Photographs by Michael Persico

The Sons Also Rise

Philly’s most passionate sports fans are nuts about a team that doesn’t yet exist.

by Steven Wells

Christ but they look mad.

Staring eyes, shit-eating grins, blue-and-yellow Philadelphia scarves wrapped across their bouncing shoulders. They pogo up and down, yelling “Sons of Ben! Dee be de de!” while doing a crazy little two-step and trying not to spill their pints.

The chant—a mutation of the “Ma Nah Ma Nah” song popularized by the Muppets—is only about a week old.

These guys are Philly soccer fans, and they’re kinda making it up as they go along.

They’ve also got bitter rivalries with Major League Soccer (MLS) teams D.C. United and New York Red Bulls. And the New England Revolution hate them too. As do fans of the Portland Timbers and Toronto. Already. Despite the fact that Philly doesn’t actually have a team yet. How Philly is that?

As you’ve almost certainly heard, there’s a $115 million soccer-specific stadium and an MLS franchise coming to Philly. To nearby depressed-to-hell Chester, actually. They start play in 2010. (Zolo. Get it?) And the reason we’re getting a team?

“You can never underestimate the passion of the fans,” says Ed Rendell at a press conference in Chester. “You can’t measure it. Believe me, this group’s excitement and desire had a lot to do with why we’re here announcing this franchise.”

Big Ed goes on to compare the SOB to the Eagles’ 700 level. Which is kind of flattering to Eagles fans.

“We were huddled around a single TV,” says Sons of Ben co-founder Bryan James.

Even this handful of fans represented real growth. Back in September 2006 there were just three Sons of Ben—Bryan James and his friends Dave Flagler and Andrew Dillon. Their idea: to create a fan base so vibrant, so intense and so committed it would actually help bring a Major League Soccer franchise to Philadelphia.

As a D.C. United fan website put it, the SOB “banded together to twist the Field of Dreams mantra from ‘Build it and they will come’ to ‘They’re already here, just build it.’”

Their method: they kinda made it up as they went along.

When he walks onto a stage packed with luminaries and dignitaries—including Mayor Nutter, Gov. Rendell and Philly-born soccer legend Walter Bahr (the player who assisted the winning goal in the U.S. team’s glorious 1-0 giant-killing of mighty England in the 1950 World Cup)—James suddenly looks less like the leader of an already notorious bunch of hardcore soccer ultras and more like a startled 9-year-old playing a shepherd in his first nativity play.

He mumbles a few semirehearsed words and hands out specially made scarves (“Philadelphia 2010” on one side, “Kick Start Chester” on the other) to the owners of the new franchise. You can see the thought bubble over his head. It reads, “Pinch me.”

“The first thing going through my head was not to say anything that would start the rest of the Sons of Ben into a song,” says James. “And second was to avoid saying ‘um.’”

He does okay. The Sons of Ben—who’ve been led into the cavernous room by the fully Mummer-costumed Polish American String Band playing the unofficial SOB anthem “Four Leaf Clover”—applaud raucously but politely. But then they’d got all their cussing out of the way in the parking lot with “Let’s Go Fucking Mental” (a traditional British ditty sung to the conga). And “You Can Stick Your Fucking Arch up Your Ass”—a more recently composed tribute to St. Louis, the city Philly beat out to get the 16th MLS franchise (sung to the tune of “She’ll Be Coming ’Round the Mountain”).

Actually, for “recently composed,” read “just made up on the spot,” which is par for the course for soccer fans. It’s one reason Ed Rendell obviously doesn’t know dick about soccer.

Bryan James

Baby-faced 24-year-old SOB co-founder Dave Flagler works as an assistant manager at Angelo’s Soccer Corner, a soccer store in Huntington Valley. Though a huge Phillies and Eagles fan, he says the atmosphere at baseball and football games doesn’t compare with what you’ll see at soccer.

“Doesn’t come close,” he says. “When did you ever see guys banging a drum and waving a flag and singing through an entire game of baseball?”

It’s a good point. The SOB have been going only a year and already have at least a dozen unique songs and chants, including one, “Custom Scarf Machine,” sung to the tune of “Yellow Submarine,” that has its origin in a moment of surreal fan daftness.

They sing it about Steve Dietrich, a 25-year-old Iraq vet and the sixth person to join the SOB:

“In the town where he was born/ Runs a river neon green/ And he drank it all his youth/ So he believes in the Scarf Machine/ Stevie’s looking for his Custom Scarf Machine … ”

“I was asking everybody where they got their scarves made,” says Dietrich, hopping from leg to leg to keep warm in the biting wind that cuts through the Chester waterfront parking lot. “They said there was a machine in RFK Stadium in section 417 where you swiped your credit card and typed in specifications for a scarf. And I bought it. I believed it.”

Put it this way: The Eagles, generally considered to have one of the most vibrant fan cultures in the NFL, have been going 75 years—and in all that time they’ve managed to cobble together one song and, what, two, maybe three chants?

“Take the hardcore Eagles fan from the 700 level,” says 22-year-old SOB member and Web designer Jason Watt, “and put that throughout the whole stadium, and you have soccer.”

From left: Mark Orr, Seth Gillman and Adam Huard await the arrival of soccer in Philly.

“As of late, going to Flyers games is akin to watching a tennis match or golf,” says 29-year-old Jamie Adams from Jersey. “There’s no enthusiasm in the crowd. Watching soccer matches is something else. The nonstop singing and chanting and flag waving is the way it should be.”

“Groups like the Sons of Ben,” says Tom Dunmore, soccer blogger and member of Chicago’s SOB-like Section 8, “can bring the brilliant atmosphere of a college sports rivalry to a game, rather than the expensive corporate snore-fest we increasingly see in professional sports.”

He hesitates for just a second.

“Well, the Sons of Ben does have Bryan James, but the 214 has giant rockets, so … ”

“Um, wow, this is an amazing day for us,” says the aforementioned James wrapped up in an SOB scarf and sporting a natty pair of shades. “Let’s behave well inside,” he says. Booing breaks out. “And we’ll break stuff later.” There are cheers.

By the way, all that stuff you think you know about soccer fans all being hooligans? It’s out-of-date nonsense. But the SOB are a unique part of a unique sporting culture.

True story:

I was in Los Angeles last summer, researching a story for a British soccer magazine about how America was apparently agog at the prospect of David Beckham playing in the States.

I was waiting in line for a hot dog inside the stadium shared by the MLS teams Chivas U.S.A. and Beckham’s club, L.A. Galaxy. The guy in front of me was wearing a Dodgers hat and shirt. He said it was his first soccer game.

Suddenly a swarm of red-and-white-wearing hardcore Chivas fans waving flags, wearing crazy hats and goat or wrestling masks came swarming through the gates. They announced their arrival by bouncing up and down, roaring their heads off, blasting away on assorted musical instruments and tossing streamers in every direction. This was the legendary fan group Legion 1908 Kalifas. The effect was electric.

“What the fuck!” yelled the Dodgers fan, rigid with excitement. “Who the hell are they?”

A game of two scarves: Dan Gorman (above) and Tom Roletter (next photo) show their support for soccer.

That particular game ended on the field with Galaxy kicking Chivas’ ass. But that’s not the whole story. It also ended with the solid wedge of hardcore Chivas fans still going hell-for-leather crazy after 90-plus minutes of play and 15 minutes of halftime, still making the stadium ring with songs and chants and energy and color.

And on either side of this organized scarlet-and-white phalanx was a vast rabble of ponytailed BendItLikeBeckhamistas, all giving the Kalifas the finger and roaring, “Hey Chivas, you suck!”

The Kalifas aren’t alone. Most Major League Soccer clubs have a vibrant, self-organized group of rowdy fans who take pride not only in the amount of noise they make, but in the wit and originality of its content.

There’s New York’s Empire Supporters Club and Raging Bull Nation; L.A. Galaxy’s Galaxians and Riot Squad; Chicago’s Section 8; Houston’s Texian Army and El Batallon; D.C. United’s Screaming Eagles and La Barra Brava; Portland, Ore.’s amazing DIY/punk Timbers Army (whose team plays in the level below MLS and whose fans sell hand-knit merchandise—how punk is that?); and Toronto’s awe-inspiring South Side Jumpers, U Sector, Red Patch Boys, North End Elite, Tribal Rhythm Nation and Ultras 114.

And then there’s the national-team-supporting Sam’s Army, who turned up at a 2005 game against England wearing T-shirts reading: “TEA IS FOR PUSSIES,” “BEACH BOYS KICK BEATLES’ ASS,” “BECKHAM IS A FAIRY,” “FDR CAN’T SAVE YOU NOW,” “MAGNA CARTA THIS … ” and “WE OWN MAN U.”

They also taunted the English goalkeeper for an entire half with the chant: “We’ve got dentists!”

American soccer fan culture is as diverse as America itself. It cherry picks whatever the hell it wants from Europe, the Caribbean and Central and South America, and adds its own unique touches. Portland, for instance, just retired a real-life goddamn real chainsaw-wielding real Douglas fir-climbing real-life lumberjack mascot called Timber Jim.

How American is that?

With fans like these—fans like the Sons of Ben—who the hell needs David Beckham?

But don’t think American soccer fandom doesn’t know it’s got a way to go. At the England/U.S. game in Chicago in 2005, the hundreds of chanting, drumming and singing members of Sam’s Army were drowned out at one point by thousands of English men and women lustily singing (to the tune of the Welsh hymn “Bread of Heaven”) “Are you Scotland in disguise?” The dude next to me stopped drumming, pointed at the away fans with his drumstick, and said, “Now that’s what I’m talking about.”

Momentarily stunned, the SOB bounced back by taunting Sagu, the visiting Baltimore goalie, with a mournful “Sagu SquarePants.” Sagu visibly wilted, making a rout all but inevitable. It was a moment of genuinely spontaneous fan wit, and it marked the moment the SOB had arrived. The TV cameras swooped, and the press—both national and international—slowly started to snowball.

MLS veteran executive Nick Sakiewicz is one of a number of people who’ve been trying to bring a franchise to Philly for years. He remembers getting on a plane with a copy of the English soccer mag FourFourTwo and coming across an article about the SOB trip to the Kixx.

“I thought, ‘Hello, what the hell is this?’”

Last month Sakiewicz turned up at a “meet the owners” night at the Dark Horse. Hundreds of SOB—scores of them having just joined in the previous week or so—showed up to meet him. There was a guy from Sweden, loads more women and a whole office of people who came en masse. And it was clear that the white, male, middle-class bias of the early membership was breaking down.

“Soccer is an international sport,” says 47-year-old Diane Sharpe, “and Philly is an international city.”

King mob: Philly’s soccer fans are already hated in other cities.

Though the media haven’t been invited, it’s hardly a secret that MLS is coming to Philly. It’s all very exciting. Sakiewicz stands on a chair to address the SOB, who break into a spontaneous chorus of “There’s only one Nick Sakiewicz!” to the tune of “Guantanamera.”

“I’ve been in this town 13 years,” says Sakiewicz, “and I know damn well that if we hit a losing streak, you guys will be booing me.”

Sakiewicz is immediately drowned out by a chorus of boos, interspersed with shouts of “Sack the owner,” “Snowballs” and “Don’t wear a Santa suit.” It’s clear the SOB are proud of Philadelphia’s fan heritage.

The Sons of Ben are what happens when America’s best fan culture meets America’s best fans.

But the prospect of Philly soccer fans clearly has some people terrified. Under the headline “THE WORST PHILLY SPORTS FANS OF ALL,” self-styled “journalist and columnist” Stephen J. Silver blogged that the “preemptive fan club” Sons of Ben “already have quite a reputation already for hooliganism.”

Nonsense—unless by hooliganism you mean getting under the skin of fans from other cities. The SOB have already proven hilariously adept at doing just that.

In June a convoy of cars carried some 30 SOB to a New York Red Bulls game. “We didn’t even have enough people to rent a bus,” says Dave Flagler.

This game saw the introduction of what’s probably the best SOB chant to date. Fans of Red Bull (formerly the New York/New Jersey MetroStars) were predictably outraged by “We’ve won as many cups as you, Metro, Metro. We’ve won as many cups as you, and we don’t have a team.”

“The great thing is that they were playing Kansas City, but all their chants were directed against us—a bunch of guys who didn’t even have a team,” says Flagler. “It was kinda hilarious.”

In January 2008, when the SOB attended the MLS draft, the announcement was made that the next franchise was probably going to Philly. New Yorkers present started screaming: “Give it to St. Louis! Give it to St. Louis!”

Of such stuff are great sporting rivalries made.

In November the SOB took two busloads—about 100 people—to the MLS cup final between the New England Revolution and the Houston Dynamo in Washington, D.C.

Now imagine you’re a passionate New England fan attending the highlight game of the season, and smack dab in the middle of your section are 100 Philadelphians in Philly colors, banging a big Philly drum, singing Philly songs, chanting Philly chants, and generally being kinda up in your grill and, you know, Philadelphian.

Annoying, huh? Now imagine they start chanting “Buffalo Bills”—a non-too-subtle reference to the NFL team that, like the New England Revolution, have a heartbreaking habit of making it to the finals and then choking.

“They kind of lost it,” says 34-year-old Bob Lindenmuth of Drexel Hill. “They were yelling, ‘Why are you even here? You don’t even have a team.’”

Lindenmuth posted a video of the appalled New Englanders on YouTube. It ends with an enraged Revolution fan trying to claw the camera out of his hands.

The Revolution fans on one side of the SOB started throwing missiles, including, says Dave Flagler, “full open bottles of Gatorade.” These mostly missed the SOB and hit the New England fans on the other side, who responded by also throwing bottles.

“After the game, which of course New England lost, this middle-aged woman marched up to us,” says Bob Lindenmuth. “She said, ‘You people are a disgrace. A disgrace to soccer. A disgrace to Philadelphia. A bunch of losers.’”

Admittedly the SOB—a fan club for a team that doesn’t exist yet—are a little weird. You could compare them to the South Sea cargo cultists who, after European and U.S. troops left their islands after World War II, built straw runways and control towers in an attempt to lure them back.

Only difference being, of course, that the SOB succeeded. They brought a real plane down on their straw runway. They brought Major League Soccer to Philly.

Old skull: Jason Watt freezes his bones in a Chester parking lot.

Okay, so maybe it would’ve come here anyway. There’s a whole hornswoggle of financial and political horse-trading that went on in the corridors of power while the SOB were out rabble-rousing.

But so what? Without the SOB, the coming of the Philadelphia whatever-the-hell-they’re-gonna-be-called wouldn’t be half as exciting.

More than 500 new members joined the Sons of Ben in the week following the announcement. And there were reports of SOB-inspired “preemptive fan groups” in Brooklyn (the Borough Boys), Miami, Phoenix and—better late than never—St. Louis.

As one SOB T-shirt puts it, quoting the movie Anchorman: “We’re kind of a big deal.”

Back in Chester, most of the visiting dignitaries have scurried back to Philly or Harrisburg, their cars whisking them past the ghost town of overgrown yards and falling-apart row houses that abut the wasteland where the stadium will be built.

“We the (Soccer) People,” the petition started, “in order to form a more perfect sports world … ”

Back at the press conference a stunned-looking Bryan James smiles at the microphones. It’s noticeable that the banners behind the stage where the recently exited dignitaries made their long and mostly rather boring speeches show images not of the great and the good—they don’t even feature the game’s superstars. They show the fans.

Also present is a dude walking around with a cardboard sign reading “C.C.C.” It stands for Chester City Casuals. “Nothing to do with the Sons of Ben,” he says.

That’s two supporters’ groups. And no team.

Yet.

Over to one side of the stage Walter Bahr—Philadelphia’s World Cup hero—talks to anyone who’ll listen about Philly’s glorious soccer past.

This city once provided the backbone of the U.S. national team. Walter talks about the ethnic and mill teams of the ’30s, ’40s and ’50s. He talks about Philadelphia’s Bartholomew “Bart” McGhee, who scored the first goal in U.S. World Cup history in 1930. He talks of grim and bitter rivalries with New York teams, fought out on converted baseball fields and polo grounds, and of the great Philly teams—the Atoms, the Fury and the Charge. “We are a soccer town,” he says proudly.

He’s right. Philly has always been a great soccer town. We just forgot it for a while.