You woke up this morning, sun rising over Atlantic Avenue and making the whole world look like the cover of a TV On The Radio album - welcoming, yet exclusive, like it's a joke that only you and three friends get. You get out of bed and go to the kitchen. You open the cupboard and think "damn it, I'm out of roof-grown, handmade granola" and you make a mental note to head to Brooklyn Flea later to restock - and while you're at it, to get some of that artisanal, small batch mayonnaise that Declan was raving about last night at the speakeasy over his elderflower martini.
Having run out of granola, you decide to hit the streets for some coffee and breakfast. You saunter by Toby's Estate and realize that, with 12 people in it at 11 AM, Toby's is over. You keep walking.
You decide that it's not just Toby's that's over, but that the whole notion of coffee and a bite is also a bit too...you don't want to say bourgeois, but really, that's how you feel, so you decide to make your way to Atlantic Avenue in search of some good Middle Eastern food; you don't care from where, you're just in a tabbouleh mood.
As you're heading over that way, though, you walk by something that you hadn't ever encountered before. A full bar? In the middle of the day? Ah, you scoff, this must be where the tourists go when they're trying to find "the real Brooklyn". You decide to move on, until you see Declan's unicycle parked out front (you can tell Declan's from all the others parked there by the ironic Twisted Sister sticker he put on the seat that one night, when you decided to slum by going to an 80's night and demanding they play nothing but hair metal). This confuses you.
You go inside. It's not dark, and nobody's drinking something handed to them by a guy with a sleeve garter, so you're initially confused - and what is that they're eating? Fried food? Really? People still do that?
Then you spot Declan. You make your way to him, roll your eyes, and say "having fun yet?" But Declan can't hear you; he's busy shouting at the TV for some reason. You look at the screen, expecting to see Justin Bieber and to join in the mockery, just because, and you see a bunch of dudes in what appear to be matching outfits running around a park for what appears to be no real reason. This, too, confuses you.
You manage to get Declan's attention. "WHAT THE HELL IS THIS?" you shout, simultaneously dreading and excited by the answer. "SOCCER", he says, with no apparent irony or disdain in his voice.
You start asking him questions, because it seems like he's been watching this "soccer" business for quite a while now, and you wonder when he's found the time. It turns out Declan's always liked soccer - he was just ashamed to admit it to you because it's incredibly - there's that word again! - bourgeois.
So you decide to head to the bar, get a drink, and stick around. You're stunned when, after asking for your usual Fox Rose Fizz, the bartender just looks at you blankly and says "Sorry, man, we don't do mixed drinks, but we have 12 beers on tap". Beer? Didn't that go out in the 1980's? Oh well, you think, when in Rome, right? You order what appears to be the popular beer of choice among the gathered crowd, a Brooklyn Brewing something-or-other, and go back to Declan.
You again ask him what the heck is going on, and Declan starts telling you stories about writers like Nick Hornby, who somehow found enough interesting about this high-speed kickball to write a book about it, and about how soccer is the coolest sport to be a fan of because nobody here knows about it yet. In fact, Declan says, soccer is the Kylie Minogue of sports - the rest of the world loves it, and here, nobody gives a damn.
At that, you remove your handmade Danish reading glasses (you were looking for the tapas menu, but all they had were something called "wings" and some...apparently...deep fried cheese, which wasn't even made from local cheese!) and look up at the screen, just in time to see one of the kickballers put the ball into the goal net.
Huzzah! you find yourself declaiming, not knowing why. You're unfamiliar with this feeling - is it enthusiasm? You read about that in Brooklyn Voice once, but you didn't think it was a thing that happened outside, say, Kansasopolis or North Nebraska or whatever those states between Brooklyn and Portland are known as.
Before you know it, 90 minutes had gone by, and the kickball (you resolve to remember to call it by its proper name next time) was over - and you, to your bemusement and slight horror, find yourself asking Declan "when is the next contest?"
And just like that, you, Dashiell Andronicus McMaster IV (which is the name you adopted when you decided that David Adams was just so...common), have become a soccer fan.