Even in the ’90s, the indoor game had already been around awhile. Soccer was played in many countries throughout the 20th century, though “indoor soccer” is largely a 1970s American invention. During the years between the collapse of Pelé’s North American Soccer League in 1984 and the launch of the present-day M.L.S. in 1996, this hybrid sport was one of the only things keeping soccer from vanishing in the United States. For all that, indoor soccer is the Rodney Dangerfield of the game: It gets no respect. Even I was dubious about initially going. Disdained by soccer aficionados (George Vecsey called it “the indoor corruption of soccer, a.k.a. human pinball”) and soccer haters alike, its various leagues have folded numerous times in the past 40 years. Gimmicks such as two- and three-point goals have come and gone. One or more teams seem to dissolve after every season.
The main differences from the outdoor game are fewer players on the field (six instead of 11), with hockey-style substitutions on the fly, penalty boxes, power plays and walls that players use to ricochet the ball off. For me, the most important difference is that indoor soccer puts “the beautiful game” under a microscope. For soccer lovers, it’s like sitting in the orchestra section or at the chef’s table. You notice everything that gets overlooked on a screen or in a stadium — astonishing technique in dribbling and passing, as well as telepathic teamwork and timing — but also the kicks, elbows, trash talk, crotch grabs and other unmentionables that are part of the dark arts of the sport. Plus, its fast pace encourages plenty of goals. In its flamboyance and entertainment factor, it embodies the spirit of street soccer, the real roots of the game.
Soccer has always been most alive in this country at the local level. That was often the only place for it, since national media hardly paid it any attention. And so to attend an indoor soccer game is to witness soccer’s version of Americana: suburban families, local coaches, foreigners and immigrants feeding their cultural fix; old neckbeards who’ve been watching soccer for decades; and players with dazzling skill, and perhaps a bit of hard luck, who somehow ended up here, a long way from Europe’s grand stadiums, leagues and tournaments. There are also, of course, the cheap beer, the T-shirt cannons and the bizarre raffle games to savor as well.
In an era when American fans thirst for the opulence of foreign soccer, indoor soccer can’t offer that. It’s hopelessly itself, which is its best feature. It’s not alluring enough for the influencers, and not lucrative enough to be exploited by the ultrawealthy. Its beauty lies in what takes place on that turf. The league I attended as a child disbanded long ago, as did most of its teams. But I’ve been chasing the distinct vibe of that evening ever since, even as soccer in this country has finally arrived. Or perhaps, especially as soccer has arrived.
Adam Elder is the author of “New Kids in the World Cup: The Totally Late ’80s and Early ’90s Tale of the Team that Changed American Soccer Forever” (University of Nebraska Press, 2022).