How Hanging Out with MLS Supporters in 2004 Prepared Me for Fatherhood in 2026

I remember when I was working in the Fan Development department at Major League Soccer in New York.

Way back in the early 2000s.

Yes, that really was another lifetime ago.

MLS was still finding its feet in the highly competitive and ridiculously saturated American sports landscape. When I joined the league office in 2003, there were just ten teams spread across the country, and many of them were still playing in enormous NFL stadiums.

Which meant that a few thousand people might be watching a soccer match in an 80,000-seat stadium.

Sometimes the American football lines were more prominent than the soccer ones.

Not exactly the most intimate setting for building a football culture.

My job was to help the league and its clubs build their fanbases through targeted programs, partnerships and community initiatives.

I loved the job.

I also loved football.

So, naturally, I took advantage of every opportunity I could to attend live MLS matches.

And something kept catching my attention.

The supporters.

Not the casual fans sitting in the stands. I’m talking about the small, passionate, slightly crazy groups who had somehow decided that their local MLS club was their club.

These were groups that had been created organically by fans. They gave themselves names. Sometimes cool names.

Sometimes… not so cool names.

They made banners. They created songs. They brought drums. They organised away trips. They showed up to every home game.

And they cared.

A lot.

I became fascinated by them.

Their passion. Their commitment. Their loyalty.

But perhaps most interestingly, their ability to make everyone around them care a little more.

So I came up with a research project.

I wanted to spend time with some of these supporters’ groups to understand what made them tick. How had they become so emotionally invested in a team that, at the time, wasn’t exactly the most obvious or fashionable sporting choice in America?

And, being the sports marketer I was, I also wanted to figure out whether we could somehow bottle that magic and replicate it across the league.

That last part, conveniently, helped secure the internal funding.

So I got to travel to three different MLS cities and spend an entire day with supporters’ groups.

It was, quite honestly, a dream research project.

 

A Day in the Life of an MLS Supporter

The day usually started by meeting the supporters’ group president at their home or at a local pub.

The objective was to build rapport.

The secondary objective was to extract as much information as possible without making it feel like I was conducting market research.

Because nothing kills authenticity faster than a guy from the league office showing up with a clipboard asking, “So, on a scale of 1–10, how passionate would you say you are about your club?”

I needed to avoid looking like a “suit.”

So we talked.

About football. About the club. About their lives. About how they had become supporters.

And then I usually ended up helping them load all the stuff they were bringing to the pre-match tailgate.

Bacon-wrapped hot dogs.

Beers.

Cold drinks.

Chips.

Lots of chips.

We’d drive to the stadium, park in the supporters’ area and wait for the rest of the group to arrive.

The next two or three hours were a strange and wonderful combination of eating, drinking, kicking a ball around, talking sport, debating current events and generally giving each other a hard time.

There was laughter.

There was banter.

There was nervous excitement about the upcoming match.

And, underneath it all, the collective hope that today might be the day their team finally put it all together.

About thirty minutes before kickoff, something changed.

The group would gather.

They would march into the stadium together.

Singing.

Drumming.

Chanting.

Trying to create enough noise to inspire their own players, energise the casual fans and, ideally, intimidate the visiting supporters.

And once the match started, it didn’t stop.

Win.

Lose.

Play well.

Play terribly.

The singing continued.

The drumming continued.

The chanting continued.

And after the final whistle, everyone would regroup outside the stadium or head to the familiar pub.

If the team won, they celebrated.

If the team lost, they celebrated less enthusiastically.

Or drank enough to forget.

Either way, they showed up again the following week.

Those were long, exhausting, hilarious and unforgettable days.

My friends back in New York genuinely couldn’t believe I was getting paid to do this.

I couldn’t either.

I usually returned from these “research days” with new friends, a slightly worn-out liver and a much deeper understanding of this strange and wonderful breed of early MLS supporter.

And there were a few things that really stayed with me.

They showed up.

These people invested enormous amounts of time and money into supporting their club.

Often without much recognition from the club's management or players.

It didn’t seem to matter.

They showed up because of passion.

Purpose.

Loyalty.

Community.

And sometimes, simply, duty.

Whatever else was happening in their lives, the match was still there.

And so were they.

They didn’t get to choose when it was easy.

It wasn’t that they enjoyed losing.

Of course they wanted their team to win.

But the result didn’t determine whether they were supporters.

They had already made the decision.

They had chosen their club.

Some had quite literally tattooed the club’s emblem onto their bodies.

There was no “I’ll support them while they’re good.”

There was no transfer window for supporters.

They were in.

For the good seasons.

The bad seasons.

The glorious victories.

And the painful defeats.

They chose the road less travelled.

In the early 2000s, supporting an MLS club wasn’t necessarily the coolest thing you could do.

The league was still establishing its relevance in American sport, and plenty of people — including some senior figures in the American sports industry — were happy to make fun of it.

But these supporters didn’t care.

They chose MLS.

They chose their local club.

And they committed to spending seven or eight months of their lives following a team that many people around them didn’t take particularly seriously.

That, in itself, was pretty cool.

There was a lot happening behind the scenes.

From the outside, supporters’ groups could look like a bunch of people drinking beer, banging drums and jumping around in a stadium.

And, to be fair, there was plenty of that.

But there was also an enormous amount of invisible work.

Administration.

Logistics.

Fundraising.

Food planning.

Travel.

Clean-up.

Mediation.

Emotional counselling.

Probably more emotional counselling than anyone would admit.

The visible product was the noise in the stadium.

The invisible product was everything required to make that noise happen.

And finally, I learned something about appreciation.

The supporters didn’t necessarily expect it.

But when a player or someone from the club genuinely acknowledged them — not because they had been told to, but because they genuinely appreciated what the supporters had done — it meant something.

A lot.

Sometimes a simple clap towards the supporters’ section after a match was enough.

And I didn’t fully understand why until much later.

 

Fast Forward 22 Years

This morning, I was playing with my seven-month-old daughter, Leela.

And suddenly, for some reason, I thought about those MLS supporters.

Which is not an obvious connection.

Unless, of course, you have a slightly strange brain that spent 20 years working in sports.

And then it hit me.

I’m basically a football supporter again.

Just not of a football club.

I’m a Leela supporter.

And the similarities are surprisingly strong.

I show up.

Over the last seven months, I have committed most of my non-working hours to this little human.

And, honestly, it hasn’t always been easy.

Or fun.

There are dirty diapers.

There are multiple middle-of-the-night wake-ups.

There are moments when I’m exhausted, stressed about work and desperately wondering how to make a boring children’s book interesting for Leela and myself. 

But I do it.

Because I love her.

Because I’m loyal to her.

Because I love this expanded version of our family.

And sometimes, because I recognise that some things are simply my responsibility.

My duty.

Just like those supporters showed up for their club, I show up for my daughter.

I don’t only support her on the good days.

This one might be the biggest parallel.

I absolutely love the good days.

When Leela is smiling.

Laughing.

Playing.

Exploring.

Just hanging out in the world, completely comfortable in her own skin.

Those moments are incredible.

But strangely, I also love the difficult days.

The crying.

The screaming.

The random middle-of-the-night wake-ups.

The moments when neither of us seems to understand what the other one wants.

That doesn’t mean I enjoy those moments.

Just as an MLS supporter didn’t enjoy watching their team lose 3–0 on a freezing Wednesday night.

It means the difficult moments don't change the underlying relationship.

You don’t stop being a supporter because the team is having a bad day.

And you don’t stop being a father because your baby is having one.

I chose a slightly unconventional path.

In 2004, supporting an MLS club wasn’t necessarily the most popular choice.

In 2026, becoming a dad in your late 40s probably isn’t the most conventional choice either.

At least among the people I grew up with.

But I’ve never been particularly interested in taking the most conventional path.

My wife, Avantika, had a strong desire to have a baby.

I said yes.

And here we are.

Another road less travelled.

Another commitment I’m very happy to have made.

What you see isn’t the whole story.

This is probably the biggest thing I’ve learned.

Sometimes I see child-free people looking at us at a park or café.

Avantika, Leela and me.

Smiling.

Playing.

Looking like we’ve figured this parenting thing out.

And occasionally, I catch a look that says:

That actually looks pretty nice.

And it is.

But what they don’t see is everything that happened before that moment.

The preparation.

The bags.

The bottles.

The clothes.

The toys.

The lack of sleep.

The negotiations.

The exhaustion.

The occasional bickering.

The fact that this may well be the only outing we manage that day because simply getting out of the house has become an Olympic event.

Much like those supporters’ groups, the visible product is the fun.

The invisible work is everything that makes the fun possible.

And then there’s the thank-you.

This might be my favourite connection of all.

Those early MLS supporters didn’t always receive much from the club.

They travelled.

They spent their money.

They sang for 90 minutes.

They stood in the rain.

They endured terrible performances.

They came back the following week.

And then, occasionally, after a difficult away match, a player would walk over to the supporters’ section.

Maybe clap.

Maybe wave.

Maybe say thank you.

And suddenly, the whole thing felt worthwhile.

One small gesture.

One genuine acknowledgement.

That was enough.

Fatherhood can feel strangely similar.

A seven-month-old doesn’t exactly have a sophisticated system for recognising parental sacrifice.

There are no annual performance reviews.

No bonuses.

No handwritten thank-you notes.

No LinkedIn recommendation.

Just a tiny human who has somehow managed to consume an extraordinary amount of my physical and mental energy.

And yet…

One smile.

One giggle.

One hug.

One kiss.

Sometimes just one look from Leela.

And suddenly, all of it melts away.

The exhaustion.

The confusion.

The stress.

The middle-of-the-night wake-ups.

The dirty diapers.

The moments when I have absolutely no idea what I’m doing.

Gone.

Just like that.

And I understand now why those supporters kept coming back.

It was never really about the football.

Not entirely.

It was about belonging to something.

Choosing something.

Showing up for something you loved, even when it wasn’t convenient, easy or particularly rewarding in the moment.

And every once in a while, getting a little sign that the thing you were giving so much of yourself to noticed you too.

I spent those days in the early 2000s trying to understand what made football supporters so passionate.

Twenty-two years later, I think I finally understand.

Because I’m one of them.

I’m just supporting a much smaller team.

One player.

Seven months old.

Still undefeated in my book.