I’m an “animal person” in the sense that I have a real fondness for non-human animals and want them to be a major part of my life. Right now I’m the co-caregiver to a Sheltie named Charlie and two shelter cats, Thor and Bane.

But before I get to them, a bit of background.

I spent much of my youth as primarily a “dog person,” not so much by choice as by situation.

My parents – and I have since forgiven them for this – weren’t keen on having critters, but they most certainly didn’t want me to have a cat. My mother had a weird aversion to felines, and even repeated that apocryphal story about cats “sucking the breath out of babies.”

So on the off chance a baby showed up at our house, we had to make sure we didn’t have a cat around to take its breath away.

What the cat planned to do with the baby’s breath was never explained, although I understand it looks great in bouquets.

Anyway, they didn’t mind too much that I had a dog, as long as he stayed outside.

My first dog was Ringo, named after Ringo Starr. He was a big ol’ tan-and-black mutt (and serviceable drummer), but he was not allowed in the house.

And he never came in the house … as far as my folks knew.

While his primary residence was a doghouse in the backyard, I would often sneak him into the basement and sometimes – late at night – take him up to my room and let him sleep at the foot of the bed.

Who was a good dog?

Ringo was a good dog.

But as I grew up and grew older, I wanted to make animals equal partners in my world. That meant if I had a roof over my head, they had a roof over their heads.

And since I had no babies laying around with breath to be sucked out of their systems, I have had many a cat in my domicile over the years.

There have been boy cats and girl cats living in harmony with boy dogs and girl dogs, and every time any one of them crosses the Rainbow Bridge, it breaks my heart.

None of them can ever be replaced, but I believe it’s important to go to a shelter and rescue another if you’re willing and able to do so.

So that’s what my wife and I do and that means, for now, she has to deal with four boys (including myself).

Bane, our youngest cat, is nine months old and is starting to give off a Maine Coon vibe.

When we got him from the shelter I could hold him in my hand, and at night I’d take him to bed and he’d curl up under my chin.

Now he’s this gargantuan creature who has no regard for my personal space, spending a good portion of the evening plopped across my chest and purring so loudly he sounds like he should be racing at Daytona.

He’s also quite the shedder. You can’t wear black clothes around Bane because if you do, you’ll quickly look like a Sasquatch.

Thor, a 3-year old orange tabby, purrs very softly.

He also has a bad habit of attacking my butt for no apparent reason.

Used to when I would come home from work late at night, he would greet me first by rolling over for a belly rub and then – when I turned away – leap up and turn my chunky cheeks into his own personal scratching post.

If you should ever welcome me into your home or office and ask me to sit down, know that if I refuse I’m not being rude. It just means my tush has been mauled.

And just to be clear, Thor attacks my butt through my pants. I don’t walk around the house like Winnie The Pooh.

And Charlie? I don’t know if there’s ever been a sweeter dog.

He joyfully plays with his kitty bros, loves to go for walks, and sometimes just wants to squeeze up next to me when I watch TV. He’s the world’s youngest 10-year old canine.

About the only negative thing I can say about him is he has a tendency to raid the litter box for treats.

But it’s not my place to judge. If I was a dog, I’d probably do the same thing. I mean, what the hell?

But I’ll gladly choose lack of sleep, mangled buttocks and having a dog who walks around with a cat litter mustache over living in a house without animals.

The way I see it, we’re all part of one big animal family.

These are my people, even if they aren’t technically people.

Time to give up a grudge and root for the Braves

Most Major League Baseball pitchers and catchers reported for duty today in Florida and Arizona, meaning spring training games are just a few days away.

Out of Left Field is written by Scott Adamson. It appears weekly and sometimes more frequently if he gets up in the middle of the night and can’t go back to sleep. Follow him on Twitter @adamsonsl

I’m not gonna go all George Will here – getting misty-eyed and using excessive verbiage to extol the pastoral beauty of the National Pastime – but it is nice to have it back.

My love affair with the game has run hot and cold over the years, and I can already tell this summer will be one that I spend watching as much professional baseball as possible.

This will also be the year I let go of a grudge – one I’ve held against the Atlanta Braves for almost a quarter of a century.

Let me explain.

My dad was the biggest Braves fan I’ve ever known, one who stuck with the team through thick and thin (and there was a whole lotta thin back in the day).

Once Ted Turner came up with that newfangled “superstation” that gave fans across the country a chance to watch just about every Atlanta game played, Pop took full advantage of it.

Many a time I would try to sneak into the house late at night following an evening of wholesome carousing, only to find him plopped in his lounge chair. There, nursing stale coffee and well into his second pack of Lucky Strike cigarettes, he’d be watching the Braves get hammered by the Los Angeles Dodgers or San Diego Padres during a West Coast swing.

Oh, he bitched and moaned about the team’s (mostly) unsuccessful string of managers in the 1970s, 80s and early 90s – a list that includes Eddie Mathews, Clyde King, Dave Bristol, Bobby Cox, Joe Torre, Eddie Haas, Bobby Wine, Chuck Tanner, Russ Nixon and Cox again – but he never wavered in his support.

He even got to enjoy a playoff appearance in 1982 and a pair of National League titles in 1991 and 1992.

However, Pop was diagnosed with cancer on Dec. 5, 1994, and died on Christmas Day that year.

The last baseball he ever watched was Aug. 11, 1994; the rest of the season was wiped out by the infamous MLB strike. At his funeral, I placed a Braves cap in his casket, and remember telling people how I wish he could’ve seen Atlanta win a world championship before he died.

Damned if they didn’t do it 10 months later.

I guess I should’ve been happy, and used their Fall Classic conquest of the Cleveland Indians as a warm reminder of how much they meant to my dad. Instead it pissed me off that they had the poor taste to wait until after he was gone to win the World Series.

Ever since then – as ridiculous as it sounds – I’ve been pissed off at the Braves.

I was never a fan of the team in the first place; I rooted for the New York Yankees overall and designated the Chicago Cubs as my favorite NL team. But because of Pop, I always hoped Atlanta would do well because it made him happy.

Seeing the club do well after he was gone, though, made me sad.

That was a silly way to feel and I knew it was silly, but the feeling was there just the same. It’s as though I thought the Braves should be punished for postponing their greatest moment to a time when their biggest fan couldn’t enjoy it.

It was petty on my part, and it’s time to let it go.

So when the season begins anew, I’ll still cheer more for the Yankees, but I’ll save a few shouts for the Braves. I’ll even christen them as my new favorite National League club.

And who knows?

Maybe I’ll head over to SunTrust Park this spring, proudly wrap a blue cap around my big noggin, and root, root, root for the home team.

After all, it serves no good purpose to hate a team Pop loved.

I’m sorry it took so long for me to realize that.