The Likely Lad claims he will be liveblogging the Copa Libertadores final this evening. I'm dubious but he asked that we post a note so he can get many more commenters.
Alright, so I've figured it out. Harry Redknapp is either the Bill Parcells of English football or he's just gone batshit from his time at Spurs. He wouldn't be the first. Arry's outburst after Sunday's display-- moderate in nature, given the breakout performance put on by Joe Kinnear upon his introduction at Newcastle or Rafa's queer little tantrum the other day-- was notable not so much for a particular line or profanity, but rather the breadth of his scorn. My favorite, the mocking: "They had two points from eight games when I came here. How do you get two points from eight games?" It's a good question. Let's go back in time, watch Harry mix magic and malice... and then yesterday.
Presenting... Redknapp's Road to Red-faced Rage! Buckle up.
Note: Scroll down to the bottom for Sunday's highlight reel. Still I'd say it's more fun to watch it ebb and flow and ebb.
In their greatest success and most efficient action, on the pitch or off, this season, Spurs axed the terrible triumvirate of Ramos-Poyet-Comolli on Saturday evening, October 25, immediately introducing Harry Redknapp as the replacement. That the negotiation with Portsmouth remained clandestine is a miracle. You might even say Daniel Levy learned from the Jol debacle. Maybe.
Anyway, Harry arrived and bam! Spurs beat Bolton, exceeding in one afternoon their season's point total through eight games (two, you'll remember.)
Before and after the match, it was a lovefest. Building up the players, the club, Redknapp was going to get the most from his NME."I am a big follower of the history of the game and Tottenham have been a great club over the years. I followed Tottenham, I trained there as an 11-year-old, 12-year-old so I know the history of the club. It is a big, big, club."
After the 2-0 win:"I've taken over clubs before where I looked at it and thought 'how do we get out of this one?' There is real quality in this group of players here. You look through and there are international players. We have to start working as hard as we did today for each other, picking up points, playing as we did - they passed the ball with real quality which I was really impressed with."
So yea, apparently we're really good after all. Let's go score four at Arsenal... two in the last couple minutes!! Yea, some trouble with corners, c'mon... Road derby draw! Arry!"It really was an amazing game of football to be involved in. We gave away some bad goals, from set-pieces too, even though we worked hard on that on Tuesday at training. But the boys have been fantastic, there's a real spirit there, a determination. They are jumping for joy in the dressing room."
A week after beating City 2-1 in MancTown (with two Darren Bent goals no less), Spurs hand Liverpool their only loss of the season. It's actually the first of two wins over 'Pudlians in the week, the latter a Carling Cup KO. Here's Harry after the league win."It was a good win and a good performance - even if we could have done better on corners! That's 18 goals we've scored in my five matches in charge - we're bringing in Les Ferdinand as a striking coach and I've told him if we stop scoring it's his fault!"
So are we jumping for joy in the locker room? We just beat Liverpool twice in a week, who cares about crosses? This isn't fun Harry from October.
Right around this time, Gomes went through his "crisis of confidence." There wasn't a warm sweater in Jimmy Carter's basement that could fix this. The question after an especially disturbing performance at Craven Cottage was when... not if... So Harry, is it Cesar time? This keeper sucks, give it 'em!"It's difficult, he's my goalkeeper. He's got to do the job, in all honesty. I've got another keeper, a Spanish lad of 37, and then I've got kids. I've got to stay with him."
Redknapp sticks with Gomes. And so, after the Fulham game (Nov. 15) Gomes plays the next six, conceding two goals, and earning four clean sheets. A Nil-nil draw with Man U. on Dec. 13 his crowning achievement. One impossible save after another. Harry, the floor is yours. Tell us of this Brazilian genius!"If he can keep these performances up we haven't got a problem. But I'd like to bring in another keeper as cover."
Huh?!? Oh, I see. Let's not be overconfident. And to prove we're not so good, how bout a miserable loss at Newcastle(1-2) and a Boxing Day abortion home to Fulham (0-0)."It was ok but we lack punch up front. I couldn't see us scoring. We had a lot of the ball but didn't create enough chances. We looked solid at the back they had one or two chances but other than that we kept them quiet. We're short in certain areas to make the difference. I thought Bobby Zamora was outstanding, in the first half he held the ball up very well. I wish he was still at Tottenham."
Bobby Zamora... right. Anyway, so much for having all the talent we need right here in the room. Looks like Levy's wallet might not be so safe after all. A 0-2 loss at the Baggies makes the point."We need a certain type here. We've got an awful lot of good little players but we need more strength and a bit more power in the team. It is a badly-balanced put-together squad, in all honesty, from day one."
And with these words, so opens the transfer window. Brilliant stuff. Jermain Defoe is back in town about 12 minutes after these comments come across the papers.
But even with the little fella back in Spurs strip, the league goals and results remain elusive. Sunday's 0-1 at the JJB might have actually been the most lopsided disgrace of the season. He can Take No More... Cue 'Arry... and our latest edition of Football Managers Gone Wild!"If you look at the results of Tottenham over the last year you have to be concerned. Look back to the end of last season after the Carling Cup - where Spurs beat Chelsea in the final - and see how many points they have got. They had two points from eight games when I came here. How do you get two points from eight games?? They (the players) put the club in it, it is up to them to get us out of it. There is plenty of flair, but we are in a relegation scrap and we need some men and some characters to get us out of it, that is what you are looking for when you are in the position we are in. "We've got some but not enough. You'd put your life on Jonathan Woodgate, Michael Dawson, Didier Zokora, Jamie O'Hara."
'Arry-- how 'bout Your Boy Defoe?"We didn't see a great deal of him. He needs someone up there with him who is going to get hold of the ball."
So you're saying Roman Pavlyuchenko, subbed after 53 mins didn't do the hold up work? That's a rhetorical question, thanks.
Anything else?"At the moment we have some players who cost this football club a lot of money and they need to be better for the team. They are supposed to be quality players - and they have got to show that on the football pitch. If you look at our results - two points from eight games - it cannot always be the manager's fault, can it?"
I mean, it can if it's Spurs."There are still an awful lot [of players] who can do a lot better than they are doing. We need some improved performances, especially away from home. We have thrown three games away - in the last minutes of each game - that cannot be right."
No, that most certainly cannot.
In Happier Times...
In news that should shock precisely no one, Blackburn sacked manager Paul Ince this morning. The Rovers have played 17 games this year, winning only three. They've lost five on the hop and sit 5 points below sea level. A 3-0 loss to Wigan this weekend sealed his fate. In all, Ince spent six months at Ewood Park.
He's the sixth manager to lose his job in that period. The decision comes about 10 days after old United teammate Roy Keane walked out on Sunderland. No word yet on a successor—early odds favor a return for former Liverpool, Rangers, Southhampton, Benfica, Newcastle, Torino, Galatasaray, and Rovers boss Graeme Souness. Ince was the Premier League's first black manager.
Ronaldo knows what it's like to fall fast
Football is a crazy game these days. The emotional capital on the line every week is staggering. The modern consumer needs a steady hand to guide the way. Unfortunately, that individual has come to the wrong place. This is an American soccer blog, and like Americans do, we suffer our pain in silence, then go out and gamble with other people's money. (Sub-prime Spurs! Get me every time!)
So without further rabble, we present today the first edition of UF's Market Guide. What to Sell! What to Buy! And Everything in between...
BUY! BUY ! BUY!
...until we freak out on national television and tell you to sell the kids for food.
Buy Portsmouth:
Make fun of Fratton Park all you like, the AC Milan game was magic. That coupled with white-knuckle ride win over Blackburn is just what they needed. Tony Adams has his first win; now he can build. Harry Who? (Caveat Emptor: they may have to sell the first team's shin pads for rent money come January.)
Buy TSG 1899 Hoffenheim:
Another impressive win this weekend. Their American educated, trained, nourished striker Veded Ibisevic, who happens to play his international footie for Bosnia (d'oh!) is a scoring machine. With pedigree that likens them to a sort of German Reading, they could go into the winter break atop the league (Caveat: Like Bayern Munich so many years ago, English Reading will host Norwich City this season.)
Buy Antonio Cassano:
The guy's good on the pitch and (as the intrepid Lingering Bursitis explains) hilarious off it. Like we needed another reason to want to go to Spain...
Buy Emile Heskey:
This is actually a personal message to Redknapp and Levy. Buy him from Wigan in January. Spurs need to someone to link the midfield to their one-touch strikers and Modric isn't reliable enough.
Buy Chelsea fans:
Like Leprechauns, they exist, but are increasingly difficult to find. The Blues supporter is rare and fantastic entertainment. Alternately despondent, reflective, nostalgic (make it Special again!), and whiny (offside!)... and they're in first place still, 'Pool pending.
Buy Maradona:
There is but one inalienable truth in this whole debate. The Argentinian players looooove him. No matter how stupid or perverse he acts (to be fair, he was subdued, naturally it appeared, during the Scotland match) they will continue to love him. And when you've got that quality of athlete, a bit of motivation could be more valuable than all the tactics in the world.
Sell! For Chrissakes, Sell it all! Light it on fire, just be done with it!!
...until next week, when everything bounces back but your checking account. Sawwrry.
Sell Real Madrid:
Bernd Schuster is a loss away from the salida, and losing to Getafe on Saturday surely doesn't help. Also, it looks like Rafa, their top target, is signing a new deal at Anfield, meaning they're fucked royally in their search for someone new. They might end up with Juande Ramos (silence)(crickets)(a distant scream)...
Sell Roy Keane:
sayeth LB, "Really, you're almost done. Bolton embarrassed you at home. Bolton! Unless you unleash the feral rage of your playing days instead of this new zen calm you display on the sidelines, you're looking for a job in January."
Seriously, LB has a great point. I understand that the guy is mellowing with age, but this is ridiculous. It will end badly. Either as described above, or with a training pitch assault/Joe Kinnear-inspired presser. The prawns are cooked, Roy, just need to toast the bread now...
Sell Paul Ince:
LB: "You should have stayed at MK Dons." Paul Ince: "I should have stayed at MK Dons."
Sell "6+5":
Is it entirely Evil? No. Does it have a chance of happening? No. Platini needs to read up on globalization, etc. Protectionist policies, especially when there are high-end elements of money and nationalism involved, just don't kick it in the modern world. If the American auto industry can die, French league football can suck a bit more. (no offense, NYK)
Sell American soccer's ability to pick up on home grown talent:
And to Bosnia, no less. Both Vebad Ibisevic (from Hoffenheim, see above) and Neven Subotic could have been USMNT fixtures for the next decade if the infrastructure in this country wasn't so convoluted. It's not like Ibisevic played college ball here. And I guess Subotic would've had to sit behind Onyewu anyway... Ugh...
Wait! Hold Still! Do Nothing! Freeze Up! We're confounded...
Arsenal:
Beating Man U and Chelsea still doesn't make them solid gold yet. They still had an awful month for the most part. They are lacking in depth, the Gallas situation, injuries, etc... etc...
Capello's England:
"Well Let's Not Start Sucking Each Other's Dicks Quite Yet." The Wolf had this one scouted out... I'm just saying. The Sun (not the paper) remains at the center of the universe and David Beckham didn't fall of the edge of the world, he just agreed to play for the Alexi Lalas-led L.A. Galaxy. England will probably fuck this up. So hold tight to your positions.
This Concept!
It's looking pretty good right now, but we've missed out on so much. Go to the comments section and add your own "tips" or do it to us on email and maybe they'll make the site for next week. Until then... Be Champions!
There we were, Likely, Kopper and I, watching England destroy Croatia.
We witnessed Walcott's graduation, we witnessed outstanding performances from Heskey and Rooney and were under the false impression that Capello's England had finally arrived, that this result was a sign of great things to come.
Actually it was karma... as we were also in the presence of the most irritating, nonsensical bile spewing Irish/American/Croatian guy who single-handedly did the damage.
Even his fellow Croatia supporters cringed as he yelped and barked like a rabid dog...
Join me after the jump to discover how this, I mean THAT guy, is a danger to our wonderful sport... CAMON GUYZZZZZZ, PLAY SOME SACKAH...
So without further ado I introduce you to this guy, or is he THAT guy? Anyway, he is the sole reason that football in the U.S.A. will never develop into a big sport. He makes sure of this by roaming from pub to pub. Place to place, destroying any interest in the game that might be flowering in passers by. He does this with a noisy display of nonsense. Similar to the mating ritual of an Oranutang.
Who is he? Well from what we could gather he was born in Croatia. He sounds Irish and he LURRVES Sackah! He lurrrves Michael Owen too and told anyone who would listen that he loves to watch Michael Owen play on left or the right WING and that his Liverpool play "pure football". How does he know this? Because he has "the Time Warner cable". He also lurrves 'Serial A' and the Eyetalian Sackah.
Now everyone is entitled to talk gibberish and have an opinion, right? But when it's during an England Cup qualifier and it's obnoxiously loud (and I mean LOUD) then you must be stopped at all costs. This guy would put Beckham off the game and drive Thierry Henry to Cricket. His effect in the United States should not be underestimated.
All of our efforts to elevate our game in America could be threatened!
I tried really hard to blank him out but lets review his dangerous performance:
- Heskey challenged the Croat keeper and while it was a little clumsy it was not really worth mentioning... THAT guy jumped up and screamed. "Send hum off"!! Ref, disgrace, OFF, OFF!!" An England fan pointed out to him that it really wasn't worth a card, let alone a red and he responded with "I know about Sackah, I played in high-school and that's not Sackah".
- On no less that 15 occasions he yelped "Kick da ball into da carner, camon... play sackah... this outburst was usually summoned as the keeper had the ball on the spot for a goal kick.
- Simunic was awarded a yellow card for flattening Walcott and for that guy this was an outrage... how do we know this? because "I played sackah in high school that's no foul". This was repeated for Siminics second 'tackle' and for the Kovac red.
- Croatia's possession was usually championed with a quick burst of "wake up, wake up play sackah" and "kick da ball in da carner," followed by long outbursts of "Play some sackah dammit!"
- As each England goal flew in and the cheers in the bar erupted, it was as if that guy was heard in Zagreb. Young Theo and co could feel my pain and mustered the desire to silence this buffoon, to save my ears from bleeding and my brain from turning to mush. For this, I am grateful.
So take a good long look UFers. Print that picture out or make a mental note. If this, I mean that guy, roams into your pub before kick off, beware! He comes armed and ready to destroy your beautiful game.
THAT guy skulked out 10 mins early and let us celebrate in a 'Sackah' free zone.
Get In England!
-Bigus
We don't want to ruin this for those of you planning to watch on tape delay, so here are some non-spoiler nuggets from this morning's USA v. Japan Olympic opener...
Why it's important to have good wing play...
-The entire game was played in a haze not unlike after halftime at the Super Bowl, when the remnants of the firework show cloud the field.
-Japan has players named Honda (2) AND Toyoda
-The Hemingway of Modern Football, Brad Guzan, must have trashed his memo on "The Olympic Spirit."
-If you weren't 100 percent certain, I did some heavy-duty research and found that Beijing is 12 hours ahead of us. Now you know.
-With the competition heating up in the following matches (Holls next), this match against a middling Japan team was a definite must-win for Jozy and the Lads.
-Balboa and Dellacamera are about what you'd expect with the announcing. Not horrendous, but really, if I need this much explanation about the very basics of what I'm watching (football), then I'm probably not watching in the first place.
-Italy and Brazil won their openers.
U.S. results after the jump...
The USMNT beat their Japanese counterparts 1-0 on a goal from Stuart Holden in the 47th minute. Japan keeper Shusaku Nishikawa got a finger to the ball, taken off a clear cross from Marvell Wynne, but there was enough mustard on the shot and it trickled on past the line.
That's about all. Guzan picked up a yellow for wasting time toward the end. Freddy Adu and Michael Bradley were also booked. Jozy (for McBride), Feilhaber (for Hero Holden), and Szetela (for Robbie Rodgers) all got into the game after the 74th minute. We'll follow up on what the guys thought of the weather once the post game pressers are done. Until then...
Football may not save lives, stop wars (permanently), or raise the dead, but for an hour last night it did something no less remarkable: it stopped traffic in New York City.
Where would the miracles end? Indeed, for the better part of 15 minutes, at Central Park's North Meadow Park, The Likely Lad and a retired NYPD sergeant enjoyed a chat about the game, the department's barnstorming football division, and even some Major League Soccer. Sgt. Meehan, a left back on the pitch, at no point threatened to arrest me or issue a citation, and if he had any mind to beat my ass senseless just cos he could, the sarge kept it well concealed-- better, say, than his colleague's pistol. (If there's anything more terrifying than Carles Puyol's face, it's a plainclothes cop with a gun on his hip.) The festivities began at about 6:15 on the outfield grass of one of the park's western-most softball diamonds. And though it wasn't quite The Beatles on the Roof, the crowd grew as the session went on, and by the time the players were exchanging shirts with the NYPD team, there were a sizable crowd of Barca fans crowding the security perimeter. The Sarge wouldn't tell me long they'd had to plan, but promised that there was considerable surveillance. If anything happened to one of these guys, he said, "it'd be an international incident." Fair enough, though perhaps a bit overconfident. They had, after all, allowed a known Spurs fan just inches from Thierry Henry. It may appear that "Titi" is reaching down to sign a football for a young fan, but I assure you that he is in fact stealing the boy's lollipop with his left hand and fondling him with the right. It was an old trick the frenchman learned "with the mister, back in ze Monaco team." The only people not surprised by the timing/location/general loveliness of the evening were the Catalan press. They, like most of the players, were equally unnerved and confused by the softball game on the adjacent field. What began as curious interest turned to fear after a foul ball scattered a camera crew. Abidal in particular was horrified by the ladies' softball... you'd think he was watching a pack of lemurs feast on babies' feet. A Hard Day's Night IMPRESSED... (the Sarge and Mr. David Villa, who explained his unauthorized presence behind enemy lines simply, "I'm friends with Xavi!" "Shabby? This is fun." "Yes, Xavi!" "Ok. Smile!" Doin' it fer the kids LESS IMPRESSED, CONFUSED? A bit more background before I dump out the rest of the picture album... The workout was arranged in concert with the NYPD Soccer club, which travels around the world on their own dime to play games and do humanitarian work. The Sarge was very serious on this point and if you visit their website (linked up top) you can get an idea of the excellent stuff they do. As a little kicker, the cops even got to "exchange shirts" with the Barca boys and pose for these lovely snaps. The Barca photogs actually put out their butts for this bit. (The Likely Lad was nearly decapitated in the ensuing rush.) The Cops make their approach... No No No, Zis shirt ees too small. I will bring to Arsene then for dee boyz A Pair of European Champions... The Layers of Modern Society... Three-deep: The Schmucks (in the background, in centerfield, and me); The Rich Men; The Muscle (paid to keep A & B apart): Alas, There Will Be Running
The event was an FC Barcelona "light workout session." As you'll see in the pics, the players had just wanted to go for a run and stretch ahead of tonight's charity event and Wednesday's friendly with the Red Bulls at Giants Stadium. It was all very much under the radar, excepting the 150-deep Catalan press crush, and per UF's resident police source, Sgt. (ret.) Peter Meehan, conceived in the simplest terms: the lads needed a jog, so why not Central Park?
WHERE'S ICHIRO??
"They ran for a bit, stretched too, then Americans chased them up the park!"
Mr. David Villa was a sneaky fucker. He was all over the place, even without the precious pass for which I so carefully connived. Below you can see him setting up to drop a bag over Puyol's head.
Ok now, I know you stopped reading after the headline, so here's the rest of the art.
ALL TOGETHER NOW!
To the Turks, everything is "shurla burla", which means "like this, like that". You never know what will happen. All foreigners are "ayip", they're considered dirty.
This European championsip has been more like a film festival than a football tournament. And though there will be a winner come Sunday-- either Spain or Germany will take home the proverbial Palme d'Or-- there have been daily theatrics in the lead-up, an assortment of small wonders that certainly deserve their own prize. In a just world, where a team is rewarded in proportion to the joy they bring the fans, Turkey would return home as kings. In ours, they will have to settle for UF's footballing Prix de un Certain Regard, the award for "most innovative and audacious work" of Austria/Switzerland 2008.
Join us after the jump, where we will go on to praise, then bury Turkey.
Turkey did not belong on the field with the Germans on Wednesday night in Basel. They had no business battling back (or so we've been told and read in the papers) from a 2-1 deficit in the 86th minute. Certainly, Terim's men should have never had the opportunity to outplay Germany in the first semifinal match of the European Championship. No, they should have been eliminated long ago.
***
The first brush with death came in their second group stage match with hosts Switzerland. It had been an half-drab tournament to that point. No one had come from behind to win. In most of the early group stage games the only scoring had been done by the winning side.
And so it began, in the 57th minute, in front of 42,000+ at St. Jakob Park. Semih Senturk, the 25 year old Fenerbhache forward, dropped a bolt of lightning on the Swiss-- an equalizer just 11 minutes after he first crossed the touchline. It was Semih's first of the tournament and by miles his least memorable. Arda Turan would poke home the winner in stoppage time, and Turkey were on their way. A loss to Portugal firmly in the past, it was time for the Czechs and a win-or-go-home group finale.
***
Like Turkey, Bruckner's boys had been mollywhopped by the dazzling Portuguese and given a tough go against Switzerland. They entered the crunch match in Geneva knowing that a tie after 90 minutes would mean penalty kicks. But after 71 minutes, it all seemed an afterthought. A cananading header from the big fella Koller and a 62nd minute add-on from Plasil had certainly assured the Czechs' place. Turkey were disjointed, bordering on listless as Jan Polak smashed a cross into Volkan's left post. The Czechs were mere inches from 3-0.
That third goal would never come. Four minutes later Turkey found life as Sabri found Altintop (or "gold ball" as Tommy Smyth reminded us every 2 minutes for the entirety of the match) who found Arda Turan at the back post for the Turk's first roost of the evening. By now the rain was falling in heaps and the pitch had turned into a slip 'n' slide party. The Czechs were reserved and content to allow the likes of The Artist formerly Known as Colin Kazim-Richards to launch off speculative satellite balls from 35 yards out. Kazim was never going to hit the target and if he did, there was always the Cat in the Hat there to snip up loose ends. Into the 87th minute, we lurch forward... Terim is enraged at the shot selection and Nihat is imploring his side to (the Turkish equivalent of) "play your game."
Nihat knew that nothing was over. That on a wet pitch no keeper was infallible-- especially mercenary mug like Cech. So when ESPN camera's cut to the low angle for Altintop's whipped-in cross, there had to be doubt that any keeper could gobble it up with ease. Nihat knew it, and so he stayed in as the Czech defender began to pull out. His reward was the silver ball at his foot. A sitter he dragged into the OOS to tie it. It was 2-2, and we were headed for penalties. Surely.
Shurla Burla, indeed, as not more than three minutes later Nihat was in again. This time on a clever through ball from Tuncay-- the Czech backline frozen, thinking deeply we imagine about goal number two. He faced up with Cech to the keeper's right and from just inside the box dipped a precise strike under the crossbar. Turkey, if you could believe it, and there is no fucking way a sane man could, had won. They were going to Vienna for quarterfinal date with group winner Croatia.
***
Slaven Bilic's men, now the "Heroes of Klagenfurt" for their triumph over Germany just days earlier, were easy favorites to surge past an increasingly beleaguered Turkey. Injury and suspension had meant Fatih Terim would not be with his best lineup. That included goalkeeper Volkan, who would miss this match and a possible semi-final because of some tomfoolery against the Czechs.
All but two of the Turkish starting XI were on yellows as the quarterfinal kicked off. In goal was Recter Rustu, the Ottoman Jens Lehmann. Unlike their previous encounter, Turkey were more careful against the clever Croats. They would dominate possession (56% to 44%), but do little with it. We trudged on to extra-time, then a second 15 minutes.
Rustu, who had been as solid as necessary for 120 + 4 minutes, must have thought it was time for PK's as he went pranced off his line like a child. Skipping after a ball meant for Modric, he watched as the soon-to-be Spurs genius headed up and over his wandering ass and into the path of super-steady Alzonzo Mourning Klasnic. Quoteth ESPN live commentary: "Croatia have won it!" And, certainly, they had.
***
Shurla Burla? You never know what will happen. It's kind of like the Turkish version of "Der Ball Ist Rund," only, like, really dark and sinister. Exactly, we imagine, the kind of thoughts and feelings running through Croatia's dark heart as just seconds later ... with the referee taking one last deep breath of Vienna air... Semih Senturk played down a long, downfield prayer and lashed it across his body into the roof of Pletikosa's net.
As if there ever was a question, Croatia released its collective bowels after all but one of its PK's, allowing Turkey-- Again!!-- an unthinkable escape. Three times now, in consecutive matches, each more shocking than the last, Fatih and the fellas had prevailed against all common sense and wisdom. Their reward? Germany
***
As the loyal UFer might know, your humble reporter decided to attempt a little immersion trick for Wednesday's semi-final. I had hoped to liveblog the game from a nearby Turkish restaurant, but as the wireless revolution has yet to sweep into "Sahara's" on 2nd Avenue, alternative plans were engaged. The festivities were hosted by ü75, while I hustled for a table at lovely, open-air Sahara's, intent on doing some correspondent work.
The afternoon began as a Julie Foudy's face-style mess. The bar was closed down to make room for more tables-- more reserved tables. I was escorted, the palest man in the room, they "ayip," to a wraparound couch planted just precisely behind Sahara's monster flat screen HDTV. My next mistakes-- the first one being my implicit Jewyness-- were in ordering a Corona (idiot...) and offering my credit card (Teutonic surname stenciled in) to begin a tab. There was only one way out and so I flagged down the waiter and said the magic words.
"Doner Kebab... the ENTREE."
From here on out things were different. Within a minute the game had begun and I was sharing a table with a very Turkish man who knew very little English. His only words to me or anyone in the place were "In to Semih." Sage.
With UEFA's new policy of clearing the yellow card tally only after the quarterfinal, Turkey never had a chance. Volkan, Emre, Turcay, and Turan were all suspended. Nihat, a hero at St. Jakob Park a few days earlier, was out with a thigh injury. He wasn't alone.
No one in Sahara's was ready to talk about reasons why not, and if they were, I surely wouldn't have known a thing about it. The only (loud) English-speaking gentleman was seated a table over from me and I think he was partial to the Germans. I deduced this when he clapped and ran out after the game.
As for the Turkish partisans, they began with tempered glance. Calm. I was focused on the delicious doner kebab. Worth the 14 bucks, really, check it out some time.
Expectations being what they were, Kazim's rocket off the crossbar in the 13th minute set the place ablaze. The international odor of "Hey, we can beat these fuckers" was released into the room. The idle chatter finished. All were at attention. Entire families, grandmother and all, turned their seats toward the screens.
So it goes, so it goes. A half-volley off the foot of TAFKACKR hit the crossbar again before falling to Ugor Boral (who?!?), who slipped the ball through Lehmann's legs. Cue Mayhem. And a free beer, another Corona, for the Lad.
"Just shoot on that scum fucker!," I yelled at no one in particular. My companion nodded. He understood!
It was then, as the free drinks began circulating and the one woman younger than 50, a hostess I believe, started to do some absurd hip-wagging dance (which I've since saved to the hard drive), that it occurred to me. Turkey win and they are going to burn this fucker down! And if Turkey lose? They are going to burn this fucker down!
By halftime the mood has soured, but only a bit. Germany equalized through Schweinsteiger minutes after Boral's goal. It was a goal that is never scored if Turkey has a proper central defense in place. Still, a draw at the half, and the run of play clearly favoring the 'dogs... there was nothing to complain over.
Cue now the 25-man smoke break.
Cue then the German infiltrator's explanation of Turkish football: "The Turks you know were allies to the Germans in World War I. And in one famous battle the German general ordered the Ottoman cavalry to await his order on the flanks. 'We'll rough them up he told the Turks, then you come in and clean the ground.' The Turks agreed but when the battle began the horses charged immediately. The Germans were shocked but fought on and won a decided, bloooody victory. After the field was cleared, the German commander approached his Turkish counterpart and asked, 'Why didn't you wait for my whistle?' The Turk came off his horse and explained, simply, 'There is no pride in waiting, only in winning.' So attack attack attack! That is Turkish football!"
I've paraphrased there. The gentleman offered me a "raki," a kind of Turkish ouzo, before beginning his story. By the time he'd finished I was enthralled. Perhaps even dribbling at the mouth. The waiter leaned to me and explained that, for my next glass, consider mixing in some water and ice. No one drinks that shit straight. Oops.
The second half was a mess. Better to be forgotten. The international feed was stricken by a bolt of lightning. In Sahara's, loss of the picture was met with relief, not anger. Who could stand it?? By what I imagined to be the hour mark the first in-house cigarette was lit. Not more than ten minutes later, still without visual evidence, we were informed the Germans had gone up by a Klose header. A Rustu howler, too. I don't think the point was made clear enough for our crew, as no one screamed or responded in any exacting way.
More black. More Foudy.
It has to be the 80th minute.
"Another Raki! These things are great!"
This Ayip was chilling now. Even as time was running down on Turkey on that blackened screen there was calm. And you know what? Do you fucking know what?!? The screen flashed back on with the image of Semih "in to Semih!" Senturk in his teammates' arms. The bastard had tied it. Again.
Glass breaking. Man kisses-- my head and the top of my right ear too slow to escape. More Raki! They've done it again. My tablemate is now pacing, looping around our table. Turning left, like a good Turk!
There was a song now. Screaming. Hummus.
***
I refer you here to my pal ü75's topline to his liveblog:
Soccer is a game for 22 people that run around, play the ball, and one referee who makes a slew of mistakes, and in the end Germany always wins.
Gary Lineker's word, of course. And on this night, like so many other, prophetic indeed. The squirrely left back did it.
Turkey were done. They had lost. But tell me, looking back on this tournament 20 years hence, what will it be that you tell the young folk about?
Joachim Low's sweat stains? Ok, maybe.
Philip Lahm? No, sir.
What you'll tell them about is Turkey and their holy trinity of football miracles. About Fatih Terim and how much of dirty pimp-ass managerial job he did. And Rustu in the shootout against Croatia. And Semih!
In to Semih!
Celebration! Sad none of us are playing today
Turkey arrived at Euro 2008 as longshots to escape the group stage. They got whacked by Ronnie and the Dancing Poofters in their first outing, then went down a goal in the first half of their second match, against host Switzerland. But late goals from Semih and Arda Turan earned them their first win and well, thus began the madness.
Here then is the question. Just how improbable is a Turkey win against the Hun this afternoon? Sport is full of surprises--the '69 Mets, Joe Namath's Jets, Villanova in '85, Fresno State baseball and NY Giants football this year-- but this is surely a doner rack too far.
So again: Where would a Turkish triumph in Basel today rank on the list of modern sporting upsets?
Have away.
More reasons why Terim's boys have absolutely no chance of winning after the jump...
Today, that rabbit might look more like a bear.
In short:
-Coach Fatih Terim has only 12 outfield players available for today's game. There've been whispers (likely untrue) about his using the third-string keeper in the midfield.
-Germany are really good. And they are Germany (lest we forget.)
-Nihat (tying and winning goals against the Czechs) is done for the tournament with a muscle inury. Servet Cetin and skipper Emre Belozoglu are out today, as is Tumer Metin (though the coach says he could potentially come on as a sub for "30 minutes at most.")
-Tuncay of Middlesbrough, arguably their best all-around player in the tournament, the guy who strapped on the keeper gear when Volkan got booted from the group finale, is out with accumulated yellow cards. Arda Turan, Volkan and Emre Asik also will miss out on suspensions.
-They'll be depending on the likes of The Artist Formerly Known as Colin Kazim-Richards to (help) fuel their attack. And if you saw the look on Nihat's face as Kazim shanked two long-range prayers as time ran down against the Czechs, you know this is a significant problem.
-Then there's backup keeper Recber Rustu. Like his counterpart today, Recter is prone to the occasional howler. That may fly against Croatia. But this ain't Croatia. Turkey need to play "the perfect game."
So the odds are against them. No doubt. Just as they were in each of the previous three games. And in each match they've upped their resolve... and pulled a larger rabbit out of their collective tarpus.
This will be epic. Chris Mannix.... you're a dead man.
[Figuratively]
Seriously, stop what you're doing and devote 30 minutes to this. We've worked hard and suffered through many broken computers to bring you this. Why? I'm not quite sure.
For a brief reminder as to why we wrote this, and why it took so long (answer to part 2: because it took me this long to calm myself down), read his original piece-of-shit article here.
Sports Illustrated, your editorial department has some 'splaining to do.
Sure, the headline might be a bit harsh if you know your acronyms, but I really don't give a toss. I'm suffering from some awful sunburn, the by-product of sleeping on the beach and general lotion-application stupidity, and while this article angered me last week, now I'm in a full-on sunstroke rampage. In-between bouts of fainting, I'm fucking pissed.
Simply put, Chris Mannix is the latest face on the "Why the US will always hate soccer blah blah blah" bandwagon. He's the most recent chap to brave the choppy waters and add his 2 cents to the argument. Except, amid his awful prose, his argument goes nowhere, and it irritates the shit out of me that he is paid to write garbage like this for a national sports magazine, and also gets the kind of USMNT access that real soccer fans would murder Eric Wynalda to get.
So let's FJM-style this shitbag, shall we?
His intro is soft and pudgy. Just like his character.
"I bet you think soccer is as American as cricket and as thrilling as the Westminster dog show."No, we don't, but please continue. I can see where you're going.
"All that kicking and heading, and no hands? Maybe that's why Zinedine Zidane dropped Marco Materazzi with a head butt in the 2006 World Cup final."Hey, he can use Wikipedia! I give him credit for spelling the names right, but really, are we still hung up on this incident? People get sent off for violent conduct and outbursts of emotion on the pitch all the fucking time (heck, just ask Antonio Cassano or Javier Mascherano)!
Still, in the minds of the closed-minded, this is what it all comes down to. A French-Algerian headbutted a vile-mouthed Italian.
"He didn't realize he could use those things attached to his shoulders to throw a punch."Well, he did, but let's face it, the symbolism was rather tasty.
"And games that end 0-0? (Sorry, nil-nil.)"A cute joke that bolsters an awful argument. It boils down to this: people think soccer is boring because they don't score too much! Fuck, we've been dealing with this idea since the birth of the game.
Are these same people the ones who decry a 77-74 NBA Playoff game? Or a 9-3 NFL game? Or a 1-0 game of baseball? Or the entire concept of golf?
Because honestly, highlighting one possible outcome of an intricate sport is a laughable way to try and show that it's boring, or simply not worth the time or investment.
Seriously, it's a throwaway point that makes you look like a drooling cretin.
The idea that goals/points/scoring = excitement is only something that neanderthals cling to when watching their sport. Remarkably, it's often the same crowd who mumbles this thought between bites from their KFC Original Bowl and who love NASCAR so much! I realize there's an art to driving fast and all, and that there is some skill to it, but on some chemical level I see it as three+ hours of turning left!
Thankfully, I can come to terms with it while still respecting it, which is more than could be said for Mannix and soccer.
"The zealots will tell you that soccer is ready to become America's fifth major sport. In my mind, it already is. If you're too slow to play basketball, too scared for baseball, too small for football and too clumsy for hockey, you turn to soccer."Hilarious. I'll let him have this joke. He clearly worked hard on his anaphora, so he gets a brief respite. It's the next paragraph that condemns his entire perspective on the argument at hand.
"In the interest of full disclosure, I have tried my feet at the game. Let's just say it didn't take. It was 1988, and I was in second grade at Sacred Heart Elementary in Kingston, Mass. My team went 0-9. My father was the coach. I was the goalkeeper. After the season the team parents gave my dad a book on how to coach soccer. "I didn't need it," he tells me now. "I already knew how to win. Don't put you in goal." I hadn't watched a soccer game since."[Scene from Chris Mannix in high school]
Physics Teacher: Hey Chris, we need to talk before class.
Chris: Sure thing, prof.
PT: I just finished grading the midterm, and you got an F. Simply put, you're terrible at physics. You've taken this class five times over already, and despite all the mentoring and after-school tutoring, you're no better than where you were in elementary school.
Chris: (silence)
PT: I understand you're upset, angry even. We can work on this though. I'm willing to give you the benefit of my expertise, and I will commit to helping you gain a better grip of basic physics concepts and ideas in order to make you a better student.
Chris: I renounce the concept of gravity. Fuck you, and fuck Newton.
[end scene -- man, I should call David Mamet. I clearly have a future in screenwriting]
Seriously, SI editors, why let this idiot fumble his way through another 2000 words at this point? Anything you get beyond this heartfelt glimpse into Mannix family lore is pure rubbish.
Letting this guy write editorials is akin to letting Jared from Subway commercials explain the intricacies of Asian cuisine. Sure, he might have a basic idea of what its about, and he's certainly capable of learning, but really, his entire world view dictates that he'll be fucking useless on the subject.
So why bother? Why waste precious pages? You're already a magazine struggling to keep up with the loud and lightning-fast world of sports media, and yet you're continually giving column space to the intellectual equal of Mickey fucking Rooney? Drool on, please.
At this point, Mannix, seemingly incapable of a threaded, coherent argument, jumps into his 5 main complaints about soccer, and attacks them each individually with his experiences from the road, occasionally pausing to offer scant praise for the sport he's always hated.
I warn you, I might pass out from the screaming.
Thankfully, The Likely Lad and Precious Roy were happy to sub in and out to prevent me from being hospitalized.
-----
COMPLAINT NO. 1
American fans lack passion
---
This ought to be good.
"Two weeks ago, if you'd asked me about La Barra Brava, I would have guessed it was a Latin boy band. Turns out, with over 1,000 members representing more than 30 countries, the Barra is considered MLS's largest, most diverse and most rabid fan group. Great, I thought when I learned I'd be hanging out with them in Washington, D.C., for United's game against the Houston Dynamo on June 4. The David Hasselhoff fan club."Nice, a boy band joke. Immediately, a tone of snobbery from a guy who's barely a leg to stand on.
"My first indication to the contrary came well before kickoff. A driving rain had turned a four-hour trip from Manhattan into six, and I was beginning to wonder if I'd get to see my first soccer game at all. I texted Rob Gillespie, one of Barra's elders, to confirm that the pregame tailgate had been washed out. His answer was succinct: rain or shine."
"It's amazing what Barra members can do during a tornado watch. They can eat, even when their rolls have turned to mush and the charcoal flames are reduced to a flicker. They can drink, even if their keg cups contain less beer than monsoon. And they can sing. Oh, can they sing. First Vamos United. Then the Barra Brava song. Soon I'm frantically scrolling through my BlackBerry for the lyrics and singing along -- it's addictive.Again, more empty set-up. He is surprised and amazed as he continues his de Toqueville-esque observations of soccer fans, who, surprise, are just as fanatic as those who root for the traditional American stable of sports. Heck, he might even be enjoying this!The Barra takes advantage of a break in the rain to head into RFK Stadium. Rather than seek refuge beneath the overhanging stands members march directly to their section at midfield. They cluster together behind a massive black banner, even though the stadium isn't lacking for seating. As the players emerge, the chants begin again. Everyone on Houston sucks. The refs suck. Cobi Jones sucks. (Never mind that Jones, I learn, played in L.A., retired last year and is not in attendance.)"
"After 16 minutes the referees deem the field unplayable and wave the teams out of the muck. The Barra doesn't move. When lightning strikes in the distance, the P.A. announcer tells fans to take cover in the concourse. The Barra chants louder. Only after a personal request from a United official does the Barra relent. An hour later the game is suspended. A few angry Barra members storm the flooded field and are escorted out. The rest leave on their own, hurling profanities."Yep. We're not leaving early just because of some rain. When was the last time you saw the Marlins retain most of their crowd in the face of a storm?
"As I wade back to the van, water spills from my sneakers at every step. I should be miserable, but I'm not. I'm smiling. American soccer fans are great. If only there were a few more of them."Excellent! There is hope for this gu---- oh wait. Fuck.
(pause to smash head against wall)
There are fucking hundreds of thousands of them! They clog the NY public soccer rec leagues, amateur clubs all over the country, high school stadiums across the northeast and southwest, MLS stadiums from Los Angeles to Columbus, large sports arenas for Mexico vs. USA, it doesn't fucking matter. Rain or shine, come hell or high water: there are a lot of fucking soccer fans across this nation.
And yet, what did all this prove? Mannix enjoyed a wonderful day out, had a good time, ostensibly enjoyed nothing more than the tailgate and colorful songs (hey, two more things soccer has in common with the major US sports), and he still managed to end on a downer.
Why? Because otherwise his thesis is ruined. Wasn't he supposed to be arguing that he hates soccer? He complains initially that they lack passion, then he spends a day with La Barra Brava, realizes they are passionate, and now his complaint shifts to there not being enough American soccer fans!??!!?!
Christ, is there one editor brave and strong-minded enough to point this out to Sir Mannix?
-----
COMPLAINT NO. 2
There is no strategy
-----
Please, restrain me. My blood pressure is dangerously high by this point. Mannix is off to spend some time with members of the USMNT, and thanks to the surely out-of-context quoted idiocy from Claudio Reyna, Mannix has his golden goose.
Who is Claudio Reyna? The New York Red Bulls had persuaded Reyna to sit with me during the first half of their Thursday night game against Chivas USA at Giants Stadium, so it was probably a good idea to know whom I'd be talking to.Yep, it would be. Moron.
Reyna, I learned, is the former U.S. captain who had a successful career in Europe before returning to the States to join MLS. (He's currently injured.)A wise move on his part, considering that the Red Bulls are fucking horrendous.
O.K., here was a man who could talk soccer.Debatable, but for another time.
Here was a man who could explain how there is more to the game than 20 players running up and down the field. That there's more to scoring goals than one really good player kicking the ball in the general direction of the net -- and hoping it gets past a bunch of guys.At this point, I'm almost scared to turn the page. It's an obvious set-up, and a horribly, horribly misguided one. It would be easy to look at soccer and think that. It would be easy to look at a Packers/Vikings game without knowing what was going on and thinking the same thing. "Oh, you mean they have to run into that zone at the end and have possession of the ball when they do it? OK, makes sense."
I mean fuck, you could watch an episode of Sex and the City without knowing what was going on, and you're be worried as to why the blond one can never keep her legs closed for more than 11 minutes.
But there isn't, as even Reyna admitted. "Some teams play technically," he said. "Mostly in Europe. But soccer is probably the least coached sport of them all."Claudio, I swear to the Lord God on high, why would you give him this quote? Are you fucking kidding me? At this point, I cannot see straight.
I think reading this line has caused blindness. Least-coached sport of them all? Are you fucking joking? Perhaps it's because you've lumbered through a mediocre club career that's seen you play for a number of going-nowhere clubs, and that all of your managers have been slobbering idiots.
Soccer requires a lot of tactical coaching considering its wide-open nature. 11 men running around in pursuit of a white ball cannot be left to chaos and chance. It requires discipline in formations, adjustments to suit for player-on-player matchups and markings (just like in the NFL, where teams overload weak DBs or put their tallest WR on the opponent's smallest CB) in order to neutralize the opponent's strength.
You need a marshal on the sidelines to make sure the formation holds in both attack and defense, and that the team's style of play (smooth passing play, or Route 1 play via the long ball, or putting an emphasis on wingers or your #10 who sits right behind the strikers as a libero) is adhered to.
If there are injuries or red cards, the manager has to make adjustments accordingly (or in Domenech's case, shit the bed entirely). Who was sent off? What position did he play? Who do I have on my bench who can ably deputize? Which player/position do I weaken in order to bring on this substitute?
And thanks to the eternal stupidity of Claudio Reyna's soundbite, Chris "Donkey Logic" Mannix has his misconceptions confirmed BY A GUY WHO HAS PLAYED THE GAME FOR OVER A DECADE PROFESSIONALLY.
Seriously... the MLS works so hard to gain legitimacy, and this crocked retard undoes some of that earnest work with a flourish of his mouth.
So let's see how Mannix extrapolates this:
Reyna did turn me on to certain nuances. Spacing is critical, and coaches often shift players into more defensive positions when they have a lead late in games. Up by a goal with the clock winding down against Chivas, Red Bulls midfielder Dave Van den Bergh raced toward the sideline and shouted to New York coach Juan Carlos Osorio to assign someone to "sit on" Chivas midfielder Paulo Nagamura. Osorio sent in defensive-minded midfielder Luke Sassano, who helped New York hang on for the win.This is simply brilliant writing, AS IT NEGATES WHAT MANNIX HIMSELF JUST QUOTED. Phew. Thank you Claudio. You give him some evidence of coaching in professional soccer, and then it is immediately reinforced by a concrete example of this coaching methodology in action.
Perhaps all is not lost?
Still, Reyna confirmed my belief that soccer is more about individual talent than teamwork. He mentioned former national team striker Brian McBride, whose ability to head a ball in traffic is unmatched.What do you mean, "still"? He gave you a terrible quote which was then negated, but "still", Reyna negated it again and somehow drove you back to your retarded initial hypothesis? Fuck... I'd love to meet your debate coach.
Individual talent can only get you so far. It's not difficult to find examples of this.
Example 1: my beloved Liverpool FC. They are a team largely driven by 2 players of their first-choice starting XI: Steven Gerrard in midfield, and Fernando Torres up front. These two are tremendously gifted, and have conjured up several fleeting moments of brilliance to bail us out of awful situations.
However, when one or both of them are having a bad game, the entire team struggles, and we end up suffering through 1-1 draws at home to Wigan. It's simple: you can have one or two world-class superstars, but all their talent and potential can't get you the three points every week. It simply doesn't work. Once or twice or thrice a season, but over the long-haul, you require a team effort.
Example 2: the Turkish National Team. Now they are a wonderful example of the other side of a coin: a team driven by several efficient role players with no discernible superstar in sight. They are hard-working and rely on each other to grind out favourable results. No household names, no-one getting paid billions to lounge around in Nike or Adidas commercials, but by-and-large, a successful team.
Example 3: Barcelona. Now they're a fun case study because they're a team full of superstars who rely on individual skill, and yet they have no fucking idea how to work together. The end result in 2007/08? 3rd in the League, semis of the Champions League, beaten both times by Real Madrid during La Liga campaign (1-0 and 4-0 respectively), and failure in both domestic knockout tournaments. Aka, a DISMAL FUCKING SEASON WITH NO WINS OR VICTORIES TO BE PROUD OF.
Mannix, are you getting this yet? Individuals only carry a team so far. The very nature of a TEAM requires that you have more than one player. Did the Cavaliers win the NBA Title? No, of course not. Lebron James can't do the work of 5 players on the court at one time. When was the last World Series win for the Yankees, a team led furiously by an individual who will go down in history as one of the all-time greats, Mr. Alex Rodriguez?
Fuck. Pick the New York Giants. Two or three household names, and a bunch of determined nobodies. And they have a Super Bowl trophy.
The concept is fucking retarded, Mannix. Please, give it up. Give me something better, PLEASE.
And, of course, there's David Beckham, who could ping a paparazzo in the head from 50 yards away if he felt like it. "What Beckham can do with free kicks and corner kicks," says Reyna, "is an art form."*slumped on the floor dead*So there is strategy: Get more players like Beckham.
[Ed. Note: it is at this point that LB fell over, probably due to a self-inflicted gunshot wound to the head. The Likely Lad will deputize in his absence]
Well, in light of LB's demise, allow me to crack on. Chris Mannix will not be allowed any respite!
-----
COMPLAINT NO. 3
It's mind-numbingly dull
---
I want a sport to seize my attention and keep it. My impression: In soccer you can marvel at a pretty goal or a diving save, then go to the bathroom, call your girlfriend, buy a plate of nachos and make it back to your seat before a team crosses midfield again.
Oh, your impression? I see, we had nearly forgotten.
Apart from Mr. Mannix’s ill-conceived notions about football and his general rhetorical cuntiness, there is the issue of his narrative construction.
As now, the reader understands that the words spilling across the page are the writer’s own. They are his opinion. There is no need to continuously restate the point.
Over and again goes the refrain: “to me”… “I thought”… “I’m beginning to get it.” Why then, can this esteemed professional not state his piece without such stunting qualification?
The answer is simple, if not immediately obvious. An argument of this nature must be grounded in the wit or incisive nature of the reporting. When stripped of that, along with any illusion of factual research, there is nothing left but the cliché. In this case, a particularly drab one.
It is important to understand that when a reporter knows something to be true, or has done sufficient research to hold some confidence in his assertions, or, god forbid, uses a telling quote, there is no need to conjure up such a bundle of awkward refrain.
Remove the “My Impression:” from the above cut-out and what you have, simply, is a staid, hopelessly formulaic denunciation of a particular sport. It’s pale and snarky, and worst of all—the one real, unforgivable sin—not funny.
The frequent lulls turned off the crowd. Fans talked about how many beers they planned to drink in the parking lot. Two men sitting in front of me spent 23 minutes of the first half arguing whether the game was being played on natural grass or field turf.This conversation our correspondent was privy to, that he set his watch to (we’re led to believe), could have only taken place at a soccer match. Correct?
No other sport could driven the spectators into the arms of such inane conversation. The constant, feverish pace of a baseball game would never allow for such idle musing. Or an American football game for that matter.
Fans spend the NFL’s hours of artificial stoppage time discussing what? The intricacies of the Tampa 2 defense? Quantum physics, or the political heritage of Nixon’s Southern Strategy?
No, they get drunk, as many soccer fans do, and bullshit. Sometimes about the game. Sometimes about their wives and girlfriends. And sometimes, maybe even when some creepy geek with string warts is hovering over their shoulders… the cut of the fucking grass.
Observe our esteemed reporter, here, delighting in his greedy ignorance! He’s an idiot and will not be bullied into denying it. He is not one to bow before those European quasi-intellectual soccernistas. Here he is with beer, wraparound shades and the virility of youth and narcissism. He’ll make a name for himself yet—the power to awe and incite all bottled up in his little pen.
The world's No. 2-ranked team looked listless, falling behind 63rd-ranked Venezuela and getting booed off the field at halftime. What's worse, they didn't even bring Ronaldinho, the one soccer player whose name I know.
He is our 21st century nowhere man.
After the final horn sounded in Venezuela's 2-0 victory, the Brazilian fans continued their chanting and singing and drumming on their way out. As amped up as I was by the noise before the game, now it rang hollow. To me, what these fans really enjoyed was being Brazil fans, not watching their team play. It had to have been. No one could have enjoyed that.Certainly Mr. Mannix has dug his own grave here. He’s crossed the Jester—a rank criticism of what he can’t understand.
If Sports Illustrated is a dying brand, this is the stuff that will fill out its epitaph. Profits have shrunk, and with them the salaries of staff members—those, that is, that have been lucky enough to keep their place.
But rather than stay true to the form that brought the magazine its longstanding acclaim (from some, less so from others… hem/haw), its editors have decided that young writers like Mr. Mannix are where the future lies.
Every notion that strikes his kind is a revelation. For what he cannot fathom—being a Brazil fan—he fashions a sneer. It is not an affliction reserved for him. It is common, indeed. Why Sports Illustrated sees fit to pay him to articulate it is anyone's guess.
Whatever the reasoning, it is misguided at best.
The days of prose poets reporting the news and telling the stories of sport and man may be past, but there will always be a hunger for writing that speaks to the reader as an equal. This piss, condescension in the guise of contrarian's disarmament, may stir up some silly bloggers today. But ultimately it will have all the staying power of a Big Mac in the bulimic's craw.
[Ed. Note: we're skipping #4 because we're aware this is rather long. Also, welcome Precious Roy to the argument. Sterling work ahead!]
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COMPLAINT NO. 5
Soccer Players are Wimpy Athletes
---
They don't run; they jog. They don't fall; they dive.I know what you're doing here. You're going to set up all of these stereotypes about the sport, then have some sort of mini-revelation. Hey, congrats you've been born into the light. Welcome.
Not really.
In fact, consider that your stereotypes are just plain wrong. Like creation science kind of wrong.
Sometimes players do jog. Other times they are on a dead run (and often trying to control a ball while doing it... oh, and a 6'4" 210 pound defender is trying to get them off the ball while this is happening). But if they were on a dead run for 90 minutes, they wouldn't be soccer players, they would be Kenyans.
As for the diving, let's run a little experiment. You take off on a sprint, then I'll come up from behind you and clip you with my spikes. I'll give you, say, $50 (and my undying respect) if you don't hit the ground. I'll double it if you can prevent yourself from responding to the reflex of reaching back to the hole in your Achilles.
They treat contact like an infectious disease.Actually, that's the opposite of what they do. If they thought it were an infectious disease they would probably shy away from it, or warn other players off them: "Hey, don't tackle me man, I've got a raging case of schistosomiasis, and it would be a total bummer if you caught from me for trying to do something as silly as preventing me from taking a shot on goal. K thx."
These were the biggest preconceptions I took into my final game, a highly anticipated exhibition at Giants Stadium between the U.S. and the world's No. 1, Argentina.That long? I figured out you were a fool about 2 sentences into this article. What was that? Maybe 20 seconds?It took a little more than 37 minutes of playing time for me to realize that, well, I was a fool.
A loose ball had squirted free, rolling toward where I had positioned myself, behind the U.S. goal. Argentina's Javier Mascherano and the U.S.'s DaMarcus Beasley gave chase, Mascherano coming away with the ball after cracking Beasley with a hip check that sent the midfielder careening into the boards. I looked up, certain I would see one of those colorful cards come out of the ref's pocket. No foul. Play on.Whoa. Holy fucking cow. A low scoring game, and it was exciting? Unbelievable. I've never heard of such a thing. In fact, even though I watched the same match, I'm still not sure I could have possibly imagined it was both exciting and low scoring. I hadn't realized what a fucking anomaly it was until you just pointed that out to me. Low scoring games have never been exciting before. Never. Instead, I'm going to go ahead and posit that it is metaphysically impossible.The action was pulsating. Heads collided. Bodies soared before crashing violently to the grass. True, there was the occasional head-scratching decision. U.S. midfielder Pablo Mastroeni was ejected in the 71st minute, and I'm still wondering why. But show me one bad call in soccer, and I'll show you a reel of NBA ref Dick Bavetta's greatest hits. For 97 minutes the two teams grinded, pressing the action on both ends, engineering fast breaks from 100 yards away. It was the best game of the weekend. And it ended 0-0. Imagine that.
Or it was, before your little revelation.
"The physicality makes it exciting," U.S. defender Heath Pearce told me afterward. "When you're going for the ball and it's between you and another guy, you are going to lay that other guy out to get there first. That's the kind of stuff you really can't appreciate on TV."Not to get nitpicky, but that's the best quote you got?
Agreed. After five days and six matches I can now say that I enjoy soccer at its best -- though I continue to despise it at its worst. And the biggest problem is that you're as likely to see a mess as a masterpiece. But how do you know going in?Initially I was tempted to say something like: "Hey, we agree. Awesome, we're so alike when you get right down to it. It's like Sly Stone was saying man. 'I am everyday people' and it's so cool because you are too. Let's sing 'Kum-bay-yah' What do you say?" I mean, soccer at it's best is phenomenal. Boring soccer, yeah, it can be tough to watch.
But that would be stupid of me. Because what you said is true of any fucking sport. You never know going in to any game if it's going to be a blow out or a tense, hard fought, super-deluxe excitement-a-thon of awesomenessly excitable excitingness.
Yeah, bad soccer is bad. Guess what, so it is with other sports. Bad basketball is bad just as bad football is bad. And bad hockey is bad. And bad ice dancing is bad. And bad rugby is bad. Even bad badminton is bad.
[Ed. Note: Bad sex is still alright though. Y'know, because it's sex.]
And anyone who knows going in if a sporting event is going to be good or bad probably shouldn't be trying to make a living as a sportswriter, but instead using those powers of precognitive dissonance for greater good, or even personal enrichment of material wealth (Vegas, baby). Doesn't matter to me if you want to be selfish like that.
Look, nobody is asking anyone to like soccer. You don't like it? Fine. I don't like the NBA. Can't watch it. Any sport where a 30 point 3rd quarter lead is meaningless? Kind of hard to get behind watching that (Not to mention the fact that there are different rules for stars, and that it often takes 10 minutes to play the last 30 seconds, and there is this bizarre provision that let's a team take the ball in at half court after a time out so when the game is on the line late they get to do what might be the baseball equivalent of going straight to second after a base on balls for a team that is trailing in the ninth inning, and my grammar is probably getting atrocious. Anyway... where was I?)
Yeah, people who don't like soccer, or don't think they "get it"? Nobody cares. Or at least the people who love the sport don't. They aren't holding telethons in Europe to raise money to help the silly Americans appreciate the world's most popular sport. I'm not going to call you at 8 am on a Saturday to lobby you to join me at the pub to watch Arsenal play United. You're probably sleeping, I'm not that rude, and, frankly, I'd rather be able to get a good seat at the bar, so the fewer people the better.
So, yippee, Mr. Mannix, you gave it a chance. I baked some rather delicious banana bread last night.
If you want a piece, it's yours for your efforts. Only you have to come get it because I'm not making any effort for you, or for your silly little crash course, or for anyone else who thinks they have to explain why they don't like it or feel obligated to become a social scientist seeking to undercover what it is about the rest of the world that separates us over this one activity.
The rest of the world also eats more Nutella.
Or maybe they don't. But I am sure there are other things that we don't all agree on or do differently.
So anyone else who wants to give soccer a chance, great. It's there for the sampling. If you like it, I'll see you in August when the EPL season starts. If not, shut up. Save for my abbreviated rant above, I don't go around spouting off about what sports I don't watch and why, then come to conclusions which are inanely universal.
Wait, what's that? The U.S. is playing a World Cup qualifier two weeks from now -- in Barbados? Hold the presses: I think I have one game left!Journalism Fail! Sorry, no trip for you. Do not pass 'Go,' etc.
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