Let others haggle over hand balls. When I watch the World Cup, I track the names.
Caicedo. Van Dijk. Jalali. On the backs of players’ jerseys, a found poetry of humanity, the rhythms and melodies of every continent.
As I watched this year, it occurred to me: I recognized so many of these names — and not because I follow soccer. I recognize them because I’m American, and so many of the world’s names have become American names, too.
I decided to research my hunch. I amassed the last names of the players of every foreign team and looked them up in the American White Pages. What I found gave me a dash of hope for the United States of America in an often dispiriting time.
Virtually every name of every foreign player I looked up is also a name of someone in America.
The Netherlands may have the midfielder Wout Weghorst, but we have George Weghorst and Donald Weghorst, Fred Weghorst and Jennifer Weghorst right here in America.
Qatar may have Abdulaziz Hatem, but we have more Hatems than you can shake a stick at, especially in Ohio, where you will find Hatems coaching football at Ohio Northern, giving their name to the Tom Hatem Automotive shop, and practicing radiology in Cleveland.
Mexico has Alfredo Talavera in goal, and that’s fine and good, but we have Talaveras all across this land, in their 20s, 30s, 40s, 50s, 60s, 70s, and 80s, according to the White Pages.
Switzerland’s got Denis Zakaria midfielding, but we’ve got Fareed explaining. Iran’s got Majid Hosseini, but we’ve got Khaled and his tales of kite runners and echoing mountains and splendid suns.
Morocco has Achraf Hakimi on defense, but we have our own Hakimis — in Jackson Heights, Queens, perhaps the most diverse neighborhood on earth, but also in Normal, Illinois, where, as everywhere in this country, the definition of “normal” has been evolving.
Argentina may have its megastar Lionel Messi, but we have Messis in Jonesboro, Georgia, and Burtonsville, Maryland. Netherlands has Luuk de Jong. We’ve got Clara de Jong, Thiamsiat Siat Jong, and, not least, a legion of spaceless Dejongs — for example, Elysia, out of Wichita.
Iran has a Jahanbakhsh at midfield, and we have Jahanbakhshes in Bryn Mawr, Pennsylvania, and Thornton, Colorado. Iran has the goalkeeper Alireza Beiranvand. We have our own Beiranvands, plus Beyranvands and Biranvands.
The Netherlands team has a Klaassen, in midfield, but only the one of them, whereas the state of Michigan is veritably overflowing with Klaassens. The Dutch footballers also count a Berghuis among their ranks, a name that happens to be sprinkled across not just Michigan but also Wisconsin — and hardly confined to that region.
Morocco’s got an Ezzalzouli playing up front, and we have an Ezzalzouli living in Phoenix.
To be sure, we don’t have them all. The French team has a Rabiot, and we as a country seem not to, according to the White Pages. If Simon Ngapandouetnbu of Cameroon’s national team were to move to America, he would perhaps be the first of his name on this soil. He is more than welcome. I need long-named allies.
We are also, as far as I can tell, short of a Foyth, a Bassogog, and a Pouraliganji.
And while we may not have a Djiku, we have a Djikou. While we may not have an Aboukhlal, we have an Abuqulal.
We may not have, as Ghana’s team does, an Ati-Zigi, but we have several Atis and several Zigis, and maybe someday one of each will meet and grow a hyphenated child.
But, overwhelmingly, the names of the world’s players are American names, too. We have Galíndezes from Coral Gables, Florida, to Wichita, Kansas; Hrustics from Jacksonville, Florida, to Fort Wayne, Indiana, to Dallas; we’ve got Akes in Fayetteville, West Virginia, and Bellemont, Arizona; Depays in Upper Manhattan and in California; Ibarras in Hawaii and Oregon; Sabiris in in Fuquay Varina, North Carolina, and Austin, Texas.
Denmark may have Alexander Bah on defense, but New York is overflowing with the name Bah — and the attitude.
And, to boot, we have our Khenissis, our Mac Allisters, our Palacioses, our Maalouls, our Songs, our Courtoises, our Tagliaficos, and our Canobbios (especially in Pennsylvania).
And, not to detract from Abdullah Madu, a Saudi Arabian defender who I’m sure is a nice guy, but in this vast and various and complicated country we have numerous Madus in our midst, too: a Peter Madu and a John Madu, a Ferdinand Madu, but not only them. This is the country of Prince Madu and, not to be outdone, Princess Madu, of Blessing Madu, Christian Madu, and Mercy Madu, and, my personal favorite, Precious Madu, of the great city of Dallas.
Photo: Xinhua/Getty
This post was originally published on The.Ink.