Last year I interviewed former MLS defender Robbie Russell, who played professionally in both the United States and Europe. He told me that one of the great advantages of being a footballer in America is simply being able to live a normal life. American supporters, he said, generally leave you alone between matches. In Europe, a single mistake can follow you for days. A cashier may remind you of the mis-hit pass that cost the club three points. It is wonderful when you are winning, and very hard during the inevitable lows.
I saw a version of this myself years ago when my son’s club team traveled to the Netherlands. The boys were told not to wear an Ajax shirt in Rotterdam. Even a jersey purchased simply because they liked the design could be interpreted as a declaration. Football shirts in much of Europe are less fashion than identity.
Does this make the American fan a better fan?
Not necessarily.
But it does make the American fan a different kind of fan.
In Europe, a manager can win a championship and still be dismissed the following season if the opening months fail to meet expectations. In America, that same manager would almost certainly be given a full year. The rhythms of loyalty are simply not the same.
Part of the difference lies in how supporters come to their clubs. In Europe, allegiance is often inherited—a matter of family, neighborhood, religion, or local identity. Supporting a club can feel less like making a choice than accepting an inheritance. Some clubs even maintain formal supporter organizations with voting rights and organized travel, reinforcing the idea that fandom carries obligations as well as privileges.
American supporters face nothing comparable. I can become an Alabama fan because I live in Alabama, because my father attended school there, or simply because I admire the team. No registration. No generational expectation. No civic duty beyond enthusiasm.
Another part of the difference may lie in the societies themselves. Americans often organize their lives more intensely around work and economic success. European societies, though hardly uniform, generally provide a little more space for passions that exist outside one’s profession. For many supporters of Rangers or Celtic, Saturday’s match is the emotional center of gravity for the week. Americans can be every bit as passionate, but the balance is different.
We even coined terms like fair-weather fan and bandwagon effect. In some ways, those are healthy ideas. Why shouldn’t someone support a club whose style they admire or whose values they share, even if the commitment is not lifelong?
I became an Arsenal supporter because I loved the way they played when I first began following European football—and because I admired Arsène Wenger. I admired the club even more when it stood by him during seasons many supporters considered disappointing.
The results had changed.
The principles had not.
I have long felt similarly about Pittsburgh Steelers coach Mike Tomlin. Critics often argued that he did just enough to keep his job. I saw something different. He represented continuity—the values of a franchise whose ownership has remained within the Rooney family since the 1930s, and whose identity has always been steadiness rather than spectacle.
Those are the institutions I find myself drawn toward—steady enough to survive disappointment without abandoning themselves.
No one forces us to support a team, whether in America or Europe. But the choices we make—and the cultures that shape those choices—are fascinating. They reveal not only what we value in sport, but how we understand loyalty itself.
The teams we choose say surprisingly little about football.
They say a great deal about community, belonging, and ourselves.