tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-50612076097764063422024-03-13T02:35:22.756-05:00MATCH PRICKSWe don't take that 5:30 a.m. Saturday wake-up call lightly. On this side of the Atlantic, you do what must be done to watch the matches. Match Pricks is a blog about the football written by two men, an Arsenal supporter and a Liverpool supporter. It covers the desperation, joy, anger, wonder, disdain, confusion, elation, oppression and expression of all that it means to be a supporter of the beautiful game.Jimhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15452206219434460235noreply@blogger.comBlogger564125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5061207609776406342.post-87890847787577968952015-08-25T00:01:00.001-05:002015-08-25T07:53:29.577-05:00Joe Gomez: A Dracula NeutralizerImagine each of Liverpool's early away fixtures this season as a dracula – lowercase d intended. A dracula, after all, is much more terrifying than just Dracula, because capital-D Dracula indicates there is just one Dracula, but "<i>a dracula</i>" is just one of multiple draculas out there looking to get you. If there's only one Dracula, well, where is it? "Oh, he's over on this other continent, not by you." OK then. If there's just one Dracula, then it's easy to just not go by him. Stay over on this other continent, not by Dracula.<br />
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But when confronted by <i>"a dracula"</i> – in Stoke, north London or wherever – one has multiple problems. First off, there's a dracula to deal with, and it wants to kill you. But more importantly, even if this "a dracula" can be defeated – or at least neutralized until one escapes to the airport – it's now known that other draculas are out there, on the hunt, ready to drain life from the body every couple of weekends. And sometimes on Thursday, for the purposes of this discussion.
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So a dracula-filled away lineup for Liverpool, which started on-Trent two weeks ago and will culminate with meeting Raheem "Nosferatu" Sterling on Nov. 21, meant a confrontation Monday with Arsenal. Since the date was set, this fixture harbored doom and gloom and possibly an extensive loss of blood. But this was all before child savior Joe Gomez revealed himself to the Liverpool-loving faithful.<br />
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To be clear, check with the much smarter, more organized and thoughtful <a href="http://ohyoubeauty.blogspot.com/">oh you beauty (@natefc)</a> for a detailed breakdown of just how Joe Gomez stared down the vampiric Alexis Sanchez and stood firm against the Transylvania-inducing Mesut Özil. But know now the hero Liverpool fans need when the undead armies helmed by Jose Mourinho, Tony Pulis and Tim Sherwood come for the vibrant red blood of Liverpool's young, relentless players (and James Milner), is the hero no fan expected until, like, a couple weeks ago. The man that stands between life and death is 18-year-old Joe <a href="https://twitter.com/jimmyfk/status/635923496090992642">"Event Horizon"</a> Gomez.<br />
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Bournemouth last week was one thing. And the frisky and pre-Shaqiri Stoke of Mark Hughes in the season opener was a test that made young Joe creak and teeter at times, too. But Alexis Sanchez, shining star of the South American champions, is the Level 17 Boss compared to the Super Mario Bros. 3 ghost foot soldiers on display at the Britannia. And Monday night, the virtuoso Sanchez took aim at Joe Gomez. Joe snuffed some moves, counterpunched others and generally made the best of it he could without conceding a goal-making move – in his third top-flight game. At age 18.<br />
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Look, it's natural to feel that pull toward posting in the Guardian's comments section that Joe Gomez is destined to be the 21st century Phil Neal, only at left back and <b>even better<i></i></b> at penalties. Don't let me stop you from getting carried away with the fun. Again, this is not the home of step-by-step analysis of tactical performances. Hell, I was able to keep only one eye on the match for much of the proceedings Monday, but only one eye was needed to see Joe Gomez launch past pleasant surprise and continue flying with angels up and beyond giddy-inducing fresh face. By Friday, the whole of Liverpool fandom will be at the "How could you miss his testimonial?!" stage with Joe Gomez.<br />
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Matching an undead champion like Alexis Sanchez, even once, would burnish any youngster's legend. But Alexis, for all his might, is just a dracula. Memphis is also a dracula. Willian and Pedro are other draculas, along with the lesser-known Vardy and Kouyaté varieties. And three months off in the distance, even though he's a left-sided player now, Joe Gomez might face a dracula just as young and vital as he is.<br />
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Still, it's fun to think about what a Vampire Dream Warrior could do. There will be time later to recall that Bram Stoker got all this going on May 26, 1897, shortly after Aston Villa completed the double, and the supply of draculas has been endless for 118 years and counting. Until then, however, here's hoping Joe Gomez can be <a href="http://i.ytimg.com/vi/HgakmbVW_sc/maxresdefault.jpg">as fun as this</a> while the draculas keep coming.Jimhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15452206219434460235noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5061207609776406342.post-49314276393248837202015-08-10T16:03:00.001-05:002015-08-11T12:06:59.328-05:00The Irrepressible Nate Clyne<i>(Editor’s Note: Some years ago, <a href="https://twitter.com/colindeval">Colin</a> and I started this blog. A few people read it and enjoyed it, we had a great time, we improbably started appearing on local radio thanks to <a href="https://twitter.com/peterwilt1">Peter Wilt</a>, then it kind of fizzled, some domain squatter took our URL and it all went mostly silent. Here’s a new post for the first time in three years. This is being published without approval or consent from Colin. I didn’t want to insult him by actually bothering to ask him. He has his own fun thing going on now <a href="http://donttalktomeaboutmyteam.tumblr.com/">over here</a>.)</i><br />
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The discussion turned to calling Nathaniel Clyne “Nate” sometime Sunday after the sixth or seventh unchallenged pass from midfield was sent directly out of play. The three of us watching over buttery, salty breakfasts and bloody marys didn’t count the number of simple passes played out, though six or seven in the match seems like a conservative recollection. So finding a way to warm up to the new Liverpool guys offered a welcome distraction from Stoke-Liverpool, which was not in line with the hashtag/emoji-fueled Twitter celebration of the glorious Premier League’s bash-a-riffic return.<br />
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So baptizing him “Nate Clyne” was the way it went. Three guys at a Shorewood soccer bar on one Sunday morning might not represent a worldwide consensus, but some second-half field testing yielded a promising start. Nate Clyne … Nate Clyne. Say it enough and you picture the guy Nate Clyne likely is once you get to know him. Nate Clyne would help you learn how to surf, even if you’re nowhere near an ocean. “Let’s go over to Nate Clyne’s place. He’s got a couple extra boards.” I’ve never surfed in my life, and I doubt I ever will. But who’d bet against a guy named Nate Clyne making something happen to change that?<br />
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Nate Clyne is two crisp syllables. Hard consonant tats and clacks are in there, sure, but they’re unintimidating. Rather, they’re inviting, like a guy whose parents have a cabin up north that they never seem to use. Nate Clyne invited everybody up. Are you going? You’re gonna go, right? Can’t miss a weekend with the guys up at Nate Clyne’s cabin. He’s roasting a pig. Gotta do it.<br />
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Nate Clyne is a guy you’d talk to, and it’s certainly a guy you’d talk about. I’d want to be friends with Nate Clyne. Cheering for him is easy, and describing him is even more fun.<br />
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As my friend <a href="https://twitter.com/kurtconrath">Kurt</a> said during our Nate Clyne workshopping session, two syllables in his name make it easy to describe him too. The Amazing Nate Clyne or The Relentless Nate Clyne. The Irrepressible Nate Clyne. Say all these things aloud, and soon enough that online shopping cart at Liverpool FC dot com will be full of Nate Clyne shirts and baubles. Is there a Nate Clyne keychain? It’s doubtful the world will lack for one much longer.<br />
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New signings in a new season lead fans to cheer for the fresh faces wearing the familiar shirt. After all, who <i>didn’t</i> get onboard the Ryan Babel and Andriy Voronin hype train back in the day? So much like Andriy and Ryan were (at least initially, in some circles) beloved at Anfield, it’s time to usher in the new guys and get comfortable around them. Please welcome the friendly and approachable Nate Clyne to Liverpool Football Club. And smile for Bobby Firmino and Jimmy Milner. Joey Gomez is here too. These aren’t new signings that have to prove themselves to you. It’s far too late in the season for that. No one’s going to prove anything. But these guys will teach you how to surf or get a beer for you when they’re up and headed to the kitchen anyway. And for fun, they’ll throw in competent defending on a set piece, if we’re lucky. Jimhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15452206219434460235noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5061207609776406342.post-27822131194108795322012-08-17T11:45:00.001-05:002012-08-17T11:45:29.423-05:00BREAKING: New Arsenal Crest for 2012-2013<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<i>(Editor's Note: I love Arsenal dearly. This just felt an appropriate, light-hearted joke today as news of Alex Song's departure broke.)</i>Colinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01660542584323863636noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5061207609776406342.post-19862337138863742122012-03-07T11:16:00.000-06:002012-03-07T11:16:20.895-06:00Breaking: UEFA charges WengerArsene Wenger has been charged by UEFA after his comments about the performance of the match official during the second leg of Arsenal's Champions League Round of 16 tie against AC Milan.<br />
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Because Arsene has been a repeat offender in recent years, UEFA have moved to alter the punishment with something more corporal as, clearly, suspending the Frenchman has not worked to curb his outspoken dissent.<br />
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Reports this morning had UEFA disciplinary officials jetting into London for crisis talks with the notoriously stubborn Wenger. After a closed doors meeting at the storied London Club's headquarters at London Colney, Wenger was spotted carrying out his punishment under the watchful eye of UEFA officials. <br />
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It is not yet understand if Wenger will be able to guide his team through Champions League qualifiers in August, should his team qualify.Colinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01660542584323863636noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5061207609776406342.post-76196569566753736322011-09-13T08:03:00.000-05:002011-09-13T08:03:59.225-05:00On players and their connection to a teamI could go on. And on. And on and on and on.<br />
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As it stands, however, I've got about five minutes to crack this out. I'm doing so in the hopes that it may well drive me to expand on the thought when time permits. Whenever that may be. If you've been paying attention at all (of course you have!) you'll have noticed time is at a premium and Match Pricks has (ahem) evolved into the higher art of tossing off tweets whenever we come up with something.<br />
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This morning, while plowing through a bowl of Cheerios and some morning papers, I stumbled upon a piece in The Telegraph that tells me Tottenham have left Rafael Van der Vaart out of their Europa League squad. Yes, the pitfalls of a Europa League campaign are many, with matches on Thursday and a general requirement of miles upon miles of travel, but still, it struck me as odd that a team like Tottenham, with a genuine chance of success in the competition would leave out such a vital player. Now, it's important to note my schedule to this point of the Premier League season (heck, of all of the leagues) has left me wanting. I've essentially paid attention to the Arsenal matches, noted a few Liverpool matches (that sultry lover that they've become ... again, follow Twitter for that filth) and then have checked the other results on a mobile device while reaching for another Saturday afternoon beer. Priorities and all that.<br />
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<a href="http://www.telegraph.co.uk/sport/football/teams/tottenham-hotspur/8759363/Tottenham-forward-Rafael-Van-der-Vaart-says-he-was-left-out-of-Europa-League-squad-without-being-consulted.html">Here's the article ... </a><br />
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And here's what struck me so strongly ...<br />
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<b>"Spurs could at least have consulted me. Anyway, it's up to the point of no return."</b><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #282828; font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: black; font-family: Times;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small; line-height: normal;"><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #282828; font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: black; font-family: Times;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small; line-height: normal;">Spurs should have consulted you, Rafael? Spurs? I got news for you, buddy. You are Spurs. You wear that kit. Your pay stubs probably have a little Spurs logo on them. You train at their ground. You get treated by their staff. You are a Spurs player and therefore you are Spurs. </span></span></span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #282828; font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: black; font-family: Times;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small; line-height: normal;"><br />
</span></span></span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #282828; font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: black; font-family: Times;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small; line-height: normal;">That statement strikes me so strongly and plainly as a wonderful capsule of the modern footballer. I often talk about the habits of players on Twitter and the Club's inability to properly work with the players to express themselves in the right way in this new forum. And that ties in quite directly to Rafael's statement. Whether he says it in a press conference, in a personal blog, at a cafe with his friends and family or in a tweet (read: news release), it is a representation of his relationship with Tottenham Hotspur. It'd be the same for any player at any Club. </span></span></span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #282828; font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: black; font-family: Times;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small; line-height: normal;"><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #282828; font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: black; font-family: Times;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small; line-height: normal;">A Club is an entity. A brand. They stand for something. They represent something. They offer football on the pitch and they offer a feeling in people's hearts (for better or worse). The players are representatives of that brand. Of that entity. They are ambassadors who carry that representation forward with them everyday in all they and in all they say. </span></span></span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #282828; font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: black; font-family: Times;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small; line-height: normal;"><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #282828; font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: black; font-family: Times;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small; line-height: normal;">A relationship to a Club is not what you happen to be doing at the moment. It is deeper than that. Clubs need to do a better job of cultivating that with their players and the players need to do a better job of recognizing it. </span></span></span></span>Colinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01660542584323863636noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5061207609776406342.post-58924951993843157692011-07-15T15:08:00.001-05:002011-07-15T15:34:43.588-05:00Thank you, Mayor: My great confessionI have been wrong and now, I need to make amends.<br />
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You see, all this time, I've been clinging to a possession that just was not rightfully mine. And by mine, of course, I mean a part of my Club, the football Club I support. Today, I've come to understand I've been wrong all this time. I've been selfish. We've been selfish. In the face of better judgement and what is, really, true justice, we've been guarding and ultimately making a prisoner out of our little Cescy Poo. How wrong we've been, Cesc Fabregas, how wrong we've been. We've been acting the clown. And now, all these years later ... all these many, many years later ... I sit and reflect on the selfish and purely hubristic exercise we've been conducting since October 28, 2003 when the lad made his debut for his captors, Arsenal, against Rotherham, aged only 16 years and 177 days. In fact, one could go back even further, to be sure. Now I see that time, all that time, as stolen. It is not time served as a member of this worldwide family. It is not time given to our common cause. All of the wonderful memories, the inexorably strong bond we've forged ... all forced. All pantomime. All ... a great mirage, a grand illusion.<br />
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For my complicit and taciturn approval of this unjust saga, I can only apologize.<br />
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What hurts the most, perhaps, is that in keeping him prisoner these many years we did more than that. We gloated about it. We'd sing right in his face about it. We'd wave our hands at him. We'd feign eye contact. We'd write great missives about the wonder of our captive. We'd assault the character of those unsavory enough to assault his. "Not our Cesc," we'd assert, never understanding the depth to which we clung to our possession. We'd wear replicas of the scraps he was left to wear while toiling behind our bars. "We've got Cesc Fabregas!" we'd repeat over and over and over in a union of taunting. We carried not the whips of guards trawling the boxcars of the gulag but, mind the restlessness in your heart, we are every bit as culpable a party to driving his torment. Lock him up and throw away the key, this boy was ours.<br />
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That I laughed at the comments of the mushroom plucker Xavi all these years ...<br />
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That I cried shame at Pique, Puyol and others at the "Shirt Incident of 2010" ...<br />
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That I scoffed at the inane and poorly cloaked Twitter hash tags of his sweet sister ...<br />
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That I continued to cry foul with every peep out Barcelona's leadership team ...<br />
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That I'd bellow "Mes que un Club, my ass!" with every mention ...<br />
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... Looking back, it paints me in shame. Looking ahead, it clouds my reflection with sullen eyes when I consider how cruel we've been through this decade.<br />
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So it is with a turn of heart and with cap in hand I say, "thank you," to Senor Estanislau Fors i Garcia. This is the man who has pulled the veil back on our cruelty. This is the man who has redefined that which we have defined for so long. For eight years, our collective insolence has served only to imprison a son of the whole of the Catalan people. For eight years, our collective insolence has served only to spin the whole of the Catalan people - kind, respectful and judicious as they are - into dizzy disorientation.<br />
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Thank you, Estanislau. I apologize.<br />
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Imagine the uncaged bird singing. Imagine a free Cesc Fabregas.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4ueJlJpHZEt8C1twrhUu9ysArWzpzo-DQ2t-U-j-c6II4_jr5SftQO6JH3_3F36_Jx24dDJVV4uCGQTM24hyAR4QzYr2WRc8k04adqfou-npHfkNgAyttAXrgxA4QTASKVZiiN11e-iZg/s1600/Free+Cesc.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4ueJlJpHZEt8C1twrhUu9ysArWzpzo-DQ2t-U-j-c6II4_jr5SftQO6JH3_3F36_Jx24dDJVV4uCGQTM24hyAR4QzYr2WRc8k04adqfou-npHfkNgAyttAXrgxA4QTASKVZiiN11e-iZg/s320/Free+Cesc.jpg" width="266" /></a></div>Colinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01660542584323863636noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5061207609776406342.post-2742193057149913412011-01-18T07:28:00.002-06:002011-01-18T10:51:56.551-06:00So what happens if Arsenal really do win a trophy?<div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGhD3syweP-z5xxRb8FewqkJrbFV7VRV3rl0vtellKOqiaUI8KkLboIbn_OKHE5d1K8kB0eUK1b3gZpe4TrNCbXlabeVdc43g43mePLGhvGTADx7at52xhHnbQ5DhICHIGyixtWYZ9RqlJ/s1600/000C95AB-D75B-1222-9C7880BFB6FA0000.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGhD3syweP-z5xxRb8FewqkJrbFV7VRV3rl0vtellKOqiaUI8KkLboIbn_OKHE5d1K8kB0eUK1b3gZpe4TrNCbXlabeVdc43g43mePLGhvGTADx7at52xhHnbQ5DhICHIGyixtWYZ9RqlJ/s200/000C95AB-D75B-1222-9C7880BFB6FA0000.jpg" width="115" /></a>Do you want them to jump up and down like happy clowns?<br />
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When Chelsea won the League Cup a couple of years back, after dominating the Premier League, they acted like a toddler who just crapped in a toilet by himself for the first time. Or, better, a college kid who just successfully nailed his first beer bong. Yes, that was how they reacted. And it came, like I say, after they won the league in about as masterfully assertive a manner as a team can. </div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">So if Arsenal win, do you think they should go bananas after winning fuck all for 6 years? I sure don't. If I'm in that squad, I walk on stage, accept my medal, gather round the trophy, smile for the photo and smile at the memory and respect of the teams I've beaten and respectfully exit stage right. I might, at first, be rather inclined to jut my arms in the arm and hug my teammates. I'd likely, as the seconds pass, run to the support that has stuck by us year after woefully barren year. And it's entirely likely that I'd actually leap into the air a few times. But all in all, I reckon, I'd stay remarkably un-Leo Messi-likein my celebration (for the record, I whole-heartedly support Leo and his celebrations in this video). <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=21wYUaraZM4">And I'd be even less of a reflection of Pepe Reina.</a> </div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><object height="385" width="480"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/GG9Pyya8nXY?fs=1&hl=en_US"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/GG9Pyya8nXY?fs=1&hl=en_US" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="480" height="385"></embed></object></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><br />
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</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">You might be asking, "Why, you crazy fool?" Well, let's see, what will have happened? </div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">They'll have won something, yes. But for me, the thought, the pressing and pervasive thought, the tell-tale heart beating under the floorboards is the big, fat, dripping with reality line we'd all feel like shouting if we were being honest with ourselves ... "Well it's about goddamn time." It's the sigh of relief. It's not jubilation. It's the ... and they've damn near said this themselves ... it's the feeling of ... "right, now let's get on with it." If they go from there and win the league, win the FA Cup, win the (SHOCK! HORROR!) Champions League, then let us flood the pub with our tears. But, if they win that League Cup, let's not shit ourselves. Let's shake hands. Let's pat each other on the back and then let's put our goddamn game face on and get the fuck in there on the next one with that newly christened winner's attitude. It'd be like driving a spanking new car to work. A car that we already tore the quiet country roads up with.</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">I've been saying it for a while now (well, at least since <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=v0HklVuA_WE">I first heard the fantastic line in Inglorious Basterds</a>) ... <i>attendez la creme</i>. Wait for it. Wait for the cream. Wait for that velvety nugguty center. Wait for the deliciousness. Wait for the best. It's not the first bite at the cherry ... that just lets you know what it tastes like .. it's the second, third and fourth ... it's gobbling the little fucker whole. Because at that point you know what it tastes like, don't you? I've forgotten what winning something tastes like, what it feels like. I've forgotten the chills you get, the spring in your step and the 'jut' it gives to your chin as you thrust it into the air at any given opportunity. Red light? I've a chin that says, "screw you, mister, we've just won a trophy." Long day at the office? Right, chin. Bad haircut? You better believe it, I've got the chin of a winner, fella. But as it stands, I've forgotten how high you can hold you head. I've forgotten that it gives you the last word. </div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">I want to remember all of those feelings. I want to remember them so I can want them again. Savvy?</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">When I lose at the FIFA (I write that as if I regularly play. I don't. I'm too poor at it.) my first nine times in row and I manage to sneak one crazy victory, I'm not running around my friend's living room. I'm thinking, well, I got one over you, didn't I? Then I'm thinking about getting to the kitchen to grab some more beer. The last thing I'm gonna suggest the next time we all have a free night is playing the FIFA again. But hey, if I win three out four, five out of six or even seven out of 10 you better bet your ass I'm clearing the schedule and saying, hot damn, brutha, when you wanna play again? What do you have going on Monday? I have some vacation time I can blow. Let's do this.</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">Same with winning a trophy. Win it once, meh, great, good for you. Anyone can win the odd trophy. (The caveat here is, of course, the difference between those who expect to win, are close to winning and those who never actually expect to win but go through the motions anyway. If those lucky bastards stumble upon a trophy then they better go nuclear when they win it because, mama, it ain't happening again anytime soon.) Anyway ... Hey, you pull that trophy in, I'm gonna know what it tastes like, what it feels like ... i'm gonna get that spine tingling sensation.</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">And I'll want it again. And I'm pretty sure you'll want it again too. So get the fuck in there, Arsenal. Don't <i>learn</i> how to win. Do it, win, so that you <i>want</i> to win again. Because for five years, hey, we know you've been trying but it sure as shit hasn't looked like you really want to win. You've just been hoping you'd win. And like I say, anyone can stumble across a win now and then. if you've the quality, you can probably squeze a few more out than the next guy but ... you gotta really want it if you're gonna win all of it. Savvy?</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">Right.</div><div><br />
</div>Colinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01660542584323863636noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5061207609776406342.post-18648670921340560752011-01-04T16:03:00.003-06:002011-01-04T16:12:57.888-06:00Neurosis or a case for Dr. House?I have this shaky history with following United matches at work. I keep an eye on 'em, and usually nothing special happens. Sometimes, United's opponent starts to do something interesting or threaten to get a draw or win, and I decide to pull up Soccernet or something similar to keep even closer tabs on the match. Invariably, United goes on to score a goal and take all three points. It happens to me a lot. My increased interest ends up increasing United's chances to win the match. <br /><br />Well, when I saw on Twitter that Stoke equalized in the second half, I paused for a second and then my curiosity got the better of me. I went to Soccernet, my eye scanned to the score box at the top of the home page, it said 1-1, I clicked the Gamecast option and BAM! The Gamecast loaded with the score 2-1 United and the commentary timeline freshly loading the description of Nani's goal. I mean, the mere act of expanding my access to information about the match basically scored a goal for United. Just acting upon my interest!<br /><br />Thinking back now, I'm not sure I've ever followed a match United has lost, other than the few times recently that Liverpool beat them. Maybe once I watched them lose to Chelsea in real time. All other United defeats, that I can remember, have happened when I didn't care at all what the hell Fergie's boys were doing.Jimhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15452206219434460235noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5061207609776406342.post-28766298972130048332010-10-21T14:32:00.003-05:002010-10-21T14:39:26.137-05:00No, it's not too early for a Jonjo Shelvey songIt was time for this. No, really.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2YfCVpt-VG5AvVSPCDKan9nLtM5lbbq2pkrP0YUAQFaYro3IKHTROaX75WkkEznhDzN8_g0rwh1LPfs5nFAAOI871lmHqo6yNMohbx4HatW6acxWZ67Kcif7ACrLyuzqIFnZ0A8STkTk8/s1600/pro_jonjo_shelvy.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 263px; height: 268px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2YfCVpt-VG5AvVSPCDKan9nLtM5lbbq2pkrP0YUAQFaYro3IKHTROaX75WkkEznhDzN8_g0rwh1LPfs5nFAAOI871lmHqo6yNMohbx4HatW6acxWZ67Kcif7ACrLyuzqIFnZ0A8STkTk8/s1600/pro_jonjo_shelvy.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><br />We bought the lad from Charlton<br />And Jonjo was his name, oh!<br /><br />J-O-N-J-O!<br />J-O-N-J-O!<br />J-O-N-J-O!<br />And Jonjo was his name, oh!<br /><br />He came out strong in Naples town<br />Where they hunted down our brothers!<br />But Jonjo ran and bossed the pitch<br />Against those Naples fuh-kers!<br /><br />J-O-N-J-O!<br />J-O-N-J-O!<br />J-O-N-J-O!<br />And Jonjo was his name, oh!<br /><br />Just 18 and full of life<br />We can't wait for the future!<br />He's Jonjo Shelvey, learn the name<br />Liverpool's lethal butcher!<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://jessreeves.files.wordpress.com/2008/10/commando.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 350px; height: 235px;" src="http://jessreeves.files.wordpress.com/2008/10/commando.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><br />J-O-N-J-O!<br />J-O-N-J-O!<br />J-O-N-J-O!<br />And Jonjo was his name, oh!Jimhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15452206219434460235noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5061207609776406342.post-18577775408321228102010-10-13T19:43:00.003-05:002010-10-13T21:59:31.490-05:00Prologue: Make me whole again<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZ6qXJRjeRt5TREQuRp0UGLxmO_6bvhNzSFDWdIoGXdP1AvQrOwJ0ZdmY7Qfjva_FOELv5AW5ai1kDylP-zzwSfsEreHbd07hsaCFqOF5MVe9HpcKiXDgxtkEELbzYbwx5fQ0-LEaVvpG7/s1600/the_shawshank_redemption_d220.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="112" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZ6qXJRjeRt5TREQuRp0UGLxmO_6bvhNzSFDWdIoGXdP1AvQrOwJ0ZdmY7Qfjva_FOELv5AW5ai1kDylP-zzwSfsEreHbd07hsaCFqOF5MVe9HpcKiXDgxtkEELbzYbwx5fQ0-LEaVvpG7/s200/the_shawshank_redemption_d220.jpg" width="200" /></a></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><i>And, looking to the sky, scanning across and through the horizons, he implored the spirits that drove his emotional torment to carry him back. And, with hands clasped and knees tendered from the collapse he hoped would prove the sincerity in his request, he threw his head back and opened his eyes wide as can be. And, with the hopelessness of a man lost at sea, he opened his mouth and shouted ... "Please, lead me, again, to get angry when we lose! Lead me, again, to rejoice in victory!"</i></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">I've spent the better part of the last year falling out of love with winning and making up with losing. We adapt, don't we, out of simple necessity? I'm an Arsenal supporter and, as has been over-documented, they've made a fortune out of manufacturing mediocrity the last couple years. Top management has even strived to shout, "Hang on! We're right there, aren't we? We're competing every year. Damn close, we are. Damn close. Win or lose, we're damn close."</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMBbQvH-od9KF73f3gVWnvlxXk7dZCh3sTLYbGWAovHZlLbtvVRCh98fa5BgjFkY_TrK84Jx_V3vUUpCfGH7OkayltmVluXFQ0OUXAtNjacsuCDMJQyKBkFmqFcCTQPT-vPk3hY-09ffs5/s1600/ralph_wiggum.gif" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="173" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMBbQvH-od9KF73f3gVWnvlxXk7dZCh3sTLYbGWAovHZlLbtvVRCh98fa5BgjFkY_TrK84Jx_V3vUUpCfGH7OkayltmVluXFQ0OUXAtNjacsuCDMJQyKBkFmqFcCTQPT-vPk3hY-09ffs5/s200/ralph_wiggum.gif" width="200" /></a></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">Maybe it's the utter lack of fight on hand in the Arsenal. Maybe it's the willingness, nay, it's more than willingness, the team's ability to roll over to an opponent defined as a higher quality simply by Arsenal's ability to act like a milk-moneyless second grader facing the school bully is best described, at this point, as a fetish.</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">Perhaps that's why I seem not to care. I care. Really, I do. I still get awfully fired up for a football match involving the characters, athletes and colours I've found the most attractive to my mind and heart. Though, a lot of the spirit I toss at the football nowadays can be summed by friend and fellow Arsenal supporter, Phil. Toward the end of the West Brom match ... the horrible, horrible West Brom match (it was horrible, wasn't it? right? it's supposed to be really awful when you lose a match, isn't it? especially to 'lesser' competition, right?) ... Phil says, "I'm gonna get hammered after this match. If we lose, I'm gonna get REALLY hammered." The emphasis on the word "really" was lost on no one. With the final whistle, we blasted through Van Halen's "Panama," an uncountable number of beers and a series of air guitar riffs and rock-emphasizing air kicks. All was brought, once again, into focus. What mattered mattered. Losing a football match was certainly that which did not matter. And hey, that horrible, horrible match was fun in the end. Nasri gave us a couple of a winks and two goals. Fun, fun, fun, eh? Right? Right.</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">Not long after that experience, which stood as an affirmation of this attitude I'd been carrying for the better part of a year (win or lose, I still love it! doesn't mean a thing, winning, does it!?), Arsenal played Chelsea at Stamford Bridge. I thought, heading over to the pub to watch, that there really was a chance this time. I thought a page would be turning for this group of players. And, I hoped, without really admitting it to myself, that I'd be turning a page myself. WIth a little bit of hope for success, in any venture, comes an attachment to what it might actually mean to have that success. </div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">What did I think would happen? I thought the Arsenal would put in a performance as assured as the way I walked through that door at 9:00 a.m. I thought we'd cruise through a very hard fought win. I thought we'd carry the level of possession, and flex enough will in the final third, needed to allow me to take a big puff of air at the end of the match and cast that glare of aspersion over the masses I'd so grown to love ... but ... this time ...</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg56XreLrBa50t9UhyphenhyphenjQmGAwMKAmUN60hMFhpMtJXtubIBcu6C7bqZMkJaOgRWY1zVoUh7p4iZoGxbeeh2ZZyPZzr2iCYt-he8UzcyHADETV1zeE9clB6wc9nbMil8ZE1tWbi_2f3LiDN0U/s1600/bilic-smug111808.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg56XreLrBa50t9UhyphenhyphenjQmGAwMKAmUN60hMFhpMtJXtubIBcu6C7bqZMkJaOgRWY1zVoUh7p4iZoGxbeeh2ZZyPZzr2iCYt-he8UzcyHADETV1zeE9clB6wc9nbMil8ZE1tWbi_2f3LiDN0U/s320/bilic-smug111808.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">I'd peer in, mustering every ounce of patented prickishness I could ... And even the dimmest passerby would be able to read, sprawled across my eyes, lips and forehead ...</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">"I told you so."</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">But no. If the travails of ol' Jim and the hoards of Liverpool supporters the world round have taught us anything, life ain't no fairy tale, kiddies. While I've been wallowing as a soul tearing its way through the endless hallway of footballing purgatory (not winning, not losing, not caring, no indifference), friends and a Club I have endless respect for have had their brains on a tilt-o-whirl for months. And the last 48 hours have been a tilt-o-whirl with a never-ending roller-coaster drop as a capper. Their plight has helped steel my focus. Their plight has reminded me of my wealth. That Chelsea loss, when we seemed to be in the passing lane for long stretches of the match, steeled my focus. That Chelsea loss, that inability to achieve what I had actually and rather stridently hoped for, reminded me of how much I had to lose. It reminded me of how much I had invested.</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">Winning doesn't beget caring. Caring doesn't beget wining. If I shout harder, sing more or slap another goddamn stupid ass piece of clothing with my team's colours on my body, it's not a deeper expression of caring and it sure as shit won't bring three points. Caring is in and of itself. I was finally recognizing the investment, the deep emotional investment I'd made of holding through this long stretch of mediocrity. I finally realized that investment, that huge vault that stood behind me, meant I actually did care quite a bit more than I'd been letting on. I'd peer around my shoulder and the trail I left for myself and recognize everything I left behind and how it carried me to where I was. I accepted the value in it. And I accepted how much it meant to me.</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">That's why I was beyond happy when I saw Nicklas Bendtner's quotes this morning. I wasn't just happy, I was energized. I was reminded. I was hella fired up, people. </div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">For months, and seemingly for years, quotes coming out of the Arsenal charges have focused on development. They've focused on learning. They've focused on the next step. That dulled me. It sawed off my senses. It had me looking forward to Van Halen guitar solos instead of prickish glares that reeked of "I told you so." It made me accept the process of development. It lead me to this "winning ain't shit, only macho pricks want to win, I'm an artistically aware individual who values performance over winning" mentality.</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">But then, this morning, I woke up, got dressed, fixed a little raisin bran, and read Nicklas Bendtner's quotes. </div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">I read this ... posted in <a href="http://www.oleole.com/blogs/arseblog">Arseblog</a> this morning:</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="color: #333333; font: 13.0px Arial; line-height: 19.0px; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 19.0px 0.0px;"><i>It is quite amazing. I reckon I'm probably right to be involved in the fight on Saturday for Arsenal - and I am excited. I thought ideally that I should play one or two reserve games first, but I am in such good shape that it is not needed.</i></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">And I thought, quite simply, HELL YEAH! Get in there, Nicklas. Welcome back and get in there. How can you not be fired up by comments like that? After emailing my collaborator here at Match Pricks, Jim, it all came into focus. "Bendtner is so ridiculously unappreciated," he said. After some rambling, he finished, "Kid's got balls, brutha. Brass balls."</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">My reply? </div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">DONG DONG DONG</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKJzX4UNQ8b4rGLu5I21JokAqzS1SITfu2IbBfhgx2Z_DRrBQTGaNv5JR3GYmxw_wLOf-PXkC3JEs1enIjkf-JNqenyX1eowWATzMv8VhhVSoFK8JcXEl5STSdi3C3q0APSUxcXRWG4lV_/s1600/2549133136_d547059b83.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKJzX4UNQ8b4rGLu5I21JokAqzS1SITfu2IbBfhgx2Z_DRrBQTGaNv5JR3GYmxw_wLOf-PXkC3JEs1enIjkf-JNqenyX1eowWATzMv8VhhVSoFK8JcXEl5STSdi3C3q0APSUxcXRWG4lV_/s200/2549133136_d547059b83.jpg" width="200" /></a></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">"What was that? Sounded loud. And heavy."</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">"Oh, that? That's just Nicklas Bendtner's balls clanging together. He started training with the first team again."</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">Welcome back, Niko. Your influence is greater than people realize. </div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">(sidebar: for the image, I shit you not, I searched "smug" and it gave me Match Pricks favourite, Slavan Bilic.)</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;"><br />
</div>Colinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01660542584323863636noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5061207609776406342.post-17523316163640432332010-10-13T11:06:00.013-05:002010-10-13T12:05:35.670-05:00A few words about Peter LimIt's 11:07 a.m. as I start typing this post, and I've been awake for seven hours, give or take a few minutes. I've been following the Liverpool court decision that has seen – at last – the end of Tom Hicks and his piddling partner in desperation George Gillett, but it has turned up one last sniveling little opportunist. <A HREF="http://blogs.wsj.com/scene/2010/10/13/who-is-peter-lim/">Noted Lamborghini collector Peter Lim</A>, the son of a fishmonger and the heretofore unnamed "Asian bidder" for the club, wants to worm his way into the control room by offering £320 million. It's a last-ditch attempt to sneak past New England Sports Ventures, whose £300 million offer was accepted last week. You might remember that incident, though it did happen before back-to-back, all-day Guardian live blogs of Liverpool's court case, so failure to recall all the details is understood.<br /><br />Let's look at Mr. Lim's offer for a minute – and consider why every Liverpool supporter should be on his hands and knees praying to whatever god, statue, otherworldly idea or bottle of booze they prefer that Singapore's eighth-richest man doesn't finagle his way into ownership of the club. Lim is said to be worth $1.6 billion (US), and his offer of £320 million, plus £40 million to invest in new players, is equivalent to $570 million (US). Lim would like us to believe he will invest one-third of his wealth in the club without taking on any debt to complete the transaction. Without even mentioning stadium plans, he's willing to expose one-third of his fortune to just getting a hold of things at Anfield and donating a little seed money to buy, what, two or three building block players.<br /><br />Those are just the startup costs, mind you. A 57-year-old billionaire sinking one-third of his life's work into <span style="font-style:italic;">merely beginning</span> a new endeavor. Of course, building the needed new stadium would require him to invest at least two-thirds of his life's fortune, likely more, but, sure, Peter Lim only has Liverpool's best interests at heart.<br /><br />And how is that $1.6 billion fortune broken down? Well, $1.4 billion comes from his 5 percent stake in Wilmar International. (Here's a bunch of <A HREF="http://www.wilmar-international.com/business_index.htm">business world gobbledygook</A> about how their business works.) Lim bought that stake for $10 million in 1991 when Wilmar was a startup palm oil company. He's been diversifying into the health sector recently, so, you know, it's not like he's completely reliant upon Wilmar. He has spread $200 million around into other areas.<br /><br />Like Lamborghinis, Porsches and Ferraris, as the first link in this post shows. Also, he "owns an entire 11-story block of a prestigious condominium in Singapore’s tony Orchard Road shopping district." Here's a shot from Street View of part of the Orchard Road shopping district:<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEit5uPnh0EZ_TIY3yIsdckUnBcvtrlw5-Vfi30882FfHOnPSLAGDexE9gKzDweH-Edu13K90Ca5ubmPdya4HFhwibvRAQFAUrND9k5GwBNvG3k-ghATl-Suz5F4LiKocuIVJEQzYWapwx96/s1600/Orchard+Road+-+Borders.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 259px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEit5uPnh0EZ_TIY3yIsdckUnBcvtrlw5-Vfi30882FfHOnPSLAGDexE9gKzDweH-Edu13K90Ca5ubmPdya4HFhwibvRAQFAUrND9k5GwBNvG3k-ghATl-Suz5F4LiKocuIVJEQzYWapwx96/s400/Orchard+Road+-+Borders.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5527570713221644466" /></a><br />A Borders! You are not a high-falutin' billionaire prepared to own the most successful club in the history of the English game and return it to past glories – while also building a modern, money-spinning stadium – if you count among your prized assets condos in a "prestigious" shopping district that includes a chain store where I've actually purchased something. At a Borders in downtown Chicago several years ago, I bought <A HREF="http://www.amazon.com/Black-Talk-Charles-Earland/dp/B000000YIM/ref=sr_1_4?ie=UTF8&qid=1286988047&sr=8-4">Charles Earland's "Black Talk!" album</A> while waiting for a buddy to finish a law school class one day. Not only have I already shopped in your supposedly luxurious environs, Mr. Lim, I was doing it while a broke college kid. You, sir, are in no position to fund the purchase of the next Dani Alves.<br /><br />Now, sure, if you click around through that Street View you'll find a Hermes store, an Armani, a Louis Vuitton. But look back at that Borders evidence and what else is there? A Marks & Spencer! Are you shitting me, Mr. Lim? I could stroll into Marks & Spencer tomorrow – or as soon as I could book a flight and figure out the International Date Line – and throw down cash(!) for the <A HREF="http://www.marksandspencer.com/Autograph-Leather-Diamond-Loafers-Jeffery-West/dp/B0041VJ23A?_encoding=UTF8&categoryNodeID=43371030&node=43573030&mnSBrand=core&ref=sr_1_1&qid=1286986497&sr=1-1&rh=&page=">Autograph Leather Diamond-Punch Loafers by Jeffery-West</A>. $103 for shoes?! You associate with this kind of commerce and think you're suited to oversee the design, engineering and construction of a 60,000-plus seat stadium with all the corporate amenities that ensure constant delivery by the truckload of giant canvas sacks with dollar signs on them? <br /><br />And, of course, there's the one, widely reported fact about Peter Lim that serves as a ready joke should he continue to have anything to do with Liverpool beyond October 2010 – he owns a string of Manchester United-themed bars throughout Asia.<br /><br />Give us a break, Mr. Lim. It's been an arduous campaign to oust Tom Hicks and George Gillett and their greasy, poorly financed fingers from the controls of Liverpool Football Club. Don't make us have to start all over again so soon.Jimhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15452206219434460235noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5061207609776406342.post-6572812779925074182010-10-13T05:18:00.003-05:002010-10-13T05:23:05.199-05:00Blow me, f**k face<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://trappedfan.com/wp-content/uploads/2010/09/Tom_Hicks.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 280px; height: 390px;" src="http://trappedfan.com/wp-content/uploads/2010/09/Tom_Hicks.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a>Jimhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15452206219434460235noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5061207609776406342.post-44517349974850755662010-09-23T07:38:00.020-05:002010-09-23T15:56:47.774-05:00The Jonjo Zone<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2YfCVpt-VG5AvVSPCDKan9nLtM5lbbq2pkrP0YUAQFaYro3IKHTROaX75WkkEznhDzN8_g0rwh1LPfs5nFAAOI871lmHqo6yNMohbx4HatW6acxWZ67Kcif7ACrLyuzqIFnZ0A8STkTk8/s1600/pro_jonjo_shelvy.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 263px; height: 268px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2YfCVpt-VG5AvVSPCDKan9nLtM5lbbq2pkrP0YUAQFaYro3IKHTROaX75WkkEznhDzN8_g0rwh1LPfs5nFAAOI871lmHqo6yNMohbx4HatW6acxWZ67Kcif7ACrLyuzqIFnZ0A8STkTk8/s400/pro_jonjo_shelvy.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5520119902119349138" /></a>The audio commentary one hears during any Liverpool match through the team site's e-Season Ticket offers an amusing mix of joy and disbelief. Steve Hunter is, as you'd expect, an unabashed Red as he describes the action, and his analysis partner comes from one of a rotation of Liverpool legends – I've most often heard David Fairclough and Phil Neal, though I'm sure there are others. Hunter's call of every Liverpool attack (please hold your guffaws until after I leave the room) reaches a crescendo that is capped with either a dispirited exhale from Hunter and some words explaining how the move sputtered into nothing, or a howl of unintelligible delirium celebrating a Liverpool goal.<br /><br />Yesterday, after listening to 100 minutes of that back-and-forth during a remarkably slow day at the office, Hunter announced Liverpool was sending out Jonjo Shelvey, the 18-year-old, £1.7 million signing from Charlton. He replaced Ryan Babel, and at this point in what eventually became an historic Liverpool defeat in a domestic cup, I decided Jonjo Shelvey was getting everything I could give as a fan. From a distance of roughly 3,800 miles, and aware of his actions only through a clearly biased audio commentary duo played into my earbuds, Jonjo Shelvey delivered more excitement than I felt at any point while watching the defeat to Manchester United – or any other match this year. He set off on 20 minutes of play (plus a well-taken penalty) that sent Steve Hunter into electrified spasms of exuberant commentary. Shelvey was everywhere in my mind's eye. Sending in crosses and dangerous free kicks, taking charge in the dying minutes of the match by running over to deliver the corner that led to the equalizer. An 18-year-old making his Liverpool debut and exhorting his teammates and the crowd with shouts and arm pumps after converting his penalty during the shootout. <br /><br />Anyone looking to feel sad about a mix of Liverpool's reserves and youth team losing at home in the Carling Cup to a League Two side can find plenty of fuel for their misery today. The media accounts portray the defeat as just a shade less shocking than if Tom Hicks dropped trou and then squeezed Kenny Dalglish's butt underneath the Shankly Gates, so if despondency is your thing, have at it. Of course, as a supporter, I wanted to hear Steve Hunter call a Liverpool win. Don't be an idiot. There are just different thrills to be had these days, and defining one's fan experience through the expectations and mocking comments of others is the wrong approach.<br /><br />For example, did you know that Liverpool's latest humiliation means the team has descended into, at last, an irrevocable crisis – a full 3 points out of fourth in the Premier League? It's true. Oh, sweet Mary of Czestochowa united in eternal prayer with Our Lady of Guadalupe is it true! Surely there's no turning back now.<br /><br />Jonjo Shelvey's 20 minutes of fun racing through my imagination evoked a feeling I first heard a long time ago – something like 20 years, I think – from the comedian David Steinberg. The director of several episodes of "Curb Your Enthusiasm" and numerous other shows had a stand-up special on HBO at the time. In it, he bemoaned the fact no Jewish people had a defiant public attitude. He wanted a prominent Jewish person to get up, puff his chest out and say to the world – and I'll always remember the line – "I'm a Jew! F**k you!"<br /><br /> Everyone enjoying Liverpool's current meekness can just piss off. It's a disgust at the perceptions of others that one would hope the players share among themselves. Observers treat each Liverpool setback as though it came the week after winning the 1984 European Cup Final – as though the "this-proud-club" descriptor is a curse or detriment rather than a point of pride. <br /><br />Jonjo Shelvey didn't stumble onto the pitch yesterday resigned to the fact that Steve Heighway crossing to John Toshack isn't coming back. He played, even considering the glowing accounts of Steve Hunter and Phil Neal, like a committed, effective and passionate contributor. Jonjo Shelvey sent this supporter off on a buzzing trip where the match became everything, and one player – the fans' representative on the pitch, after all – gave the impression he had matched the observer's emotional interest in the outcome.<br /><br />Detractors can call it a sign of how far Liverpool has fallen, or a delusion that served to insulate me from the larger worries haunting the club. Look, every fan wants their team to win, but if winning doesn't happen, is there no value in the match? Nothing could convince me the amazing rush of fun I had listening to the descriptions of Jonjo Shelvey's play – while the outcome was still in doubt, mind you – is somehow invalidated because Northampton Town Football Club won the match. I mentioned it in this <A HREF="http://www.matchpricks.com/2010/08/well-its-just-you-and-me-now-buddy.html">post back in August</A> and it bears repeating: Liverpool's 2010-11 season is not about self-loathing. Get over it and get on with it. Any number of vaguely <A HREF="http://self-improvement-ebooks.com/books/tpopt.php">Norman Vincent Peale-related sayings</A> also fit.<br /><br />Besides, Jonjo Shelvey is far too young to struggle with the conflict between present predicaments and past glories. He has too much to prove and doesn't want to waste any time doing it. Here's hoping Roy Hodgson gives him another chance soon because I can't wait to see it, as well as hear it.Jimhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15452206219434460235noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5061207609776406342.post-53480436810586902122010-09-17T09:16:00.015-05:002010-09-17T13:26:59.656-05:00The end of the beginning: United helping Liverpool finally get its season startedSunday brings us the final installment in Liverpool's opening set of fixtures. They were matches that looked like cruel piling on from the football world as they were first viewed when the schedule was released.<br /><br />Time for some judgments, then, about Liverpool in the 2010-11 campaign, right? Not even close. Well, surely Sunday's match will offer an accurate assessment of where they're headed. Doubtful.<br /><br />Wary of the toilet-paper-roll-length list of jokes this statement could unleash, Joe Cole was brought in to play a major role in the first team. It might work or it might not, but Roy Hodgson is going to try and get him in there. He played one half against a depleted, but still composed and well-drilled Arsenal, and he'll probably come back for his second run with Liverpool's best eleven this Sunday. I'm hoping for him to get a few close passes in to Torres, or otherwise contribute to getting those passes made from a distance where the passer can see Fernando without a set of binoculars. That's all anyone should expect of him. A goal from him would be amazing, but the contempt for United shouldn't create ridiculous demands from supporters – or lead neutrals to jump to any conclusions. (Of course they will, but this is an attempt at reason on the Web. Forgive my Don Quioxte-ness.)<br /><br />After Sunday, three of Liverpool's next 20 league matches catch the eye as daunting challenges – away to Everton and Spurs, and home to Chelsea. (Stoke away also is in there, but for all of Stoke's home ground moxie, I'm not classifying them with the Merseyside derby or away to London-based participants in the Champions League.) That's three matches until Feb. 5 (away to Chelsea) that even the most positive Liverpool supporter can see as ending in a loss. The other 17 present opportunities for any team that believes in itself enough to finish fourth.<br /><br />Now, prediction games are dangerous and nearly always wrong. That's why bookies exist. But, aside from predicting results (and inserting all the usual caveats about injury), there's nothing in Liverpool's short-term or long-term Premier League campaign that compares with:<br /><br />(H) Arsenal<br />(A) Manchester City<br />(H) West Brom<br />(A) Birmingham City<br />(A) Manchester United<br /><br />And that was how they started. With a new manager, playing style and several players moving in and out among the regular contributors. The team remains far from settled, and it won't be until Hodgson can push Joe Cole out there with Gerrard, Torres, Jovanovic, Carragher, Reina and company – I'm hoping Meireles features regularly too – for several games in a row and the players figure out how to work with each other.<br /><br />What, then, to make of this United match on Sunday? It's always a surreal experience watching Liverpool play United. It's as though my world elevates a few feet higher off everyone else's plane of existence. I wouldn't be shocked at all if scientists observed me and reported my eyes opened wider, my ear canals somehow grew larger and my tongue was able to taste concepts like delirium and trust. Then the camera pans to Gary Neville and the whole thing gets even weirder.<br /><br />I'd imagine United will win the match, although Antonio Valencia's broken leg leaves me unsure what to make of them right now. He would've been able to lash Liverpool's left flank to whatever extent he wished, and perhaps whoever Fergie drops into that role (Nani) will still do it. Who knows? Berbatov seems to have suddenly figured out how to be damn good again, and I haven't even mentioned Rooney.<br /><br /><A HREF="http://twitter.com/optajoe">OptaJoe hasn't tweeted anything yet</A> about the last time United drew at home in the Champions League and Premier League during the same week (or had three consecutive draws), so I'll rule out a draw for Sunday's match. Bookies, I'm sure, make a United win the most likely result. And for anyone who hasn't figured it out yet, <A HREF="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=aFZ0Rox1JJY">I'm hoping for another fantastic Liverpool result at Old Trafford</A>.<br /><br />But Sunday's result only closes the prologue to Liverpool's season. <A HREF="http://www.eufo.de/football/eng/2003/livel_fc.htm">Far less talented teams</A> than this one have gone on to qualify for the Champions League, and that's all Reina, Hodgson and anyone else is talking about when asking for patience from supporters. Dammit it'd feel great – I mean, worthy-of-breakdancing-in-the-street great. But Liverpool doesn't have to beat United on Sunday to save the season. The Stadium of Light, Upton Park, White Hart Lane, Molineux and elsewhere are the places Liverpool will have to find its salvation.Jimhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15452206219434460235noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5061207609776406342.post-21728463024904955412010-09-16T19:05:00.000-05:002010-09-16T19:05:10.633-05:00Say it with me now! "We dislike SAF."It's a cold hard fact. Joe Friday would approve.<br />
<br />
In truth, though, I think my burning animosity toward Alex Ferguson has dimmed in the last couple of years. I crossed the bridge, a while back, and found myself in a land of make-believe where I don't get abnormally twisted out shape, mentally or, thankfully, otherwise, after the results of matches. It's a land where the inhabitants regularly bury their heads in sand dunes. Quite comfortable. I recommend it. Looking back, I find myself laughing at those fits I'd throw in the car on the way to watch a match. Fist pumps, foul language and general assertions projected forth through songs that'd twist my vocals and warm 'em for a day of shouting.<br />
<br />
Meh. Whatever. And yes, as before, that's the 'meh' of gross indifference. Call it maturity but, more likely, I finally swallowed the pill I've been trying to hid in my own food for years ... winning doesn't matter, man. You've heard me say it before. Whatever, more on that another time. Really. (No, really, I promise.)<br />
<br />
What matters is that as my lust (no better word) for winning and distaste for all opposition (save my friends, Liverpool - recall, this is a friendly entente.), has waned, so too has my desire to kick Ferguson square in the jaw. Ok, in his nuts too.<br />
<br />
Still, somethings never change. And with the derby (Liverpool v. Manchester United tussle this weekend for their rightful place atop The Perch. I hear it's a horrible place to call home. People keep trying to knock you off and all that. Quite prefer a nice medium-sized living space with plenty of wall space to hang reminders of past success. Says the Arsenal supporter.) nigh, I must again share. Hatred wanes, what does not wane, however, is my stubborn belief that Ferguson is a habitual and premeditated abuser of human rights. Once more with gusto ...<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_Itp0ULVCTEMQ8kpRII10-ET2uXsEtT4u3fVtdtzj2kTxel3l-Zfduyz6B9S70dg6MWAXNSVBviFgzTyeb0szIKPLGmiMIWMFO4RWnR1acgYLwXXrJNECv2-bU05n5wYV4061_eEX0ikv/s1600/Alex_11x17.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_Itp0ULVCTEMQ8kpRII10-ET2uXsEtT4u3fVtdtzj2kTxel3l-Zfduyz6B9S70dg6MWAXNSVBviFgzTyeb0szIKPLGmiMIWMFO4RWnR1acgYLwXXrJNECv2-bU05n5wYV4061_eEX0ikv/s320/Alex_11x17.jpg" /></a></div>Colinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01660542584323863636noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5061207609776406342.post-22608193314438211192010-08-23T21:41:00.017-05:002010-08-24T07:58:58.602-05:00The Phantom MenaceIn trying to process the state of Liverpool Football Club during the game against City ("live" on DVR two hours after it ended), I could only think of one feeling similar to what I experienced while seeing Adam Johnson, James Milner and Carlos Tevez stretch and tear the Reds apart: the realization about 10-15 minutes into seeing The Phantom Menace during a midnight screening that I was watching an unrecoverable disaster. "Oh my god, this is going to be terrible."<br /><br />And that's what it was. When ESPN flashed the possession stats just before halftime – 63 percent to 37 percent, in favor of City – the awfulness was made even more unavoidable. Again, the proceedings in Manchester reminded me of The Phantom Menace. That movie taught us how The Force is actually just a blood-borne illness with some amazingly beneficial symptoms. Likewise, something sick inside my body convinced me turning off the TV, even after City's third, would be tantamount to a betrayal on par with whatever it was they had Hayden Christensen do in the last of the new movies. I forget exactly because I watched those things out of some silly generational obligation. It was horrible.<br /><br />So the match played out on the DVR. No fast-forwarding of even a second. But other than a flurry that saw Gerrard hit the post and Joe Hart make a terrific reflex save of a close-range Torres blast, there was nothing from Liverpool to take my mind off that first Phantom Menace-inspired moment, which was the bewildering realization that something I'd been so convinced would be fun and positive was going to be spirit-crushing, negative and often pathetic. But it's more than that because the accompanying feeling wasn't one of surprise. Watching the action unfold supplied all the evidence to prove my expectations were misguided, but the weight of that evidence also made the feelings of dread about this season take effect retroactively. As if I should've been seriously worried three weeks ago about Liverpool's chances for a Top 4 redemption in 2010-11. I believe cazart is the term for the sensation that came over me.<br /><br />How will they sustain an effort that earns them a finish above two of City, Spurs, Arsenal, Chelsea and United? Forgive me, Villa fans, for excluding you from that list. You will each be allowed to hurl one rotten piece of fruit at me in a public square if Liverpool's trip to St. James Park ends worse than yours. Besides, revenge-seeking Villa fans are the least of any Liverpool supporter's problems right now. This isn't a few years ago, when Liverpool could manage being miles behind the title contenders but still stroll into fourth or third place without much difficulty. Monday gave Liverpool a trip to City, a side larded with the world's finest collection of players who were just free-range enough to leave whatever club it was where they made their name. This is a team that was whipped senseless in the opening week, saved only by their decidedly nonostentatious keeper. Whatever City's talent is capable of, first that team must be assembled. Right now, Mancini has merely taken all the parts out of the box – and yet, Liverpool looked like bystanders to the proceedings. <br /><br />Of course, I'll concede the absence of Joe Cole, and the distractions and deleterious effects to team effectiveness caused by Mascherano's last-minute refusal to play mean Monday's performance leaves room for improvement. It's still a team coming together, with new players figuring out how to work best with each other. Hodgson played 4-4-2, which I doubt made the players feel reborn in the football life force (and, among other unfortunate lessons learned in hindsight, played a role in keeping Nigel De Jong from having to make even one disgusting late challenge). Liverpool will play better against quality opponents this year, and all cannot be judged from the performance at City.<br /><br />But Monday's game was a status check on Liverpool's progress and seriousness as a team. In the opening week, Liverpool and Arsenal treated the match like an inconveniently timed friendly whose outcome just happened to also have league points at stake. The City match, whether it's still August or whatever qualifier you want to put on it, was a legitimate early measure of Liverpool's chances of returning to the Champions League. And that's the minimum goal. The longer a team stays out of that competition, the further they get from returning. The club can't afford to miss out again, particularly with the fiasco in slow motion happening on the ownership front. <br /><br />Against City, Liverpool looked further from the Champions League places than they were at the end of last season. Only in spring, it was easier to handle as a supporter because a few months had been spent coming to terms with the drop in status. Here, for 2010-11, a flurry of positive news hiked fan ambitions. Joe Cole was a free, yes, but he was a name and a player supporters had seen play well in the past. It was good news. Roy Hodgson struck the perfect tone with all of his public statements – straightforward, honest and refreshing. Gerrard and Torres decided to stay. It was an uptick in fan emotions. There were many reasons this new, updated edition to the Liverpool story would launch fans into a fun season loaded with moments sure to create new memories for a lifetime. Adam Johnson did his best Jake Lloyd impression last night to crush that rosy worldview. Whatever improvements come as Liverpool moves on, the City match showed supporters the limits of what should be hoped for this season. It's never fun to realize that so early in the story.Jimhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15452206219434460235noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5061207609776406342.post-25307599689053005812010-08-13T07:09:00.014-05:002010-08-13T08:20:29.354-05:00Well, it's just you and me now buddyAt some point after Brazil started turning the screws on the U.S. in the first half of their friendly this week, my eye turned to Lucas at every opportunity. How would he handle a low-pressure friendly against the U.S.? Would he do anything well? <br /><br />Lucas did fine. A sustained period of effective play that got lost in the unavoidable, eyeball-grabbing force that is Neymar's hair. Seeing Lucas succeed at even an innocuous level is important because Liverpool fans need some active signs of, well, goodness - on the pitch - to back up the general late summer happy fun vibes everyone has been feeling. For example, just as soon as I looked at my checking account balance to decide if I could absorb the ultimate impulse buy that would be a David Amoo home kit from the official team site, I read a blurb on Twitter that Fabregas and Van Persie still might be available for Arsenal come Sunday. Wenger hasn't decided yet.<br /><br />Jumpin' Jehosaphat! F*$!in' Arsenal! Almost forgot about them. I'd been busy reading the same Kenny Huang press release re-worded 19 different ways by 19 different media outlets, trying to parse some useful bit of information or subtext that would mean a billion pounds or more firehose stream of cash is available to buy players. You mean these guys actually have to go out and play the matches to find out if they're any good?<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://newsimg.bbc.co.uk/media/images/45798000/jpg/_45798079_lucas_leiva_getty.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 226px; height: 282px;" src="http://newsimg.bbc.co.uk/media/images/45798000/jpg/_45798079_lucas_leiva_getty.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><br />Which brings me back to Lucas. There's a reason <A HREF="http://www.matchpricks.com/2009/12/2010-year-i-quit-smoking-andor-support.html">I declared 2010 would be the year I quit smoking and/<span style="font-weight:bold;">or</span> support Lucas</A>. Conquering two monumental demons like that in one pass around the sun is challenging. Maybe it could be done on one of those Saturn or Uranus trips around the sun, but on Earth, no way. As soon as I finish this post, and another cup of coffee, I'm stepping out onto the balcony and sucking straight through a heater like Ponce de Leon stashed the Fountain of Youth at the end of that filter. <br /><br />But I'm a man of my word, so it's you and me Lucas. We're in this for 2010. The thing is, he's actually a nice player of a certain type. He provides a lot of side balls and short passes, taking care, usually, to maintain possession. He likes to venture up to the edge of the final third and just kind of observe from there. Makes himself available to the more forward players in case they're getting pressed and need to go back with the ball. He has a knack for falling over in the area 25-40 yards away from goal in just the right kind of way that it looks like he was fouled, so the referee will award Liverpool a free kick. <br /><br />There are things to like about Lucas. Sure, I'm being a tad silly in my description of his positive attributes, but the last thing you want to do on the eve of the new season is to break down what Lucas does for Liverpool with all the seriousness of the Kennedy war room during the Cuban Missile Crisis. We're having fun in the 2010-11 season, and the obscenity-laced tirades can come later, if ever. Lucas is where it's at. He's going to feature in that Liverpool midfield. This is what the fans have to go with - against Arsenal, against Blackpool, against Trabzonspor, against whatever plucky, Magic-of-the-Cup lower-league side they get drawn against. <br /><br />Good lord, they're actually going to play these games, aren't they? It seemed for a while there everyone would just spend a bunch of time talking about Joe Cole being really good/not as good as anyone thinks - and, again, combing through contradictory press releases from the Far East and Canada to see if anyone has any real money to buy the club. Well, if they're going to play, might as well see what's in 'em. Lucas, get on out there buddy. I got your back. Unless you really mess up and ... no, no. That's the wrong approach. I'll take the risk and say I belong to Lucas. Last season was for self-loathing. This season is for Lucas and Liverpool. Let's have some fun.Jimhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15452206219434460235noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5061207609776406342.post-60655273234987660342010-07-21T19:45:00.001-05:002010-07-21T19:54:42.651-05:00Eduardo's Legacy<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihQXQ-2KA-Ke9TwAsbPaKGkpreLRavtTsAW9BUfdcTC4a234-3r6cMmsuy4D-JfNTtZHmnj3TTu2ULb4wX09vSEzVAb5HwJXM7HazACeCU43fCNBzSZZyujMqUuRT2XQn7YJWfhff0pm-Y/s1600/Eduardo-001.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihQXQ-2KA-Ke9TwAsbPaKGkpreLRavtTsAW9BUfdcTC4a234-3r6cMmsuy4D-JfNTtZHmnj3TTu2ULb4wX09vSEzVAb5HwJXM7HazACeCU43fCNBzSZZyujMqUuRT2XQn7YJWfhff0pm-Y/s320/Eduardo-001.jpg" /></a></div><br />
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It's worth a few more words than I'm willing to commit to at the moment. And no, the man hasn't died, retired or been shipped to Yeovil.<br />
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Eduardo completed his transfer to Shaktar Donetsk this week. Lots to go into this move and while he's painting a happy face, it's one of those deals that leaves you ruefully thinking of what could have been. As such, I've been poking around, rather eager to click a link here or there and see what people have to say about his transfer.<br />
<br />
I like Eduardo. I've always liked him. He seemed a great personality as the classic good guy. Couldn't really fault him for too much and he gave us buckets of fun times simply through his affable style and the overwhelming resemblance we noted when he first came on board to Prince in all his 1984 pomp. We've played the shit out of "Purple Rain" ever since he joined the Arsenal. At the Emirates, of course, the team comes out to Elvis' "Wonder of You." That's fun and all but at our pub when the team wins, we crank "Purple Rain" to a level that lets the folks four blocks down hear it. Pulsing, folks. Eduardo stirs the emotions.<br />
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Just search through the blog under "Do It For Eduardo". That whole ethos gave me one of the best summers of my life.<br />
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Maybe I can re-channel that spirit and we can "Do it for Eduardo!" again to create some more spirited laughs and fun as his footballing spirit drifts away from us this month.<br />
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At any rate, as I clicked and looked for a few sordid transfer rumours that would doubtless be dismissed by the time I finished reading the article, much less the headline, I made the mistake of reading the Daily Mail.<br />
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<a href="http://www.dailymail.co.uk/sport/football/article-1296612/Eduardo-big-shot-joined-Arsenal--hes-latest-striking-failure.html">And this ... </a><br />
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Here's a sample ...<br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 10px;">Eduardo da Silva joined Arsenal with a big reputation after heading Steve McClaren towards the sack as England manager. But four years on from his goal for Croatia in that Euro 2008 qualifier in Zagreb, he is leaving the Emirates like many before him: with his name almost as badly shattered as the bones in the ankle he infamously broke at Birmingham.<br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 10px;"><br />
</span></span></span></span></span><br />
And there's this too ...<br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 10px;">he is not the first to stumble under the weight of expectation.<br />
</span><br />
Now, (he says with a deep breath) we take great effort to keep things clean over here at Match Pricks. For the most part. And trust me, it can be difficult. But if you read that article, even scan through it, I think you can permit me, in this instance to crank up the volume (I have to think Jim would completely agree on this one). So ...<br />
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Fuck you, Daily Mail. Fuck. You. That was nothing more than a heaping pile of whale shit. Go fuck yourselves. I'd say you should be ashamed but you're useless bottom-feeding fucks who clearly aren't equipped with the naturally ability to provide the scant level of critical analysis necessary to think enough to get through a day. Fuck you.<br />
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I prefer to think of the Eduardo in the photo up top here. A guy that everyone rooted for. A guy that made us happy. And a guy who had the carpet pulled out from underneath him who kept fighting and kept smiling.Colinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01660542584323863636noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5061207609776406342.post-82653811433309799862010-07-19T08:06:00.003-05:002010-07-19T08:09:11.853-05:00Liverpool signs Joe ColeNot even 24 hours ago, I never would've even thought they wanted him. <A HREF="http://www.liverpoolfc.tv/news/latest-news/exclusive-reds-sign-joe-cole">But the club's website says he's signed for the team</A>, so I guess it is so.<br /><br />I keep talking myself into this Hodgson thing. This only adds to the irrational behavior.<br /><br />As Colin says, being a supporter is just an absolutely torturous experience. OK, time for thinking about this a bit.Jimhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15452206219434460235noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5061207609776406342.post-63090674508303659892010-07-17T08:02:00.001-05:002010-07-17T08:02:45.446-05:00The final Soccer Saturday on ESPN 540 just started. I'm headed in a Mourinho-flavored direction.Jimhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15452206219434460235noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5061207609776406342.post-57905234329738956462010-06-17T07:28:00.000-05:002010-06-17T07:28:35.508-05:00When the fun is set aside ...We've spoken at length about the tidal wave of fun that is the World Cup. For those who don't believe us, just wait until after a) the first round of matches and b) the group stage. For the permanent record, as I typed that, Argentina struck again, for the second, on 33' as an Higuain header found its way. The player was correctly judged to be onside. (A sidebar within a tangent: I think, on a whole, the officials in this tournament have been good and frankly quite trustworthy thus far. Indeed, as with any human judgement, there have been spots throughout that could be questioned. But yes, I do believe they've done well and let the matches progress as they may. In particular with consideration to the offside rule. If you'd like to prove me wrong, by all means, please do so. I'm forgetful. And I have a short attention span.)<br />
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But I digress ... World Cup, fun, high-fives, back-slaps, shoddy defending, swerving horns, dignitaries and all that. Right? Right.<br />
<br />
But football really isn't supposed to fun. It's supposed to unhealthy, spirit crushing, anxiety driving and distraction causing torture. Yes, indeed, it'll be sprinkled through with enough opiates to keep us coming back but the net sum, whether we identify it our not, has very little resemblance to actual fun.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilhWE0zovwHFBZObm5qc4mY3QiH3fxAAMn1XfH6Gv1OVtO9kaibZDDZTsdPXP2bKi1rlCjjzMCY5yY7NJMrEsxDAy1CMyus7-RA_9abshI_LN3RH-ASU58fxzTSfhPnCIY3LlTDCBERVb0/s1600/79020746.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilhWE0zovwHFBZObm5qc4mY3QiH3fxAAMn1XfH6Gv1OVtO9kaibZDDZTsdPXP2bKi1rlCjjzMCY5yY7NJMrEsxDAy1CMyus7-RA_9abshI_LN3RH-ASU58fxzTSfhPnCIY3LlTDCBERVb0/s320/79020746.jpg" /></a></div>And thus, with that ancient and dusty curtain firmly drawn in front of us for two more months still, we have just been given our first true hint of what lurks behind. Patiently waiting for its call and the first lines in a new script, the 2010/11 Premier League season, a rookie to the cast (thought all expect it to 'catch-up' to the experience of its predecessors in short and rather prescribed order), has just been given his blocking order for the coming season's performances.<br />
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The fixture list is up and waiting for your digestion. Please, don't forget to chew. Tell your friends and family members to plan their weddings, births and other children's birthday parties after consulting <a href="http://www.guardian.co.uk/football/football-fixtures-2010-11">with this, yeah?</a><br />
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First thing you'll notice? The first Match Pricks Derby of the season is the first act. After that old man with his blistered hands and hunched back goes through the groaning pains of raising the curtain in time for the Charity Shield (best start now, old friend, I want a good view, snorefest though it may be), it's Liverpool vs. Arsenal on August 14. Sure, they'll probably slap it on down on Sunday for TV, but still, let us daydream that our two empires are still grand enough to cling to center stage yet a little longer.<br />
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Heading into the second half of Argentina vs. South Korea. 2-1 to the Argies.<br />
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" ... And it's all left to play for!"Colinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01660542584323863636noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5061207609776406342.post-62575424486642393802010-06-14T18:48:00.000-05:002010-06-14T18:48:24.520-05:00Featured at OnMilwaukee.comSome Match Pricks articles with a touch more consideration have featured at OnMilwaukee.com in the last couple of days. More to come. For now, in case you've missed them as they featured, get the stories here:<br />
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<a href="http://www.onmilwaukee.com/sports/articles/worldcup2010.html">10 Reasons to be Stoked for the World Cup</a><br />
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<a href="http://www.onmilwaukee.com/sports/articles/worldcup2010.html">US Soccer Team Seeks Revolutionary Victory</a><br />
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<a href="http://www.onmilwaukee.com/sports/articles/worldcupgermany.html">Germany's Victory Steeped in Gemutlichkeit</a>Colinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01660542584323863636noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5061207609776406342.post-69412288636469587542010-06-14T18:39:00.001-05:002010-06-14T19:09:51.082-05:00Here, drink this. You'll love it. Soccer SaturdaySaturday was the apocalypse. It was a super particle collider. It was a flash in a pan, a grand slam, a hole-in-one and a supernova of energy. And some other really big things.<br />
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It was a moon bomb.<br />
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We damn neared blew up the moon (credit to Jim) with the collective energy that was bursting out of seams across the globe. It was the first Saturday (read: the day that most people are not slaving at a desk, or read: the day that I am not slaving at a desk) of the newest and most modern World Cup. This was a celebratory and technological critical mass. Extreme masses of people from extreme fringes of the world's population poured forth to experience all of it in ways that had never been done before. It was the same four years ago and it'll be the same again in four years' time. But for this space, this time, it was critical mass. For the football fan, it was all we could want. For the techy savy urban liberals we are, it was all we could want. Tweets scattered across the globe and pulsing forth from the bottom of our great green and blue globe. Instant video to share. Instant reaction to report. Photos from fans that made us each feel like we <i>were there.</i><br />
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<i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 12px; font-style: normal; white-space: pre;"><object height="385" width="480"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/7JDaOOw0MEE&hl=en_US&fs=1&"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/7JDaOOw0MEE&hl=en_US&fs=1&" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="480" height="385"></embed></object></span></i><br />
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More people. More channels. More coverage. More opinion. More experts. More phonies. More funny hats. More face paint. More bets. More tweets. More shots. More Bayernjager. More, indeed, shots. More Maradona.<br />
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Football was there to be had, of course. But there was so much more. So much to experience. So much not to miss.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDtBEH4FheccKedhA1SfIKIEDXb8m-IcEq2Rn52N6xQFlHj1eZbYF3JF30H0RtztQRBi10nUItcnHmcMWmBaVuYAY52ks4lIZYC62NFPEYR-tJ5ty7qSwGxLdE6D7Qy9Ij4PKhboINLQqP/s1600/393261973_79a706a868.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDtBEH4FheccKedhA1SfIKIEDXb8m-IcEq2Rn52N6xQFlHj1eZbYF3JF30H0RtztQRBi10nUItcnHmcMWmBaVuYAY52ks4lIZYC62NFPEYR-tJ5ty7qSwGxLdE6D7Qy9Ij4PKhboINLQqP/s200/393261973_79a706a868.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>Saturday was more of everything. We all did our best, again, across the globe, Augustus Gloop impression. Every last one of us. We were licking the bowl, nibbling every last crumb of it like cretinous slobs. You might not get another chance, you know? Take it while you can.<br />
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It was, in the end, an odd type of family reunion. I'm quite certain I'm not alone in that expression. Text messages from close friends you hear from every six months. Phone calls with loved ones to check in. Checking in to ensure that you're soaking it up to the extreme extent they hope you are. Get all of it, they say. Get every last drop of the experience, they encourage. Gotta meet their expectations.<br />
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What was that I wrote last week about high-fiving, back-slapping and whatever other way you see fit to communicate with people? It happened. That fellow who's impossible talking speed mixed with the ripping Manchester accent? First time you saw him in four years if it's been a week. Those people you see every week? The ones with whom you're only ever able to exchange erstwhile glances of disapproval because of the team they support? Don't think for a second you weren't happy to see them. Don't think for a second you didn't high-five them and slap the hell out of their back. You wanted to be sure they soaked up every last drop of the experience too. You wanted to be sure they knew everything you knew. Did they see things the way you did? Did they taste it all, smell it all and hear it all? Was their perspective ... as overflowing as yours? Did they <i>know? </i>You sure were gonna try and make sure they did.<br />
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It was community. It was experience. It was celebration. It was humanity. And all because of the World Cup. Everyone was there. Everyone had an opinion. Everyone wanted to have a say.<br />
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It's rarely been as easy as it was to get up at 5:00 a.m. I popped out of bed with springs in each step. The dawn's walk to the pub, the magnetic center of the footballing universe for anyone outside of South Africa ... and make no mistake, there's one here, there's one there ... you all know the experience ... that walk at dawn was as pure a joy as I've known. Why? Because you knew it was all there in front of you. Gobs of football. That oozing human experience. And a little bit of the unknown.<br />
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In the middle of all of it, Jim and I had the opportunity to again contribute to the Soccer Saturday radio show. This time it wasn't in the comfy ESPN Radio studio in the middle of downtown Milwaukee. This time it was live. Right in the middle of this massive black hole of joy and energy. To be clear, this location wasn't designed to suck joy out where it once was so much as it was a massive gravitational center where all of the above was located. And smack dab in the middle, Jim and I stood with a couple of headsets and did radio. It was about as much fun as I've ever had. <a href="http://www.espnmilwaukee.com/wave">Here's the segment</a>. As with every week, check the widget on the left, scroll down and you'll find the Match Pricks segment. Listen to the others as well. Peter Wilt had some good fun and our friends Ryan Wickins, from London, and Ryan McCauley, an American, had a good segment where they offered their thoughts on the big USA vs. England.Colinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01660542584323863636noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5061207609776406342.post-30394243135924056722010-06-11T07:32:00.002-05:002010-06-11T07:37:53.630-05:00Opening thoughtsIt's terribly sad to wake up here in Milwaukee this morning and learn that Nelson Mandela's great-granddaughter was killed in a car crash after the kickoff concert. I'm guessing he was going to appear at the opening game and deliver, obviously just by being there, a worldwide statement of pride for South Africa and inspiration for everyone watching. Now he will not, and it's because of just tragic circumstances. <br /><br />OK, diving into the matches today, with an eye on Colin's beloved France in the second game. My first contribution to the Match Pricks coverage at <A HREF ="http://www.onmilwaukee.com">OnMilwaukee.com</A> is up and running today. It's a <A HREF="http://onmilwaukee.com/sports/articles/usenglandworldcuppreview.html">primer for tomorrow's U.S.-England match</A>.<br /><br />As usual, more soon ...Jimhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15452206219434460235noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5061207609776406342.post-35120052685466516362010-06-10T15:31:00.009-05:002010-06-10T16:39:07.210-05:00A few things before we beginMy 2010 FIFA World Cup™ iPhone app tells me we're now a little more than 17 hours from this sucker getting started. I'm wondering if I pay $7.99 for the app upgrade, will it also give me a Brazil 2014 countdown clock? Because I cannot wait for Brazil 2014 to get going. I'll hold off for now. Maybe I'll buy it tomorrow.<br /><br />Like many of you, I'm spending these final hours just killing time while waiting for Sepp Claus to slide down the chimney and charge $599 to my Visa account before turning the TV channel to ESPN. Having covered nearly every possible angle of the World Cup that genuinely appeals to me, I've taken to reading virulent "anti-soccer" opinion pieces from American writers online and then soaking up the slightly less articulate hate in the reader comments below. It's pretty great, if only because I never considered joining forensics in high school, and reading these things allows me to play "Spot the flawed/ignorant/misguided argument" at work. Plus, it's kind of amusing, like how after you bite the inside of your cheek and then you just keep flicking your tongue over the wound is amusing.<br /><br />One thing that's jumped out at me – other than the ironclad statement as fact that <A HREF="http://onmilwaukee.com/sports/articles/begelsoccer060810.html">there will be riots, suicides and murders in England if the U.S. wins Saturday</A> – is the American anti-soccer voices in the comments are a refined brand of potent "Out with Johnny Foreigner-ism." I'll write it off as that particular brand of lunacy that always is found in the comments section of any online newspaper or magazine that permits unfettered reader feedback. Nonetheless, it's jarring. Imagine if these folks gave soccer a chance and actually learned it has many entertaining qualities - only to find out the filthy, cheating non-English players always dive like sneaky jerks. They'd look up the meaning of crestfallen and then be that.<br /><br />Now I'm starting to embody the arrogant American soccer fan stereotype, which I've learned today is a primary reason many people don't like soccer, at least among those who commit their thoughts to anti-soccer Internet comment sections. Apparently (white) Americans who like soccer come across as too-cool-for-school and act superior to the common man who built this country with his two calloused, meaty hands, felling one tree after another until we created the concept of industry out of three blades of grass and a stick, by gum. There were some comments in there about those of Mexican, Puerto Rican and Latin American descent, but nothing about those many millions being snobby. It was a little more base, to be polite.<br /><br />I'm laying it on pretty thick now, so I'll leave the Internet comments behind and extend an invitation to anyone who runs into me during the next month to have at it and ask me what's my deal with this soccer game and why is it so great. I adore the World Cup. I'm using the majority of my available vacation time from work in 2010 to deposit my butt on a barstool or couch and just watch whatever I can. I'm giddy about Spain versus Honduras. I want to hug it and kiss it and name it George – but I don't want to crush it. The point is clear, though. I'm on the enthusiastic side of things. <br /><br />If you want an explanation of the offside rule, I'll give it to you. If you're polite, I'll explain the nuances of the rule. If you ask about countries, I'll discuss them with you. If you ask about Ronaldinho, I'll say, "He's not playing," and then I'll quickly change the subject. I've never looked at my obsession with soccer, football, the World Cup and all it entails as revealing anything about myself other than, well, that I'm a nutjob about soccer, football, the World Cup and all it entails. I hope my happiness doesn't tarnish your opinion of the thing that makes me happy. <br /><br />To everyone else who's just dying to get this thing going: wow, hey? LOLLA-GOLLA-BOLLAWALLA!!! Ah-OOOOH-GAAHH! Ah-OOOOH-GAAHH! <br /><br />It's been a long wait. Glad it's finally here.<br /><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">(UPDATE: Many thanks to Howie Magner at Milwaukee Magazine for <A HREF="http://www.milwaukeemagazine.com/sportsnut/default.asp">the kinds words</A> in his latest column. Also, Brian Phillips is keeping it going at Slate. Thursday's piece explains <A HREF="http://www.slate.com/id/2255959/">why we call it soccer here</A> instead of football.)</span>Jimhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15452206219434460235noreply@blogger.com0