sideburns like heron beaks

Other than perhaps law, nowhere does the concept of possession hold more weight than it does in sport. In fact, the debate would be abooout near a cul-de-sac; athletics involving both a "ball" and two "teams" basically have their double helices woven by this exercising of influence over said "ball", a bond so heavy not a jack on earth could lift it. The beauty then lies in the differences employed -- in baseball, the defense doesn't want but is essentially always in possession; basketball as a procedure is the most dependent on it. Peyton Manning recently just exposed his football's lie teal-and-orange-handed; he won an hour-long affair in which he was on the field seven seconds shy of Andy declarin' him famous.



Now, we could go on 'til infinity about the role possession of the pelota plays on the pitch (alliterations -- for your health!), especially in 2009's game. The teams most currently blinging have bet their vineyards on possession, the players most currently adored equip games predicated on it. Common thought now holds that the planet's select finest have emigrated to possession football's stronghold; Ronaldo, Kaka, and Ibra joined Messi on Spanish soil and their psychology shouldn't be foreign to any. They're players that find their frames in bitchin' poses tailor-made for FIFA covers, players feigning Jerry to helpless defenders' Tom, players who'd fancy nothing better than a right old mano-a-mano jaunt at an anonymous, backtracking fullback. In other's words -- specifically Sammy's -- La Liga's gonna be berry, berry good to them.

And every morning, David Villa arises from sleep, thinks about all of the previous, looks at the ceiling, shrugs, and sighs, why the fuck not me? His look is as premeditated as Ronaldo's, he's just as Spanish as Torres or Xavi or even Rooney's beloved Iniesta -- so then why is David Villa stuck in, as Steve Zissou once offered Klause Daimler, his role as soccer's "B" squad leader? Why not the "A" squad, the elite of the elite of the elite? So goes the saga of the incumbent Finest (Offensive) Player Without The Ball -- indeed, The Kid (of no relation to this). Oh, he's good with the rock too, but that part's no secret (not that the other is). He's among the few gifted enough to enter any box with the knowledge and ability to score from any and all situations thrown before him, be it by air or land or the damn Mediterranean, by head or hip or backheel. He's also alarmingly vampiric, but more Count Chocula than True Blood (Skrtel's got Nosferatu covered), none of which is helped by the team he's on, or the kits they're wearing this season. But the goals are what we're fed, not necessarily what everyone's craving, and some would better see his displays find the palates craving hors d'oeuvre of 1,001 diagonal runs.



Look no further than his Wikipedia page for some answers: "I can barely remember a single training session when my dad wasn't there. I have never been alone on a football pitch." He can't help but play off of others, which is why during the course of a Valencia or Spain affair you'll find him leaving no blade of grass unmaimed, runs of rhombi in angles atypical at velocities always kept onside. As such, in that same match you'll find him too ruing a handful of wasted chances, perhaps more than one would accept or expect. But if his escapades didn't provide him gilt-edged opportunities in such high volume, the law of averages wouldn't prosecute his shooting touch so frequently, si o no?

This summer his psyche had had enough of going through the exact same motions I just did; he saw the skyscrapers erecting right on his block and found he was finally in a climbing mood. With his club broke, there could be no more "B" squad, no more sidecar to the less-prolific Torres, and he wouldn't leave Spain to do it. But then there was Benzema, and then Ibra, and then Valencia's juice apparently ceased its running, and as soon as the dust had cleared the wind riled it back up again. But somewhere about his silence David Villa had to have pondered if the issue perhaps wasn't with the club but was instead with him, his technique and his blueprints. Such was his plight; kids aren't flooding YouTube with videos of Rip Hamilton and mask weaving through picks and hitting elbow jumpers for the same reason. So instead, the Pichichi quenches at the watering hole's shore, oblivious to the predator wearing the #7 lurking behind (and currently leading), a point to prove to the esteemed now beside him too lying in wait.

leisure in salmon aways

So hey, you catch Barca, man? Shit hasn't changed, I know -- it's great. (Enough to raise a few words up out me, which hopefully precedes a fit of non-dormancy here in the future.)

Sure, they always rip Baby Madrid to shreds at the Camp Nou, and there really couldn't have been a worse game for Abel Resino to debut a raw, inchoate keeper in. But, did you hear that third goal by Dani Alves? That free kick, off post and into twine, was amplified enough to where it really just sounded like sport, like tens of skates cutting on ice, the squeak of a Nike on hardwood, or the desultory yet sultry beat of a high-level Grand Slam rally. They raped Atletico in stirring enough fashion to where excuses needn't be made, though; even enough to ask serious questions of those that chose sides with Chelsea in the shit (martial, not fecal) in May. Not because their focus is on possession football, or attacking football or fuckin' champagne football, but because it's their focus -- FC Barcelona's focus. As in specific to the roster and the manager who both inherited and constructed it, and their way about the ideal. To lionize, these Wearers of Unicef, near lone and heroically steeped adherers to homegrown fruit, the absolute pride of their region -- from watching them, even with Ibra now (who's of course immediately bought in; one hopes the Ariza/RonRon swap affords some congruency, though....you just never really know with Ron Artest, do you?), it's clear their objective still isn't scoring golassos or winning games even, but in creating as much joy in ninety plus minutes as humanly (but not humanely) possible. Joy, indeed, is a product of both the goals and the victories (as they continue to prove; see said Alves goal and celebration), but somehow Barca make it as though they'd be content in losing as long the feat could somehow be joyous. That's on another plane as far as I'm concerned, but if ever a collective could justify dabbling in high concept, in redefining the win/loss dynamic, it's the defending Treblers. What is sure and tangible, though, is that Perez can spend and spend until the capital's bone dry, and no amount can make these Blaugrana disappear.

one cheek, three weeks: a half-assed and tardy Premier League Prevision

With rosters bound and chained until the new year and this obnoxious international break now in full swing, there seems no better time than the present to effuse an EPL preview, one which -- despite three to four rounds having been waged already -- will feature a table read grossly different than the one incumbent. It'll also, mind you, surely become lost somewhere within the Bermuda Triangle of what I think would be nice and kempt and topped with a bow if it were to happen, what's thought ought to happen with regards to history and lore and all that hullabaloo, and my actual prognostications regarding this term. And it shall here commence at the most reverent and obvious of places to commence -- 11th position-- and will continue on in such reverence to your (mis)guided pleasure.


11 Fulham
This is three spots lower than their finish the year prior, but will feel only about one. Will remain to be seen whether this is because of underachievement this season or overachievement the last. Somewhere Brian McBride will take note indifferently.

5 Everton
I trust David Moyes. Heitinga and Distin are together enough cover for Legoscott, Arteta and Yakubu have just pulled up to the curb of playing-health, and Tim Howard is now good enough to where, as so noted by BPhillips at RoP, it's never his fault. But more than anything else, I trust David Moyes. Perhaps it's because he always has a look like he's wondering how much pressure his palms could apply to human temples before any serious damage was done, but that's trust I can (be coerced to) believe in.

19 Birmingham
I'll give you a Scot I don't particularly trust though -- Alex McLeish. Alright, that's a lie; I trust him to continue Birmingham's status as the English game's resident whac-a-mole. There's always that team that "rides the rollercoaster" of promotion/relegation, right, or at least there always should be. Like a marginally distant cousin you only get to see every odd year and thus their life unfolds for you in a choppy half time. Hey man, is that an Ecuadorian striker with Ma$e hair that goes by Chucho? ....No no, that's cool, man. Really. It's a bit like Mad Men, but in quarters free from secondhand smoke concerns.

16 Wolves
There's also always now that side that manages to grant themselves a second go-around up top, and Mick McCarthy appears enough of an Aardman clay character to secure Wolves' place in the big leagues a further year.

7 West Ham
Remember all the tragedy the Not Actually Los Angeles But Orange County Angels Of Anaheim endured before this season, with numerous injuries and the unfathomably tragic death of preposterously young arm Nick Adenhart hours after he threw six scoreless innings? They're now in line to win their division and could perhaps be the only team capable of taking the Yankees for the pennant, as it's Boston they've struck up a hoodoo with. This isn't the first time a team has "banded together" after unfortunate universal circumstances, put their heads down and powered on through them. And between the Millbrawl, Jack Collison's pops and Carlton Cole's backpass, Obama's Team has procured enough angst in these beginnings to provide them the means of a European shelter after the storm. And, thanks to Zola, they'll look pretty good doing it, too.

12 Wigan
Well, somebody has to finish here.

3 Liverpool
I mean, I don't know. In theory they'll be in contention until the finish, but in February when they've just nil-nilled Wolves at home and they're not sitting atop the table and Rafa's gaze starts slyly wandering towards EUROPEAN NIGHTS AT ANFIELD, will anybody outside of the Mersey even flinch?


You're right, Xabi Alonso will. But it won't be much, and it won't last very long.

18 Bolton
And this is exactly why you'll be seeing the drop, Bolton; cause there's not one god damn interesting thing to say about you.

9 Sunderland
In his post preceding this, Steve Bruce at some point decided his team-building strategy would be to blur any distinction between Wigan Athletic FC and the national football team of Honduras. An endearing concept, things were running quite smoothly until 'Arry ate all the skin off the chicken, decided he sure too liked the idea and gave Wilson Palacios an offer he couldn't refuse. Looted of his side's engine, perhaps his most integral piece, Stevsie saw out his time amongst the rugby and pie and then hightailed it up north where a good Manchester man can find the resources to experiment however he pleases, so long as the idea is more invigorating than "let's buy only Man United rejects". What's followed have been acquisitions of what could be contextually and lovingly referred to as "assholes" (Lorik Cana, Lee Cattermole, John "The Rock Of Gibraltar" Mensah), a more sustainable means of survival and continuance of having the over on their fallen Geordie neighbors.

10 Tottenham
And Steve'll too get the over on the shrew who tripped up his dream of Honduran revolution at Wigan. 'Arry Redknapp and Bill Simmons -- he who just reached astronomical new highs in narcissism by assuming that the world were actually so privileged as to lay their eyes upon a diary of he and his friends' Abercrombie trip to Vegas for a fantasy draft, in two fucking volumes? Spurs' 09/10 story vultures around these two asses, and this is gonna bring a top-four finish? ....yeah? Consider this in the abovementioned "nice and kempt and bow-topped" category, but christ -- this is still Tottenham, people.

15 Blackburn
Like Bolton, there's not much to say, here, either, except an observation in lieu of a postulation posed again by Brian at RoP, the Premier League as The Big Lebowski.















Yep.

8 Aston Villa
They might finish higher, but it won't be any further than sixth, which coupled with the two preceding sixths and their apathy of continental football, won't amount to anything further than finishing eighth would.

14 Burnley
As previously noted, up until last year, the trend had been one newly promoted team would beseech relegation and alter the Premier League's shape ever so slightly; then like a prosthetically-aged Steve-O at the first Jackass film's finale (highest of sophistication 'round here, come on), Phil Brown somehow found himself unscathed after the smoke and limbs had cleared. And so the tide will continue in May, where alongside Wolves will remain Burnley; their early form an abberration perhaps but likewise in possession of a few essential elements of survival: the unique ability to both complete passes and then -- shocker! -- hold on to them, and a competent (to say the least...or should I say...to say the beast? BAM!) goalkeeper. Plus, and what these early victories have inarguably demonstrated, is that they ain't scared of nobody, which isn't quite enough to help them at Stamford Bridge persay but will be plenty to give them a fantastic chance at another year in the majors.

13 Stoke City
That ephemeral new shape the Premier League is thus taking on? How exactly can the poster boys not remain? Which, yes, in case you were wondering will too include...

17 Hull City
And it'll be because of Jozy oceans more than it will be because of Phil Brown.

20 Portsmouth
That indeed leaves poor Pompey in line outside when the bouncer makes last call, which isn't really 'Arry's fault but might as well be thought to have been and will as such be considered so here. Have you seen this roster lately? It's painful to be so blunt about this, but if your best player is a shaky keeper a year short of 40, you're destined to be sleeping with the fishes, see. And if Sam Allardyce is Sobchak, who's Redknapp? The head nihilist, Uli, or all three of them?

4 & 6, respectively The Manchesters, United and City
United were always going to feel different this year -- as were City, more obviously -- but the onus really isn't on Wayne Rooney like it's been made out to be, because what was lost was the crossbow and not the arrows it so fires. They will be taken as far then as, uhhuh, Berba sees fit to take them, in between all the brooding and the leather, which for me will be the worst of the Four. Across (or rather in) town the activities have bred but one question; is it possible to have faith in a world where something like the Lescott rape turns out in the accoster's favor? I mean, Real, for all their bombast, enlisted a little innovation with their money in going outside their own league (hell, even made it to France!); not hoarding a group of valuable toys all the neighbor kids were playing with. Smart business, this style of poach, sure, I guess -- but I'll ask you then, of what fate did Veruca Salt succumb?

1 Chelsea
Now, this pains me, it truly does. But it won't be a circumstance of triumph, of domination, of even, say, actually winning it. It instead will be because...

2 Arsenal
..they managed to lose it. They'll undoubtedly be the story for the whole year as they already have been (6-1, Divegate); they'll too compete til' the season's death, for the chasm created by Adebayor's absence is one in which the Kids can romp gloriously free, to where they'll statistically look not unlike 2009's Dodgers incarnation, a ridiculously-balanced of a lineup with eight 70 RBI-guys and not one reaching 100. But, despite that they on all accounts should win, this squad, though not not deep, isn't as deep as the one conveniently best-built to survive a lengthy transfer ban. Trust me, I hope I'm wrong. But if there's anything the Premier League has proven to be, it's utterly and downright see-are-you-ee-el, CRUEL.


For the non-dyslexics

1 - Chelsea
2 - Arsenal
3 - Liverpool
4 - Manchester United
-
5 - Everton
6 - Manchester City
7 - West Ham
-
8 - Aston Villa
9 - Sunderland
10 - Tottenham
11 - Fulham
12 - Wigan
13 - Stoke City
14 - Burnley
15 - Blackburn
16 - Wolves
17 - Hull City
-
18 - Bolton
19 - Birmingham
20 - Portsmouth

the only instance in which elijah wood could be useful

There was but one circumstance that would keep Green Street Hooligans Part Trois from a viewing and simultaneous chronicling, to be plastered in columns and rows on PmP's ashy downtown walls. And because Obama isn't near the Hammer he is White Sox fan, lil' ol' modest ol' me, out here just meekly West coastin', couldn't seem to negotiate himself a stream even cable-porn-grainily broadcasting the tie. So, minus the one executive quip above, why a post today not coursed with acidity or vitirol at having missed the bedlam that transpired?

Because anytime an event can birth a picture so obscenely righteous it makes both the Soccernet front page AND, more crucially, the desktop of your current scribe? Call it reactionary or contrarian, but with America's resident Most Excellent Rivalry basically devolving depressingly down to the billionare evil scientist battling the grotesque monster he's created, where neutrally neither's fun to pull for and a Los Angelino has to seriously -- seriously -- begin to question the meaning of life upon noticing he'd actually rather have the Yankees win, the glory below's to red-blooded RIVALRY, my friends.

...BUHBOWLS, KID!!! YOU N AYE 'R GONA BOWSUM BUHBOOOWLS!!!!!!!!

between a rock and orlando pace

Remember about two years back, when that kid blocked Michigan's last-second field goal and carved Appalachian State's name resoundly into the esteemed tablets of The Unlikeliests, and unleashed a pox that year upon college football's upper crust to nearly all fall to spry inferiors as forcefully as they had risen, like African despots? Titles are only truly only won because the structure necessitated a conclusion, but never was a champion more the victim of sweet circumstance than LSU was in '07, hence the two losses in that team's woodshed. Now, real football's water broke a fraction of a fraction of time ago, but this week's certainly had its share of doozies, which when lassoed together are definitely of some congruence with the aforementioned beginning of the Wolverines' fall from gridiron grace.

Burnley have the socialites toasting their shirazs, and rightfully so, for they've managed the trick twice in a week's time against both of last year's champs -- Big Four and then E'rryone Else. Wolves and Birmingham too have already procured victories; all of this coincides swimmingly with Spurs sitting tabletop, a combination known to commonly and copiously produce gadflynip. I mean, they do play Birmingham next. I'm not saying, I'm just saying. And it's not just the English either, toots. AS Bari, familiar to this scribe thanks to mass-managerial feefing (or playing FIFA; tell yer amigos!) and dual holders of the Best Crest In Italy (with Sampdoria), managed to last the bell against Inter with horns still locked, sure to fill Jose's diary with scribbles on omens and forlorn mixtape marinations to maybe one day put in Ibra's locker.


But the upset that's earned my tool-belted double-take, the one at once overlooked and (thus) most-underlyingly intriguing, naturally occurred in the Bundesliga, which is indeed still living and breathing and too still will often provide glorious soccer. Mainz, or 1. FSV Mainz 05 if you're the club's mother scolding it, earned higher regards with their defeat of Bayern for a silo of reasons, starting with what will but really shouldn't be the focus, Munich themselves. There's injuries, yes -- which would float, if Soccernet hadn't already run a post concerning the alarming amount of integrals injured to begin this season. (I'm lazy, find it for yourself.) It also doesn't address the fact that the homegrown youth at Bayern, for whatever reason, kinda saunter around the field like they've already got their own window office, like the crest alone is going to compensate for them. Not entirely, not even mostly, but just a bit, and it becomes something of an issue when it breeds via your keeper and/or center back. But I mean, Bayern, United, and Inter -- when reversing the scope from Goliath's to David's, the hairs become woefully split, and so to the victor go my super-significant spoils.

So Mainz, eh? Why cozier than Bari or Burnley or the like? Well, for one, Serie A just kicked off, and the initial game of the season is always a contestant to be a uniquely odd affair; plus, for real, San Siro or not, they only played 'em even, and I could be wrong, but I'm pretty sure three points is, like, three times more than one point, which seems enough weight in itself. As for Burnley, well -- better's probably not the proper choice of vernacular, but again, they've already made the water cooler their bitch, and the preferred inclination here is towards the remote; plus they've seen two league titles in their time. And now the sauce: the Bundesliga just completed its third week; Mainz's summer promotion meant they're playing just their fourth ever year with heads above water, the other three coming only earlier this decade. Them besting Bayern, then -- that's fuckin' romantic. (Yanks just may -- and I mean just may -- remember the side as Conor Casey's employer before Colorado, and should be rather bemused to learn the club can be located in Mainz on, no shit, Dr. Martin Luther King Way [zoom 'er in]).

And the actual auteurs, bringing the fold to the masses? The formative fad this season seems to be the diamond, followed by the one named after the magazine, followed by a few other back-four variations, with the rear brought up by the forgottens, a group withholding the ever-lean Christmas Tree. Now this isn't exactly a depressant -- not unlike the other populars mentioned, the innovation must come from the men on the field, which at this level takes a hellish amount of acumen to create the gulf needed. Thankfully, when 35-goin'-on-22 chieftain Thomas Tuchel decided on Friday or Thursday or Saturday morning even that the Bayern game would be the day for trimming, he had (insufferable metaphor warning) a sterling pair of ornaments of which to adorn the tree's top regions. Two goals later -- one from the southpaw Austrian Beckham (not mine), the other to the blonde Burkinabé Balotelli (mine -- though it's less style of play and more the brooding), each from the run of play, though one more so than the other -- and Munich's looking up the table at a baker's dozen teams and the perennial second divisioners find themselves in a European slot after perhaps their all-time greatest triumph. Isn't that what the early doors are all about, the beauty of potential, of premonitions, of minnows' pregnant dreams? It'll be interesting to see if this world-beating movement can find any legs and then a pace, with a best-case scenario of an FC Sheriff CL run all the way to the Bernabeu in May.

the green street ultimatum

It's the gash that keeps on gushing, so it seems. Last Wednesday -- despite all the this one matters only for them and not us placebos given -- managed to hurt, well...like a motherfucker, truthfully. It's Mexico, after all. So deep had the wounds felt, they managed to suffocate an altogether joyous announcement, and perhaps too what would have been a modest sedative. And so, in searching amidst all the rubble and remains and cups of urine thrown, what hath been recouped? Why, the League Cup's 2nd round draw, of all things.


1 West Bromwich Albion v Rotherham United
2 Norwich City v Sunderland
3 Tranmere Rovers v Bolton Wanderers
4 Queens Park Rangers v Accrington Stanley
5 Bristol City v Carlisle United
6 Leyton Orient v Stoke City
7 Port Vale v Sheffield Wednesday
8 Hull City v Southend United
9 Leeds United v Watford
10 Cardiff City v Bristol Rovers
11 Portsmouth v Hereford United
12 Crystal Palace v Manchester City
13 Wolverhampton Wanderers v Swindon Town
14 Gillingham v Blackburn Rovers
15 Blackpool v Wigan Athletic
16 Southampton v Birmingham City
17 Preston North End v Leicester City
18 Newcastle United v Huddersfield Town
19 West Ham United v Millwall
20 Hartlepool United v Burnley
21 Nottingham Forest v Middlesbrough
22 Reading v Barnsley
23 Swansea City v Scunthorpe United
24 Doncaster Rovers v Tottenham Hotspur
25 Peterborough United v Ipswich Town


Ohmygodohmygodohmygodohmygod. The proprietor of this fix deserves a medal or a key to a city or something. The coals here are obviously stoked, enough so for one to expect a chronicling of some sort, if the broadcasting/streaming gods do so oblige. Now damnit, where the hell's Frodo when you need him?

hi and by and by

D'you hear that? You could've very well missed it, for it's rather difficult to discern the ends from the beginnings in the sport anymore. But with something between a bang and a whimper, English football kicked off this here fine weekend. The epic baritone voice in the previews this summer has been telling a familiar tale of an upstart few barnstorming the in-crowd and demanding themselves one of the so-privileged -- like Heathers, but in T90s, two-footed and studs up. I personally had been swooned into the Shyamalanian twist, steering clear of Man City and dangling there for anyone moronic enough to buy it. But six goals, Everton? Was that really necessary? Watching Tim Howard slowly burn on that rotisserie, his defense simply watching, staring, shrugging; I couldn't watch anything else the rest of the day, the scene was so....so graphic.

So one round of games and one up-close lion's-mauling later, and long before it could or should be, the Big 4/5/6/7/8 talk has eclipsed into, well, nausea for yours truly. (And the more games City wins, the more it will induce.) It's here where FSC's programming tendencies become curiously fruitful where they weren't, say, last year while they were documenting nearly every week of Newcastle's collapse, like a committed tabloid with Warren Barton as lead reporter. Now, this season? How about Burnley's first big league game in three decades on the road in the country's loudest stadium against, well, last year's Burnley, for lack of the better -- in these early stages, 'tis a boxcar definitely worth a chase.


Stoke themselves have aspirations as daunting as City's or Spurs' or Everton's or even Villa's, of sustaining and maintaining, only not in just a particular high tax bracket but in the entire Wild-West reenactment that is the Premier League. How Tony Pulis has elected to tackle this, via a presumed "anti-football", often brings out the picketers en masse, all of whom seem too caught up in reprimanding while forgetting this might just be what they're all really clamoring for. And no, I'm not here as a Stoke apologist (or maybe I am, I don't even know anymore), for it's quite plain to see they do get caught hailing Mary far too often in their motions. Their opener, too, isn't going to cease anyone from proclaiming them the Dependents of the Set Piece, and much of the game featured Burnley's [hopefully just an] impression of West Brom's poor man's impression of Arsenal from last year -- i.e. lots of slick passing to anywhere but the back of the net, all of which Stoke seemed content to simply absorb without complaint.

But see, all sophomore-pulling-the-freshman's-skivvies-over-his-head analogies aside, that equals a clean sheet for Stoke, and further it's three points, that many points closer to another year's sustenance amongst the big boys. Burnley were trendy, played possession, played "good" football, played "Barca" football -- looked good in it too -- and still will probably go down next year, like the Baggies (and others) before them. Stoke emerged from the swamp last year not only safe but in 12th, all while prescribing the "anti-". Now, call me old-fashioned, but shouldn't somebody play a successful version of "anti-", if only be it for placeholding purposes? If anything, this is more "anti-establishment" than "-football". And at least Pulis' vision of it is peacocked enough in itself. A player policy of "No one under this height [6'0] may ride this ride" to accommodate, so that at times they resemble a band of rude uncles keeping a toy held high above their beleaguered niece's or nephew's reach. Note too the constituents; amongst others' teamsheets that read like UN assemblies, Pulis has grown a pine forest of basically Englishmen, Irishmen, and Senegalesemen, plus a Jamaican who happens to be good for a fit of goosebumps or two amongst all the long-and-tall ball. Even if it's by bitchslapping his captain mid-game.


And of course, The Throw is still present, leaving aneurysms in its wake. That suspension of time during the aforementioned hailing of Mary, the one stretched far past necessary by sports screenwriters everywhere? Same shit applies for every Stoke throw within a sniff of the box. It's mainly that trajectory, oh lord how I'd forgotten her -- low, slow, like the perfect Wakefield pitch every time. There's been replicas abound, but not one near close to as successful or triumphant. Burnley fell victim likely out of debut, yes; but I'd argue it's the kind of ace-up-sleeve that can't be planned against anyway, forever sullying box scores with own goal after own goal. It's too erratic. A gimmick. It's the Wildcat offense. It keeps Stoke City from being written in legalese. It's also kept them from the hell of relegation. And it's mainly just another reason why it's fantastic having the Premier League back, even though it had barely been gone long at all.