From Rodeo Roots to Soccer Obsession: An Unlikely Fan Story

I’m not an athletic person. As a kid I played basketball and baseball, and I still have the bat with my name engraved on it. These days it lives beside my bed—ready to “konk” anyone who wanders into my room unannounced.

For three years I rode bareback bucking horses. I was the first woman to ride at both the Miles City Bucking Horse Sale and the Rapid City Bucking Horse Sale. I use the term “ride” loosely. I got my head buried in the dirt more times than I can count, but I fell in love with it anyway. I stuck with it until I actually learned how to ride, then quit because, at the time, there was no real future in it for women. Today there are women’s rough stock events, and I’m glad to see it.

My brother and I rode wild cows on the ranch. That’s always exciting.

My husband and I raised Quarter Horses.

I’m not a city girl by nature or very prissy, just not athletic.

My elderly mother watches rodeo nonstop and regularly calls me to look up Bridger Anderson (her favorite steer wrestler) or one of her other preferred cowboys in the PRCA (Professional Rodeo Cowboys Association) standings. Other than those requests, I’d have almost no idea what’s happening in the rodeo world—even though I come from a rodeo family.

My father rode bulls and bareback horses. My uncle won the saddle bronc championship at Madison Square Garden in New York.

My husband rode bulls.

My oldest son Brandon competed in bulls, bareback, and saddle broncs.

My middle son rode bulls and roped.

Even with that background, I rarely watch rodeo unless my mother taps me to watch something. I’m a Wright brothers fan who are champion bronc riders. Truthfully, I watch very little television at all, so I can be excused for missing the rodeos unless summoned.

My husband used to try to get me to watch football (American football) with him and I’d say, “Sure. What inning is it?”

“Go away. I don’t even want to talk to you.”

I’m a master at getting banished from things I don’t care about.

As I said, I’m not really a sports fan.

Until now.

Somehow I’ve become oddly obsessed with soccer—football, for the rest of the world. Not so much with the technical side of the game (I still don’t know much about it). There are two teams, two goal areas, and this World Cup features 48 teams (I think—I’d better double-check that). The matches are being hosted across Canada, the United States, and Mexico. I looked up the total number of games: 104.

Holy crow!

What first caught my attention was the Norwegian team. They caught my attention because the pitchfork and tomatoes crowd went after them about their team photo shoot. It wasn’t dignified. It wasn’t professional. I loved it, but I love a rebel. Good for them. They embraced who they are and what they are and went with it. More on that later.

Then I started paying attention. Because I knew nothing about it I started researching—and then I couldn’t stop. I’ve been following the games, the teams, the fans, the players’ stories, and the pure chaos and joy of it all.

 I wasn’t planning to write about any of this. I have a daily writing goal of around a thousand words. A Civil War novel with romantic elements is already out (The Rain Crow), a fantasy novel (Far Rider) is in the editing phase, a steamy women’s fiction project (Just a Gigolo) is nearly finished, and a new historical is just getting started.

I have plenty to do.

But this has become a full-blown obsession. I spend hours watching fan videos and reading stories about the players and supporters. It feels historic—like the shot heard ‘round the world. I want to document it. I want to record how this unexpected passion makes me feel and what keeps pulling me in.

I may not have the “right” to write about soccer since I’m not a lifelong fan. But I am a lifelong people fan.

That has to count for something, right? So, this is the beginning of my soccer journals and I’m playing catch up.