This has absolutely nothing to do with my new novel, Bravo, which is being published by these lovely Mulholland folks. Seriously, nothing to do with that. If that’s what you’re looking for, you shall be disappointed. You can leave now, I won’t mind.
This is about football. Proper football, not hand-egg. Soccer, as it’s best-known in the United States, though I live in a peculiar part of the country where referring to it as such often gets you sneered at. Maybe it’s the climate, but I suppose a lot of Portlanders like to pretend they’re British, even if their Anglophilia is lost beneath the flannel and rivers of craft beer. I’ve never liked the name “soccer” personally, and yes, I know that it’s born from “association football.” Yet there’s no “ball” nor “foot” in the word “soccer” that I can discern, and thus, I rest my case.
So what the hell is an American born on the California central coast and living in the Pacific Northwest doing writing about proper football on the Mulholland site? Why, especially, when his new novel has absolutely nothing to do with the sport?