This past August, at the kickoff of United States soccer’s marquee rivalry match, no chants rang through the stadium, no drums were beat, and no banners rippled in the late summer breeze. As the Portland Timbers and Seattle Sounders played the opening minutes of the most heated contest in Major League Soccer, the teams’ famously vibrant and vocal supporters’ groups—or independent fan clubs—remained subdued, with entire sections of the stands silent. The television broadcast cranked up the volume of on-field microphones so that viewers would not be surprised by the deadened atmosphere inside Portland’s Providence Park, and sound engineers frantically adjusted levels every time a player came too close to a mike. In the words of one fan, “You could hear the players tying their shoes.” Then, as the game clock struck 33:01, the stadium roared to life, with supporters from both sides singing a version of “Bella Ciao,” an Italian antifascist anthem. Flags with three arrows pointed southwest flew proudly around the field.This coordinated protest, by some of the largest and most active supporters’ groups in Major League Soccer (MLS), had its origins in a much larger context. Earlier this summer, the league had used a provision in its “Fan Code of Conduct” to prohibit the display of the symbol of the Iron Front, an anti-Nazi paramilitary organization dating from the Weimar Republic, in its stadiums. It was this very symbol, the ‘Antifascist Circle,’ that could be seen in the stands as the Timbers and Sounders played in August.
The contentious piece of the fan code forbids “using (including on any sign or other visible representation) political, threatening, abusive, insulting, offensive language and/or gestures.” The league banned the Iron Front symbol for its “political” connections; while Portland and Seattle supporters’ groups claim that the symbol broadly represents antifascism and anti-racism, MLS cited its more recent adoption by some subgroups of the antifa movement. According to MLS President and Deputy Commissioner Mark Abbott, “There is a place for third-party political organizations or groups to express their views, but that place isn’t within our stadiums”; in an interview with ESPN, MLS Commissioner Don Garber said, “Our stadiums are not environments where our fans should be expressing political views.”
These messages did not go over well with the Timbers supporters’ groups. During a summer that has seen increased right-wing organizing in Oregon, and a march in Portland by the white supremacist group Proud Boys, some perceived the league’s ban on the Iron Front flag as “a targeted attack that creates a safe place for white supremacy,” as one fan put it in an article from The Oregonian. Furthermore, coming on the heels of the league’s extensive branding and messaging surrounding Pride Month, this summer’s effort to keep stadium environments free of “political” statements seemed like a jarring shift in protocol. Though the Pride flag, officially flown in every stadium in the league, is (unfortunately) a somewhat controversial symbol, the fans’ hope is that anti-Nazi attitudes are fairly universal.
The protest at the Timbers-Sounders game was intended to affirm the supporters’ groups’ political stance, draw national attention to what they see as censorship, and call on the league to change their policies regarding expression. A joint statement from the group Timbers Army and Sounders supporters’ associations, released in conjunction with the rivalry game, called for MLS to rescind its ban on the Iron Front symbol, remove the word “political” from its code of conduct because of its “inherently arbitrary” nature, and alter the fan code of conduct to have language “that reflects and supports radical inclusion and anti-discrimination.” Before the match, the team captains exchanged pennants that included the words “anti-fascist” and “anti-racist,” and the sides broke protocol by posing together for photographs. The silent protest ended at the 33rd minute mark, commemorating the year 1933, when the Iron Front was disbanded by the ascendant Nazi government. The silence, the antifascist anthem, and the flying of the Iron Front symbol in clear violation of the league’s ban turned the night that had originally been about celebrating the greatest United States soccer rivalry into a statement of solidarity between opposing supporters rejecting MLS’s efforts to keep stadiums apolitical.
The specific conflict over antifascist symbols in stadiums and MLS’s hypocritical content-based restrictions of expression is symptomatic of the ownership structure of the league, which leaves supporters’ groups with no power while emphasizing profit and investor confidence. MLS is organized around a “single entity” structure, in which the teams and player contracts are all owned by the league itself. Owners buy a share in the league, and in return receive the rights to operate a club. The league itself, from its inception in the 1990s, has been obsessed with stability. Following the financial failures of several predecessor leagues, MLS’s highly centralized structure was chosen to limit the risks for possible investors; individuals and groups who want to purchase teams are exposed to less liability, since the league has a stake in each club. It is a win-win for the league and the owners: there is consistency in marketing and branding, investors have little fear of bankruptcy, and no club can go rogue. It is this structure that allows for the kind of top-down decisions, like the details of the enforcement of the “Fan Code of Conduct,” that are made in the interests of the league, as opposed to the interests of its fans.
In this model, however, supporters of clubs have no official standing to make demands of their clubs in terms of administration, finances, or other decisions (except in one or two isolated agreements between owners and supporters). Taken for granted, the supporters are essentially “allowed” to be fans of their clubs, but no more. Their feedback is only considered when it may have financial implications for the club’s owner, or when the league’s reputation is in question. The Iron Front symbol, therefore, can be removed from stadiums by fiat, despite the clear desire of supporters to express their beliefs through its display. This system, which exploits the emotion and dedication of soccer fans without allowing them to participate in decision-making or demonstrations, is not the only way to organize a league; for an alternative, we can look to Germany, and its longstanding traditions of community-focused soccer.
As global soccer has become more and more plutocratic, with a focus on investors, from Russia to Saudi Arabia, developing brands that often provide cover for autocratic governments and corrupt business practices, German soccer has been able to stay close to its working-class roots thanks to the “50+1 rule.” Historically, German clubs began as membership organizations, often formed by workers in a factory, laborers in a particular industry, or employees of a certain appendage of the state. Municipalities built stadiums and allowed local clubs, owned collectively by people in the community, to play in them. Even today, membership in a top-flight German soccer club costs less than fifty euros a year, with most clubs having thousands of members. Until 1998, all German clubs were owned entirely by their supporters, who could decide which executives to hire, when to improve their training grounds, and any other details of the club’s management that were raised at an annual meeting. Since then, however, outside investment has been allowed into the Bundesliga, Germany’s first division. In order to ensure that clubs cannot be taken over by corporations or wealthy individuals, the German football league (the Deutsche Fußball-Liga) adopted the 50+1 rule, under which membership organizations must control fifty percent, plus one vote, of the club’s voting shares.
As other high-profile leagues in Europe have commercialized, the Bundesliga remains reluctant to capitalize on merchandising and television deals in quite the same way; this is due to resistance from supporters’ groups, which, in many cases, are able to control how their clubs vote on league-wide issues. Boycotts, pitch disruptions, and other community-focused protests are all part of the German soccer landscape, not only on matters like media-rights deals and anti-commercialization, but also in support of stronger anti-racism efforts and against stricter military-style policing of fans. According to James Montague of Tifo Football, “Supporters are listened to in Germany, and supporter activism, organized within supporter clubs and ultra groups, have fought for those rights and continue to fight the commercialization of the game.”
Supporters have sway in German soccer because of their economic stakes in their clubs; the collective ownership model, preserved by the 50+1 rule, has allowed them to take administrative, and at times political, stands through solidarity and protest. Whereas MLS legislates from the top down, with the league selling the rights to operate individual clubs, the Bundesliga was formed as an association of independent clubs, themselves each controlled by their thousands of members. As a result, while MLS has struggled this summer with increased political expression in its stadiums, German soccer has long had room for political, and at times radical, groups.
1. FC Union Berlin are not the most successful, the most storied, or even the most radical club in German soccer. Nonetheless, the club’s history of politics and community involvement is a testament to the power of the collective ownership model, and of the unifying effect that a soccer club can have. Founded in its current form by trade union federation leader Herbert Warnke in 1966 “for the workers of Berlin,” the club enjoyed no great success in the East German league for two and a half decades. They were continually bested by their rivals, Dynamo Berlin, which had strong ties to the Stasi (and whose club president was the head of the East German secret police). Seeing that trade unionists stood little chance against the surveillance and brutality of authoritarianism on the field, the club and its members turned their attention to the community, and the club’s role as an anti-establishment touchstone came to the fore. Punks, students, dissidents, and seemingly every malcontent in East Berlin came to Union’s games to voice their anger. Throughout the eighties, they chanted “The wall must go,” and “I’d rather be a loser than a Stasi pig,” an insurgent voice 20,000 strong. According to the satirical newspaper Eulenspiegel, “Not every fan of Union was an enemy of the state, but every enemy of the state was a Union fan.”
After reunification, Union’s community of supporters remained strong. Bouncing between regional leagues and Germany’s second division, the club overcame hard times by relying on its members. In 2004, unable to satisfy financial requirements from the German football association (the Deutscher Fußball-Bund), fans launched the “Bleed for Union” campaign, in which they sent government stipends given to blood donors to the club. Tifo Football called it “A literal transfusion from the fans to keep the club alive.” In 2008, with millions of euros worth of repairs and renovations needed for the club’s historic ground, and with no money to spare, fans stepped in again. Thousands of volunteers and 140,000 hours of renovations later, the stadium was ready for the 2008-2009 season, a league title, and a return to the second division. On the heels of these colossal community efforts, Union were the only club in the German football association to vote against increased security measures for stadiums; for Union fans, the supporters were the club, and the club was the supporters, and they refused to treat each other with suspicion.
This year, Union entered the Bundesliga as the first club from East Berlin to ever play in the united Germany’s first division. The West Berlin club Hertha proposed the first top-flight Berlin derby be held on November 9th, to commemorate the fall of the Berlin Wall, but Union refused. Union President Dirk Zingler responded, “For me, it’s a derby—it stands for rivalry, for division, and football-based class conflict in the city.” Union have reached the highest level of German soccer, but their concerns are still with the community of their supporters. They will join in protests against commercialization and fight investor takeovers, but their sights remain set above the soccer-specific. In the case of Union, collective ownership has fostered a collective identity, one that transcends the sport itself and continues to value political expression in the context of a soccer game.
The difference in ownership structure between United States and German soccer, and therefore the degree of freedom of expression for supporters’ groups, is dictated by the underlying economic imperatives of the leagues. MLS sells soccer as an entertainment product to upper-middle-class families, while the German football association seeks to encourage its growth as a cultural artifact and rallying point for working-class communities. In Germany, the supporters’ groups are the club itself; in the United States, supporters’ groups are formed as third-party hangers-on. And, if MLS supporters’ groups are to be third-party organizations, how can such community-focused associations be true reflections of their members if they cannot collectively express the beliefs that tie them together? Supporters’ groups, both the rabid fans of Union Berlin and the passionate Timbers Army, are inherently political, because they involve the collective expression of the thoughts, opinions, and emotions of a community. When the official statement from MLS is that “third-party political organizations or groups” are unwelcome in their stadiums, the league’s hypocrisy is magnified. For Portland’s supporters, antifascism is an animating and unifying theme that has found its expression in chants, flags, and banners; to deny them their ability to display what they believe is to deny the group its role as organizer and voice of the community.
Here, the central difference between the politics of soccer in the United States and Germany is laid bare: MLS supporters are treated as consumers of the sport, while German fans wield political power in the social and economic dynamics of their clubs as true members and collective owners. Allowing soccer clubs to develop and express the political identities formed in and by the communities of their supporters does have its possible flaws: many clubs, especially in eastern Europe, have long histories of right-wing violence, xenophobia, and hooliganism, perpetrated most often by groups of superfans known as “ultras.” However, it is impossible to keep all political discourse out of the public forum of a soccer stadium, and the longer and harder MLS tried to keep its atmosphere apolitical, the more damage it does to the long-term fate of soccer in the United States. Arresting the growth of communities centered around soccer clubs—and instead focusing only on the financial benefit they bring to the league and its owners—builds a house on sand. German soccer has weathered social and political storms thanks to its foundations in local communities; if soccer in the United States is to become a valuable part of public life, it has quite a few lessons to learn.
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