Something’s occurred to me as I revel in this midweek relegation drunk between Sunderland and Fulham. Eh, a couple of things. One, the gap in Fulham’s midsection where Jimmy Bullard once studiously roamed is in plain, chasmal view—flashlit first by Kettering and now the Black Cats. Second, Clint Dempsey is now the only Amer’can outfielder plying his trade regularly in the self-proclaimed and often-affirmed best-league-in-the-world. A select deuce of spots available, and only Deuce remains.
It’s not as though that’s set in stone, either. Three days ago Dempsey manned the Cottagers’ starboard flank, today he’s midfielded and shifted port side. A starting role, period, hadn’t been procured until mid-November after the summer saw both a demotion and compatriotic exodus, which leads me to believe Roy Hodgson’s never really had the foggiest idea what the fuck do with him. His talent is quite obvious and warrants first-team security, but Deuce’s genre-bending and fiery impromptu have made deployment under The Owl difficult. Seems odd that a supposed master tactician is languishing in such talents, but that cavity in Fulham’s abdomen is probably expanding as I speak, so we’ll push on.
I’m not near seasoned enough to fashion myself of higher tactical acumen than anybody managing a professional side, and maybe this is just subdued xenophobia, but perhaps the solution for both the abovementioned abdominal tear and the side’s offensive blandscape this season lies in the enigmatic East Texan. And if that is indeed nationalism, then I suppose in the spirit of Gobama09! I’ll run with it; Clint Dempsey realizing (and perhaps eclipsing) his potential for Fulham would do far more to alter hackneyed preconceptions of American outfielders than would a Munichian resurrection for Landon Donovan. English football is a sacred plain where winds gust violent, steeds run roughshod through fire and brimstone and prisoners are seldom taken. (Can’t be a coincidence that American keepers playing in England all share the same chrome-domed coiffure gained upon arrival at Marine Corps boot camp.) A man of Dempsey’s background (read prefacing link for full story) and enterprise has naturally navigated this terrain with reverberating spirit, scratching and clawing his way into three different men’s visions in two years in west London.
This is where Fulham’s need for talismanic intervention and the pride of Nacogdoche's lone ambassador status collide in my eyes. On his finest day Deuce's style will echo a (dream) jam session between Chet Baker’s tranquility and Keith Moon’s bedlam, a collaboration in full view during his holiday brace against Chelsea. So why couldn’t this all translate to success in a Bullard-type role but with greater liberty to push forward and score goals, the hub around which Fulham’s attack will circumvent (think Arshavin)? Brian McBride captained this very club-an outstanding, pioneering achievement-but Dempsey has the capacity for more, for trancension, and thus I'm compelled to state that it could, should, and, subject willing, would translate, and that hopefully Hodgson sees fit to try it. Just imagine the implications of a Bush-state born, trailer-park raised, middle-linebacker intense Paul Wall-in-Vapors leading an English team up the table with his Friday Night Lights passion and spirit. That's some shit, right? Lord knows Deuce’s fire will oblige if his eyes so happen to gaze upon such an opportunity.
Lastly, a brief Ethopoetic sketch for any and all concerned; both Gigi Buffon’s (hopefully-translated-verbatim) general diction and his murdered out Sunday best from the weekend perfectly encapsulate everything this page and it’s keepers (no pun) stand for in football. And in life, really.
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