Happy hooligans: Soccer in Sacramento a success so far

Two 20-something guys wearing those trendy soccer scarves hoist IPA pints toward the sky. They chant and bounce in the back of a white pickup, singing something about how they will remain loyal to the city's newest semipro soccer squad, the Sacramento Republic FC. The lyrics are unmemorable. Or, at least, I can't recall them. But there's a lot of “whoa, whoa, whoas,” so it's easy to sing along. Which a couple hundred prideful fans do at the Track 7 Brewing Co. parking lot.

A young guy in a bear suit jumps around. Women dance and spin. Babies sport face paint. Two men announce via a megaphone that only six tickets remain to join these fanatics and more than 22,000 others at Hughes Stadium for the team's inaugural April 26 match later that night. Do I grab a ticket, or wait in the beer line, which Track 7's co-owner Geoff Scott tells me is the longest he's seen ever? I really enjoy cold brew. And I don’t know jack about soccer.

I opt for a ticket. This is kind of a big deal: Sacto's debut soccer game. Or football match. Or whatever it's called.

R.J. Cooper is under a Republic FC tent wearing dark shades. He's a member of the Tower Bridge Battalion, which is the Sacramento version of those unruly hooligans you see at football matches in England. He and the guy to his right aren't all that threatening. Thankfully. Cooper hands over one of the match's final tickets. I'm in.

Next, brewski. The line is Space Mountain-esque. At least 40 minutes. Perhaps more—I'm not much for beer-line braggadocio. Let's just say it was painful. But worthwhile: Track's Panic is truly one of the best IPAs in town (but who am I to judge?).

If you've ever been to Track 7, you know that it's tucked away in an unremarkable commercial warehouse zone a stone's throw from Sacramento City College. After songs and suds, the Battalion raises its flags, pounds its drums and actually marches over the Sutterville Road overpass and into the stadium. Pretty awesome.

More than four-dozen freeloaders observe the game from Sutterville Road. Inside the stadium, the atmosphere is a Kings playoff game—times 10. Parents hold little babies in the air, kids go blue blowing vuvuzelas (those annoying horns people blast at soccer matches) and thousands let out ill-timed roars, since most don't know anything about soccer.

Most people also don't speak a lick of Spanish, apparently. The only downer about the night is a group of young guys to my right. During the match, they keep heckling the opposing team's goalkeeper, yelling “puto!” each time he does a free kick. Emboldened by the fact that white people don't understand what a majority of California's population speaks, they grow louder as the game progressed. Not cool.

But, finally, soccer is.