TWAG: The Joy of Six (Instead of the Joy of Cesc)

Six. That's how many of us there were for the Arsenal v. Everton kickoff on Sunday morning.

It was an irritatingly early start time, but that's really how heartbreaking this season was? Only six people—plus two more who wandered in about halftime—could be bothered.

Hell, Everton even had something to play for. One point would secure them a UEFA Cup spot. There's also the Gunner's 50-something game home unbeaten streak at the Emirates.

And fuck, there are only two games left in the season, then there's no more Arsenal futbol for literally months. Christ, shouldn't we all be squirrels out there collecting the remaining nuts no matter how shitty they might be because there aren't going to be any more for a while?

If nothing else, it was a chance just to watch and enjoy football. There were no nerves because Arsenal weren't moving out of third place. It was a rare opportunity to watch without having an irrational emotional attachment to every cross, every clearance. Lehmann could let another soft shot roll between his legs, and it would simply be a humorous and apropos farewell.

Turns out, though, detached spectating really is not that fun, even less so when it is compounded by massive disappointment of what might have been. Okay, it's a little fun when you are beating the shit out of Derby in a 6-2 scorgasm, and making them pay for a your season of second-half failure; but a listless 1-0 win over Everton where Song and Traore are maybe the best players on the pitch isn't much reward for fandom.

This must be what it's like to be a Tottenham fan. Before the games even kick off it doesn't really matter if you win or lose because when all is said and done, you're going to end up someplace mid-table, give or take.

But the shit does matter (or rather "matter" in a very relative sense—I can maintain perspective). That's what makes it worth dragging our asses out of bed when sane people are still sleeping off their hangovers (note to any European readers: fuck, it's hard sometimes being a fan of this game seven time zones away). Yeah, I'm still pissed at the non-call and the call in the Liverpool Champions League matches. And I'm even more pissed off at the shoddy defense after Adebayor leveled, but what's the point if you're not going to have strong emotional reactions? Sometimes you can't bring yourself to watch, but you can't make yourself look away.

There's a reason they keep score. And a good one. Meaningless matches are hardly worth it. Sure it's football, but it's like having drunk sex with an ex that you don't give a shit about anymore. It's slightly better than going home and rubbing one out, but it's not even close to what it feels like when you are nuts about the other person.

Plus it was a pretty lackluster match on both sides.

The best moment wasn't even on the field of play. At one point the Setanta cameras showed Helb, Fabregas, Flamini, and Rosicky all sitting right next to each other behind the bench. A fucking world class midfield—at least two of which have probably played their last match as Gunners—and all of them spectators.

I'd put even money down the camera man was a United fan having sadistic laugh. And he'd be right to.

Arsenal won. Yippee. Had the Prem still been up for grabs, the Gunners would have found a way to squander the lead and draw, though. Maybe that's the silver lining, had they still been in it a Sunday draw might have sucked the life force right out of me. But it's more of a sterling than a Britannia silver. When the expectations were low—much preseason punditry had the team finishing outside the top 4—Arsenal played loose and they won early and often. They didn't even drop a match until December 9, to 'Boro of all teams.

It wasn't until they Gunners found themselves five points clear atop the table that they began to look like deer, or rather fawn, in the Prem headlights and reeled off consecutive draws against (God this hurts) likely relegation fodder Birmingham City, Villa, bottom-halfers Wigan, and 'Boro.

Seriously, we only took one of six points from fucking Middlesbrough this year? I hope Gareth Southgate still wakes up with cold sweats reliving his missed PK from the 1996 Euro.

Even with all those dropped points, with a win at Stamford Bridge and a win at Old Tratford it was there for the taking and it was theirs for the taking. Instead Drogba decided to show up for the second half and give the Gunners a big "fuck you" for a going away present and Owen Hargreaves hit a ridiculous free kick nobody was expecting him to even take.

Credit to them. They beat us when it mattered. But it's also clear this Arsenal team didn't know how to play under pressure. That and they had to play Senderos probably a little too much to make anyone feel good. Maybe even Philippe himself.

So that's it. Had you told me before the season started that Arsenal would finish third I would gladly have taken it. But with only Sunderland left on the fixtures, I'm anything but glad. I will probably sleep in next week no matter what time kick is.

After the other Sunday match, I wanted to make myself feel better by taking a shot at the people looking up at us. For completely arbitrary reasons a buddy of mine adopted Liverpool as his EPL team to follow this year. I applaud him for trying to get into futbol by having a team to follow, but I also chided him for his choice. When I cracked on his pick in an email by calling them Liverfouth (which I admitted stole from some blog), he responded, "And how much worse is that than Thirdsenal?"

Ouch. The truth does indeed hurt... but only until the 2008-2009 season starts.

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TWAG: Asshole United Fan Might Be Redundant

As much as I love futbol, even I am surprised that I made it to Ginger's just a couple of minutes after the kick for the second leg of the troika. And yes, I do want a cookie. I thought about it a good long while and, after hitting the snooze button twice, realized that if I missed the match, it would turn out to be the Greatest Soccer Match Ever Played.

Instead it was mild torture. For the second time in 4 days Arsenal outplayed Liverpool and had almost nothing to show for it (okay, one league point).

I blame Wenger. The second he saw the Skrtel (I'd like to buy a vowel please) and Carragher in central defense, he should have put Adebayor in. That pair was dreadful against United and he should have exploited it. Bendtner couldn't scare a 4 year old boy, not even if he were wearing Jason's hockey mask.

Champions League Schmampions League. With United dropping points, had Wegner been a little more aggressive with his line-up, a win at Old Tratford next week and United would be down to a one point lead atop the Prem.

Okay, Wegner couldn't have known that United with draw on Sunday, but still, manage like a baseball manager down 3-2 in a seven game series. Do everything you can to win game six, then worry about game seven when it happens.

I really could do this all day. "This" being ifs and shouldas. But I'm only making myself miserable. In fact I don't think I've even enjoyed much Arsenal soccer since sometime in January. That's the real bummer here.

Sure the first two matches were exciting, but not exciting in a fun kind of way. In the first, they held a lead for all of three minutes before giving a goal right back. In the second, they controlled the match only to be one down at half. It was a nice individual effort by Crouch, but it was equally a horrid defensive lapse.

Is it too much to ask for a methodical 4-0 dismantling of someone? Anyone? Probably not happening Tuesday. Probably not happening the 13th either. Who is getting promoted and when are they on the schedule for next season?

Anyway, instead of the Greatest Soccer Match Ever Played, I think I got a mild ulcer (or maybe that was just the seven cups of coffee I put back eating a hole in the line of my stomach). Oh, and I had to listen to some United fan talk shit the entire match.

That's right some dicktard (and no, it wasn't Douchey McBosox Hat, this guy was old) showed up at Ginger's wearing a United shirt and scarf just to cheer against Arsenal and talk shit the entire match.

A) It was finally warm in Chicago, what the fuck you need a scarf for? B) I think the very definition of "asshole" is to get up at an ungodly early hour to put on garb for a team that isn't even playing and spew stupid half truths you've heard elsewhere like there's a string coming out of your back.

Sometimes I wish Americans were the type of people who beat other people senseless just for wearing the wrong shirt into the wrong bar. Sometimes I wish I was that kind of American instead of the pacifist that I am.

Well, asshole, hope you enjoyed sweating it out against 'Boro on Sunday. Maybe if you're a little less of a dick the Universe wouldn't derive such pleasure from taunting you. Of course if there really is a direct causal connection between your behaviour and United's on-field performance, then feel free to show up for the Champions League match on Tuesday and be an even bigger prick. That would make my weekend.

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TWAG: Too Old Not to Know Better

I was 11 when US Reed hit that shot.

I know because I was there.



"Was" being the operative word. I was indeed in the arena that afternoon. That was an NCAA regional in Austin, TX. My dad was a professor at UT, so he dropped my older brother and me off at the arena (the tourney wasn't near the big deal that it is now, and you could just walk up and get tickets at the box office) then he went to his office and did some work.

With less than a couple of minutes left, Arkansas was up maybe eight points, maybe double digits. And Louisville hadn't played well all game. So with time on the clock, my brother and decided it was over and and started to walk back towards my dad's office (the arena is just on the edge of the University of Texas campus).

Like I said, I was in the arena that afternoon, but I left before the final seconds ticked off. So I have no memory of that shot. None.

When we got back to my dad's office, my old man greeted us with something like, "Oh my Gosh, that must have been exciting."

Uh, what was, dad?

He had been listening on the radio. He knew what had happened. We had no idea.

I pretty much vowed then and there never to leave another sporting event early again. If there was any silver lining to that day it was that lesson, oh, and that I was pulling for Louisville and, despite the comeback, they lost anyway.

Saturday wasn't so kind to me.

Okay, technically, I didn't break my vow. I didn't leave a sporting event, I left a bar.

But still... a man down, and after another dude named "M. Taylor" was about to fuck the Gunners' season (this time with a first half brace), what the hell was I supposed to do?

Answer: have some semblance of faith or patience or at least continue to make friends commiserating with the other Arsenal fans at the bar. Nope, technically, I didn't even make it to half. After the 43rd minute deflection off Gallas and passed Almunia I just up an left. I screamed "fuck" as I stepped outside, then drove home listening to 'Wait, Wait. Don't Tell Me" on the radio not because I'm a pretentious dick, but because I was too pissed to care what I was listening to (Note to NPR: Paul Provenza and Paula Poundstone are not funny).

It wasn't just that game that had pushed me to leaving, it was everything leading up to it. Save the CL tilt against Milan, the Gunners have been shit since getting their asses kicked in the FA Cup by United. In fact, even in the Emirates round of the Milan home-and-home, Arsenal blew all kinds of chances to draw at nil. Basically, for every minute of soccer played on English soil since about mid-February, Arsenal was either deliberately torturing its fans or simply sucking for reasons unknown.

Dropped points against Wigan, Birmingham, Villa, and I can't even remember who else anymore. So, sure, drop more points against Bolton.

Never mind that Bolton are fucking useless. Never mind that Bolton hadn't scored in its last seven-plus hours of play but somehow not only managed to net one on their first chance of the match but also get another on a deflection before half.

What sane person wouldn't leave? It's just football. I've got other shit to do with my day.

The worst part of leaving though, is that I get nothing from Saturday. By that I don't mean that the win doesn't even really "save" Arsenal's season. The Prem is gone. United looks unbeatable. Sure 2nd place would be nice for automatic CL qualification, but, if it doesn't happen, eh... big deal.

I mean I get nothing. Like with US Reed, I have no memory to go with the comeback.

Well, I do, but it totally sucks. My memory is seeing the gamecast tick by on Soccernet. And, about the 4th from the last comment, the person describing the action wrote something like, "Oh, that's a bit unlucky" as Bolton scored an own goal in the 90th to hand the minor miracle to Arsenal.

That's a pretty shitty memory for such an unreal comeback. I'm sure I deserve it.

Yes, it is just football, but that's why we watch. Or at least part of the reason—because the improbable might happen; because it is possible to be a man down on the road and outscore an opponent by three in the second half, including the last one on a bad-luck-evening-out own-goal deflection; and because those moments can be celebrated with near strangers like they are brothers.

Instead I was staring at some pixels on a screen. I wasn't there. I didn't even see it (except on highlights). And, although the comeback is nice, I robbed myself of all the emotional euphoria that makes being a fan worth dropping points against Avram Fucking Grant, makes it worth the suffering (or "suffering" rather... I do still have perspective).

But, in the name of US Reed, I vow I'm not leaving Ginger's early again.

Ever.

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TWAG: Like the Gunners, This Post Is Better Late Than Never

[Note: This week's TWAG was actually a TWAF as I was in Austin (Fadó) and not Chicago (Ginger's). A tip of the hat should go to the Austin Arsenal fans for putting together and collectively signing a get-welll poster for Eduardo. Nice touch, guys.]

Here's how bad it was. We cheered wildly the 60th minute substitution of Niklas Bendtner. Something is rotten in the Emirates when Adebayor's Danish punching bag is suddenly seen as hope.

It was already bizarro Saturday morning for the Gunners. They looked the slower team. They were spraying balls errantly across the pitch. They even put the ball into the wrong goal in the 27th. It was oddly appropriate, though, that Senderos beat Almunia to the short side from an Agbonlahor cross.

Agbonlaholyfuckmynamedoesnotflowoffthetounge had spent the early part of the match turning every counter into a chance to school the Swiss defender. Since the Villa forward couldn't seem to finish himself, Senderos just did him the favor to hasten the inevitable.

And with that own goal, the fairy tale seemed to make the inconvenient acquaintance of reality. The glass slipper didn't fit. The frog was still a frog after being kissed. And Snow White stays in the coma.

Oops. Fuck.

The "Do it for Eduardo" sentiment wasn't going to put balls into nets and United's march to the title seemed like an inevitability. Any doubt of that could be dismissed simply by looking over to the other half of the bar where the Red Devils were methodically dismantling Fulham. The accompanying cheers from the bar were frequent, regular, and irritating.

And as the clock wound and wound, those United fans had started to drift over from their half the bar in anticipation of a delicious climax to the morning. Seven days before the Mancs were 5 points adrift and down on goal differential. Now they were literally moments away from being back atop the table—level on points but ahead on GD (go fuck yourself until you figure out how to defend, Mr. Keegan).

There were more rationalizations than scoring chances: the injuries were piling up; the loss of Eduardo was too much of an emotional blow; many pundits had predicted we wouldn't even earn a Champions League spot, so we had really overachieved to this point and that should be enough; Senderos was bound to be exposed eventually; Cesc hasn't done shit since December; too many fixtures not enough bench; the Milan muff wasn't a freak accident and Adebayor's haircut really had killed his ability to head the ball down etc.

It was more depressing than watching a crowd emerge from a Larry the Cable guy performance.

Whoever said a tie is like kissing your sister was not a futbol fan.

Bendtner's last minute goal to level felt more like plowing Diane Lane from behind.

Not a bad turnaround of disposition as a couple of minutes before I was contemplating shoving my breakfast fork into my cheek to alleviate the pain of watching the game and the Prem slip away.

The last meaningful touch of the Villa game might be the most important point the Gunners collect all season. Sure, it's only a point and the lead over the Mancs is all but gone, but from a psychological perspective it could be huge.

And Wegner knew it. The fact that he had any reaction much less the Tiger-esque fist-pump should probably tell even the casual fan that he understood how much the season was slipping away.

In the 80th, Wenger brought on Denilson and Gilberto. I heard some guy over my shoulder say, "He's going for it." Sure, what choice did he have? It wasn't like there was anything to be gained by only losing 1-0 at home.

Goal differential might well be the difference between 3rd or 4th or, more importantly 4th and 5th, but with the two dick stompings of Newcastle by United, Wegner can't be thinking that there's much reward in just limiting damage.

Still, this wasn't the normal push-people-forward kind of go for it. With the two Brazilian subs the Gunners had gone to a 3-4-3 but the way they aligned was more effectively a 2-5-3.

I'm not sure exactly how you say "Fuck it" in French, but "deux-cinq-troi" is probably a reasonable translation.

It might be an overstatement to say that if Arsenal hold on, the Prem was won with Bendtner's goal. There's too much futbol left and the fixture at United is six points waiting for the taking.

And we'll see more in a couple of hours if there is a lasting uplift that carries over from the draw to the San Siro. But if nothing else, fuck it felt good to watch the smug and self-sure Mancs scurry back to their corner of the bar knowing that they were still looking up at the Gunners. And tenuous the hold might be, it's still a grip.

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TWAG: More Lies I Believe

I have witnesses.

Okay, witness. But before the ball was even kicked I said to Tuffy—yes, the Tuffy of Deadspin commenter pseudo-fame—"I have a bad feeling about this."

I should qualify, my bad feeling was more of a "It's 2-1 late and United gets a goal against the run of play to salt it away 3-1" kind of bad feeling. I really wasn't prepared for the absolute emasculation of Arsenal at the hands, or more accurately, the feet of the Mancs.

If my feeling had been that bad, I never would have bothered to get out of bed. Instead Tuffy and I were seated in the back room at Ginger's in Chicago with fear, loathing. and sweaters.

It's become my default viewing locale. It's not a chain and it's close. And the waitresses have started to recognize me enough to call me "Sweetie." What's not to love?

This: there was a $10 cover. Not the bar's fault I know, but, the staff originally had told early arriving patrons—otherwise know as masochists Liverpool fans—that the United v. Arsenal match was only going to be on in the two back rooms (the bar is laid out almost like three separate rooms). This makes some sense as anyone can walk in to the front of the bar, so to have the game on there, Ginger's would have had to charge cover to anyone who came in. Not that there is any clientele walking into the place at 11 am on a Saturday who isn't there to watch fütbol.

So Tuffy and I had given up our prime seats at the bar and ended up in the back corner of the back room.

This was bad for two reasons:

1) The ambient temperature in the back room is about 20 degrees over the outside temperature. It was single digits on Saturday morning.

2) All of the good TVs are in the front room. It's almost all flatscreens up front. The back two rooms? Well they would have been kickin' in about 1985.

Of course not long after uprooting from maybe the two best seats in the bar, staff or management realized their grave error of their strategic ways and made the whole bar United v. Arsenal friendly.

I'd say things were starting off bad, but, like I said at least twice now already, I had a bad feeling before I even walked into the bar. So I saw it coming. Kind of.

What I didn't see coming that morning was the Liverpool loss to Barnsley. Worse I barely saw it at all. For some reason all but one of the maybe 6 small TVs in the back room was turned to the SPL. There is also a projection TV back there, but it's fuzzy and the color is washed out. It's like watching TV through a screen door.

Underwater.

So, the entire back room is focused on the one little TV.

We're cold. We're out $10. And we're all squinting at stoppage time at Anfield on this one small TV that has the bottom left corner of the screen washed out.

This was actually the high point of the morning.

I think the Mancs were mainlining Adderall in the locker room right before kick (you know while their grounds crew was watering the pitch... wtf?). At the same time, the Gunners were getting their pre-game pep talk from Franz Mesmer.

From first touch almost it was clear Arsenal was toast. And from a viewing perspective, there were two things that made this not the worst morning of my Newish Year.

1) It was over after United's second goal in, what, the 17th minute. This totally took the winds of taunt from the Red Devils' supporters sails. Really, who has the energy to laugh for 73 minutes?

2) As bad as I felt, every time I went to the bathroom I felt better.

Let me explain. I ordered coffee and had about 7 cups of it by half. That'll start to run through you after about cup number 3. So I had to go pee at least three times in the second stanza, but it wasn't the peeing that made me feel better, no.

There were two poor bastards sunk into a booth in the middle room. Every time I went to the loo, I looked straight at the two saddest of sacks ever seen since Phyllis Diller's boobs shuffled off this mortal coil along with the rest of her body presumably.

This isn't about another shot at the UF Scousers. It really looked as if the lifeforce had been sucked out of these two gentlemen, like someone hooked them up to that machine in the Princess Bride. They were lifeless, with only cheap pleather seats to help them fight gravity. As bad as my morning was, there was no way it was within 7 orders of shit magnitude of theirs.

For my beloved Gunners. It was bad. Really bad. Not losing to Barnsley bad. But still, really bad. At least I can delude myself with 10 solid rationalizations:

1) Sagna would not have had his wallet, girlfriend and pride all stolen by Nani the way Hoyte did. In fact if Barcary had played, I'm pretty sure that two of the crosses from which United scored wouldn't have even made it into the box.
2) That's the worst Gallas has ever played in an Arsenal jersey. He can't possibly ever play that poorly again.
3) Eboue and Toure weren't back mentally from the Cup of Nations where defense is totally an optional skill to employ.
4) The Eboue-on-Evra red card doesn't get flashed at any stadium named Trafford, new or old.
5) Lehmann played keeper. He sucks.
6) Rooney was well-rested after his suspension. This isn't likely to be the case when the two sides meet in April as United has more fixtures than the Gunners to play between now and then.
7-10) Some other things that I barely believe, but I believe enough to say that Arsenal wins the rubber match (the draw in October felt like a win) 2-1.

It's sheer coincidence that it's the same score that Barnsley beat Liverpool by.

Swear. To. God.

My brining it up one more time just for havin' a laugh, less of a coincidence.

But still, mark it down. I want there to be witnesses.

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TWAG (This Week at Ginger's): Episode 2 - That Explains the Six Cups of Coffee

It was -5 when I woke up on Sunday morning. The first breath I took when I stepped outside hurt my lungs.

But I have no Setanta and:

A) I wanted to see the remnants of United v. Citeh (if only for the retro kits)
2) I had a commitment from the two ladies you see in the picture above to actually make it to Ginger's to watch the late match of Liverpool v. Chelsea.

And I'm not sure which was more surprising. The Citeh win or the fact that the two girls made it, and even brought a third with them (Note: The pic is not from Ginger's on Sunday but from lunch the day before). The latter because, again, it was below zero (Fahrenheit, kids, we're not cheating with Celsius here) and neither of them know shit about soccer.

The blonde on the right, her name is LeighAnne. Here's an actual conversation we had.

Me: "That's Steven Gerrard. He's one of England's better players."
LeighAnne: "I thought that was Liverpool in red."
Me: "It is. He's English though, so he also plays for the English national team."
LeighAnne: "Isn't that where Beckham played before he came here."
Me: "Well, yes, sometiems. But he also played in Spain at Real Madrid."
LeighAnne: "But he's not Spanish."
Me: "It doesn't matter. You can play your club soccer anywhere. There are Spaniards playing in England and Brazilians playing in Italy."
LeighAnne: "So then they don't play for Brazil?"
Me: "No, they play for Brazil, they just play their club soccer in Europe."
LeighAnne: "How do they play for two teams at the same time?"

What that transcription doesn't give you is the visual of me starting to pound my head against the table.

I tried to explain that, the same way LeBron James plays for the Cleveland Cavaliers and Kobe Bryant plays for the Los Angeles Lakers, when it comes time for the Olympics, they both play for the USA. Somehow she missed the analogy.

She's not stupid. She just clearly doesn't understand soccer, or at least soccer leagues—the game it self it pretty easy: kick the ball into their net, you can't use your hands—but she got irritated that I would call them "clubs" and not "teams" not understanding that all clubs field teams, but not all teams are club teams.

Anyway, a friend of mine had a saying, a variant of Murphy's Law I guess that went: "It's always a good movie, until mom and dad come downstairs and people start fucking."

Sure enough. I drag cute girls to a bar at gawdearly on a shit cold Sunday and what do they get? Liverpool and Chelsea. Between them, the sides combined to score zero goals, created maybe π scoring chances, and put at least 9,458 people into boredom-induced comas.

If not for the girls, I wouldn't have stayed and I like soccer (Soc-cer?).

So instead, to entertain themselves, the girls degenerated into "He's cute" (Ballack) and "I kind of like him. He's rugged in a Matt Damon sort of way" (Riise). Fortunately, for her she only saw Riise from profile during a throw in. From head on, Riise looks like he got struck with an ugly free-kick one too many times. And as for Ballack, meh. The low point of the day was when LeighAnne gushed over how cute Frank Lampard was.

Great, there's zero fucking action on the pitch and my friend is going to become a Chelsea fan because the biggest douche in the EPL is dreamy. This couldn't backfire any worse. Someone alert Rafa, not only did Spain's midweek friendly cost him Torres, but the lack of a good-looking Torres cost Liverpool a potential fan.

So thanks guys, I'm trying to be an ambassador for the game, and a poon ambassador at that, and two of the Big 4 decide to engage in a 90-minute sleepwalk with a couple of stepovers. So yep, soccer is boring. That's exactly what they are going to tell all of their friends at work today when they have the "So what'd you do over the weekend" gossip chat.

And what counter do I have? "Well, you should have seen the Tottenham - Birmingham City match in Novemeber. That was cracking good excitement from mid-table teams. Well, just below mid-table to be accurate."

I should know better: Next time you hoodwink girls (or anybody for that matter) into watching soocer, bring them to an Arsenal match. That's not blatant homerism as, 9 times out of 10, at least an Arsenall match will be pretty to watch, but I'm pretty sure I'll be dragging my ass and my ass alone to the United v. Arsenal FA Cup tie this Sunday.

At least I have the prospect of saddling up to Ronaldo McBoSoxHat. Yipee.

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