American Lasso

We have been watching a Netflix show called Ted Lasso. Well written and brilliantly acted, it follows an American soccer coach with a lovely southern drawl as he moves to England to spiritually transform an entire English Football team much as Santa transforms a family in Miracle on 34th Street.

Inasmuch as I like the show, it often leaves me scratching my head as I’m suckered into believing that all things British melt before the onslaught of a perceived American bumpkin. He smiles meekly, he has funny sayings, he brings strange American coaching methods to a strapping group of British athletes raised with soccer balls bouncing in their cribs.

Especially in this age of Trump, it’s a testament to the writing and the acting that we are drawn back to this show week after week. Americans have long lost their warm and fuzzy. But what a wonderful fantasy, to see one of our Trump supporting Southern compatriots, drawing the rough and tumble foreigners about him with his down home aphorisms. Simply with some words of encouragement, a whole team become focused and united. A mean team owner melts like butter. Her entire reason for hiring an American, so to lose games to stick it to her billionaire ex husband, dissipates like morning mist after Ted gets through with her. We’re going to win, dammit! Thanks to you, Ted!

It takes a big national ego to come up with this kind of show featuring the all giving, savior Yank. I’m afraid the prototype left for parts unknown years ago. Maybe he never even existed. Just ask the Hungarians. Or more recently, the Kurds.