Throw-Ins Not Included: An American’s Guide to Dutch “Football”

So, Alex has joined a Dutch soccer team. Or, as I’m now legally required to call it, a "football club." For those of you in the Bay Area, think Strikers - a competitive soccer club that is not the best in the region, but likely not the worst either.

If you’re picturing Ted Lasso but with more bicycles and fewer biscuits, you’re on the right track. But before you get too comfortable, let’s talk terminology. In Europe, it’s “football,” not “soccer.” As our British friend Tim (who still hasn’t forgiven us for celebrating the 4th of July) would say, “It’s the football played with your feet, not with your hands.” Americans, you can almost hear the collective European sigh every time we get this wrong.

But wait, there’s more! Practices? They’re “trainings.” Games? “Matches.” Fields? “Pitches.” Cleats? “Boots.” Teams? “Clubs.” Talking about youth sports here is like trying to order a sandwich in Amsterdam: you think you know the words, but then what shows up is a couple of pieces of bread with a slab of meat-like-product in the middle. Most of the world uses the European terms, so naturally, Americans double down and call everything by our own names, just to keep things spicy.

I try to blend in. I really do. So I announce, “Good news! Alex has joined a football club!” Inevitably, a European will ask if we had to ship over pads and helmets from the US, and I get to explain that, no, it’s the other football-the one played by 80% of the world. 

But let’s move on from the language barrier. There are plenty of other differences between American and Dutch soccer-sorry, football. The clubs here are actual clubs, with actual clubhouses. Picture a canteen selling snacks, drinks, and beer, with real restrooms (flush toilets!) and locker rooms. For those of you who have needed a restroom in the middle of a Strikers game - they've got you covered here!

I haven’t sampled the home team cuisine, but unless you’re looking for a hot dog, a candy bar, or a soda, you’re out of luck. This shouldn’t be a surprise to us since we’ve definitely learned by now that if you came to the Netherlands hoping for Tex-Mex or Memphis barbecue (or anything with flavor), you’re about 4,500 miles too far east. We have adjusted our expectations accordingly.

The locker room building. The two story building to the left is the clubhouse.

As for the locker rooms, I haven’t dared enter. Mike ventured in once, looking for a restroom, and reported that it smelled like a herd of 13-year-old boys had been living there since the ‘80s, and the cleaning crew retired sometime during the Clinton administration. Yet, the coach seems to love it - so much so that at halftime the team takes a five-minute pilgrimage back to the locker room for a five-minute strategy session, then takes a five-minute walk back to the pitch. Maybe all that walking keeps them limber? Maybe the odor works as a kind of smelling salt? 

Some clubs even have stands for fans. Don’t get excited - these aren’t exactly luxury suites. But they’re a step up from the US, where “stands” usually means “bring your own blanket or folding chair.” Maybe they need the shelter here, since it rains 217 days a year and the other 148 are just “mostly cloudy with a chance of mist.”

The seating area for fans

And because we are in the land of canals, every field comes with its own fishing pole - basically a 20 ft stick with a circular opening on one end for retrieving the balls that inevitably go in the water. To my dismay it took the parents about 10 minutes to fish a ball out during our first game. Alex says the ball goes in the water a lot during trainings, so I'm guessing the kids are fishing professionals by now.

Now, let’s talk rules. Here’s a fun twist: there are no throw-ins. When the ball goes out, the team that didn’t touch it last just plops it on the line and kicks it in. You can do a quick pass or a big boot, but if you try to throw it, you’ll get some very Dutch side-eye. I’m still investigating why this is a thing, but it’s now my personal “become European” quest to figure it out.

The other big shocker: almost no parents come to the games. In the US, every sideline is packed with parents, grandparents, and bored-to-tears siblings glued to their phones. Here? Three sets of parents per team, tops. The kids get themselves to games and practices - sorry, matches and trainings - by bike or public transport. Even for away games in the middle of cow country, only three parents show up. How do the other kids get there? Is there a secret team bus? Do Dutch children teleport? Another mystery to be investigated.

The upside? The sidelines are blissfully quiet. In five matches, I’ve only seen one parent get mildly worked up at a referee. The coaches, however, are a different story - three near-ejections in five games for storming the pitch to protest a call. Who said the Dutch aren’t passionate?  (To be fair, though, most of the coaches are from the typical football countries - Spain, Portugal, etc.)

But I am pleased to report that Alex is enjoying himself. He’s found an expat team-mostly Portuguese, with a dash of Spanish, French, and Ukrainian. When they play Dutch teams, it’s like the Dutch kids have a secret code (spoiler: it’s Dutch), and our kids have no idea what’s being said. It keeps things interesting.

All in all, we’re happy to be part of Dutch football culture. Even if I still have no idea why they don’t do throw-ins, and I’m pretty sure I’ll never get used to calling it “football.” But hey, at least I haven’t shown up with pads and a helmet. Yet.