sprawler? nah man, its sprawler lime

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.

idly wild or wildly idle?

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.

sprawler

Opinions cultivated upon watching select games from this weekend-

--Lots of midweek considerations taken in Italy. Surely they don't remember the trouncings they took last year from their providential English foes from this campaign, do they? I'd say more but they all proved blandly victorious and/or fortunate, and I'm boycotting anything substantial dealing in Beckhamry, so onwards to the entertaining, verbose and self-indulgent shit. (worth mentioning, for I wept and came and shat simultaneously: Momo Sissoko's goal and creation of, a feat as long overdue as humanly possible.)

--Los Galacticos are now at the mercy of Juande’s once-was-lost-but-now-is-found tactical acumen, which sounds like it should combine to become one, a triumphantly all-powerful word. (Tactulmen? Tacticlen?) An ever-mutating 4-4-2—more often than not into a predatory 3-4-3—laid poor Betis at their knees and took a sixpence of hacks at the poor Andalusian lad’s chassis in just the first half alone. And yet, and pen me a sensationalist if you must, but Madrid, despite the grand performance, had nary a soul or really anything resembling; some might have seen a team rounding into peak form or making a firm statement about the gaining status of their fusing under Ramos, but I saw what I saw and was looking into eerily hollow eyes yesterday. A fucking bombardment of individuality and timely & opportune positioning, yes (you’re forgetting Betis’ repeated misses, too), but nothing underneath for support, to a level of which I’m here reigning fire and brimstone all over this half dozen-in-a-half parade. It’s more than just “lacking a spine” (they didn’t), too; it’s a celestial crisis, difficult to pin but almost as though the team were soaked in bleach, like a destitutely poor man’s Manchester United. And that makes both the looming CL tie and the Rafa-to-Real rumors so much more to me than they already were.


With that all being said, the real question here is why the fuck can’t Raul get one last game as a Spanish international? I guess it makes it all-the-more-fitting that he notions to the name on the back of his uniform and not the front after scoring. His display was romantic & sublime, straight from the belly of the whale—all of which will be touted but only alongside the team, most of which weren’t near worthy of even shaking the man’s hand on the day.

--I’ll forever have difficulty finding subjectivity in any and all things Manchester United until an opponent receives a penalty at Old Trafford, and so I won’t begin feigning neutrality now, not for nobody. I will hail a normally repugnant Big Sam for his much-belated Christmas tree, for in entrusting the embattled Santa Cruz as his gold star on top, Rovers were able to do what so many before them failed in by simply breaching Man U’s goal. (EVS or not, don’t care)(Rio has been screaming to be caught out lately.) But from a stylistic, eccentric and/or idiosyncratic standpoint, aka the shit I watch, love, & bleed the game for, am I really supposed to be that impressed by an early & tame poached capitalization of Ryan Nelsen and a free kick (stunning, yes, but the exception that proves the rule; if deadballs [even knuckling ones] were what I craved and lived for then I’d be shedding a wheelbarrow full of tears about Beckham. I’m not)? I see the finest of carpets laid for their innovation and champagne football, but where is the innovation when one of the quartet of three 30 million lb. strikers and the “WBP” (quotes cannot be understated there) is always gonna be on the bench? I don’t even have any sort of fleeting affinity for Tevez, the odd man out, but he deserves a spot over Nani, plain and simple. I don’t mean for a half hour after going a goal up, either; that ain't cutthroat, and for their, and my, money I want cutthroat when meeting my makers.

Maybe it’s because it’s as though every goal they score, no matter the quality, they always seem forced and tied to the whipping post, often created not out of enchantment but of boredom, banality, fear or snobbish disdain, always with an I’m-far-too-good-for-this-shit prose, and for whatever reason that offends the piss out of me. Maybe it’s because I’ve matured in a world where the Yankees are the devil incarnate, and where capitalism’s fruits have soured and grown mold of the highest rancidity, and that those things stink of Man U to high heaven. Maybe it’s because having brothers oppositely manning the back flanks not once, but twice, and fucking Brazilian twins the latter no less, is straight out of your worst prototypical feel-good bullshit sports romp. I think in the third Major League the 2nd baseman and shortstop were estranged Dominican twins or something. Maybe it's sour grapes. Probably some concoction of all, but I thus cannot support Man U, for they are the Yankees/2005 Spurs of England, of football, and for yours’ and brevity’s sake, fuck that on all counts.


--One could and would slave for days in search of a situation in American sport more partisanly damning than Lukas Podolski facing former and future club Cologne Saturday. What’s worse, it might not even equal the Germany/Poland affair he bagged a brace in during the Euros. Maybe so, though this weekend’s featuring a loss and a yanking at halftime (for the American, no less) will certainly sting longer. Dude’s emotions must be an indefinable wreck right now. I think this makes that brace over the summer all the more inconceivable and tenebrous, too.

--If there is one tactical principle I hold truly near and dear to my breast while throwing all others overboard, it’s that there’s an ocean of pitch out there, and that anyone treating it as such and perusing through the infinite combination of ways to arrange ten men inside a rectangle and choosing that that’s less traveled (especially within England’s orthodoxy) is forthwith my hero. You can imagine then what Rafa Benitez choosing the most vanilla 4-4-2 he could assemble (complete with Lucas holding) from his Reds roster against City does for me. The previous affair, as aforementioned through livebloggery, showcased a barbaric 3-4-3 with a revolving door midfield of jettisoning wingbacks and holders, and Ryan Babel to boot, and I’d assumed then and now that the game ended up a cracker because of this calculated gamble (and its subsequent substitutions), this hobgoblin idea caught somewhere between firmly entertaining the idea of scoring and damming any and all waves Pompey attempted making.

Is it any wonder then that, despite their routine second-half Kop procurement, Liverpool fell further behind for the title? Seven points is neither close nor far from atop February’s dreary summit, but it is indeed a breadth stretched further than the previous five point gap, quite needlessly at that. That Pompey game was both the last time ‘Pool took the field and two fucking weeks ago, so I’m heavily suspect to enough decisions as to actually list them mid-paragraph:

1a. Alonso was suspended, so as much as I’d like to, his absence can’t be put on Rafa.
1b. That also doesn’t mean that in a game and league where goals are both an absolute necessity and premium, that Lucas should be anywhere near the heart of midfield, and especially not to flank Mascherano, England’s new Makélélé incumbent. What (little) Lucas contributes is much less important than
1c. Replacing Gerrard and his lineage to Fernando Torres, which should mean (in my opinion, though I’d just as soon, and actually even sooner, not choose a 4-4-2, but for simplicity’s sake) Benayoun as an attacking central mid, Dirk on the right, and hey, here’s a thought, a Babel-Torres partnership?
2. Aurelio scores from a play nobody ever scores from, and gives a soundly quality performance in his first time midfielding, and gets omitted for the paltry Andrea Dossena? When I said vanilla, I meant it.
3. His substitutions are what routinely get critically smacked, but that might be because he does things like puts Nabil El Zhar on a goal down on the hour and waits another fifteen before cutting his deck again. As responsible as he was for the win a fortnight ago, I wonder just how culpable Rafa is for this.


Like I said though, the Grand Canyon seven points is not, and it actually seems a great deal closer than a loss and eight points would have been. Maybe I could even view it as some straight-up karmic shit I can’t control, like Rafa’s treatment of Bellamy, like Bellamy scoring against every damn club he was disowned by this season, like his goal being of the most random of deflections, like coming from two down at halftime to steal three points at Eastlands in November, and thus I can move forward towards Reds/Real in a few days accordingly, principles in assured tow.

--Will somebody else in Holland (Ajax, please) buy somebody from below our border so I can watch more than just PSV on Deportes every weekend?

--From here on out thou shalt cry conspiracy every time Barca falters in league. That was just not a red, embellishment be damned. It was unabashed, African (as was Yaya's goal; profligate examples why they're deified 'round here), and no doubt a yellow, but the contact appeared wholly incidental, as Keita's leg was tucked, and I'm here to chalk it up to another in dis-fucking-graceful decisions made across Europe this season. Rather than this being sign Spain's crusades are henceforth resuming, that is. Why? Well, from there on, blaugrana tropical football tended to exhaust and seep and fall victim to counters (and sheer pants-shittery, Victor) a man subtracted, for the success of waxing jubilant and empyrean needs not a backup plan often. This happens eleven v. eleven, we'll talk again. But as it now stands the gaps in the world's two zeniths sit even at seven, though they feel oh so queerly different, a fathom and a furlong and aridity in between.

--It’s nearly impossible to gain any insight from a preseason tournament about an MLS team, especially one as consummately fucked and fractured as the current Galaxy incarnation. I can predict, however, that failing in becoming champions of the pan-Pacific will neither convince DB to bring his handsome ass back here nor Milan to conclude their xenophobia anytime soon. (Hopefully through the remaining negotiations the LA brass will remain fervently stuck in, in complete recalcitrance to their on-pitch product.) Another prediction: I shan’t spend a dime on seeing this team play this calendar year, barring the absolute miraculous. A pity of epic proportions surely, though the fact that no one in Los Angeles cares while sharing in Milan’s rude gall, and that it's strangely and sadly contagious, even to those encompassed by the sport like myself, might just be worse.