The L-shape bar holds, maybe, 5 people. It is all men on the first floor at The Abbey Burger Bistro in Federal Hill, Baltimore. Their backs arch forward over the wooden bar in front and, with their beer in hand, they glance as the door behind us shuts. The sleepy bartender on the other side gives a nod of hello. Sydney and I look at each other and quietly sit at some chairs placed as far from others as can be in this cramped space. We ordered two Natty Bohs, browsed the menu and watched Arsenal kick off the game. 

The game, played in 2017, is an homage to the Liverpool of old and new. The front three that will carry on a battle against Manchester City, soon winning a single League title and 2 Champions Leagues, all score: Firmino 1st, Mane 2nd and Salah 3rd. 4th is Sturridge, part of the team in early 2014 that came so close. He will be loaned away in 2018 and sold in 2019 and, while at Perth Glory, banned for four months for breaking gambling rules. 

Anyway.

There is a little chat amongst us. There is grumbling once the second goal hits the net.  It’s only groans by the 4th goal and quiet relief when the referee blows the whistle for the end of the game. Syd and I order alcoholic milkshakes to soothe the pain. The glorious taste of vanilla and booze carries us back to Syd’s rented row house in Pigtown where, by 11:30 in the morning, we are napping on a futon she brought from college. 

We were hooked.

—

The last time I will walk into the Abbey Burger Bistro to watch Arsenal play was this past Sunday. It was another Liverpool game and another loss, though progress was made: it was only 2-0. 

This time, though, we took it to them. We should have scored in the first half, at least. This Liverpool team does as they always do. Simple as. They win games they probably shouldn’t and change a game on a single sub. 

Now, though, when I walk into the bar, I am greeted immediately by Lynn at the L-shaped bar, who playfully hassles me on why Sydney and I missed the games over the Christmas period. When Syd arrives, Lynn gives her a big hug and we talk about our trip to Phoenix and what happened while we were gone. We walk upstairs to our usual seats.

I tap the murals of Henry and Berkamp as I have done for years now.

Others begin to trickle in and we greet them with waves and hugs and fist bumps and conversations. Simon, co-president of CCG, announced a fellow gooner’s birthday at halftime and we all cheered. Banter is had while someone fumbles to get the TV turned down during the rest of the announcements. Lynn, after the announcements, goes to heckle the Liverpool fans downstairs and to sell them member packs as a toll for coming here, into our bar. 

We all leave dejected but we say goodbye as warmly as we greeted each other. “See you on the 20th” is said by all. 

—

My midseason gut check cannot be written without a worried projection upon our future. The building I have watched games at since 2017 will remain and new owners will be there, serving us 9 am beer under a different banner (no milkshakes, alas). But, for the first time in a while, the future holds uncertainty of what that space will look like. 

I have spent my whole life fighting to love soccer. In turn, the game has responded mostly with open hostility. The intense bullying I received on my elementary school pitch pushed my parents to put me into a “gifted” program to avoid recess. A switch to a different school merely tempered the bullying. The two most egregious examples came from two brothers at my high school. After getting cleared to play the sport with 40 stitches in my right arm, the younger brother slapped the injury as hard as he could as I ran past him to receive a pass. I blacked out and, when I came to, he and a couple others were chuckling over me. The older brother, on a different occasion, hockey checked me nearly into a cinderblock wall while I was playing goalkeeper. I was holding the ball, neither the rest of his attack nor my defense there. My head soccer coach chuckled instead of calling a foul. 

The same coach stripped my captaincy and starting position on the soccer team without an explanation, to me and my teammates’ confusion. I joined a travel team, on his recommendation, in high school that refused to give me the correct address to practices. I was met with still less compassion when entering the college coaching world. 

I referee the sport now. I do not have to tell you of the abuse we all get from time to time. It is almost as assured as the sun rising tomorrow. I have been insulted during charity matches, broken up fights in U-10 indoor soccer matches and been threatened with violence at other matches. Luckily, the money and good games make it almost worth it. 

From my time playing to college coaching to the nonprofit sector, I was an unwanted oddball. Either ignored, “politlely” excluded or told to fuck off. 

Here, at CCG, my fiancée and I found a home. We were greeted with open arms as have my friends who have joined us in the fandom. Traveling across the country this Christmas break, we met so many people who are a part of Arsenal America. The kindness given to us has surpassed almost every other environment I have been in while playing/coaching soccer (Frank, you are the only exception.)

There is a reason I wrote in to Stadio about the place and CCG were first in my things to be grateful. At no time have I ever felt so welcomed amongst a group of people I know well and I have just met. 

If you’re interested in my feelings about what Arsenal look like on the field, I suggest checking out Edu’s Barbecue. TL;DR: We are unlucky, slow in attack to (probably) limit injuries and fail to use the strengths of our wingers in order to control the games. 

I’m not all that worried about it.This year might be a wash or it might turn out glorious. It’s a matter of luck and faith at this point. The home of CCG is my most pressing worry.

During the game on Sunday, while we were losing, I took a look amongst the people around me. While I do not know everyone’s names in that bar (apologies, it’s a personal flaw not a reflection on you), I have conversed with all of these people. We’ve embraced during goals and we’ve consoled each other during dreadful losses.  We shared this space with so many. I am so grateful for all of this. 

The manor might be changing, but the people still remain. 

South Baltimore Forever.   

Panic: existential/10