Pinpoint me, Pirlo!

sideburns like heron beaks

2009-09-27T16:55:00.000-07:00

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

2009-09-20T07:14:00.000-07:00

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

2009-09-05T20:16:00.000-07:00

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

2009-08-26T19:38:00.000-07:00

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

2009-08-24T06:12:00.000-07:00

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

2009-08-19T23:12:00.000-07:00

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

2009-08-16T20:01:00.000-07:00

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.

quick, before the folks get home

2009-08-10T06:36:00.000-07:00

Well, here's some half-baked MLS ruminations, for no other reason other than I don't enjoy leaving this neglected for more than a weeks time, and that other League kicks off on Saturday, which will send America's wittle weague to the back of the bus. (Plus too the fact that I don't have a Twitter.)

-- In both tactical and league terms, Tom Soehn is a lobotomized Don Nelson. His three-man backline waxes abstract 'round red-white-and-blue parts, which is all gravy, so long as your keeper isn't a horse-rabbit prone to Horbbit-in-headlights quandary a select few crippling points per game. Which sadly, it appears -- despite all his valiant attempts otherwise -- Josh Wicks turns out to be.

-- As such, only two sides east of the Mizzou are of any temerity to break free of the peloton, worthy of the much-ballyhooed title of "contenders". As for the parity the league so proudly champions, seems a bit drab that it's the same yoke from last year, though Columbus hasn't ceased much in being compelling (more so than the "race" to grab the final two East spots will be).

-- Preki, when you look at your guys' numbers, what is it that you see? It's fine, I'll wait....a complete dearth of goals, that's what you should see, damnit. You're telling me there's not some out-of-work poacher on either side of the pond that couldn't be talked into an exciting new adventure in Los Angeles (please, use that sell, it's yours)? Trust, I loathe DP rumors as much as the next respectable chap, but if ever a spot were calling for one; I mean, the team hasn't sniffed three points in two months. Does anyone know why Alecko and Atiba were let go amidst this? Even John Chaney recruited players that could at least sporadically make the ball meet twine, even if they would turn out to be Eddie Jones.

-- If there's a more interesting-looking team in the league than Houston, well, color me ignorant to 'em, because the Dynamo are subtly a sight -- especially the sideburn dynamics, where their wide midfielders seem to be mocking Pat Onstad's complete and utter lack thereof. The same Pat Onstad garnering "Jamie Moyer of MLS" fame. Captivating shit, to be sure.

-- Did Beckham approve his pigeonholing in that "Every Team Needs..." ad, as a specialist perched next to Sacha Klejstan's virtuoso?

-- Speaking of the Galaxy, well, they've become not unlike the finest pieces of the Altman armory, a crocheted cast of percussive character studies left to their devices to push proceedings forward on a wing and a prayer. Why dare try and dissect before the denouement; certainly not before any on-field tribulation sets in.

-- Jeff Cunningham is probably roiding.

-- Hopefully all those friendlies don't leave too much tread on the Sounders come crucial times. I mean, secretly, is there anyone rooting against the Sounders winning MLS Cup in their own dojo? Too principal a point to be exhausted, the Seattle sporting coterie would undoubtedly deserve it.

sprawler? nah man, its sprawler lime

2009-08-04T23:49:00.000-07:00

If it were up to Anheuser-Busch's Bud Light division -- department: Lime, specifically -- my summer wouldn't qualify as having even started yet, despite the calendar now reading August/Agosto. (I haven't brought one out, sadly. I'm presuming I won't by autumn, either, by which I'll have then denied myself a summer, which may or may not retard the space-time continuum.) Now, quite frankly, that's horseshite. I don't need lollipop beer to a) actually provide the feeling of a cavity during its formation and b) try to disparage the amount of interest I've feigned towards the States' Summer of Soccer! -- the Confederations Cup and subsequent is-this-it? debate, The Beckham Experiment and subsequent catfight, Gooch to Milan, a jejune Gold Cup (best documented here, which you should have read already), a god damn ESPY award, the friendlies and their astonishing attendance -- feigned but still consumed, every last morsel, licked cleaned from its plate.

How pleased was I to learn appetizers were officially over this past weekend, that it was time to get on with the pertinent? Sure, the first to kick off 09/10 was the Eredivisie, and thus (thanks to Deportes) I was afforded PSV's opener against just-promoted VVV-Venlo; a game not trancing children into the piss-dance from stimulation but a game worth actual points nonetheless. I had sort of forgotten what an invested crowd actually sounds like (there is a difference between invested and demented, Mexicans); the PSV faithful's acoustics and tone were more than helpful in reminding everyone but their own team (3-3 draw) that this one mattered, that this had implications, that this shit was on. Give me that over a preseason friendly any day, mastodons and HD be damned (unless taken in live, which is a different contextual beast entirely).

Now I'm atop no apple crate here, bellowing "brothers and sisters, come hither!" ; for mostly in theory but also a fair amount in actual action, the Peace Cup lapped the other friendliments (not to be mistaken for friendly mints) tenfold, and could even perhaps have been dubbed as "interesting". Four teams staging four games in two days? Please -- try a dozen teams, from ten countries in four confederations, complete with a group stage and semifinals -- close your eyes and you could dupe yourself into thinking it actually possessed some meaning. And maybe it did. If Juve display a similarly raunchy performance on spot-kicks during the season as they did in the Final, it might not be that naïve to launch blame that way, though in turn it might be very. And more so it could hold varying degrees of weight for the Peace Cup 2009 Champions, the lil' engine that could (but probably won't), Mad Marty's Aston Villans. A benign trophy in the bank, perhaps the exact consolation deserved for the two-thirds of last year where they had us all going reeeal nice-like.

But perhaps most so for -- you guessed it -- a Damn Yankee; Brad Guzan, who won't be the opening-day starter for Villa this year but surely now will be the second World B. Friedel (Berman, eat your stomach out) leaves the post, in case O'Neill had had any doubt, which is probably one of the prominent litmus tests he had outlined coming into the tourney. Yes, all three botched takes by bianconeri were of their own doing, but Guzan did what was laid out in front of him to do, including equipoising ADP's stare and telling him to take his guile and fuck right off (not to mention the saves and clean sheet preceding the penalties, and the tournament's performance preceding that). He, like so many 'Merican keeps and now our national (A, not C) team before him, have shown they at least have the, or at least enough, mettle, be it with seismograph-consistency or what have you.

So why can't it just be about that then, the growth and the betterment? I know how loaded an inquiry that is, but most of what's trodden in this are cul-de-sacs, seemingly posed to piss off the US soccer contingent. Need every discussion of the sport in the mainstream media waste no time in putting everything in terms of "Is it soccer's time?", no matter the story? It's as though they think their connotation won't be sniffed out, asking not really if it's time but if it's time for them to actually have to pay attention to it -- rather akin to similar debates concerning MMA, a comparison at once horribly laughable and laughably horrible. Many are quick to criticize the elitism coupled with following soccer, and are then even quicker to be bovinely elitist towards it. Why doesn't get golf get this kind of slung mud? It's slow, it's boring, it's European, perhaps all in higher doses. (...alright, not more European.) I've watched but one golf tournament the past, I don't know, seven years; Tom Watson relieving himself in the Fountain of Youth last month, which was as large of a white whale as you're bound to see in sport. Has golf arrived then, really? (Shortsighted? Absolutely -- but I can only really use myself as a barometer anyway, however obtuse that is, and the name on top of this page doesn't read Birdie me, Ballesteros!, now does it?)

I'm probably in the minority here, and the cynic's cap doesn't fit my head all that well (or it does and I think I look putrid in it), but it just isn't fully complying why soccer has to become a leading name, as though that's actually even possible. Why can't it stay a cult sport? The MLS can (and should and hopefully will) grow and grow and grow like Dubai's skyline and it still won't be anywhere near the NBA, let alone the NFL, or even Major League Baseball, so why all this burlesque conversation?

Yeah, you're right, obvious-but-unsatisfying-reason-why, that it's la hostia in pretty much every other nation on the planet. But xenophobia is as ingrained an attribute in the Yank psyche as is the hush-hush looting of other's customs, and since soccer isn't exactly hush-hush anymore, we've come too far now to embrace it wholescale. It's not that it won't happen, but soccer's ephemeral rise this summer will be forgotten once pro/college football commences, and further once baseball's postseason starts, and furtherer once basketball season begins; to lay dormant in its niche until June 11, 2010. This is because it was remembered this summer beside Brett Favre, Michael Vick, and steroids in baseball -- not exactly the sexiest corral of topics. So why all this disrespectful fuss about vogue when all that seems to ever be in vogue is backhandedly complimenting the sport and its followers? Can't we just enjoy this?

Now, I've ruined these pants a tad early, I recognize, as the SOS has yet to have found its proverbial conclusion, on the twelfth in the Azteca, which if there's some or any sort of divinity will provide the US with a befitting cap to a fascinating summer, of which I have proof I experienced (fuck Busch!) through an inordinate amount of passive-aggressive soccer and a birthday suit uncannily resembling the Peruvian flag.

startin' off sweet, endin' her sour

2009-07-22T23:08:00.000-07:00

Even if you didn't necessarily need it, it's definitely nice to be reminded of why exactly you chose to devote unscrupulous time, love, thought, and effort towards something so supplementary and perhaps even pointless, depending on your worldview. I'm afforded these moments almost daily on a wide-scale level with sports (see above picture), but as my mania is dominated around the (traditionally) white ball with a dozen black pentagons (and the brown grooved ball with black trim - probably more so), Chelsea-Inter at the Rose Bowl a turn of the moon ago was about as good a reminder as could possibly be received stateside.

Pictures (and a recap, I'd presume) are forthcoming, though their quality can be aptly-titled "cell-phone", as my fully charged camera decided to, for lack of a better term, take a big ol' shit about 10 minutes in. But what I'd like to hit on now is this; if but one negative thought crept into my dome after the game, it was the echo of Max Breto's voice in my head, raping and pillaging a similarly-regal billing between two heavyweights during a Champions League game on FSC this next campaign. I don't know who'll see this, but if somebody, anybody can hear me, please, PLEASE do not let FSC roll out the same dog-and-pony shtick for, say, Liverpool-Chelsea (surest bet) that they do for a beach soccer game in July. And I swear, if I hear somebody "released the Kraken" during an important fixture, I'll drive over to headquarters on Sepulveda and use the one arson conviction one gets in life that I was gonna save for Al Davis' house (a once-proud Raiders fan who now can't even watch the NFL thanks to him speaking) and burn that mother to the ground. Just kidding. I think.

Also, nary an opinion from these fronts on The Beckham Experiment (cover-to-cover on Monday, a day well-spent as far as I'm concerned), other than I hope Becks ventured further into LA's vast fast (or relatively-abbreviated or not-exactly-what-you-would-call-a-sit-down-restaurant-even-though-you're-sitting-down) food establishment vortex than god damn In'n'Out. Or was he too busy picketing pharmacies with Tom Cruise to assimilate himself properly?

Oh, and if this is what it takes to get soccer a damn Hollywood Square on ESPN, I'd rather it stay a fucking niche sport.

And finally, just for good measure, fuck Brett Favre.

excerpted ManUscript: A Knight, Stale

2009-07-15T08:36:00.000-07:00

Somewhere deep in Old Trafford's vitals. A trio of smart-suited suits wait in an office. A desk sitting near-dormant precedes a chair sitting well-vacant, all preceding a season now sitting all-too tenuous.

The office door opens. The ass to whom the chair's groove belongs enters. Cue: The Tipping Point.

Sralex: Well, boys, Little Carlos has officially wandered into the City, sounds like our summer dealings are all about dealt with. Break out the Bud Light Limes!

Boardroommate #2: But Alex, we've--

S: Alex? Who the hell is Alex? I all of a sudden knelt before the god damn Queen for no reason at all, for shits n' giggles or something?

B2: (sighs)...Sir, we've lost two extremely vital offensive weapons, and still have most of the Ronaldo money left to spend on replacements.

S: What're you talking about, replacements? I already dealt with replacing those two little ungrateful shits while on the Tyne -- that's what the trip up north was for, or we don't remember that one, fellas?

Boardroommate #1: You came back with Michael Owen.

S: Did you or did you not see the brochure? Did you or did you not see the fifth page? Is he or is he not a Manchester United player in that picture? Answer all of those, right now, in order.

B1: (sighs)...yes, I did; yes, I did, and yeah, he kinda does. But those alone aren't really enough to take on Michael Owen at this stage, are they?

S: It looks like for free they most definitely were, sunshine. Am I right or am I right, guys? SUH-MER!

B2: But we don't need free. Like I said, most of the Ronaldo fee is still available to us. Atlético has called numerous times about their fee for Agüero. They're calling us, Alex.

S: ....

B2: ....

S: .......

B2: (exaggerated sigh)...I mean, Sir.

S: Look, we still have Wayne and Baby Berbz, so just think of Mike as not the new Tevez, but as the new Louis Saha, alright? That should cool your nerves, babe.

B2: It doesn't, really.

B1: Nor mine either.

S: And what about you, Doug Mutie? Got anything to say for yourself while we're here?

Boardroomate #3: ...uhhhh, well, for one, your other two buys were on recommendation from rival Premier League managers.

S: Well, it's not my fault that Brucie got the Black Cats job while I was up north, now is it? Look, I only called him to congratulate him on his new post, see if he wanted to meet up for eighteen holes and a mojito since I was up there, naturally. Totally harmless. So when he answers, of course he's in Honduras scouting, only he says he's stuck on account of some military haiku, or something? Didn't understand it then, still really don't. So anyway, we got to talking, and eventually we got around to Bitchiano leaving and he mentioned that he had had a winger at Wigan that looked like the lovechild of Ronaldo and Nani, but wasn't Portuguese and thus wasn't a whiny dive turkey. So I obviously had myself a gander, and he looked innocuous enough, so Bam! 16 mil, out the door. Seeing no problem with that, hoss.

B3: ...well...uh...alright whatever, what about the French kid, then? You didn't consult Arsène at all about him?

S: I mean, it's not like he told me, "Hey, Sir Alex, there's this kid on Bordeaux, plays on the flanks, shocks of talent; you should look into him." If anything, he mentioned him in passing.

B1: But Sir, if you don't mind me saying, THEY'RE YOUR COM-PE-TI-TION! As in those standing between us and our fourth straight title?

S: Who, Arsène? Are you high? He's waaay too busy listening to Melody Nelson on repeat to challenge this year, please. And are you including Sunderland, too? Honestly, what the fuck? Who thinks Sunderland is contending anytime soon?

B1: Well, no, obviously they aren't, but--

S: Look, I've gotta jet now if I wanna make this noon tee time.

B1,B2: Tee time?

S: (heading towards door) With Tiger at Turnberry, gentlemen. Gotta love those Nike connections, right? Heh-ha! What's up, summer!?

B2: But Sir Alex, the Ronaldo money -- the board would really rather see it not collect dust, and not just sit there.

S: (everything but one foot out the door) Sit there? Nah, boys, that money's marinating! Go ahead and look at a calendar for me, read back to me that it's 2009, otherwise known as the year preceding 2010.

All: 2010???

S: (from elevator) What are ya'll, thick? We're bidding for LeBron, bitches! WIT-NESS!!!

someone call roddick, tell him its gonna be ok

2009-07-07T16:49:00.000-07:00

I don't think I'll be treading any toes by suggesting that the past 12 months hasn't been the kindest to American soccer, on pretty much all its fronts. Our emissaries abroad in the big leagues have all regressed to varying degrees (minus probably and only Baby Bradley), even if it were ever the paltriest of declines. Bocanegra (or Black Female Mouth, as is never appropriate to call him) deemed the Premier League too hectic and shuttled off to the quiet life in France, Landon never really got his opportunity in Munich, and the Ædus, Jozy, and Benny were lost at sea or something, who knows. (Sasha couldn't even manage locating his boat out.) Deuce, who I think by now has shown he ought to be deployed closer to goal for maximum production, is instead played behind the world-beating likes of Bobby Zamora and Diomansy Kamara on either midfield flank, and even then his owl of a manager (or his manager of an owl?) casts his spot in a stopgap light rather than a stout one. And Tim Howard is a keeper, which in terms of soccer is, for lack of better phrasing, America's shit.

The national team, while not particularly underwhelming, still found ways to lose to Trinidad and Tobago and Costa Rica and stalemate El Salvador. I don't care where the games were staged, Brazil and Italy they certainly are not, and if the US wants to jump up to the weight class they so seem to crave they are games that must be not just won, but handled under any circumstances. Right up until they mummified the Pharoahs, there were questions aplenty; now and after they shook up the world, there might be even more.

And this gets its own paragraph of but one sentence (and addendum), to acknowledge its preponderancy and avoid actually discussing it: Beckham. (Or, if you prefer [and you should], in your best Posh impression: Beckham!)

And this is where we get to The Nu Great American Hope, he who will be so privileged as to don the absolute class new 09/10 Milan shirt. (Probably won't look as right in it as Maldini did briefly, but nonetheless.) Seems like early returns are leaning heavily towards the poles as though them shits were melting. (...) We either ought to be bringing wooden spoons and pots out into the streets or holding dear to the days when Gooch was partnering good ol' Titus Shambles on the Tyne and trying to persuade the rapturous back into their homes. What's appropriate is most likely somewhere in between, but even the few inhabiting the gray area aren't particularly asking the right questions.

Is Gooch gonna get any playing time? Barring any superfluous purchases in central defense, of course he's going to play - wouldn't surprise me if was topping out his position's minutes by Christmas, if not the whole year. If he doesn't, it won't be on account of Milan and their bone dry resources, it'll be up to Gooch and whether or not he wants it badly enough, plain and simple. I say superfluous instead of further purchases because Galliani still has work to do in the back; I won't be the first to say it, but Gooch was as mighty as he was during the C. Cup because Jay Demerit was able to caulk the cracks in his game common to many defenders standing six foot four or taller. He's either a supple sequoia or a bruising palm tree, blocking light to the floor beneath and damning the skies above him impregnable, but subject to lateral quickness and mighty mice, of which there are plenty scurrying around Italy. Still, this is not the Onyewu of Newcastle, nowhere near, not even close, and with the aforementioned right buy, it could prove a marriage for the ages - the DC-born, Nigerian descended 6'4 rugged central defender succeeding entrenched in the (openly racist, mind you; Balotelli just won an award for it) Italian aim for defensive harmony and tactical beauty. Shouldn't be too hard; there's just Kaladze, Thiago Silva, and the corpse of Alessandro Nesta. Gooch eats them and more for god damn breakfast, please.

Remember also that Gooch, and pardon the obvious, plays center back; not a forward, not Landon Donovan, he is the offensive line, the catcher, the minesweeper, the underappreciated, Dwight Howard in his role within the Magic's system (and not as a Professional Basketball Star) - the facsimiles are torturedly endless. He doesn't provide (many) goals, nor does he set them up in a noticeable fashion, and I presume a substantial reason this is getting accentuated coverage is because the American public knows thanks to Becks that AC Milan is in fact a team, a Big Club at that. Gooch isn't going to save or popularize or dramatically redefine American soccer; he's another promising block, albeit a huge one, upon which to build the foundation. Like the win against Spain was, like the first half against Brazil was, like the tattooed German panzer hitting our shores next month could very well be.

A better question to ask: How will Oguchi take to Ronaldinho, and likewise how will Ron take to playing in his first team with an American?

The best question: Is anyone going to supply the Italians the American pejorative homonym of Onyewu's nickname?

paulo nagamura, née nagasaki

2009-07-02T07:44:00.000-07:00

This, at least in terms of the Galaxy, must be their Potsdam Declaration. The comparison is high-flown and a tad cliché, but I wonder if the next two weeks before Beckham Airlines touches down, for what'll probably be his last hurrah out Californee way (to play, mind you), there won't be just the slightest hint of equal parts dread and malaise sifting through LA's ashy streets, not unlike the assumed in Japan in early August, nineteen forty-and-five. If only because it'd be impossible not to catch some remnants of the contagion coming from the Home Depot Center and the Galaxy operation. Transitively, I probably shouldn't attend any Chivas games for a while, huh?

Should've seen this coming, too, now that I think about it. I didn't understand this celebration at the time, but now I think I at least marginally do; Landon is barking at - amongst countless, but perhaps most importantly - Becks, in terms he knows Daay-vid can understand, and almost with an upturned, I'm-Ron-Burgundy? inquisitive tone. As though he wasn't sure if he should say it but remembered that the book's coming out anyway, so fuck it, I am lion, and I am rarely lion, so hear my ass hereby roar. And so he with both hands pointed to the 10 on his chest and was brief: "Me? Me?!! ME!" - and you know what? He's right - if there's one thing everyone can agree on after the Confederations Cup (and it could well be the only thing), it's that Landon is indeed Wayne-and-Garth worthy - or, in his eloquent own terms, "Him? Him?! HIM!!".

I'm not feigning any predictions, because I honestly and simply don't know what's going to happen. I think "Kobe during the 2nd half of Game 7, first round against the Suns, 2006" would be my best guess, but that night is close to if not is the bane of my LA-based sporting existence; why the hell would I root for that to happen anywhere else, especially in such close proximity? Its only gonna hurt soccer's rep stateside more, too, that boulevard; it's just not worth it to be cynical here. I can safely predict there won't be a mushroom cloud over the HDC on the 16th, and I don't think anything catastrophic has the chance to happen, short of the chorus of elitist, inebrieated Beckham catcallers, who'll never be louder...but I mean, the US National Team did just end the longest unbeaten streak in the sport's antiquity. Stranger things did and can happen. But until then and for right now, I'll choose imagining Becks on the jet to LAX squinting out the window at the sea, thinking it profound and not knowing why, and humming a certain Wyclef tune to himself, slyly replacing the "till" in the song's title to "in". You dig?

the mouse who shan't be modest

2009-06-28T19:31:00.000-07:00

I won't say how many years I'd been provided or what substance I had been nepotistically coaxed into downing, but I can say that I sat intently through the whole happenstance, hoping it to reveal itself to be unfathomably true, too many damn parallels to refute. And yeah, Dorothy putting her hand to the Tin Man's chest whilst a heartbeat closes out Dark Side is a skosh bizarre, but I can point to another time years later where the apophenia was waaay more NO FUCKIN' WAY, DUDE and didn't involve going through the same album's motions thrice.

Heed the scene: twenty, maybe twenty-five heads in one deceptively-rustic living room/den, in a house where no lie, not-a-one of the damn pictures on the wall was level - like the '94 quake hit and my buddy and his folks just said, "...fuck it, crooked's the new straight!" - everyone zoned out on Guru's rhymes from Moment Of Truth eerily syncing up with a discussion between Spongebob and Squidward (not my choice), of which I like to imagine Guru and Premier really did painstakingly work their shit out to a yet-to-be-ruminated episode of a still-being-ruminated cartoon reprised said random night so many years later.

Now, I've watched the Sounders multiple times this year, their game today included (love me that there intranet and its streemin'!), and, thanks to Max Bretos, they're often ingested on mute, an open invite for musical supplementation and thus synchronicity conspiracies abound. Call it OCD, or just my retaining anally, but as they're from Seattle, for me it only makes sense that the strains best dovetailing their play come from there, too. A first year club, competing with the M's and the 'Hawks for local recognition, an underground success despite their genre-bending instrumentation, not cosmopolitan nor even realized quite yet but sowin' them seeds that have themselves a growin' disposition? I'm not apologizing for these forays into hickoried diction, cause if you've heard the rather pertinently titled The Lonesome Crowded West, (think Vancouver & Portland) and then heard it again with the Sounders imbricating, you'd understand why it's not really under my power to curb it. Cue the phenomena:

Freddie Ljungberg

...here's the man with teeth like God's shoeshine
he sparkles, shimmers, shines

Kasey Keller

doin' the cockroach, yeah!
doin' the cockroach, yeah!
oh yeeeeeeeah
...one year, twenty years, forty years, fifty years!
doin' the cockroach, yeah!

Fredy Montero

I'm drowning upside down, my feet afloat like Christ's
...he moves just like Crisco disco

Sébastien Le Toux

...and I am doing the best that I can
all the eunuchs, they were standing in rows, singing
"please stud us out just as fast as you can"

Sigi Schmid

Well, Cowboy Dan's a major player in the cowboy scene
he goes to the reservation, drinks and gets mean...
...and he hops in his pickup, puts the pedal to the floor, and says
"I got mine, but I want more"

Osvaldo Alonso

...I sold my atlas by the freight stairs, I do lines and I crossed roads
I crossed the lines of all the great state roads

Nate Jaqua

on my way to I don't know...
...in this place that I call home
my brain's the cliff, my heart's the bitter buffalo

Drew Carey

...the apostles, they're sitting in swings, saying
"I'd sell off my savior for a set of new rings
and some sandals with the style of straps that cling best to the era"

men will be boys**

2009-06-26T07:02:00.000-07:00

God damn, Mike...well, rest in peace. "Billie Jean" is, has been, and always will be hood as all hell.

Keepin' it relevant: meet the finest visual juxtaposition of "Michael Jackson" and "soccer" available.

Your pedophilic jokes shan't be necessary.

Also, in lieu of recent events, a comparison culled from a buddy.

Deuce Dempsey: Say, man, you got a joint?
Sergio Ramos: No, not on me, man.
Deuce: It'd be a lot cooler if you diiid ahahahaaaaaaaaaaa

**(It occurred to me, one could be thick and take this the wrong way. Don't.)

idly wild or wildly idle?

2009-06-21T22:12:00.000-07:00

While it's indeed absolutely righteous that the ol' Stars n' Stripes managed to pin whatever demons they had been wrestling against the Egyptians (and thanks, Brazil!) and offered themselves the opportunity to toreador against the running of the silky and insurmountable Spanish bulls, the fact remains that the country's domestic league has been rendered a forgotten soldier, blanched and drowned out by the androgynous moan of the vuvuzela. There's only five MLS players in South Africa right now, so there's really no excuse; if teams aren't at full strength (save Chivas, maybe the Galaxy), it's due to injury or lack of form or everything but the C-Fed Cup.

The league has reached puberty, dominated by the bush and anxious as a motherfucker, so there's plenty of goings-on in the ever-crucial adolescent identity department to hold one's amusement. Besides the actual league itself, clubs are well underway in constructing a foundation; not tactically, but eugenically, philosophically, and its making the league a rather fine summer accompaniment (or substitute) for baseball (which I can't even take seriously or watch subjectively anymore). It's not even as though there's a litany of good teams across the league, because there's really only a couple that have performed themselves deserving of that mundane title. The road to success in MLS is still paved through defense and apropos - as nearly every league in the world save the top 3 or 4 is, mind you - with only the occasional fit of brilliance waxing decisive, and so it's fitting hale ol' Houston sit atop the table with Preki's Chivas nipping at their heels. Both are perennially good and if not for a plague of injury arguably would have contended for that West crown New York so dubiously claimed last year. The Dynamo have always left an odd taste in my mouth because of the locale switch, though, especially now that there's another Earthquakes, so they aren't near endearing to me as Chivas. Probably helps that I live in LA, have attended multiple games this season, and have started to refer to the side as "we"; but come on, I'm not about deny myself local footballing subjection, and who'd support the fucking Galaxy if given a choice not to?

My Goats bias aside, there's other teams worthy of this upper-tier discussion. Columbus is obviously quality, as they have the near-exact same side as last year's champions, and are even more obviously just working out the kinks of a new regime. Blanco and McBride will always keep Chicago an interesting side, and DC are the league's diligent metronome (who lost the beat slightly last year), displayed from the outset when they were the only team to not attach a hokey American team name to the end of their city. And then there's the Sounders - the savior, the enlightened triumphant. They warrant another post themselves entirely for what they've accomplished. Expansion be damned, they went out and procured players that would amass positive results, and promptly. Kasey Keller and his Olympia birth were a geographical gift, but beyond that it's been straight and utter intuition. I remember seeing the expansion draft's results and being rather impressed with their haul, they've gotten further outstanding returns from their Latin American excursions (Montero, Hurtado, Alonso), and Freddie has provided the designated player rule the name, face, and play it needed to survive beyond its last provisional year before assessment (lots of understated help from Schelotto, too). Sigi might be a mercenary, but if you had a gun to your temple and but one hour to form an MLS XI, you'd get him on the phone before anyone else, right?

The not-so-good teams, the lower bourgoisie scratching and surviving to keep pace and find distinction amongst the rank and file? They're only gonna further damage the facade shielding my true ignorance about the MLS, if I haven't enough already. Colorado, Toronto, Salt Lake, Kansas City; how slippery my grasp of all ye be! Is Colorado still Arsenal USA? Can they just run with that, take Manny Eboue on loan or something? Salt Lake has Kyle Beckerman, which has potential if and only if they answer Kyle's prayers and surround him with solely Jamacians and let him and the Reggae Boyz romp about Utah and raise the Mormons up out of their burrows. The only team amidst the medial muck with some sort of defined complexion is New England, which in turn is quite nice to revel in because Taylor Twellman's smug-ass industry makes my god damn blood boil. But in watching these mediocre teams the little I have, you get the sense they're getting the sense, that they'll catch up with their shadow and achieve parity with the elite, which even if it never happens is compelling enough in itself.

The four shite teams are even fascinating in their shiteness. The Galaxy are everything they're cracked up to be: a trainwreck joke, a tragicomedy at its apex, the sand in Los Angeles' panties after a trip to the beach. It delights me everyday, the thought of Beckham coming back to this. LA, for what it's worth, has developed thanks to Donovan Ricketts this bewildering affinity for draws, nine from their fourteen played; i.e. sitting on the fence, the ultimate denial of a solution, pretty much encapsulating their current mindset to a tee. Dallas if nothing else are the resident "star player putting up numbers on a bad team" team, which would reflect lowly on Kenny Cooper if soccer were basketball and scoring were inevitable. But even the doldrums have kindly rounded the league out and attributed to giving this season a story, a fortified plot to flush out and follow stronger than any other of the league's first baker's dozen. Might get a little turbulent during Superliga and then the Champions League and Open Cup, but nothing severe or life-altering, and not knowing what's to follow is the reason we watch anyway, isn't it? Supporting soccer in America should never just be about the national team; it's bifurcated with MLS, simple as that.

bet he's never even heard Counting Crows

2009-06-15T23:56:00.000-07:00

It's probably best this topic waited until after the game today, in hindsight. It just needs to be stated, it's too easy to just Pinpoint (!!!!) that that absolutely heinous red card's victim occupied the same position that Jermaine Jones happens to play. If only because Jones can't be guaranteed to have not made the same uncouth challenge as did Ricardo Clark on Gattuso. That's part of what makes JJ (as I'm presuming we here will soon take to calling him) and his capitalization on FIFA's new ruling so intriguing; his game is not American as per what was witnessed on the field against the Azzurri today, but instead features facets that would pull the US team closer to some sort of identity they've so lacked for so long.

Jones, in both alias and appearance, kind of just exudes "American". He looks more like an NBA player, complete with most of his tattoos done in English, and who at one time even had straight-up Chris Bosh hair. He plays a bit like a free safety in a Cover 2, complete with reckless abandon and constant caviling and running off at the mouth. I guess athletes from every pocket of the world say outlandish and/or inappropriate shit these days, but Jones does it in spades; he conveniently then just committed to a country wherein, God bless him, Chuck Barkley got arrested for getting behind the wheel drunk while Jonesing (shameless pun) for a hummer, careened through a stop sign, and came back to work even more beloved in but two months time.

None of this really means anything, I know. I like Ricardo Clark (and Mastroeni), I really do (and Mo Edu, too), but you'd have to be about halfway through a peyote trip to deny that JJones isn't an upgrade of some form in every aspect besides true Americanness, whatever the fuck that is. With him hopefully affixing severed heads upon wooden sticks in midfield and Michael Bradley frolicking around in face-painted glee right beside him - well, the US would have something there, albeit with a decent German influence. But it couldjustmaybefingerscrossed be with a twist couped from the American sporting quo; not just getting stuck in, but, for lack of more eloquent terms, getting stuck the fuck in. Like Kobe the last couple of years, or Bob Sanders at his best. It might be a tremendous pipe dream, and Jones probably isn't capable of the whole of it, but I have no problem taking greens with Jermaine (you know he would) and seeing you all on the other side. (pinpoint me, pirlo - where idioms go to be abused and die)

I've heard David Regis' name mentioned as a forebearer, but that shit's completely apples to oranges in my book. I don't think it's worth mentioning the difference between father and wife in terms of heritage, other than growing up a military brat, partially in Chicago - indeed, within the United States' borders - is far more qualification than a Walter Sobchak converting to Judaism for his ex-wife and her pomeranian. Jones is 27 years old - no spry chicken in footballing terms, but as a potential American citizen? Might as well be statutory that he can play for the US after three friendlies, but a) who really isn't all for demeaning the significance of the profligate friendly and b) if you were Bob Bradley, what other choice do you have? This "acquisition" doesn't guarantee anything for the Red White and Blue, but it does give them a devil-will-care machete with which to maneuver the South African jungle of the next calendar year.

je ne sais quoi

2009-06-10T11:57:00.000-07:00

I was livid after this play last night. I was offered repose today by this, from Chris Broussard on ESPN.

Mickaël's good friend, soccer player Claude Makélélé, also flew in from Paris.

After the game, they discussed post-structuralism, wore berets, and laughed about how far they've come in their respective sports with gaping deficiencies in rudimentary techniques like dribbling or shooting. Mickaël treated Claude to Disney World today.

swimmin' upstream

2009-06-05T19:25:00.000-07:00

"Messi cannot head." - yours truly, to everyone, all year.

Or so I thought, god damn. There's one replay of it there, the last one where Xavi's brilliant orbital ball, a dradel spun from the heavens, cascades down the shot until it seems as though it's to be lost out of frame and sight, to fall to the earth left incomplete and wanting. But then, a banked figure rises from the depths, caroms the ball aloft again and into the nightmares of ManUligans worldwide.

Why was Messi holding his boot in the subsequent celebrations, you might ask? Look one more time; he torqued his entire damn body to two o'clock to reach the ball, legs included, and couldn't reverse back to noon in time before his spikes reacquainted themselves with soil. Stoned-as-shit Alaskan salmon were watching his feat of nature in HD in some river, only able to look at each other and exclaim, "...fuuuck". He challenged physics, lost, and came up with the Treble instead. He really didn't actually even "head" the ball, no neck or shoulder thrust to be found; he more floated his dome in the one pocket of space to which the ball's course would realign towards the desired and foolproof location, far right corner, like if the nail were to meet the hammer halfway. It's not an uncommon technique, at least not until employed by someone diagnosed with GHD at 11 and -- from the multiple games I've seen him shank point-blank aerial opportunities in alone -- shown to be the most effective with the ball at his feet (which is anything but a slight, since he's better with the ball at his feet than literally everyone else filing their taxes under "professional footballer"). What's Xavi anticipating Leo will do with his masterstroke when he decides its a worthy enterprise, though, that's the real question. A chest-down, a volley; couldn't have been a header, right?

I'm more interested in the end of the season now than when it was actually happening, sadly. Maybe because no matter how hard I try (which isn't very, but still), I just plain do not like the thought of Gareth Barry at City, and probably because I'm duped every morning into thinking Soccernet or whoever else's homepage will have something more interesting than Kaká+Ronaldo-to-Real coverage. Probably even more so because I know the next two months are going to continue to only be about the previous two Ballon d'Ors and second-place team in La Liga, whereby everyone will forget the-soon-to-be Ballon winner, the La Liga and European Champions, and the tropical rapture they've provided us so often since August. It almost seems like Chelsea's trophy was played up in significance, more as atonement for their Norwegian massacre, as though Barca's triumph deserved an asterisk or something dumb like that. I know that the entire year has basically been one long anticipatory suckfest in Barca's honor, most of it before they had done anything (I hate how guilty I really am of this), but in its defense, how often does a side basically go wire-to-wire on top, in both theory and then reality? The Cavs won 66 games this year, LeBron hit his own Shot, angels wept, and yet yesterday I witnessed two different companies scrambling to amend their boy-cried-wolf marketing schemes.

ESPN's magazine had Messi, not Ronaldo, on its cover the issue released before the Rome final. (They'll probably claim they knew something we didn't.) The story is intended for the would-be-could-be-fair-weathers, like the rest of our soccer coverage stateside, and provides the more invested little true insight into anything they didn't already know, besides maybe the mainstream sports media's vacillation concerning how exactly to deal with the budding cult of soccer in America. But there is one quote, one important enough they enlarged and boldfaced it for hors d'œuvre:

"I never think about the play or visualize anything. I do what comes to me at that moment. Instinct. It has always been that way."

Nothing revolutionary, I know. Kind of reads like a stock quote for a great player's explaining his gifts, really. They just come to me, I don't know. Plus, soccer's predicated largely on spontaneity anyway. But with Messi, under all the circumstances, "gifts" has almost never needed the precursor "God-given" more, and so his take on them seems that much more genuine than all the rest. The ESPN cover claims the presumed CL triumph will be the kickoff to the Year Of Messi, but that would be to discount his achievements of this year, and thus Barca's as well. For he who was supposed to stand a Colemanesque four and a half feet, he who turns 22 in three weeks, he who up until his instinct told him differently couldn't head the ball for shite -- well, he listened, he leapt, and he gave 08/09 its punctual image (even more so than Iniesta's strike), featuring the sport's best player at his impeccable best, pushing his own boundaries and team to heights unseen.

the orange revolution, a redux

2009-05-08T13:17:00.000-07:00

Last year's footballing narrative, if you'll hark back for a second, got punctuated pretty properly in retrospect. Man U and Zenit's triumphs summated two of the campaign's glossiest discoveries; the emergences of both Ronaldo as the Prodigal Son and Russia, led by Arshavin, as a free-wheeling corps to be ordained and respected in football's loftier tiers. The results this week, however acrimonious, gave us the CL final best truncating the daze that's been 08/09, a result well documented here. But what of the final UEFA Cup final? Who is this Shakhtar Donetsk, and why is Joe Strummer writing songs about them (the inspiration for this piece, but why does the tune live introduce itself as Dream On's fraternal twin)?

Well, for one, it's definitely something that the year most posterior to Russia's arrival has the potential to include the retribution of a people perhaps most aggrieved by the former Union's pestilence of last century. Quick history checkup: the city of Donetsk, a Holodomor survivor, was for years previous known by the brilliant Stalino; the Germans then got theirs through destruction of the city by Barbarossa and thereafter homing a concentration camp there during the war. Shakhtar, or "miner" from Slavic origins (how proletarian), played in the Soviet League without a title until the Ukraine went indie in '91; they've now won four of last eight Ukrainian league titles and have been resident participants in the CL for a near decade, though never advancing beyond the group stages, this year included.

This Shakhtar side appears to be amongst the year's most charismatic and tactfully built. The obvious is the Brazilian quartet up front, an idea so simple it becomes lost in the tactical overanalyses prevalent around the game today--namely, get enough talented and under-appreciated samba specialists and let them roam free at the bow of your ship. Like Milan, without the narcissism. The not-so-obvious is where the side's thesis lies, an oft-auxiliary spot harmonized instead into the ignition of the Carnival's fire. There's a lot of much-lauded-about right backs out there, but for all Dani Alves and Maicon and Sagna do, they don't do anywhere near as much for their side as Darijo Srna does for his.

He's the captain, yes, but it's so much more than that. It's even beyond him usurping four Brazilians for permanent dead-ball-taking duty; it's that any and every and all attacking thoughts passing through the side's combined mind are to be first given a stamp of approval by Darijo. That's not even hyperbole. If Dani Alves is a swashbuckler (as so eloquently dubbed by Derek Rae), then Srna, a man bred through war, is the smiling Scout Sniper, complete with a bayonet attached to his rifle. But as stated earlier, Alves shines within Barcelona's system plus has Messi galavanting beside him, whereas Srna has essentially become the system itself; I'll be damned if there was a chance or even a buildup in their game yesterday that didn't in some way involve Srna dictating the direction the attack was to be headed, be it through instigation or redirection. It even looked as though he's somewhere around three-quarters way through the Delap School Of Throwing training program, further support in his own personal quest to extend the term "all-action" outside the midfield.

For whatever reason, Shakhtar and Srna have managed to make what seems to be a rather limiting idea, this emphasis on dextrality, not only competent but virtuous and content in being led however far the captain (and, to a lesser extent, his fantastic right flanking mate Ilsinho) wishes to take it. Why teams are incapable of eliminating the starboard space Srna calls home against them is for both another day and Bremen to figure out. I'd rather feel privileged to bask in the defiant glow and focus on how fitting it is that their date with destiny pits he and his halloween clad-side against a German side stripped of their attacking savant, left ripe and bleeding to the jaws of Ukrainian redemption. And really, who doesn't love a nice set of turned tables?

deviate the mean

2009-05-01T18:01:00.000-07:00

It seemed as though now matter how scalding the seat under which Mark Hughes sat got, his wits were still about him. He's been through as many votes of confidence as he has outlandish transfer rumors, and while not unflappable, has absorbed the skepticism borne out of his regime with relatively subdued aplomb, appearing content to not allow the rug to be pulled from under him. His current side, fresh off perhaps their finest performance of the season, host his former side tomorrow, and his comments today seem a tad wayward to his former directions.

The beleaguered striving to convince himself of these notions as to imbue himself and thus the team with renewed inspiration for the season's remainder? A lost soul already convinced of these notions? Either way, he should cast eyes upon the wake of his exit at Blackburn, who saved themselves from relegation this year only by axing a former big-club player. Ince played for Man U, played for Inter, played for Liverpool, and lasted six months in the Premier League managing. That's not to say he won't be back in the top-flight; hopefully with more lower division experience he will be, but he's living proof, along with many others, that success or status or whatever as a player bear no influence on success as a coach or manager. Jürgen Klinnsman was just fired from Bayern's post with his team in a Champions League spot; Isiah Thomas' boss doesn't even know his name, let alone the fact he won two titles and is one the league's 50 greatest players, because of how perverse his image has become after his time with the Knicks.

Success in management is relative, specific to both the person and the post. Rafa, Mourinho, and Sralex found it without an esteemed on-pitch career, while conversely Pep Guardiola has seen his beloved Barca crowned "best in Europe" without actually having won anything. Hughes has had this team for almost a year now, and still doesn't know his best eleven. They have more wins than the two teams above them, more losses than Stoke and Newcastle, more goals than everyone besides the Big 4, & double the goals conceded to their Mancunian counterparts. It's said that after this long a team will have taken on the image or personality of their manager, for better or worse--if this is the case, Mark Hughes' world is one best left alone with enigma and dissonance. For every Stephen Ireland, who's defined himself as the year's most-improved, a quality fulcrum with 20-foot rainbows and the strangest Bic-ed head you'll ever see, there's a Richard Dunne, who for the bulk of the season has looked not a captain but more a child astray from his mother in a vast department store. Shaun Wright-Phillips was rescued, and in turn the brilliant Elano was castigated and turned bit player. A loss to Fulham at home, a win on the road to Everton. Stop me when I make sense.

Perhaps his saving grace has been his actual purchases. Besides Robinho, man of 1000 stepovers and 1000 condoms alike, the lavish spending promised early on turned out to be rather bourgeois, and Hughes was able to assemble some sort of spine to his team if Abu Dhabi sees fit to bring him back. Which is why the last paragraph of his comment, where he speaks of starting at the ground level amidst all the other footballing establishments, is so perplexing. If he's speaking towards the Big 4 there, and gaining membership into that club, he best hope his owners take a different model than the last foreign influx of wealth did, for the Abramovich model is of the one-year variety, and this year Hughes' City have underperformed beyond a reasonable doubt. Only now they find themselves with a chance at moderate redemption at the most opportune time, four games and a UEFA Cup birth as now-found salvage for their once-lost season. In a season where every game has in some percentage had to have felt like his last, Mark Hughes' tenure as City manager is now officially in the balance. (The state of the English manager for the time being, then? That is too.)

you can't pop your collar if it's a guillotine

2009-03-22T15:22:00.000-07:00

I've been estranged for the better part of a year now about the fourth CL spot. Supporting Villa's quest to break the English caste system should be right up my alley in theory, however they've yet to entice me into actually walking down the damn thing. I've preferred squinting at and speculating from a distance instead. (This caution could be because there's a closet, located somewhere in the deepest & darkest annals of my affections, that contains just a minute amount of love for Arsenal; that's not a door for today, unfortunately.)

I almost did take that walk, though. Martin was this close to talking me into it. He at the least commanded my heightened attention, as from afar a man resembling a coke-binging sprite on the touchline often will. Every goal Villa scores (or concedes, but emphasis on the former), they are to him each their own unique rapture, though from what it's hard to say, for few are as safe in their posts as O'Neill is in his. Whatever the reason, his elations have now ceased where they should instead be finding most warrant, for his Villans have scored just five in their last eight and are gazing skyward towards fourth after so long staring down from it. The side could actually finish as they did a year prior if they don't find their bearings right quick; a promising vision, but sixth place and trophyless.

Most will be quick to condemn; I just kinda wanna know what the hell happened. The usual suspects are all there in broad daylight, primed for criticism, but when corralled they seem more than a little inaccordant. Everyone seems to wanna point the finger at his team selection in Moscow, as though there couldn't be a worse infraction than disrespecting a trophy and the arduous quest for, but then these same fingers will later direct themselves towards the squad's paucity and how ragged his boys' legs have run. So what should O'Neill have done, exactly? Conceded the UEFA Cup back in July by playing the nobodies then? I look at their beating at Liverpool's hands today, and I see things through more modest and specified lenses.

I see 6'3 Alberto Riera turning 5'9 Nigel Reo-Coker into his bitch on one flank; I see 6'0 Luke Young playing out of position on the opposite; I see a fit Nicky Shorey (not to mention Zat Knight, who could shove the 6'3 Cuellar over onto Riera) languishing on the bench entirely, an all-too-common occurance for the smallest squad in the PL. Warming that same bench I see a 22 year-old Gabby Agbonlahor, saving his energy after the exhausting one-game-in-two-and-a-half-weeks schedule he just labored through; I did not see Emile Heskey do absolutely anything of note before being yanked besides drift out left and clog any drains Ashley Young would normally flow through. I see five-nil from four set pieces and a Pepe Reina masterstroke (of which should be regarded at Delap-like levels and defended accordingly from now on, it's such a weapon), and I see said goalkeeper saving a duo of beyond solid Carew attempts when the score read much more favorably.

But most importantly? I see Martin O'Neill. I see Old Trafford looming in a fortnight's time, coinciding with an improbable and unthinkable hiccup in Man Utd's blessed step, which are either the best or worst circumstances to play there under. The tactical miscues above, I suspect them abberant, and to be eliminated in but a game's time. There's work to be done, yes, but after everything this year, I just don't see Villa collapsing with but a whimper in late March, their story to be forgotten faster than it could have ever been conceived. Not in 08/09--it wouldn't seem right. Don't get complacent, Gunners. It's not over quite yet.

a chronicling, draped in flannel

2009-03-19T20:24:00.000-07:00

One of, if not the only, positive parallel between the MLS and the American sporting climate? Expansion, kids. And so, a diary of the Sounders inaugural game.

6:19 pm, pacific time. God, that guy had great hair. Just don’t see spikes that committedly big at other sporting events. Sounders 1, OKC Thunder 0.

6:30 Wonder the last time Qwest had that much energy pumping through it. Probably wasn’t for a Seahawks game. Kickoff.

6:36 Exactly as you’d expect from an expansion team’s first time out; lots and lots of midfield dispossession. The green & blue looks sharp in HD, though.

6:41 I bet Sounders left back Zack Scott is seething about missing his Zags play tonight in the NCAA tourney. Good thing he won’t have anything to do besides chase Dane RicharOOOOOOH SHIT A GOAL! EL CABALLITO DE COLOMBIA FREDY MONTERO!!!!!! GOOOOOOOOOOOOOOL!!!!!!!!!! LOS SOUNDERS 1, LOS TOROS ROJOS 0!

6:44 That was absolutely the best thing that could’ve happened for this game. Were they interpreting a caffeinated Latin-American centipede for their celebration, though? Probably gonna wanna work out those triumphal kinks next practice, guys, before the goals dry up.

6:51 Is his name really Jhon Kennedy Hurtado?

6:55 Brad Evans takes Cepero five-hole, Sounders 2, city of Seattle 1,000, Red Bulls 0, OKC Thunder -3. Weren’t New York the Western Conference Champs last season? Good one all around, playoff system.

6:58 Just because you’re 40 doesn’t mean you get to wear tight yoga pants, Kasey.

7:03 Requisite “Jhon Kennedy used his hands” joke here.

7:07 It’s really a shame no one on the Sounders looks like he’s in a grunge band. Just seems like such an easy get; hopefully Sigi takes a trip to Argentina sometime in the near future. (edit: 'twas later mentioned that the team in fact took a trip down there; remains to be seen why the roster wasn't adjusted during the proceedings.)

7:11 I’d take exception to the Pacific Northwest receiving three football clubs in three years, but I didn’t have my basketball team raped and pillaged out from under me. (Portland has the Blazers, but remember too that Vancouver lost the Grizzlies. Evens out in some way, I think.)

7:15 Alliance For Progress be damned, Jhon Kennedy is manhandling a Colombian in Seattle tonight. Juan Pablo, ¿dónde estás?

7:17 Halftime. One wonders if NY is this bad, or if Seattle’s adrenaline is simply that pronounced. I’m not, but one might.

7:30 I can’t put into words how much I hate that Messi chests the game down in that PES commercial.

7:34 Second half. The field has stripper glitter all over it.

7:39 Good number crunching, ESPN. 12 touches, 9 moving away from goal for Ángel. My sister’s fiancé Rigo is also a dead ringer for a lovechild between JPA and Shakira. ¡Viva Colombia y sus cejas!

7:45 I’ve thoroughly convinced myself the Red Bulls jerseys have a goofy little innocuous zipper like a Patagonia sweater where that patch of red is on their collar.

7:48 JP Dellacamera asks the question I’ve been wondering since the second goal; where exactly does Freddie play if this form stays true?

7:52 Adam Scott torpedoes through JPA’s ankles like he talked shit on John Stockton’s shorts. Somebody let him know the Zags advanced tonight, stat.

7:56 Can I be the first to make the Lebron-Zakuani comparison? If for no other reason than both are first-picks out of Akron (even if Steve’s actually from the Congo)—that’s enough to start, right? No?

8:00 Keller is finally afforded a chance to test the elasticity of his comfort pants.

8:04 Montero loots Mike Petke of his dignity, gets his brace, gives me my adjourning cue. Sounders 3, NYRB 0, city of Seattle 7,640, Clay Bennett - ∞, justice 1. Hope it helped a little, Seattle; lord knows you deserved the hell out of it.

to infamy, goes the day

2009-03-14T14:43:00.000-07:00

There is something terrifyingly wrong with the below photo.

...but why, Screech? WHY?!

...and justice for few

2009-03-09T14:35:00.000-07:00

Today, 2:29 PM, Pacific time: Jay Mariotti, for his victorious last word on Around the Horn, chooses to personally and emphatically banish Beckham from our proud sporting shores, claiming he "didn't do what he promised us" & that "soccer will never work here", throws out "England in 2010" in case one were to suspect him of not having the slightest clue about what he's lambasting.

2:29:40ish PM: Reali informs his audience that the Mon-Fri show won't be on tomorrow, has not a clue why, waxes confusion with a visually perturbed Mariotti.

2:30 PM: Cable guide reveals that show's normal time slot on Tuesday the 10th of March is under obstruction by the 2nd leg of Real Madrid-Liverpool.

2:32 PM: Mariotti enjoys succulent taste of worn rubber sole in his silly, petulant mouth.