MATCH PRICKS

On players and their connection to a team

2011-09-13T08:03:00.000-05:00

I could go on. And on. And on and on and on.

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.

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.

Here's the article ...

And here's what struck me so strongly ...

"Spurs could at least have consulted me. Anyway, it's up to the point of no return."

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.

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.

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.

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.

Thank you, Mayor: My great confession

2011-07-15T15:08:00.001-05:00

I have been wrong and now, I need to make amends.

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.

For my complicit and taciturn approval of this unjust saga, I can only apologize.

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.

That I laughed at the comments of the mushroom plucker Xavi all these years ...

That I cried shame at Pique, Puyol and others at the "Shirt Incident of 2010" ...

That I scoffed at the inane and poorly cloaked Twitter hash tags of his sweet sister ...

That I continued to cry foul with every peep out Barcelona's leadership team ...

That I'd bellow "Mes que un Club, my ass!" with every mention ...

... 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.

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.

Thank you, Estanislau. I apologize.

Imagine the uncaged bird singing. Imagine a free Cesc Fabregas.

So what happens if Arsenal really do win a trophy?

2011-01-18T07:28:00.002-06:00

Do you want them to jump up and down like happy clowns?

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.

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). And I'd be even less of a reflection of Pepe Reina.

You might be asking, "Why, you crazy fool?" Well, let's see, what will have happened?

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.

I've been saying it for a while now (well, at least since I first heard the fantastic line in Inglorious Basterds) ... attendez la creme. 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.

I want to remember all of those feelings. I want to remember them so I can want them again. Savvy?

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.

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.

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 learn how to win. Do it, win, so that you want 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?

Right.

Neurosis or a case for Dr. House?

2011-01-04T16:03:00.003-06:00

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.

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!

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.

No, it's not too early for a Jonjo Shelvey song

2010-10-21T14:32:00.003-05:00

It was time for this. No, really.

We bought the lad from Charlton
And Jonjo was his name, oh!

J-O-N-J-O!
J-O-N-J-O!
J-O-N-J-O!
And Jonjo was his name, oh!

He came out strong in Naples town
Where they hunted down our brothers!
But Jonjo ran and bossed the pitch
Against those Naples fuh-kers!

J-O-N-J-O!
J-O-N-J-O!
J-O-N-J-O!
And Jonjo was his name, oh!

Just 18 and full of life
We can't wait for the future!
He's Jonjo Shelvey, learn the name
Liverpool's lethal butcher!

J-O-N-J-O!
J-O-N-J-O!
J-O-N-J-O!
And Jonjo was his name, oh!

Prologue: Make me whole again

2010-10-13T19:43:00.003-05:00

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'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."

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.

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.

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.

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 ...

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 ...

"I told you so."

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.

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.

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.

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.

But then, this morning, I woke up, got dressed, fixed a little raisin bran, and read Nicklas Bendtner's quotes.

I read this ... posted in Arseblog this morning:

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.

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."

My reply?

DONG DONG DONG

"What was that? Sounded loud. And heavy."

"Oh, that? That's just Nicklas Bendtner's balls clanging together. He started training with the first team again."

Welcome back, Niko. Your influence is greater than people realize.

(sidebar: for the image, I shit you not, I searched "smug" and it gave me Match Pricks favourite, Slavan Bilic.)

A few words about Peter Lim

2010-10-13T11:06:00.013-05:00

It'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. Noted Lamborghini collector Peter Lim, 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.

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.

Those are just the startup costs, mind you. A 57-year-old billionaire sinking one-third of his life's work into merely beginning 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.

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 business world gobbledygook 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.

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:

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 Charles Earland's "Black Talk!" album 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.

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 Autograph Leather Diamond-Punch Loafers by Jeffery-West. $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?

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.

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.

Blow me, f**k face

2010-10-13T05:18:00.003-05:00

The Jonjo Zone

2010-09-23T07:38:00.020-05:00

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.

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.

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.

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.

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!"

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.

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.

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 post back in August 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 Norman Vincent Peale-related sayings also fit.

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.

The end of the beginning: United helping Liverpool finally get its season started

2010-09-17T09:16:00.015-05:00

Sunday 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.

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.

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.)

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.

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:

(H) Arsenal
(A) Manchester City
(H) West Brom
(A) Birmingham City
(A) Manchester United

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.

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.

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.

OptaJoe hasn't tweeted anything yet 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, I'm hoping for another fantastic Liverpool result at Old Trafford.

But Sunday's result only closes the prologue to Liverpool's season. Far less talented teams 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.

Say it with me now! "We dislike SAF."

2010-09-16T19:05:00.000-05:00

It's a cold hard fact. Joe Friday would approve.

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.

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.)

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.

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 ...

The Phantom Menace

2010-08-23T21:41:00.017-05:00

In 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."

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

Well, it's just you and me now buddy

2010-08-13T07:09:00.014-05:00

At 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?

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.

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?

Which brings me back to Lucas. There's a reason I declared 2010 would be the year I quit smoking and/or support Lucas. 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.

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.

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.

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.

Eduardo's Legacy

2010-07-21T19:45:00.001-05:00

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.

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.

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.

Just search through the blog under "Do It For Eduardo". That whole ethos gave me one of the best summers of my life.

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.

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.

And this ...

Here's a sample ...

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.

And there's this too ...

he is not the first to stumble under the weight of expectation.

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 ...

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.

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.

Liverpool signs Joe Cole

2010-07-19T08:06:00.003-05:00

Not even 24 hours ago, I never would've even thought they wanted him. But the club's website says he's signed for the team, so I guess it is so.

I keep talking myself into this Hodgson thing. This only adds to the irrational behavior.

As Colin says, being a supporter is just an absolutely torturous experience. OK, time for thinking about this a bit.

2010-07-17T08:02:00.001-05:00

The final Soccer Saturday on ESPN 540 just started. I'm headed in a Mourinho-flavored direction.

When the fun is set aside ...

2010-06-17T07:28:00.000-05:00

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.)

But I digress ... World Cup, fun, high-fives, back-slaps, shoddy defending, swerving horns, dignitaries and all that. Right? Right.

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.

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.

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 with this, yeah?

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.

Heading into the second half of Argentina vs. South Korea. 2-1 to the Argies.

" ... And it's all left to play for!"

Featured at OnMilwaukee.com

2010-06-14T18:48:00.000-05:00

Some 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:

10 Reasons to be Stoked for the World Cup

US Soccer Team Seeks Revolutionary Victory

Germany's Victory Steeped in Gemutlichkeit

Here, drink this. You'll love it. Soccer Saturday

2010-06-14T18:39:00.001-05:00

Saturday 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.

It was a moon bomb.

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 were there.

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.

Football was there to be had, of course. But there was so much more. So much to experience. So much not to miss.

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.

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.

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 know? You sure were gonna try and make sure they did.

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.

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.

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. Here's the segment. 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.

Opening thoughts

2010-06-11T07:32:00.002-05:00

It'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.

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 OnMilwaukee.com is up and running today. It's a primer for tomorrow's U.S.-England match.

As usual, more soon ...

A few things before we begin

2010-06-10T15:31:00.009-05:00

My 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.

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.

One thing that's jumped out at me – other than the ironclad statement as fact that there will be riots, suicides and murders in England if the U.S. wins Saturday – 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.

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.

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.

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.

To everyone else who's just dying to get this thing going: wow, hey? LOLLA-GOLLA-BOLLAWALLA!!! Ah-OOOOH-GAAHH! Ah-OOOOH-GAAHH!

It's been a long wait. Glad it's finally here.

(UPDATE: Many thanks to Howie Magner at Milwaukee Magazine for the kinds words in his latest column. Also, Brian Phillips is keeping it going at Slate. Thursday's piece explains why we call it soccer here instead of football.)

OnMilwaukee lets us serve as World Cup hype man for the city

2010-06-09T16:29:00.003-05:00

Colin has a piece freshly up at OnMilwaukee.com reminding Milwaukeeans how much damn fun the World Cup is for anyone willing to open their mind and take the ride.

Match Pricks has been granted this larger audience in our fair city, and we hope a few converts come along after it's over. Your preconceived notions of soccer hooliganism turned sour, gang. Hear us out, watch a match and give it a shot. There's a good chance you'll love it – or at least you'll enjoy the monthlong party.

OK, more to come on this front as we dig in here.

Jim

Check this out, check us out and have fun Saturday

2010-06-09T14:26:00.002-05:00

Can't recommend enough heading over to Slate for Brian Phillips' piece on the history of American soccer in the 1920s. While we're all counting down these interminable hours and minutes until the World Cup finally starts, this Phillips piece does a great job telling a forgotten story about soccer in America.

While you're over there, type "Brian Phillips Moldovan" into Slate's search box. Click the first result, if you haven't read it already. It was my introduction to Phillips, his terrific site The Run of Play and, indirectly, playing Football Manager on my iPhone during my bus commute to work. (Long story.) What I'm saying is, the guy's got range, folks.

More Match Pricks stuff will be popping up here and elsewhere soon. Maybe not quite Slate-level elsewhere, but we like to explore the room, as they say, when we can. Details will follow.

Also, ESPN 540 is bringing the Soccer Saturday show to the Highbury, 2322 S. Kinnickinnic Ave., this Saturday morning for the 8 a.m. broadcast. South Korea v. Greece will be wrapping up when the show starts, and Argentina v. Nigeria will be a few moments away as we're winding the show down. Stop by and drink while watching people do a radio show. That sort of opportunity just isn't available any ol' day, you know.

OH: Conversation between Jim and Colin at Lunch

2010-06-09T08:11:00.000-05:00

"I tell you, dogg, Holland, man. I am getting fired up about watching that Holland this year, dogg," said Colin with rumbling anticipation.

"Ach, Holland, yeah, well ...," posited Jim rather dismissively.

"You just watch, dogg Holland might win that World Cup." The point was emphasized as he leaned forward with a punctuating finger that stabbed through the bar, AJ Bombers in Milwaukee, that played host to the conversation.

Jim, leaning back and folding his arms with a smug assertion that seemed to have been perfected over the years, "Give me one defender. Name one defender on that Holland."

Colin opened his mouth to respond before Jim interrupted with the accusation, "You can't!"

Raising his bulk in defiance with alert eyes and a shaking head that told everyone listening he wouldn't be deterred, Colin announced, "Defenders!?" he said, aghast at the thought as a hand wiped away the symbolic opposition in front of him. "Defenders!? No one defends anymore! Who defends! This is the World Cup, Jimbo! Holland, dogg. Holland. You wanna try and stop them!"

The two settled back into their seats. Jim muttering something about "Fernando Torres, Liverpool's Number 9". Passersby thought him to be singing, a fact later confirmed.

Eye witnesses reported hearing a grumble of a French sounding words and a name, thought to come across as "Domenech," coming from Colin's general direction.

But that blood sausage is so damn good

2010-06-08T10:32:00.004-05:00

You might have noticed this on Twitter: Apparently it's #hateenglandweek in the United States.

Well, goodness, isn't that refreshing. It seems like the default setting is #hateamericaweek for much of the world (scroll down to the first italicized comment from Moraes at the bottom of the page). Now, at last, we can stand up in our own time – just like the Minutemen, Patrick Henry and all the rest who exacted revenge for this atrocity, right?

You betcha. Except for Emile Heskey, though. Can't hate Heskey. Used to play for Liverpool you know. He was a loyal servant, if not exactly a perfect fit, but he brought out some of the best of Michael Owen. And, of course, can't hate Carragher. "We all dream of a team of Carraghers!" Yep. I like Glen Johnson too. I just do. Even Gerrard, with all his flaws, I mean, I own a Steven Gerrard shirt! Gosh, what a goal that was in the FA Cup final.

Except for those guys, I'm hatin' England all week, brah! Can't hate the Liverpool players, though. You understand, I'm sure. And Crouchy, too. Ex-Liverpool and a fun robot dancer. He just seems like a nice guy. My grandma taught me hate was such a strong word, and I just can't imagine hating Crouchy. He's so goofy looking, but yet, he's also a pretty decent player.

I'll hate the heck out of Ashley Cole and John Terry, though. Haaaaaaaaaaaaaate those guys, man. Hate 'em! English people pretty much hate them too, though. Hmm ... am I doing this right?

Who else? Oh, dude, totally forgot about Shaun Wright-Phillips. Short little prick. Hate that guy. Friggin' David James. Dude equals hate, man.

Oh, crap, Stephen Warnock. Another ex-Liverpool player. Can't hate him. Just can't. What the hell, Fabio Capello? What's with you picking these guys with Liverpool ties? You're messing me up. Oh snap! Hey Capello, you're Italian and collect art! WTF?!

Damn, Italian isn't English. Now I gotta start over.

Hey, who's James Milner? I should hate the hell outta that guy. I think I will.

Damn, I need to stop at the store on the way home and get more brown sauce.

Soccer Saturday

2010-06-07T21:06:00.009-05:00

Editor's note: wonky formatting toward the final half of this post. Driving me mad, it is. Hopefully you can still navigate it and enjoy the story. If you're just looking for the Soccer Saturday link, it's here. If you fancy a bit of a story, stick around.

This weekend's appearance for Match Pricks on Soccer Saturday came with a little twist. Ol' Jimbo couldn't join us as he was trotting abroad (as in, outside of the city limits of Milwaukee).

The show must go on though. I did offer to good friend and President of the Milwaukee Wave, Peter Wilt (follow him @PeterWilt1 on Twitter) to read a series of solo essays on the game. Sadly he knows me too well and casually laughed it off. So we went to the bench. It'd be me, one half of Match Pricks, joined by Peter Rankine, a Scottish fellow who started coming to our football pub, The Highbury, in Sunny Bay View, Milwaukee two Februarys ago.

Pete's a top drawer guy. Top drawer, no doubt about it. I was excited to have him along for this weekend's entrance into the Soccer Saturday archives. Though, as we'd be talking World Cup, I wasn't sure he'd have the experience to enter any decently fluid opinions on the matter ... being Scottish and all. Naturally, on the drive over to the studio, he was kind enough to remind me of Scotland's consecutive wins over France in the last round of European Champions qualifiers. You know, back when the FFF should have actually thrown Domenech so far into the sea that he'd have washed up deep enough to the south to become the manager of the Platinum Stars in South Africa. At least he'd have gotten a glimmer of the bright lights again some three years later when they played the role of the monkey wrench that would tune up England before their leg kicking jaunt through the World Cup.

By the way, how great is that team name? The Platinum Stars. If P. Diddy ever did go ahead and pull the trigger on buying Crystal Palace, as had been widely rumoured, I'd have started a petition to have him dub the team the Platinum Stars of Crystal Palace. It'd be like the Anaheim Angels of Los Angeles, or whatever the hell it is. Just like that. But they'd be iced, dogg. Iced. The Platinum Stars of Crystal Palace. Mmm, yeah. I could get behind that. Moving along ...

I met Pete on what may well have been his first day in the pub. I'm not sure about y'all but in my life, travels, experiences, open eyes, open heart, open mind and eager spirit, I've not found may places on this great globe of the United States of America, Ontario and most of western Europe (where I looked about as out of the ordinary as Statler sitting next to Waldorf in a balcony), that are more incredibly engaging and pulsing with spirit as a football pub. It's just ... different. No matter the city, there's one special spot. Fortunately for us, we're right in the engine room of ours.

At any rate, last year, in 2009, there was a regular Saturday morning that morphed into an afternoon before we knew it. As has been mentioned many times here, that tends to be the norm with us. There's that match (stop me if you've heard this before) at 6:30 a.m. Can't beat that with a stick, folks. Dawn. I mean, have you ever been out and about, chasing down that kickoff with beer and whiskey at dawn? It's real nice. Real nice. You hit 9:00 a.m. and ZINGO! More football. If you're lucky, you're getting four matches from a couple of different leagues. Great, right? Right. Of course, at this point you'll roll into the marquee 11:30 a.m. match. And given the luck you'll probably be carrying, that'll be your match. The one you actually came for. But you know what? The more hours that pass by all the better because by that point, you'll have seen dozens of different people pass through and become a part of the scene.

And then ... right when you can't help but realize the reality of the situation, that you got up at 6:00 a.m. and it's now plunging well on into the afternoon ... right then ... you realize that you're just minutes - MINUTES - from Spain. Mmm, luscious, exotic, Ray Hudson-y Spain.

It was about this point on some random Saturday in February of 2009 that Jim stopped us. We were about to pull the plug on the day, sometimes you just have to. Footballed out (note, yes, there's booze involved. ample and generous amounts of booze. make no mistake about it. shots bring goals and all that). But still ... there were we, the few of us left, gripping the bar, hoping for even more football when suddenly ... Jim stopped everything and everyone right in their tracks with a classic proclamation, "Wait! Wait just a minute ... let's keep partying. Spain is on, dogg. Spain."

It was so simple. So pure. So ... easy. There were no obstacles except our own hidden ability to actually find the wherewithal to plow ahead. But with such a bright light in front of us - I mean it was right there, there was no long tunnel to navigate this time - you couldn't just turn away and go home. That's what they want you to do, the decent folk. That was just about the moment that Pete walked into The Highbury for, as I say, was what I assume to be the first time.

"HEEEEYYYYYY! A NEW GUY," went up the cheer! Huzzah! Gotta welcome him, right?

Oh, and he's Scottish. How fun. So we went on and chatted with Pete for a few welcoming minutes and the conversation would naturally turn to where he was from in Scotland and, not long after that, the

careful prodding to determine where his loyalties lied.

"So where you from, Pete?" I asked.

"Aberdeen," he replied as the grim truth immediately sunk in.

"Oh, ah, Aberdeen, eh? So ... I take it that means, (deep breath, sigh) I take it that means you're a, ah ..."

"Yes, I'm a United supporter."

"Mmm, yeah. Thought that'd be the case."

He may have well as told me he was an ex-con on the run and just happened to find that Bay View (in spite of all of its latent sunnyness) was the perfect hiding spot for he and his wife. Crap. Another damn United fan. I kid, though. Really, happy to count anyone as a friend, I am. And even happier to add another football lover to the fray.

Whatever the case, Pete's a top drawer fellow. He's a joy to have around, just like anyone else holding up the scenery at whatever the archetypal football pub you happen to frequent. Top

drawer folks, the lot of 'em.

Yes, even the United fans. After all, it's quite the tapestry and all that. In spite of the heavy dose of red.

So, please do us the favor of listening to Pete and I prattle on about the World Cup. As ever, the segmentis the highlight of any weekend for me. Click the link, scroll down a little bit and you'll find our segment in the podcast player on the left.

Back away from the Gerrard

2010-06-03T08:18:00.001-05:00

I love these classic photos. They really ratchet up the significance and joy factor of the World Cup. I mean this stuff ... this here ... this is pageantry.

Now, as I saw this, two things jumped out at me immediately.

Peter Crouch is one cool cat, dogg. Look at him. Cool as the other side of Wayne Rooney's pillow. The side not nestled up against SWP's torso. He like, "this is great and all, but when do we get to dance, man?" (do click the link, yeah? embedding was disabled and it's a gem)
Dios mio! Announcement for the other 31 teams, all their players, the staff and the fans ... Get the hell out of Steven Gerrard's way. Seriously. Do it now. Back away from the Gerrard. The Steven-Gerrard-Give-A-Shit-O-Meter™ is officially buried all the way to the right, the glass is cracking and the steam is pouring out for the first time in about 12 months. Achtung!

SWP likes it comfy

2010-06-03T07:58:00.001-05:00

Did Shaun Wright-Phillips bring his own pillow to South Africa?

Will he use it to curl up on the end of the bench?

Does he always travel with his own pillow?

Is he smuggling something?

Is he secretly an assassin flaunting air travel security rules in favour of a traditional and stiflingly quiet pillow stuffing?

UPDATE! Stunning development.

The Sun (Bless their little hearts) (ahem) explains that it's actually Wayne Rooney's pillow. Now this raises even more questions! Is SWP nothing more than Rooney's Pillow Carrrier? Stunning, stunning stuff.

I expect the papers to be all over this through the rest of the day.

It's getting hot in here

2010-05-28T20:25:00.000-05:00

World Cup fever is burning up, jack. Two weeks from today we'll be bathing in every last ounce of news, highlights, injury reports, tactical analysis, angry shouting, cautious whispers and joyous exuberance.

And Fox Soccer Channel is applying a substantial amount of heat. Good. For. Them.

I'm watching a program right now called "International Rivalries." The focus? Holland and Germany. I've said at least 17 times in this space that my knowledge of the game's history is incomplete. That's what happens when you grow up in a country where it doesn't matter. Love it? You bet. Stalk it? Would be writing this right now if I wasn't, dogg. Wanna suckle every minute you get with the game? Without a doubt. Study all of the nooks and crannies of its immense history? Haven't gotten there yet.

Enter Fox Soccer Channel.

I'm watching Leo Beenhakker, Cruyff, Voeller, Beckenbauer, Gullit, Moeller, Rep, Rijkaard. They're speaking with passion, confidence, disdain, regret and pride. You know what I'm coming away with from all this? It matters. This puppy matters a whole helluva lot. It makes generations, defines cultures and drives people mad (just watch that Greatest Goal Never Scored clip down below that Jim popped up the other day).

And I am getting fi.rr.d. up. about it, friend-o.

Highlights from the 1950s. The 1974 final. A 10-year anniversary match after Holland lost to Germany 2-1 in that final. Think about that? The two teams, fierce rivals came together 10-years later to replay the match. It ended as it should have the first time ... by all accounts. Holland were 1-nil winners with a Johan Cruyff goal.

Did you know that Holland scored in the first minute of the World Cup final with Germany not even touching the ball? I didn't. Until now.

Don't get me wrong, we all know the World Cup is huge but you'd be fooling yourself if you pretended it was as important to you 15 months ago as it is right now.

I mean, man, at this point, the intense significance is starting to be driven home. Push away all of the commercialism that drives the World Cup before the event starts up. Push away the star-making, the gloss, the celebrity managers, the wags. Push it all away and watch this video. In 1974, Holland opened the World Cup final ... like this. As they were unfurling their banner of Total Football, on the world's greatest stage, in front of their greatest rival and with a generation of footballers reared by parents who remembered the war and Germany's role in enslaving their country and killing 200,000 people (as said in the FSC program), they opened the match ... like this.

North Korea: A slice of Americana

2010-05-28T09:53:00.012-05:00

It's not easy to process North Korea's participation in the World Cup if you're an American football fan.

One the one hand, let's face it, North Korea is hilarious. A state-run media under orders to portray the country – and its team – in the most glorious shade of realized perfection. The easily mocked leader who's also starred as a major motion picture puppet. That same man's clothing and hair. Where knee-jerk stereotypes about foreigners provide an easy and popular laugh, Americans really dig that far-out North Korea weirdness, man. "Look at Kim Jong-Il! He so sirry!"

Of course none of those laugh points involve the people who live there. I'm in no position to lecture any audience about the brutal lives led by North Korea's citizens, so I'd encourage anyone interested to look around and read a bit. Considering North Korea sank a South Korean ship recently, you're just a few Google News queries away from learning a great deal.

That leaves us with the DPRK football team. What do we make of it? This week saw some backlash against North Korean hilarity with this T-shirt being mocked at Deadspin. It's a reasonable argument for a lot of people because if there's one thing Americans hate more than foreigners trying to kill us, it's dirty, dirty hipsters. It would be discouraging to see support rally for North Korea's World Cup hopes only among people who grow mustaches because they believe mustaches are, like, from 25 years ago, man! There is plenty of non-ironic appeal for Americans because North Korea's matches against Brazil, Portugal and Côte d'Ivorie fit into a classic American narrative – The Underdog Story – and, unless The Glorious Leader himself stands in goal, there's not much to dislike about the actual men playing the match inside those DPRK shirts.

Further, North Korea is better positioned than any other team at the World Cup to disrupt and add freshness to yet another classic American narrative – Nike – which has become an obnoxious bluster despite new applications of gloss. Côte d'Ivorie (Drogba), Brazil (its Brazil-ness) and Portugal (CR9™®) are the stars (with Rooney) of that short film that looks like it cost $125 million to make and seems to exist solely to be seen, linked to and then drift away into the ether. The film flashed across the world in an afternoon and seemed to overpower a bored American population with its energy. A respite among another afternoon lull during the work week. Watch it! You must watch this! It's Nike! It's stupendous! You will talk about Nike!

Ugh, it's just the worst, and North Korea can plop an awkward kink into the whole thing by messing with one of these teams. Maybe even two. The long-shot team full of players no one has ever heard of, from a place we know nothing about, and they're matched up against some of the most celebrated supermen in the sport. Can anyone, anywhere, who is not named Mourinho or has lived on the west side of the Iberian Peninsula present a convincing argument for cheering against North Korea on June 21 when the team plays Portugal? What's more exciting for an American football fan next month? The group plays out as expected and the Portugal-Côte d'Ivorie match settles who finishes second? Or something else?

If the ideal is to put aside the petty nationalism for a while (admittedly not easy as I am Polish and get kind of peeved just reading the name Klose), then hope for some little bits of success for North Korea at South Africa 2010. Any disruption for the other teams in that group versus North Korea would have a far-reaching impact for how the tournament could play out. It's not likely, of course, but just imagine it. If Portugal lost to North Korea or even drew, don't you think Ronaldo and Co. would bring a certain tenacity in their final match against Brazil? And what if Côte d'Ivorie underestimated North Korea in its final group match, thinking Portugal would not get anything from Brazil? Americans love a good storyline through their sporting events, and North Korea could offer up a fantastic one.

The team doesn't have to be enjoyed ironically or despised because of how Kim Jong-Il would like nothing more than to maintain the threat of imminent war in Asia so he can get more payoffs and concessions. North Korea actually is presenting Americans with a chance to experience the country for itself. The secrecy, travel bans, goofiness and more prevent people here from knowing about North Korea in any way other than through their own filter. At the World Cup, Americans get to see one part of North Korea for what it is. The country stands with the world rather than separated from it. It's, well, a great thing, and a much better representation of the ideal those ESPN World Cup commercials with Bono are trying to express.

Get ready for it with this brief article that includes a blurb about the DPRK-Portugal back story, and imagine something a little different about North Korea for once. This is supposed to be fun, after all, and North Korea can only add to it.

Makes that 'Agony of Defeat' guy look like a piker

2010-05-27T14:18:00.005-05:00

I'm not sure how famous this clip is. I've never seen it before, and just stumbled across it now reading the Honigstein Awards piece on the Guardian. Watch this now. It's pretty much the whole experience in a few seconds, isn't it?

The man's name is Hans-Günter Bruns. If I were him, I'd be thinking about that every single night right as I'm about to drift off.

High-fiving the World Cup

2010-05-26T11:20:00.018-05:00

There's a brief segment of spring weather in Milwaukee that, while it lasts, can generate more excitement, adrenaline and leap-15-feet-off-the-ground happiness than anything else on Earth. We go about things during that time without the sticky humidity of summer heat and the creeping, buzzing insects that come with it. The temperatures are warm enough to make one start asking businesses whether they have a shirt policy. Right now is that time in Milwaukee, and it's with that mood-enhancing environment in the background that this week I've been imagining high-fiving my bus driver about the World Cup.

A little background: In true urban-liberal, Apple-product-using fashion, I take public transportation to work, and sometimes a man named Louie is my bus driver. Louie embodies all the qualities of the perfect Milwaukee spring described above. In a few years of knowing him, I'm fairly certain he has never said anything in my presence in a tone lower than a delirious shout. He punctuates nearly every sentence with "..., dogg!" During Euro 2008, he would scream out things in the pub like, "Look out for Xavi, dogg! That Xavi is amazing, dogg!" Then he'd buy tequila shots. The first time I got on his bus for my morning commute, Louie gave me the hand-clasp soulshake à la Carl Weathers and Schwarzenegger in Predator. Louie's got enthusiasm, man. He's like the Pied Piper of good times, only in reverse – he brings it to where you are. And without the children-killing part.

Regaining focus on the task at hand, let's get way down into the deep-shag fun rug that is the World Cup right now. It's a blast just thinking about waking up on a day when there will be World Cup matches. I envision heading for that bus the morning of June 15, hoping as it approaches the curb that Louie will be behind the wheel. The doors open and, "Did you see Japan and Cameroon yesterday, dogg?! Did you see that shit, dogg?! HA HA!" My heart sings just thinking about it. I would high-five Louie so hard that bus would rocket through time and straight into a universe where this thing was being played out for real:

Whoa! Is that the Jamaican national team beating England in the World Cup Final? A couple of those guys are wearing hats! Look at the Jamaican goal in the background. It's miniscule. No wonder England couldn't score. The stadium is entirely yellow. Rock.

That's how my mind is envisioning every single World Cup match playing out in a few weeks. Yes, it won't happen that way. Nor does it have to be an endless parade of '66-esque 5-3, Eusebio-fueled frantic comebacks versus North Korea to make it worthwhile either. It's terrific as is: a monthlong parade of football featuring a bunch of heroes, villains, stars, unknowns and comedy characters from all over the world. Although, to be honest, it would really achieve an eternal quality if some of the teams featured players wearing hats.

The Guardian ran a piece recently about things they miss from the World Cup tradition of years past, and in a lot the buildup elsewhere that I've been reading, occasionally there's an element of, "Well, this could be better. And, of course, they'll never have that." Fox Sports unleashed the Champions League Final on America's Saturday afternoon sports-viewing audience and immediately declared it better than the World Cup. I'm not suggesting we all just spend June and early July wearing horse blinders, but there's too much fun weirdness and excitement going on to get in the way now. With things like FIFA Sepp on Twitter and, thankfully for all involved, the simple visual delight that is reading William Gallas unhurt after buggy crash, we're already well on our way to jumping into a giant pit of plastic toy balls – and the balls are filled with extra fun.

Flaws, warts, hiccups and other dents in the experience will pop up from June 11 to July 11. When the final rolls around, that Midwest humidity will make the summer days less brilliant, too. It doesn't matter. This thing is a remarkable footballing story that reveals itself to us in periodic installments. We live with it over the course of a full month. An entire chapter in a history textbook that you get to talk about, analyze, revel in and cherish every day, as it unfolds and just as summer starts. It's a time when watching the games, even at home, can be your vacation. Let someone else rank and organize South Africa 2010 versus Mexico '86, France '98, Spain '82, baseball, the movies or an expensive meal at an elegant restaurant. Those experiences are not this story.

You are going to experience South Africa 2010 in a way that this story, with its numerous familiar elements, has never been told. This tournament is going to dominate the global conversation among people with access to the Internet. Have you ever stood on a street corner and been able to find out how someone in Toronto, Newcastle or Paris reacted to a specific World Cup moment – in the seconds after it happened? The possibilities for experiencing this World Cup are outrageous. Your friends, your wife, your husband, Joe the bartender, your cab driver and a really pissed off Germany supporter whose company assigned him to the Seoul office three years ago will all have something to say about this, and you can line up their reactions and share in the whole thing with them if you wish. This is an astonishing change to the World Cup, and, again, you have a month of this coming up. A month!

It's marvelous. Just an absolutely marvelous experience. Share it with anyone because no one else will be having more fun.

Soccer Saturday

2010-05-09T08:12:00.000-05:00

Ahoy. Brief and to the point here before I jaunt off to the pub for the final matches.

We had a blast with Soccer Saturday yesterday. Always fun talking football, isn't it? And I promise, we don't really hate Tottenham as much as we let on.

What a great day for football yesterday was, eh? We started out with the show in the AM, which also featured, in addition to a string of factual inaccuracies, a great segment with ESPN Deportes lead Raul Saenz. A mid-morning respite with no English league matches. The hammer came at 2pm with those unreal crackers from Spain. I mean, did YOU SEE XAVI'S PASS TO BOJAN! We were screaming at the television in utter delight.

So, listen in here for the Match Pricks and Raul Saez segments yesterday.

Next year? Are we done yet?

2010-05-07T08:21:00.000-05:00

It's always next year. And I'm not even really all that concerned with *trophies*. Really. I promise that's not the sentiment of a someone who forgot what pretty, heavy, shiny and all engraved and shit trophies looked like (been five years and all that).

What I'm concerned with is a team playing like a team, playing to win, playing because they care and playing like they actually have an ample amount of self-respect and desire to win the games.

It's funny, in a way. I've changed my take on sports to divorce myself from any heavy concern over winning and losing. I'll mostly pass a shrug of the shoulders in place of a loss. A win is fun, loads of fun ... if it was deserved. But how much of that approach I've taken is a product of the times? How much have I been fooling myself because the team I support just isn't good enough?

In truth, I think much of that attitude comes forth in the fact that I want to be sure that I'm legitimate as a supporter. Not worth really enjoying a result when you know it's an illusion, know what I mean? Attendez la creme and all that.

I'm often both curious and bothered about what makes an American support one team over another. Why Arsenal and not Tottenham? Why Manchester United and not Manchester City. Why does that one fellow at the pub support Wigan? Why does that one fellow completely lose his mind over Blackburn? I mean, he can't really be *that* into the Blackburn result, can he? Wouldn't he just be resigned to mediocrity and then go nuts-o when he actually got a 'famous' result? Does winning and losing really mean that much to you when you're an also-ran? Look, throughout the year if we won, I knew it was it's just one more finger holding us on the cliff's edge. After September, there was never anything to truly get excited about. It was a slow march until the end. There was always a maybe, but it was a maybe steeped in the hope that someone else would fail and open the door for us. This Arsenal team were never Champions.

So perhaps, as I'm really looking deep inside here, I have accepted this air of "meh" for each result this year to more directly expresses that however the season rolls, I'm an Arsenal supporter and it's nowt to do with wins and haute success. A win, loss or draw, it's all same in the end. What does it really matter? I support the team.

Sure I support the team and win, lose or draw, I also will and it'll always be fine. ... But in the end that's where I'm wrong. Yes, I'll always be there (Arsenal 'till I die and all that racket, great, whoopty-doo). But will it always be alright with me?

Nope.

It's inherent in players who hate to lose that they fight to win. That's what we've been missing. You can't pay well, with passion, with gusto, with desire, with momentum and with imagination if you don't care enough to try to win. It's not possible to waltz through the game turning pirouettes around the competition and attempting lovely passes if the pirouettes see you dumped on your ass and the lovely passes have none of football's classically beautiful, "what comes next." Or if they pave the way to another opposition goal (that one was for Stevie G. and my Liverpool loving collaborator here, Jim).

Wanting to win, fighting to win and reaching for the win is the difference between stumbling to a 1-nil win over Wolves and thumping Everton 6-1.

Funny thing is, I read from Arseblog recently that "We've learned a lot in recent weeks." Yes, we have. The supporters have learned a lot. Sadly, I don't believe the team has learned much at all. There are those in the side who will have their spirits further galvanized but for those who seemed like footballing zombies all season ... as the calendar comes to an end they failed to disprove our impressions.

I mean, did you ever really feel that Andrei Arshavin, for all his talents, actually gave a shit at any point this year?

Did you ever really feel that Emmanuel Adebayor actually gave a shit at any point last season? Never mind the actual big occasion when we needed even more out of him and he coasted along as if he was an under 8 player kicking daisies and marveling at the planes soaring overhead.

I've coasted through this season as a supporter. I shrugged with wins. Shook my head with losses. Felt morose anger at ties. It's been odd. Deeply, deeply odd. Especially given the fact that every couple of weeks Arsenal pulled themselves off the wall and actually flirted with the idea of joining the dance ... every now and then. Sadly, constantly filling your punch cup and mingling on the way to the bathroom does not remove the tag of wallflower.

I saw something that really bothered me last weekend while watching Chelsea. A Chelsea supporter lost his mind after their first goal. Maybe it was two weeks ago. Chelsea continued their slow march to the title and this fellow in the crowd looked like he was trying to rip his skin off.

I didn't feel that once this year (that's a good thing, right? wanting to rip your skin off in joy? i imagine it must be). I danced and sang like a four year old on a merry-go-round when Arsenal went gangbusters in the first two weeks of the season but I never really enjoyed it. Papering over the cracks and all that.

More to come on those feelings. For today, I just want this to be over. And I have wanted it to be over for months.

The Denouement

2010-05-03T18:30:00.004-05:00

I was trying to find a picture of Steven Gerrard looking sad or otherwise disappointed during Sunday's match, but I gave up after a few minutes. I would like to include such a thing as a tidy bow on this post and wrap things up on Liverpool's season – as best as that could be accomplished now – but Liverpool doesn't need me to pile on anymore. I'm a supporter after all.

At the start of last week, I made my case for hoping Liverpool went out and tried to win versus Chelsea. Personal circumstances made watching the match impossible, but if you follow the right folks on Twitter, just tracking your timeline can give you a fair impression of what happened. I guess the only thing that could make it worse is if Wigan somehow took something off Chelsea this weekend, and Manchester United won their game. Anfield couldn't tip the title chase in favor of their hated rivals, but Roberto Martinez found a way!

The unkindest cut of all, in many ways, was how Ferguson responded to Gerrard's horror play. Magnanimous. Understanding. Respectful. A lot of press reaction I read expressed surprise, but, for all the red-faced fury that old man has produced in me, I understood him while also resenting his reaction. He appears the sportsman while refusing to give Liverpool the satisfaction of seeing him upset at something they did. His reaction is probably genuine, but it also serves as a reminder to Liverpool supporters that, in this season of misery, nothing our team did could affect him – not even denying them the title.

It's easy amid the questions surrounding Anfield to get drawn into the Fergie hate. It's a less worrisome position to take. After all, the entire setup is a question right now, from who will write the checks to who will be the fourth or fifth choice central defender. When, as a fan, the only thing to cling to is that United finished a point behind Chelsea for the title, the biggest question you have to answer is how it's come to the point where your team's defining moment is centered around two sides from out of town.

Apathy in pursuit of ABU? Why hoping Liverpool loses to Chelsea diminishes the club's legacy more than Manchester United ever could

2010-04-26T14:21:00.006-05:00

The Premier League has a conundrum scheduled for Liverpool fans Sunday at Anfield. Undermanned and fighting long odds to qualify for the Champions League, supporters will see their team take on Premier League leaders Chelsea in the season's penultimate game. Should Liverpool manage to win, it would represent a high point in a drab season – and almost certainly hand the title to Manchester United. Their 19th title. One more than Liverpool's (co-owned) record of 18. It would give a bunch of people we all don't care for very much each Saturday new inspiration for yet-to-be-written anti-Scouse songs that somehow position John O'Shea and Gary Neville as superior to Kenny Dalglish in his pomp. Or something like that.

Yesterday, as Steven Gerrard rediscovered his considerable talents while attacking the David Fishwick stand at Burnley, a Liverpool fan and city native who has my unquestioned support and loyalty imagined wearing a Chelsea shirt to the bar this Sunday. Even I joked to a Man U fan yesterday that I should win Liverpool's "Be Our Keeper For A Match!" contest in time to stand between the posts versus Drogba and friends. The attraction of "Anyone But United" is powerful and obvious, but whether you really want Chelsea to beat Liverpool this Sunday depends upon how much you fear the future. And how much you're willing to let post-1992 English football bug the shit out of you.

United have won 11 titles during the Premier League era. If the team fails to win No. 12 this spring, it will not alter how they are the unquestioned dominant force in the current era of English football, which can be further explained in this easily understood before and after comparison. As many times as I've looked at the "before" image there, it never ceases to make me wonder. Arsenal 10th! QPR in fifth and, of course, charming Oldham, who I once watched in the FA Cup on a Fox Soccer Channel broadcast a few years ago and had to remind myself was once a Premier League team. From the start, United has pushed around the assorted sides that have made up that table through the years, with Arsenal and Chelsea occasionally getting their shots in when they could. This unpleasant – and unavoidable – reality is not going to change, no matter how many times United narrowly misses out on winning the title because Chelsea accumulated a couple more points over 38 games. This has been United's era, and their supporters are going to puff their chests out on their own perch now. Should any Liverpool supporter hope to see his side lose just so that United arrogance only peacocks at 85 or 90 percent of capacity? Is now really the best time to cynically jeer United's inability to win the league? Chelsea winning the league this season provides Liverpool fans with short-lived relief – a sense that one more slight against the club in a season filled with them was avoided. Just try making a banner to unfurl at Anfield out of that sentiment.

The reluctance and fear that permeates any Liverpool supporter's opinion of seeing United win No. 19 should be a temporary condition. Hatred for it and an inability to deal with it are symptoms of dread and worry surrounding Liverpool's own condition. I'm not suggesting you go out and walk arm in arm with a United fan on the way to their open-top bus parade, but try viewing it in something other than the either/or conclusion simply counting title trophies inevitably brings about. Hoping to see Chelsea all but clinch the trophy at Anfield this weekend is a byproduct of that condition. "Either United has more titles or Liverpool has more titles. That is how we will determine superiority." If that doesn't bring about a satisfactory answer for one side, you can always grab a ruler, drop your pants and see who the real winner is when the goals scored and conceded columns don't add up to your liking.

A more productive approach to this weekend's match can be found in the league table. Liverpool are two points from fourth, and the team's long-shot fight for that final Champions League spot – which has been written off for several weeks – is still alive. Of course it's unlikely, but until Villa, Spurs or City get to 69 points, it's not yet impossible. If Fergie added a defining chapter to his legacy and won the league, but Liverpool pulled off a last-day theft of that money-printing slot, it would remove several doubts about the club's future and offer a reason for supporters to celebrate an arduous campaign. Should Liverpool acquiesce to Chelsea's triumph when such a result is still there for the taking? Is United's failure more important than trying to salvage until the very end participation in the competition around which all of the club's organization is structured?

More ephemeral joy can be found in beating Chelsea purely for the sake of victory. In a series of Twitter posts Sunday, Brian Phillips from the Run of Play showed how historically dominant Chelsea has been this season. Five goals shy of setting the record for that statistic in one Premier League season. Largest goal differential in the history of the Premier League. Why not hope to see Liverpool beat such a team? Aston Villa has a very real chance of playing in the Champions League next season. Chelsea applied a dropkick-hammering combination on them so intense that bizarre "Martin O'Neill to quit Villa" rumors surfaced. Remarkably, several people actually believed them. There are many simple joys any fan could take from seeing Liverpool defeat a committed Chelsea team this Sunday.

If you just cannot stand your magnanimity without a dose of the ol' tribalism, beating Chelsea would allow Liverpool to essentially deliver United's 19th title. It would allow those so inclined to say to the gloating United hordes, "As a gesture of goodwill, here is your 19th title. Remember you got it because we defeated the team you couldn't." Sure, United fans might scoff and only intensify their jibes, but the point is there are ways to view United winning No. 19 other than just how it reflects on Liverpool's position within the English game.

The Premier League season has been a crunching lurch, and not just for Liverpool. This past weekend saw the elimination of another one of any league's great amusements: the last-day relegation scramble. Who doesn't love to see those shots from the final day of spectators watching the match in front of them while a radio is pressed against an ear to hear of any updates from elsewhere in England, where the other team(s) competing for Premier League survival have fans doing the same? This year, the only last-day festivities will be among Spurs, Villa and City fans – maybe Liverpool too – in the race for fourth. In the title chase, would Chelsea and Manchester United fans even use radios in this day and age? I'd think those clubs would just flash score updates on the electronic advertising boards. The Samsung/Manchester United Club Shop out-of-town scoreboard, if you will. It's not quite the same.

The likely outcome Sunday is that Chelsea will win. It would fit the narrative of the 2009-10 Premier League season. That is, it would lack all drama. It's a season many tried to shape as the year of the unpredictable when, in fact, it's just the year one of the top four played poorly a handful of times and will likely drop out of that group, allowing one of two other well-funded sides to appear in a Champions League qualification match. Arsenal are comfortably third but exuding all the happiness of being in a near-zero-brain-activity stupor. Elsewhere, Landon Donovan made a cameo that provided one of the strongest runs of form for a team. Wolves grinding out low-scoring results served as another relative "high point." Rooney had about three months where he performed in all the Rooney-ness the world has expected from him until he, again befitting the storyline, broke down. It's been the season where the most fascinating developments happened all year at the league's 20th-place team. For a while now the best part of the calendar turning each week was everybody got that much closer to the World Cup.

It's all the more reason the last thing Liverpool supporters should express is sad disappointment if the team manages to beat Chelsea. There has been enough despondency at Anfield and in England for one season. Even if the team should win on Sunday, there could be more sad notes to come for Liverpool, so take what you can get as a fan. We need more high points in between David Conn articles about the club.

In the end, the United people can go and wave their green-and-gold scarves and celebrate whatever they care to – or whatever spirit they feel defines them. Liverpool has had enough identity crisis problems this season that the club and the fans don't need to top it off by finding joy through losing at home. There are many more important issues to figure out going forward during the next year or two than to worry about Alex Ferguson having led Manchester United to one more title than Liverpool. Sure, it'd be fun to see Gary Neville crying as a bucket of horse vomit is poured over him, all while Yuri Zhirkov conks Fergie over the head with the Premier League trophy in the background. But if Hicks and Gillett don't sell soon to someone who wants to – and can afford to – improve the club, that joy will be short-lived, entirely empty and without hope for the future. Loathing Manchester United and trying to beat them is part of the Liverpool supporter's experience, but it shouldn't be allowed to define it. After all, they're not even the best side in England anymore.

Word Association. Ray Hudson. Nuff Said.

2010-04-25T14:00:00.000-05:00

In the other segment that Ray Hudson joined us for on Saturday morning, Peter Wilt gave him some names and sat back with a simple game of word association to see what the fella had to say.

It tossed up fun yet it also tossed up some rich and incredibly heart-touching moments. My mother even called me after the show to say that she had tears rolling down her face. It so very nice to hear from a man who not only loves the game but who has put in the work over the years to help spread that love of the game.

Listen in here.

This weekend was a lot of fun. Thanks for coming along with us.

Soccer Saturday and Gol TV Commentator Ray Hudson

2010-04-24T14:56:00.003-05:00

Gol TV commentator Ray Hudson joined us on Soccer Saturday presented by the Milwaukee Wave today. Listen here.

If you feel like finding out a bit of how much it meant to me in particular, keep reading ...

I've mentioned it before in this space, I grew up following hockey and the incredibly fast-pace of the men who called the game. The role models, beyond Wayne Gretzky, were the men who called the games. Their words flew at a pace that left you dizzy. Yet, beyond mere description, there was a comprehension that taught and ... conveyed ... the game for those who didn't fully understand the intricacies.

I always loved football. Just not as deeply as I have in my adult life.

One of the things that first drew me more deeply into its world was that it contained the majestic creativity of hockey yet it actually allowed the artists on the playing field to express themselves to their full potential. Picasso on a bar napkin versus Picasso on a full canvass. Thompson with someone - or something - to capture his words. Godard with Coutard as opposed to Godard with simply Cahiers du Cinema.

Later, I began an actual pursuit of broadcasting as a profession in college until I found the track to be a little too redundant. French and creative writing was the eventual magnetic draw. Much more stimulation. At the same time, I tripped into a career in Major League Baseball. Right place, right time, a little know how, a little hard work and all that.

The point of all the background story is that through all of it, as I grew up, I looked at, focused on and listened to the folks behind the mic more than I did the athletes on the field. The words they delivered to our ears. The way they positioned the battle, the story they set, the passion they'd share with you and the path they'd take you on as you learned every corner of each game. And then, as I was growing into my 20s, I found myself working in baseball and sitting at the same dinner table as the likes of Vin Scully, the voice of the Brooklyn/Los Angeles Dodgers for 50 plus years, Hall of Famers like Ernie Harwell, Marty Brenneman and Bob Uecker, and Harry Kalas, one of the defining voices of the legendary NFL Films.

Do I value those moments and the yarns those folks have to share with me? You better believe it.

In 2007, a group of us at The Highbury Pub in Milwaukee, Wis., (including Jim and I) were watching the finale of La Liga as Real Madrid were battling Getafe in great tussle that would eventually give Real the title.

Jim and I were floored - floored - by the brilliance of the commentator for Gol TV, Ray Hudson. He sounded not like the stodgy (yet spectacular) gentlemen who called the games from England that we'd watch every morning. Ray sounded like us ... yet it was an 'us' that came equipped with tongues of silver, a spirit of pure energy, wisdom and transcendent and mind-boggling hyperbole. He sounded like someone who loved the game with such fire that it naturally poured out him like an exploding volcano.

At the end of the day we saw a shift in the way we'd have to watch and enjoy our football. Those 6:30 a.m. alarm calls to get to our pub and watch the teams we support was thing ... sticking around until the games from Spain, and most importantly, the games from Spain called by Ray Hudson, was another challenge all together. But damn if we weren't up for it. Time and time again, seven or eight hours into the day that already had all of us football lovers up and out of bed at 6:00 a.m., we'd be tripping for the doors only to stop and realize, "Wait! Wait. Wait just one minute. Ray Hudson's on in an hour. We can stay. We must stay."

And of course, we'd stay. And hot damn would we be better off for it.

This morning, Ray Hudson joined us on Soccer Saturday presented by the Milwaukee Wave, the radio show based out of Milwaukee that we've been fortunate enough to contribute to since its debut show this spring. Our dear friend, Peter Wilt, president of the Milwaukee Wave, bon vivant, more-important-than-you-realize-member-of-the-American-soccer-fraternity and all around great guy knows Ray from their common time in America's MLS. After Jim and I discussed Ray in our last segment, Peter arranged the interview and Ray was kind enough to join us this morning to have some fun and talk football.

At the base of it all though what he shared and continued to express, as he does every weekend, was his bottomless love for the game and appreciation for its heroes and artists. He's a great example of what it means to just sit back and be wowed. Sure you love your team. Sure you got torn apart by losses, poor performances and injustice. Sure you want to brag in the face of your rivals, shout at turncoats and shake your fist at the enemy but at the very bottom of everything, it's a hell of a fun time following football and all it offers us.

Ray is a great example of that.

Like a Vin Scully who crafts sentences in baseball that make you grin and understand as if you've just finished glancing at a Norman Rockwell.

Like a Bob Uecker, a man whose wit is unmatched and who reads a never-ending list of sponsorships like no other.

Like a Harry Carey, a man who sounds just like the drunk and crazy fan in the bleachers in front of you who'd piss you off if he wasn't so damn entertaining.

He's all of it rolled together. Magically poetic and endlessly effusive.

He's worth sticking around for.

He ain't got nobody

2010-04-24T06:37:00.000-05:00

In honour of Adebayor's return to London and his former teammates with the Arsenal today, I wanted to share a old classic for him. Simply ...

Soccer Saturday and the National Basketball Association

2010-04-23T13:38:00.001-05:00

The Milwaukee Bucks surprised the entire league with a terrific season fueled in part by rookie Brandon Jennings and the assertion of Andrew Bogut as one of the league's top centers.

Another key piece? Cameroon native Luc Richard Mbah a Moute.

The Bucks had more than their fair share of international seasoning this year. In fact, early in the year they could boast that all five starters were from five different continents.

Continents, not countries.

(They also got this guy to go to 11 games. More games than I'd been to in my entire life to this point.)

Luc Richard, being from Cameroon, is a fan of our particular focus and passion ... the football. He's a passionate Barcelona supporter and, naturally, loves to profess his allegiance to his native country's Indomitable Lions.

The folks from Soccer Saturday arranged to have Luc Richard join us last weekend for a conversation on all things football. He discussed his love for Barcelona, his hopes for Cameroon at the World Cup, his hopes for the first World Cup being held in Africa and his excitement at the fact that he'll be attending his first World Cup as an official member of the Cameroon delegation.

Listen in here with Luc-Richard Mbah a Moute and Soccer Saturday last weekend.

Tune in for tomorrow morning's show as Jim and I chat with Gol TV commentator Ray Hudson toward the bottom of the hour. Show starts at 8:00 a.m. 540 AM in Milwaukee and Chicago, www.espnmilwaukee.com elsewhere. We'll have the recorded link up later in the day.

Preview: Talking with Ray Hudson

2010-04-21T12:47:00.004-05:00

We will be fortunate enough this Saturday to talk with Ray Hudson on Soccer Saturday presented by the Milwaukee Wave, which you can listen to on ESPN 540 AM in Milwaukee and Chicago from 8 a.m. to 9 a.m. local time. The one-hour show also is made available in podcast segments online at the link above.

Obviously, Colin and I are giddy at the chance to talk to the man who gave us the following descriptions while commentating during matches:
• "What he is is like something out of Greek mythology, man. A little short-legged bull, Lionel Messi, covered with eyes."
• "Magnificent by Higuaín again. He stretches the defence of Racing Santander like spandex on Miami Beach."
• "This is a hundred gigabytes of skill in a nanosecond ... the finish cooler than Jimi Hendrix at Woodstock, Phil."

And that's just what is immediately available at the Live Ray Hudson Twitter feed.

If you have any thoughts or questions you'd be interested in hearing Ray tackle, please leave them in the comments and we'll try to fit them in.

Oh, OK, one more older one: “Look at him, so languid. Look at him walking. He’s like a big beautiful zombie, a big beautiful zombie. Riquelme. He just strolls around languidly like smoke off a cigarette, and then he’ll jump out and just draw your blood”.

Lastly, here's a little video I like to call: "It's like two beautiful birds singing in my ribcage!"

In continuous support of those pursuing the truth about Hillsborough

2010-04-14T12:25:00.004-05:00

(Editor's Note: This post from last year offers a thorough explanation of who I am as a Liverpool supporter and how I relate to the Hillsborough disaster.)

Tomorrow, 21 years on from Hillsborough, there is much more momentum for a full – or at least as full as possible – disclosure of what happened, how it was handled and who played key roles in shaping how the public and the world perceived April 15, 1989. Not surprisingly, David Conn's interview with James Jones – chair of the Hillsborough Independent Panel – provides an excellent summary of how things have changed between the 20th ceremony honoring the dead and this year's remembrance of those killed in the disaster.

Multiple factors inspire a reasonable measure of confidence that substantial new answers can be found to the long-asked questions about Hillsborough:

• The panel will have access to ambulance service documents never admitted to the formal inquest because they were compiled after 3:15 p.m. Of course, coroner Dr. Stefan Popper at the time determined – almost assuredly arbitrarily or, at the risk of sounding sinister, because of other factors – all victims suffered their fatal injuries by 3:15 p.m. More details can be found here explaining why that decision has been impossible to defend during the last 21 years.

• The panel includes Professor Phil Scraton, author of the book "Hillsborough: The Truth" and someone whose mere presence in such a high-profile investigation can only be viewed as a force seeking more answers. Scraton's book concluded South Yorkshire police sought to cover up the role they played in causing and worsening the disaster. Now, there are competing ways to look at Scraton, of course. Detractors might argue his involvement is part of rigging the process to produce a certain conclusion. Those people can hold that opinion if they wish. Scraton's involvement also can be viewed as, at last, someone is working to resolve the questions about Hillsborough who most certainly does not believe for a second the matter of the "official record" of the day, whatever that may mean at this point.

• The panel must write a report detailing how what it has learned adds to the public knowledge about Hillsborough. More documents than ever before are being shared as part of this investigation, including South Yorkshire police files and England's national archives. This group of people has been charged with adding to the public's Hillsborough knowledge, and Scraton – whose views on the matter are fairly clear – has been asked to lead the writing of the report that accomplishes that goal.

The great fear behind all this work is that someone, somewhere, will draw a line that investigators cannot cross. The outraged supporters who shouted at Andy Burnham for justice during last year's ceremony have helped open up a new step in the process. The collective efforts of those directly affected by – and also those far removed from – Hillsborough have allowed for substantial new steps in uncovering the truth. But how much truth will be allowed to enter the public realm? The survivors of Hillsborough and the families and friends of the dead have been met with disappointment throughout the years. There is hope now for more complete answers, but there also has been hope in the past. There is hope this investigation might reveal the official documents – and provide the irrefutable evidence – that finally makes clear what most everyone has concluded to be true: The South Yorkshire police mismanaged a large crowd that had come to see an FA Cup semifinal, then created the worst day in English football through incompetence and horrible attempts to cover their own ass. And with the identities of those ultimately responsible exposed to the world, will additional steps take place? Anfield hasn't repeatedly cried out with "Justice for the 96!" merely so a couple of deceitful cops can have a rotten tomato thrown at them in the public square.

That is the trepidation behind this effort. Serious attempts to reveal the truth of Hillsborough must not be derailed by anyone tut-tutting with, "OK, you've gotten your truth. We don't need to go any further." Combined with the usual crowd that likes to claim drunken Liverpool supporters caused all the problems, it could bring about a tragic slip into widespread apathy that would represent an unimaginable crushing of the spirit.

I would like to believe this effort can go further than any other. James Jones, in Conn's article, said this inquiry will present the fullest story possible. It must, and if it does, those who choose to pursue additional actions against the perpetrators of the crime of Hillsborough must not encounter any more roadblocks.

Xavi drives more than one bus

2010-04-12T16:40:00.003-05:00

I spent a portion of Saturday morning imploring anyone who would listen that they have to watch El Clásico by any means necessary. My dirty secret, of course, was that I knew I would be unable to watch. I would be blind to the majesty and the spectacle, unable to view the colossal tussle pitting "He walks among us" against "I walk among you. Don't touch." I was embarrassed that I could not watch the match and felt the honorable thing would be to steer as many eyeballs as possible to the match, so others did not share in my shame.

Of course, I'd like to think that was how it all went down, but in truth, I missed the match because of unfortunate coincidence. I spent El Clásico on a bus traveling from Milwaukee to Chicago with about 35 other people getting ginned up – many quite literally – for the Fire home opener. A sunny patch of I-94 southbound through northern Illinois provided the visuals while modern technology did the rest. The ESPN Scorecenter iPhone app and Twitter were all I had. The voice in my head read off the quotes from Live Ray Hudson.

From what I've been able to gather about the match after the fact, Xavi looked sublime in making the goals, Ronaldo made a stink and footballing thrills were largely absent from the proceedings. Still, in the moment, a remarkable thing happened on that bus that left Milwaukee's Highbury pub just after kickoff: the hush that fell over the group when someone would announce a goal from the game. There's a lot going on during these bus trips from Milwaukee to a Chicago Fire match. To put it mildly, people are drinking more than a little alcohol in preparation for a great time. It's a group outing and an "experience" being shared among different people who've chosen to log on to the same mindset for a day.

But a Barça fan named Jeremy caught the first goal on his phone and shouted out "Goal!" to the bus. I did likewise after fortune made me gaze toward my phone in the seconds after Pedro scored the second. The bus pretty much just shut up each time at the end of that hard G sound in goal. It was like the order of the forest and rule of nature or whatever mysticism you'd care to throw in there joined forces to make clear that everyone can know and comprehend El Clásico. Even amid the madness of a party bus trip, those people instinctively knew that anybody who was making that hard G sound in a loud voice was going to be giving an update about the match. All these – let's be honest here – drunk people, tooling down the interstate somewhere south of Bellwood, Illinois, ready at a microsecond's notice for the world's satellites to beam news of El Clásico into a motoring cocoon of a social circle.

It's not remarkable that all those people cared. Of course they cared. The match was pretty much the only topic of discussion as we left the bar. Could it be argued that any crowd will deaden and turn its attention to someone who is beginning to shout? Sure, but that's not what happened on that bus Saturday. People were jerking their heads because a goal was about to be announced. And everyone knew it. And everyone couldn't wait.

I'd love to be able to divine from that moment some greater universal truth about humanity. Honestly, I think it's in there somewhere, but I'm not really the one to find it. I just think it's really cool and a lot of fun. A bus full of yahoos rolling along a bland ribbon of interstate on the outskirts of a megalopolis. Messi and Ronaldo, and Barça and Real Madrid moving along with them.

Soccer Saturday April 10

2010-04-10T12:54:00.002-05:00

Jim and I were back on ESPN Radio's Soccer Saturday this morning (presented by the Milwaukee Wave). As ever, we had an absolute blast and the time always seems to fly entirely too quickly.

Lots of points we wanted to snap on regarding El Clasico but time is tight. Anyway, you know the story lines. So hey, give us a listen. Hopefully you have as much fun as we did. (Hey look! It's us on Boxing Day, with friend of Match Pricks, Stephen, in from California trying to fight off the snow!)

Here's the link.

We spent most of the time chatting with enthusiasm about the pending Real Madrid v. Barcelona, hopped over to Liverpool vs. Fulham for the Europa Cup semis and then gave a few seconds to World Favourite Ray Hudson.

If you catch this in time and happen to be in the neighborhood, swing on over to The Highbury Pub in sunny Bay View in Milwaukee and join me for the big match today.

Everyone loves a good juggling video!

2010-04-10T10:08:00.000-05:00

There are probably as many juggling videos on the Internet as there are adjectives describing Leo Messi this weekend. Today, I'm focusing on one in particular.

After today's Soccer Saturday radio show (based in Milwaukee on ESPN Radio Milwaukee 540 am and www.espnmilwaukee.com) I wanted to take a second to follow-up and share this video.

It features USA under-20 women's national team members, Tobin Heath and Casey Nogueira. Casey was a call-in guest on this morning's show as she is getting ready to embark on her rookie season with the Women's Professional Soccer league's Chicago Red Stars. Now, I need to editorialize a little here ...

The WPS is where it's at. And more specifically, the Chicago Red Stars are where it's at. They are seriously legit and the women plying their trade deserve your attention. I'm aiming to share a few blogs here and there on the Red Stars this season.

I was lucky enough to head to Chicago's Toyota Park to see two of their matches last season and couldn't have been more impressed ... nor could I have had more fun. With the possible exception of their inaugural season opener when it was about 40 degrees and the sleeting was coming at me sideways. And I absent mindedly wore shorts. But that's beside the point. I'm a big of that team, their approach to football, their technique, their hard work and the desire they show out on the pitch.

Without further delay ... enjoy Casey and Tobin here with the juggling video they discussed on Soccer Saturday this morning. (I'd embed but the coding is turned off, just follow the link.)

And for giggles ... here's the other video they discussed, Casey showing her Michael Jackson dance moves. Match Pricks stand for nothing at all under the great blue sky if we don't stand for a universal love of Michael Jackson (just ask anyone in Milwaukee how many times we jammed "Pretty Young Thing (P.Y.T.)" and "Human Nature" last summer).

A Fulham fever dream

2010-04-09T10:33:00.015-05:00

This week I saw someone on Twitter asking the world if it's possible that anyone dislikes Roy Hodgson. I'm sure there's one guy somewhere – at least, right? – that just doesn't care for Roy's can-do spirit. Then again, it just might be true: Roy Hodgson is the most beloved leader drawing breath today. Now is the time for him to consolidate his power and take the next step.
After all, should Fulham win the Europa League – complete with players hoisting him upon their shoulders while he smiles with grandfatherly joy – it will only fill football fans the world over with a warm sense of happiness. The scene will remind supporters battered by stories of debt and worry about the future of the sport that, yes, dreamers can succeed, hard work can be magnificently rewarded and that, in the end, the good guys can still get the girl – er, oversized and shiny cup. But the whole thought is shaded by a bit of condescension, isn't it? It reminds one of how a young boy might pedal his first bicycle down the street, wobbly and unsteady. He's still upright after his father's guiding hand helps the bike get moving. Then, dad lets go of the back of that bike seat and watches his progeny roll away. The neighbors smile at the cuteness of it all, and the old man himself is quite proud.
That's not enough, of course. Will dad still be beaming 10 years later if riding a bicycle remained the last developmental step his son had mastered? "Yeah, great moment on that bike in the street 10 years ago, son. Wonderfully proud, then. Can you please explain why you failed every class – again – this term and vomited on the pretty girl from down the street who smiled at you and said hello?"
This is why Roy Hodgson must take the lead as a key figure in a nascent political movement.
Right now, I just don't have time for the Tea Party movement in America. There's hardly enough hours in the day as it is to be disillusioned with just the two-party system. Perhaps the trampling of liberty and the socialism running roughshod over innocent Americans didn't make that right turn at Chicago and get to Milwaukee. Could the whole thing have just passed me by? I know it also hasn't quite hit home with many of my fellow countrymen.
Roy Hodgson – the lovable leader with a calm demeanor (there's your slogan) – could change all that. He has a way of plain speaking that inspires confidence. You want to have a beer with him, but you also want to hear what he has to say about the rights of the individual in a country founded on principles forged during an all-or-nothing clash against tyranny. Perhaps Obama could be removed from office? Maybe government could be reduced tenfold? Twentyfold, even! Roy Hodgson has it within his grasp to accomplish these things. I mean, shoot, look what he got Fulham to do in the second leg against Juventus!
Naturally, there are some problems he must overcome. He's English, but I think the Tea Party will eventually go for it if he can finagle a photo op with Sarah Palin. A bigger obstacle is that he's a soccer coach. To many over here, soccer = foreigners' obsession where they kill each other and also are surrendering French – even the Mexicans and South Americans. A former co-worker once commented on my wearing a Liverpool shirt to work that soccer is "a communist plot to 'subtrovert' America." Then he walked outside and drove home in his Toyota, but I digress. This is a problem for Roy Hodgson, but all political geniuses have baggage. Obama was born in Africa fer cryin' out loud!
Dare to dream, Roy. Reach for more than just hoodwinking the traditional European footballing powers. Win that Europa League, accept the trophy and then in your first public comments, smash it on the ground and declare your intent to win the Liberty League. Make them fear you.

In short-term developments, future American political superstar Roy Hodgson's Fulham visits Anfield on Sunday. I always look forward to Liverpool's matches with Fulham. The Cottagers have this tight-knit group of fun supporters in Milwaukee, and getting out to see them and watch the match in public brightens the mood. I wish there was video of the bar scene when Danny Murphy and Jimmy Bullard kept Fulham up on the last day of the season – and then immediately squelched the masculine feeling of the moment by parading around the Fratton Park pitch in a shirtless embrace. An entire bar rallied behind the Fulham supporters during the second half, and in the end, there was scarf twirling, boisterous singing of "Super Danny Murphy!" and exultation. Then Bullard and Murphy put on a Cottagers Playhouse production of this Hollywood classic for all the world to enjoy.
I mention and link to all this only because there is nothing else I can bring up that is in any way dismissive of Fulham. I love Fulham. I insist it is everyone's second favorite team – even more so now with Hodgson pulling the strings. My No. 1 side, of course, is Liverpool, so I'm compelled to make even half-hearted attempts at bravado. It's always preferable to being indifferent.
That's much too dour a thought to end on, though, so I'll leave now with this pixelated peek at pandemonium from that aforementioned Danny Murphy moment:

Petit a P'tit

2010-04-04T14:02:00.000-05:00

Age old news: Football grows every day in America. With that in mind, there's quite a bit of discourse over the most pulsing question among newcomers to the game, "Who should I support?"

Honestly, there should be pamphlets.

People from here don't come from there, if you catch my meaning. They may not have a hometown team to whom they automatically pledge their support. The brilliant Pitch Invasion had a piece along these tribal lines not long ago. Still, even if there was a hometown team at the ready for you to pick up and play with like it was your own shiny new toy that should exist perfectly within the confines of your own expectations, how do you know it's the right one for you? After all, you're an individual, aren't you?

Some want to fit in. Some want an organic connection to a team. Some look for their personality. Some look for a match. Some want to belong to something. Some identify with a feeling. Some identify with a nationality. Some are masochistic. Some just want to win. Some are yahoos who just "pick" a team, buy a scarf, a shirt and pledge their never-ending loyalty, fierce support and ferocious hatred of 'the other'.

Interestingly, the universal (and by universal I mean "American" as that's what confronts me in this matter) impulse that follows a fledgling interest in the sport seems all too often to pivot immediately to the mission of picking a team. "Well, I need a team."

I do believe that from today, I'll simply suggest these people who ask these questions, thumbing through the cue cards of team listings as they seem to be, watch the game. I'll politely remind them not to be a dick. And I'll ask them to spend a little time with Anna here ...

Translation difficulties

2010-04-04T10:08:00.000-05:00

Match Pricks has a communication line plugged directly into the heart of Liverpool. Jim, obviously, is the beating heart of Liverpool support for our endeavor. It's been an interesting campaign for him. Duplicitous, I'm sure, isn't targeted well enough to describe it. More likely aggrieved acknowledgement.

In our corner of the world, one of our dearest friends is from Liverpool. His family, an extension of our own, lives smack dab in the middle of the place. We often hear tales of the Anfield roar, heard from their living room - if they're not at the match, that is. With that in mind, we get this enjoyable little ditty from 'back home.' Enjoyable as it was, I wanted to share with you.

A message from Ian's dad, Les, in Liverpool... This was on Sky Sports on Thursday night, I switched over at half time in the Liverpool game and saw this, the red banner at the bottom of the screen was reporting on the Fulham game. Is this typical of American footballers?

Clint

2010-03-19T21:36:00.000-05:00

Might as well go ahead and get this up here so we can find it easily ... at least until it's taken down. Hopefully it'll last.

Fulham with an absolutely incredible performance against Juventus on Thursday. To progress to the next round of the Europa Cup. Champions League light it may be, but there's still some damn good football on display. Ignore it, and you're missing out.

Case in point, Clint Dempsey, feared out for much longer after an injury, came back, came on the pitch as a substitute and scored a stunningly brilliant goal. As Ray Hudson, a long-time favourite of Match Pricks, said (quoted quite neatly at new favourite Must Read Soccer), it was a carefully considered strike. Watch it. Enjoy it. Watch it again. Send it to someone who knows nothing about football. Send it to someone who calls it soccer. Send it to someone who doesn't like the game.

And most of all, dig it.

Soccer Saturday Podcast

2010-03-18T19:17:00.000-05:00

Ahoy!

Hopefully you enjoyed the debut of ESPN Radio's Soccer Saturday two weeks ago. We had a blast and are markedly proud to have been a part of the first locally produced soccer radio show in Milwaukee. While the show has a local focus, it indeed carries interest across the country. Grassroots, folks. It really is great stuff and it comes from the people who are planting and watering the seeds of the game in the very villages and cities where we all grew up and now live.

Soccer Saturday also features a "Soccer Around the World" segment. That's where we come in. Last week featured longtime Milwaukee Wave player and one-time Chelsea trainee, Michael King. Jim and I will be back in action again this Saturday.

Of course, we'll be on-air just 24 hours after the draw for the quarter-finals in the Champions League so you can imagine the main thrust of our conversation. Beyond that, of particular interest for us at the very moment, Liverpool just found their way into the Europa Cup quarter-finals and have their hungry eyes focused on Sunday's match against Manchester United. Don't need to tell you that one is always special. Also, Arsenal host West Ham at 12:30 p.m. local time on Saturday and they'll all be eager to hear how the Champions League draw turns out. That's an understatement.

Here's the link to last weekend's show. Listen in and hopefully those of you who are based with us in Milwaukee will help continue to spread the word to fuel the efforts of all of those people working to grow the game.

The tactic that dare not speak its name

2010-03-17T16:07:00.002-05:00

The mischievous little shaver in me still obsessed with lighting a match in front of action-trigger-squeezed aerosol cans was left just a tad disappointed by the news yesterday that Steven Gerrard will not face disciplinary action for his double-elbow smash attack on Portsmouth's resident Roger Daltrey look-alike, Michael Brown. A post-match review that resulted in, say, a three-match ban would've set up something I'd be interested in seeing: Liverpool at United on Sunday without their captain.

Anonymous United sources have expressed the club's collective unhappiness with the fact Gerrard didn't get banned for his elbow attack while something similar had earlier landed Rio Ferdinand a four-match ban. (Gerrard probably does deserve it, but that's besides the point.) Well, who would've thunk it? Me and Fergie – uh, anonymous sources – in agreement on something. My twisted curiosity also wants to see Gerrard on the sidelines come Sunday. I'm not sure United's anonymous sources have seen Gerrard play much recently. Must be preoccupied with the ponies. Sitting Gerrard could just be the tactical masterstroke Liverpool needs to make it four in a row against United.

Allow me to explain: Steven Gerrard, at present, is back in his "man without a home" form for Liverpool. You might remember this Gerrard from such appearances as Liverpool's right winger. He wants to be in the center of the 3 in Rafa's 4-2-3-1, with Xabi Alonso behind him doing all the possession winning and connecting-defense-to-attack stuff. That Gerrard was a very thrilling, destructive Gerrard. That Gerrard also is really sad about his form signing with Real Madrid last summer in a £30 million deal.

Lately, Gerrard's position sense is all cocked up because he's either in the 2 of the 4-2-3-1, or he's back in that center 3 spot, but he's dealing with service from Mascherano or Lucas. Mascherano, who on the defensive end makes the Tasmanian Devil look like Droopy Dog, can be found all too often strolling the ball into the opponent's half. He wants to start the attack, and he's being given plenty of space, but he kind of takes on the look of a man from small-town North Dakota emerging from the subway and realizing he's exited in Harlem. It's not Mascherano's fault. Aquilani's on the bench/sick/injured/not picked. Liverpool's midfield, always a picture of calculated play in recent years, now resembles someone scrambling to run away from the grenade they just dropped – only they're not sure where it bounced. Is it under their feet? Did it go left? Don't run left if the grenade went left!

Look, I walk a fine line of Liverpool fandom when it comes to Gerrard. On many matchdays you can spot an expression of this at Twitter.com/MatchPricks in the occasional references to the Steven Gerrard Give-A-Shit-O-Meter™. In more honest moments, you can catch me talking about how I don't really trust him. I'm a fan of Gerrard while also regularly being unhappy with Gerrard, if that makes any sense. For one, I can't get over the corner kicks. Why someone else doesn't stroll up to Stevie and say, "Let me try, just this once. If I beat the first man, maybe I can try again? If I hit the first man, you can resume your duties." Watching the Portsmouth match Monday, I actually became convinced I could get it past the first man if I was allowed the opportunity – and I've never played a competitive match while my age was in double digits. It's beyond aggravating. It smacks of undeserved deference. I can't believe nobody else takes them for Liverpool. Lucas would be better at corners. I guess Mascherano stays back out of concern for a quickly sprung counter, but if that's not an issue, he should give it a shot. Just let anybody else do it for one match and see what happens.

But why stop at just the corners for the match against United? What if they just let somebody else play for him? Aquilani apparently has another virus/knack/disease/adjustment problem and won't play against Lille on Thursday. I hope like hell Aquilani will be available against United. It would present options. It would present a change of pace. It would set up Liverpool to work the ball smoothly from defense to attack – and Rafa could play a few guys in that center 3 behind Torres, not just Gerrard. The Talisman didn't play in the first match this season, and that one didn't exactly end with misery and dread pounding Liverpool supporters into deep depression. The match at Fratton Park did that.

In the end, Gerrard's going to play come Sunday's kickoff. The unimaginative/sane nook of my brain understands having him in the lineup is part of Liverpool's "best-possible" team these days, but I'm not enthused about the possibilities for a great performance from him. If Liverpool win, it'll be thanks to something Torres did to re-create this event. If Liverpool lose, it'll likely happen because Torres didn't do anything, or Wayne Rooney ate Daniel Agger whole before heading in three Antonio Valencia crosses.

For Gerrard, I'll start my expectations at a corner that clears the first man and work up from there. Heavens to Betsy if he actually scores.

A brief comment

2010-03-16T20:03:00.002-05:00

This one files directly under, "If it takes more than one tweet, it's a blog."

For starters, if you're not on Twitter fix it. Get aboard. It's like a vineyard of football writers. You just walk along and pluck away to taste what you like. I've recently started following a certain @PhilippeAuclair. Full disclosure: I know very little about who this person is. But I have been enjoying his observations on the football. In particular, this little diddy from just a short while ago ...

Jose: "I'm happy with our happiness, not their unhappiness". A classy performance all round from Inter and their maestro.

This is just so nice to see and really falls in line with something I've been thinking for quite some time.

Why do people feel the need to express a win as something that makes you better than someone else? Or rather, why would you use a win to exert some divine right, or a higher status ... like a right of way? You win a game, your team is better at the game. Your team gets to celebrate the win. But it doesn't mean your team is the light, the savior or simply ... the right team. It doesn't mean the other team is wrong and that those who support that team are lesser beings who deserve to be disrespected. It doesn't mean those people have opted to be unhappy. It doesn't mean those people are wrong.

As Jose said when he wrapped his comments, "That's life."

There's a deeper thought in here that I've been munching on but that must be saved for another time.

Questioning their raison d'être in Wigan

2010-03-09T18:09:00.005-06:00

As I'm typing this, Colin is at home, snuggling up with his DVR and watching this afternoon's Arsenal-Porto Champions League second leg "live" after shutting off the outside world during work. I imagine when he takes his turn later/tomorrow/after the hallucinogenic, Bendtner-fueled transformational experience ends, he'll dwell on matters slightly more uplifting than meeting one's end slumped over at a $5 blackjack table on a Tuesday morning in Atlantic City, the victim of a massive heart attack.

Yes, a few thoughts about Wigan v. Liverpool from Monday. I just can't get past it. I've seen some horror shows this season as I've repeatedly convinced myself that this match would be the one where Liverpool turns it all around during the 2009-10 campaign. I imagined all sorts of outlandish excuses last night as I went through my own "DVR and watch 'live' after work" experience. First I thought they might all have the flu, but a suggestion from Run of Play on Twitter sent me into a more absurd direction: Liverpool played so horribly because the ESPN UK pitchside reporter (Kelly Cates? Rebecca Lowe? Someone else?), while they lined up in the tunnel, revealed to each of them how they will die.

After all, how could Gerrard be expected to play a sideways pass anywhere near a teammate in his own half when he's just been told his kids will stop talking to him in 2029? You think Lucas wants to clear the ball near his own box when he's only 16 all-too-brief years away from a brain tumor? It's no wonder Yossi Benayoun looked so dispirited last night, what with having to know now that his beloved woodcarving habit will bring about his sudden demise. Hell, Sotirios Kyrgiakos is the only one that ends up with a proper funeral.

As a fan, however, the deepest cut was in the office this morning, as the resident Arsenal fan and United fan took turns consoling me. That's when you know the show's over, folks. You don't get a lot of sympathy calls from people who view the number 19 as a sort of ultimate pinnacle that, in a way, serves to vanquish a significant part of their rival's legacy. If I get a pat on the shoulder and a warm "There, there" from a Newcastle supporter, I'm liable to just go and try to learn the damn rules for cricket or rugby. Anything to get my mind off of things for a few months.

UPDATE: Latics-flavored condolences aren't much fun to swallow, either.

Ramble on

2010-03-08T17:06:00.004-06:00

We like Zeppelin at Match Pricks. A lot. I mean really, there's not much better than a good face melting with some Led Zeppelin. All the better when there's actually a kick ass Zeppelin tribute band that plays every couple of months and obliges us with a good old fashioned face melting.

But that's beside the point.

As you may have seen, Jim and I had the honor of joining the new Soccer Saturday radio show from ESPN Radio in Milwaukee. They even let us talk. We each took a few more hacks at a topic that is well worn over at this point. I promise, we're moving on now ... really.

Here's the link to the podcast. Give it a listen. You'll hear yours truly, Jim and host Matt Salmon. Hopefully you'll enjoy it. We're definitely looking forward to more in the future. More importantly, listen to the other segments. Of note, the show is brought to you by the Milwaukee Wave. If you're unfamiliar, the Wave is an indoor soccer team and we are proud to say that they are the longest running professional soccer team in the United States. I'll be honest, that's a statistic I wasn't aware of before this weekend's show. See? Listen to the rest and you'll get all sorts of little nuggets.

It's wonderful people working hard to make football (soccer, in this case, I guess) work in Milwaukee, the state of Wisconsin and across the country.

Cheers for now!

Let's put a bow on this package

2010-03-07T09:49:00.005-06:00

It's old news now. Still, the world needs to know what I think. I was going to avoid adding more pixels to the burgeoning mountain that grew over the week but I need to have my say. Are you out there world? It's me, Colin.

Aaron Ramsey, the fantastically talented 19 year old midfielder for Arsenal, broke his leg last weekend after a poor tackle from Stoke's Ryan Shawcross. It's never easy when someone gets hurt playing the game they love and the game we love watching them play. There is, though, a deeper cut when the player is coming into prominence as Aaron Ramsey is or indeed as Eduardo was in 2008 when he suffered that horrible injury against Birmingham. It's not fair but the emotion feels, for its part, more raw and more out of your hands. Then, Eduardo was shipping buckets of goals for Croatia in qualifying for the European Championships. He was among the reasons we gave Slavan Bilic the nickname, The Man With All The Answers. Bilic was a Golden Boy and Croatia looked a real threat, particularly when led by Eduardo and that fantastic little pixi Luka Modric. On top of it, Eduardo, it seemed, was finding his pace in the Premier League and had begun to transfer his natural ability to picking up those scrappy goals from those impossible angles that Arsenal had lacked for as long as I can remember (editor's note: my memory is poor). Move ahead to the Arsenal match last weekend at Stoke and football loses an incredibly promising youngster. Aaron had, in his second season with Arsenal, forced himself into Arsene Wenger's first team. He was already featuring for his Welsh national side where, last fall, he scored one of the most magnificent goals I can remember. I'll be damned but I can't find the thing anywhere online. For my part, it'll end up as a true fish story - better with age. I swear he beat three defenders, letting the ball run for some 20 yards without a single touch before he converted. He's one of those players, like Cesc Fabregas or even little Jackie Wilshire, who you get excited about not because of the tools or physical attributes he possesses but because of the way he sees the game. It's the difference between an artist and a painter. They're using the same tools, the same medium yet one completes while the other soars.

To the issue, there are tackles to win the ball and there are tackles to take the body out of the play. Neither, I think, are generally malicious. No one wants to hurt someone else, or boasts and dreams of violence unless you've fully lost the plot and no longer have touch with reality. Or if you're Sir Alex Jintao and just by opening your mouth you hurt people's very soul but that's beside the point. The tackle from Shawcross was not a ball-winning tackle. It was a tackle to disrupt body and psyche in the hopes that it would influence the further outcome of the game. Like a war attrition, the man who delivers such a tackle does so in the hope and assumption that that particular space will be his later in the game. Deliver tackle. Pound chest. Pee on ground. Space. Mine. Rar.

Unfortunately, there are often consequences. And, much like punching someone in the face to take ownership of the center of the pitch, it should not be allowed.

Disagree with me if you will, and I'm quite sure many of you will, but I strongly believe an inferior team reverting to tackles like that in an effort to discover whatever small tactical edge they may is wrong. And, disagree with me if you will, but I firmly believe that there are teams that accept that as a tactical approach in an effort to salvage what is indeed a very precious point in their battle for survival in the top flight. As my counterpart Jim very rightly pointed out yesterday in our first contribution to the new Soccer Saturday radio show, the terrible injuries suffered by Arsenal players in the last four years have come against just such opposition. Sunderland, Birmingham and now Stoke. While they are teams that carry qualifications for their own part, it's certainly not as if they are school boys. They can play the game and compete to the point where they win points (trust me, it happens, take a look at the results). Still, they approach contests with Arsenal as a lumberjack approaches a tree or like Patton approached Sicily. And it's all in a clear attempt to throw the team off of their game through fear-inducing violence. Not through football.

What's wrong with this? Surely teams should be allowed anything at their disposal to try an beat their opposition. Right, but the problem for me comes when tackles that are clearly conceived to attack the body are allowed to rest at 'their disposal.'

To finally get to my point, the more officials allow players to pour in with such reckless tackles, the more likely it will be that people will continue to suffer terrible injury. And we surely need not point to further evidence that teams do indeed target Arsenal in such a way. Look, people get hurt in sport and football is a contact sport. Still, there comes a point when the degree of that contact must be measured and the officials - be they the governing bodies or the arbiters of any given match - must be prepared to put a halt to such a tactical approach when it's clear what the intent is and that the intent is well and truly there.

Now this is a big point ...

The intent is not there to hurt. That is clear. However, the intent does exist to throw in a reckless tackle that is precisely designed to disrupt rhythm and to frustrate. Disrupt and frustrate to your heart's extent, oh opposition, but we must find a way to eliminate those who attempt to disrupt and frustrate with tackles that are quite clearly reckless enough to end in a horrific injury. If you need to put 10 across the back to stop a team that "plays the ball too quickly" then by all means please do so.

And don't tell me about nostalgic hard men and hard tackles.

In the National Football League in America, there's a great lust for the "big hit". Time was, linebackers would clothesline the opposition, nearly ripping their heads off. Time was, the defensive backs would clobber wide receivers, leading with the crown of their helmets and spraying concussions all over the field. Oh, those grand old days, right? Hardly. The laws of the game have been adjusted and hits of that kind are no longer allowed. In fact they are looked down upon. A last straw that should never be clutched.

This isn't a woe is me and woe is the Arsenal thought. It happens everywhere. I'm not saying you need to take good firm tackles out of the game (and that Arsenal have themselves been guilty is beside the point here, there are no "yeah buts" in this argument, it goes both ways). What I am saying is when it is quite clear that a team is consistently flying in and through players with destructive tackles, and it is quite clear that it's not a one off incident, it is very much time that the leaders of the game stand up and say enough is enough. And yes, it is very well the point also that officials take heed in advance of such matches that this will happen. When you see a Stoke or a Blackburn line up against Arsenal or Manchester United, the official should be prepared to recognize the situation and address it as the unique entity that it is.

The approach must be stopped.

To close I'll direct you to rational and reasonable comments from Cesc Fabregas here and Abu Diaby here, who suffered just such an injury in 2006.

Somewhere between schadenfreude and indifference

2010-03-05T07:12:00.009-06:00

You might have heard the news today that Michael Owen is done for the season after a hamstring injury Sunday in the Carling Cup final. Excuse my reaction if it sounds unbecoming, but thank goodness that's over with now.

Owen and I have a somewhat unique history, seeing how he's the reason I'm a Liverpool fan. The 10-cent version of the story is that, like many Americans raised in the Upper Midwest, I came to football late. It took Fox Sports World, the lazy-days schedule of college life and an open mind to turn me on to the game. I remember it as being somewhere around 2000. Watching one game with an open mind led to watching another. Then another. When I realized I was hooked on the sport and wanted a team to follow, the only player I was really aware of was Michael Owen – thanks to France '98.

A goal like that, even before social networking, was readily available over here for anyone with an interest in sports and an ability to look at a television. It caught my eye, reminded me of how I watched the Americans' match against Brazil with my mom and grandma during USA '94, and pretty much helped create the guy banging out these thoughts right now.

Anyway, Owen and I go way back. His departure from Liverpool for greater glories was always sad, but I never held a grudge. During the Super Cup in 2005, when Cissé came on, I agreed with the Liverpool supporters in Monaco who lustily rang out with, "There's only one Michael Owen!" We wanted him back. Then Cissé ended up the man of the match, thanks to an unseen handball – these sorts of things benefit us all every now and again – and I just sort of went on with things. The Newcastle move was curious, and based on money, so Owen just kind of drifted away. His injuries were always sad, but I had the 2001 FA Cup final on the DVR for a good long while and watched his goals every few months as a pleasant reminder.

But the United move this year was too much. Look, I'm not pretending I'm the only Liverpool fan to be upset by it, but there was an extra sting in the jibes of all the United fans who looked at me and smiled as they relished in Owen playing this season in one of "their" shirts. As a fan, it sucked.

Now, at least that part of this season's fan experience is over. It's not like following Liverpool during 2009-10 has been trying or anything, right? Several weeks ago, I accepted the team's fate and that it'll be a series of grinding performances. No matter what happens – finish fourth, end up lower than that, lose 9-0 at Old Trafford, beat United with an own goal deflected off Gary Neville's crotch – Liverpool's not going to be viewed in any way this season as a beaming spotlight of hope, beauty and glory. It'll be whatever it ends up being, and then we'll all start getting silly and happy for the World Cup.

It's still unfortunate that Michael Owen is winding things down with a series of injuries. The "What if?" tag was practically created with Michael Owen's career in mind. In this case, though, I'm relieved I don't have to ask, "What if Owen scores a late goal that delivers United its 19th league title?"

It's goofy being a fan like this, – especially at my age – but this is what you sign up for. It's not really enjoyable to know Michael Owen is hurt again. I'm not going to church to light a votive candle about it either.

Match Pricks joins ESPN Radio's Soccer Saturday

2010-03-02T19:03:00.003-06:00

Both Jim and I are excited to share some good news this week.

Through the efforts of our good friends at the Milwaukee Wave, Milwaukee's indoor soccer club, we are proud to announce that we will be a part of Milwaukee's first locally produced soccer radio show, Soccer Saturday, beginning March 6. The show is scheduled to run every Saturday from 8:00 a.m. - 9:00 a.m. (CST). Listeners can tune in at 540 AM as well as via the live stream at www.espnmilwaukee.com. The show will also be available via podcast. There will be news updates and interaction with the show's host through @SoccerSat540. Full details are available in the press release.

As ever, more immediate information, thoughts, discourse and general sweet delights can be found through @MatchPricks on Twitter.

We appreciate everyone's support and feedback over the last one and a half years and we're really looking forward to all that is yet to come. Thanks for visiting and thanks for tuning in.

All Match Pricks readers are greatly appreciated.

Dr. Needles is preparing a Chelsea miracle

2010-02-25T20:43:00.006-06:00

There's nothing Jose Mourinho leaves to chance when it comes to dealing with sports media. The guy makes a calculator look improvisational. That's why this interview with Sky Sports only seems to feature Mourinho being sporting, polite and glib regarding Petr Cech's unfortunate leg injury in Chelsea's 1-2 first leg defeat at Inter in the Champions League. Give it a look:

(Editor's note: Enjoy Mourinho's black turtleneck, but don't let it overcome you. Yes, it's silly while being suave, but you'll miss his cunning genius if you get too wrapped up in it.)

See how he sneaks that "Doctor Needles" reference in there? You probably thought, "Something's not right about this Dr. Needles." Yes, Mourinho sounds so hopeful about Cech playing in the return leg. He comes across as such a sportsman. "Of course I think Cech could play. I don't listen to those reports that he's out for a month or more. Doctor Needles can probably get him healthy enough to play – and play well!" And he says it with a wry smile that tells you he knows something about what Chelsea can do for injured players. And why shouldn't he? He knows – and he knows you know he knows – Chelsea and all those guys in that locker room.

But Mourinho's charming little nod to his past there is so much more than that. Yeah, he knows Cech's gimpy calf muscle or whatever it is probably will keep the top-notch keeper out of the next match. But Mourinho also knows about Dr. Needles. Oh, Needles isn't his Christian name. No, it's just a moniker. Mourinho's allusion to "Dr. Needles" is in the sly "wink, wink, nudge, nudge" fashion of all the great subtext purveyors of the management tradition. Mourinho wants everyone to fully understand, you see, that Chelsea has this illegal doctor running around like a wild man, shooting up the injured and fatigued Chelsea players with all kinds of Russian god-knows-what. If Inter somehow survive the match at Stamford Bridge, he'll probably grant Sky another interview in which he casually jokes about a night out in Moscow with Dr. Needles before the Champions League final. Mourinho was there to see some old friends, and, well, Dr. Needles was working on a new treatment for John Terry's mild case of vertigo that was affecting the team captain's balance and ability to stay upright. It was a spirited night of conversation.

If Inter are eliminated, he might just come out and tell the truth: that he saw Dr. Needles in the tunnel before the match injecting Michael Ballack with some sort of glowing green liquid inside a syringe the size of Big Ben.

Who exactly is this Dr. Needles? Who knows? A News of the World investigation might uncover some sort of tenuous, poorly sourced connection to an East German KGB outpost where Putin frequently "lunched" during the old days. It's immaterial, really. Mourinho doesn't care who Dr. Needles is. Mourinho just wants you to know that Dr. Needles is out there. He has to be! Chelsea needs his expertise.

Of course, Mourinho might add some day, Dr. Needles' methods recently have been questioned by some of the players. Or at least that's what he hears through the "Bluesvine" of Chelsea contacts he keeps. The players don't seem to have that extra flit and zip in their step after Dr. Needles' treatments like he remembers them having.

The Poles and the Germans

2010-02-21T01:26:00.003-06:00

In Milwaukee, it's impossible to be a lover of the football and someone who doesn't care for or appreciate the Polish. I (Colin) quite often feel like the only person in Milwaukee who isn't of Polish descent.

So, in short, our good friend, Kuba, from Poland and firmly entrenched in America, tells me tonight, as we're watching the 2006 World Cup highlights DVD (under the influence though we may be) that Michael Ballack ....

"Was born 13 kilometers from the Polish border..."

"That's all I know so far ... that's all the media has given me."

How I could just kill a man

2010-02-20T07:29:00.004-06:00

(Editor's Note: Match Pricks does not condone violence in any way; emotional, physical or otherwise. In fact quite the opposite, the Arsenal half at least, as you might assume, is quite the idealistic pacifist. No surprise there really. Right, on to it then ... )

I'm avoiding the temptation to translate the entire Cyprus Hill song to reflect the state of things. That's not my point here. My point is that I saw taking a man's life as a viable alternative to inducing an unwarranted pain. Perhaps Dr. Kevorkian was onto something. Perhaps football teams should employ their own version of Dr. Kevorkian.

Scene:

It's no news; that damned ocean of ours makes watching football awfully difficult in America. It's especially difficult when the Champions League rears its head and those blasted jobs we hold down demand our presence (physical, emotional or otherwise). 9 times out of 10, I'll record the match, go on a massive media blackout (easy in the States, but more difficult than it was even two years ago as the profile of football continues to rise, both among the public and the media alike) and watch it "as if it was live" from the comfort of my recliner at home at the end of the day. All the while likely sending my neighbors into fits of concern at the shouting of either frustration or elation. And so I go on my merry way most nights. This week, however, I was summoned months in advance of the scheduling of Arsenal's Round of 16 tie at Porto to see my musical dream girl, St. Vincent.

(Do watch this, it's quite incredible.)

My task, then, was set to continue the blackout well past a steeled focus on the last three hours of the work day and then the six to seven minute drive home, skirting around my football pub in case the celebration happened to pour out in the street, as can tend to happen on such nights. It's a straight shot with an easy adjustment. Before I know it, I'm safe at home in my garage. I'll scurry into the house, prep a little dinner in the calm and football news free warmth of my home (the mobile phone will, of course, have been turned off long before I would have reached this point). And, finally, I'll settle in to watch the match with what I rightfully presume will be a face painted with a wide grin. Recall the post from after the United match ... I bought the ticket, I'm taking the ride. Entertain me, dammit.

That's the routine as it normally stands. With the delightfully charming Ms. Annie Clark performing as St. Vincent, however, my media blackout would see me brave a crowd of hipster kids counting in the hundreds (400 perhaps). Surely the hipster youth of today would be chattering away about the result, yeah? Ever eager as they must be to embrace something new, something different. Something you don't embrace. That was my fleeting assumption. It passed within minutes though as I realized those same hipster youth were more than likely the ones who would mindlessly churn out tales of their staunch support of Chelsea since way back in January. That concern, I felt, could be easily avoided. As I couldn't imagine running into anyone I knew from the football circles of my life at the show, the next hurdle I had to consider was the ever dodgy enemy of the football fan in America (or anywhere outside of the European continent for that matter) ... time. That ruthless little devil. Oh time, the reason I can never seem to catch up on sleep over a weekend. It's the reason I'm up again before 7:00 a.m. this morning to watch Manchester United vs. Everton (in HD!) and write this blog.

I knew the challenge ... make it through the work day, make it through a crowd of some hundreds, avoid contact with anyone I knew beyond the company I had at hand (complicit and understanding of my addiction) and simply make it home to enjoy my Arsenal in blissful ignorance ... sometime around 11:00 p.m.

And then it happened.

As I left the venue at the end of the how, soaked in joy and convinced as I was that St. Vincent would end her life on the road, pick up drinking heavily in football pubs and move to Milwaukee because she couldn't possibly be apart from the fellow with the sparkling eyes and flowing hair (ahem) standing about eight people deep in the dead center (right, the one who loved to spin run-on sentences), I ran into an Arsenal supporter I hadn't seen in months and a loud, if not wonderfully affable United supporter. Wonderful people, the both of them but both clearly prepared to talk about what had happened earlier in the day, thus disrupting my entire time traveling pursuit. Without a second's hesitation, I clamped down with alarm, shouting and waving my arms that they were not to give me even a subtle hint of what may or may not have happened. I'd made it this far, 11:00 p.m., and I didn't want to taint my viewing experience in any way. They both understood the situation. Still, they both moved ahead with the all too real joke that people were throwing things at the television. I shouldn't watch, they said. The second half was among the worst things you could see, they said. We're helping you, they implored. Still, they reeked of jokes. Kidding, they must've been.

Oh, how wrong I was.

I made it home and struggled through the match. It was laced with more sighs and eye rolls of disgust than I can remember from a football match in some stretch of time. Arsenal were poor on many levels. And I was left to stumble to bed at 1:00 a.m. in the morning, having not followed the advice of my friends. I was, for the first time in a long time, genuinely upset that I watched a football match. Even the terrible errors and lack of concentration that led to the defeats against Chelsea and Manchester United in recent weeks didn't leave me so disappointed in the performance.

It was in that hopeless state of mind that, late on Thursday, a friend informed me that he had just run into an Arsenal supporter in his office. That person, it turns out, had successfully put time at a standstill for more than 24 hours. He still, even at that late hour, knew nothing of the eventual outcome of the Arsenal vs. Porto match. He was eager, as was I the evening before, to settle down and enjoy the Champions League venture later that night. I am, as a rule, a staunch defender of people's rights when it comes to the media blackout to enjoy their football.

But I felt I must act. My gut reaction was a reply that was well-reasoned, it seemed ... just. Even for a pacifist.

"Kill him. Now. Don't hesitate. Just end his life right here and now. End it all. No man should have to go through ... that."

Choose Your Own Adventure Football: My Imagination at Work

2010-02-16T18:39:00.005-06:00

Personal circumstances have forced my weekday football experiences into a new format in 2010. Working on the night desk at a newspaper was ideal for catching the Champions League and other matches before heading off for the daily grind, but I had to sacrifice that for a more stable life with more-than-fair compensation. Overall, it's a fair trade, but now anything that happens over there, six hours ahead of me, is reduced to Guardian MBMs and Soccernet graphics and commentary. It lets the imagination go wild. Without all that messy actual action to follow, I end up thinking a little bit more about things while I wait for somebody in front of a computer over there – or over wherever "they" are – to type out a few more bits of words to satisfy my fix.

That's why today I really started dwelling on Wayne Rooney and the World Cup. On any other day, I'd prefer to curse Rooney under my Liverpool-lovin' breath. Yeah, yeah, he's great. Form of his life. Unstoppable of late. Now leave me be while I study – again – City's fixture list and resume hoping Spurs and Villa just kind of peter out during the last few matches.

But today was different. I sensed it every single time Rob Smyth popped in with plaudits for Ronaldinho that yielded no further Milan goals. "They're going to regret screwing that up," I thought. Every failed Milan attempt only made it more certain. That Rooney would be the one to ultimately snuff Milan hopes was practically a given.

It's what makes hoping Rooney can remain healthy and in form for the World Cup all the more exciting. I hope he's not tired or recovering from injury or distracted or anything. It'd be really great to see what totally unleashed, Rancor-level Rooney could do at the World Cup. The only countries I actively cheer against are Mexico and Germany, so in the end, I just want to see the best players doing their best without any unfair or unfortunately timed roadblocks/distractions. Oh, I hate the holy living bejeezus out of Portugal, too, but that's neither here nor there for now.

Look, I know the Rancor ended up getting a massive steel door dropped directly through the back of his neck, but just go with me on the Jedi reference here. In my eyes, Rooney on this form presents the kind of threat that Luke Skywalker faced in those first couple of seconds after the gate opened and the Rancor stomped out and roared. "What do I do? How do I counter this? This thing could snap my life force into nonexistence in less than 5 seconds." That's Rooney in the World Cup to me – if he's not hurt or distracted by anything.

If no part of him breaks before the World Cup, I'm fearful for my English friends over there. They're going to have a really hard time being self-loathing and full of expectations of failure for their Three Lions. It's what allows them to rationalize their deep-seeded belief that maybe, just maybe, this could be the year for England. If Rooney isn't hurt – and he stays on this kind of form – going into that World Cup, the English defense mechanisms will be useless. They're just going to have to accept the nature of this whole thing. They'll have to know that, above all else, they'd cut off an arm or two to see England win the World Cup. They want to believe it's going to happen. Healthy Rooney is ready to take over that whole damn country. He's got me feeling a little tingly inside just imagining it.

It's now or never. Rooney at his absolute peak. The possibilities are so thrilling.

Naturally, expect Mascherano to break his ankle on March 21. C'est la vie.

But let's hope for the best-possible outcome. Hope that Rooney stays healthy and on form. What's the counter for Rancor Rooney? Does Vicente del Bosque conjure some sort of Puyol strategy that also includes a double-backing Xabi Alonso, thereby figuratively re-creating on the pitches of South Africa Luke's throw-skull-to-smash-gate-controls maneuver, leading to some kind of Rooney stifling that produces a red card/giant crushing gate through his neck? Or will del Bosque continue to haunt only me, like he did this week by openly wishing in the News of the World that Torres play as few matches for Liverpool as is physically possible before the World Cup. I join all Liverpool supporters, I'm sure, in cherishing del Bosque and his desire to openly and publicly hope Torres plays as little for Liverpool over the next four months as is physically possible.

What is it with these guys who manage Spain? Aragones was a racist and del Bosque is a prick. I bet the next guy will beat his wife, and the guy after that will end up pouring urine on the ballboys.

My personal duel with del Bosque aside, I'm caught up in the possibilities of Rooney at the World Cup. I'm a second-generation American and identify with this country first and above all else. Yeah, there's that little matter of June 12 against England, but I get giddy and a little silly at the thought of a truly thrilling World Cup. There's too few of these things in our lives to hope for anything else. Rooney, at this point in his career and in this form, just has to be healthy for South Africa 2010 to maximize all its possible storylines. I want to see what he can really do out there.

And you do, too.

Match Pricks live blog returns from out of nowhere ... and into?

2010-02-13T06:21:00.000-06:00

Match Pricks spends a quiet Saturday on the South Coast

2010-02-13T06:18:00.001-06:00

We've temporarily forgotten how to use the Internet. We'll have it straightened it out for Pompey-Saints in 12 minutes.

Patience please

2010-02-13T06:03:00.003-06:00

We are going to do this. Just needed a few minutes to figure out a couple last things.

Coming soon!

Chelsea-Cardiff!!!

Pompey-Saints!!!!!!

Occassionally jokes, too!

Drogba already scored. Goodness.

You oughta be in pictures

2010-02-10T08:00:00.003-06:00

Thankfully he is. This fellow deserves so much more than the world is prepared to give him right now. Never mind the irony of the other supporters calling for a Fit and Proper Test for whomever it is that actually lays claim to Portsmouth Football Club at the moment.

I've always tended to try to evade the business side of the game, instead focusing on the results and the joy and all that. But dios mios, the face on this poor fellow (actually surprised I don't know his name, shouldn't I know his name?).

There's a wide soft spot in my heart for Portsmouth. Only slightly because they extended the careers of Lauren and Kanu, both ex-of Arsenal with the former being a personal favourite. Beyond that, I mean have you watched a game (albeit on the television) at Fratton Park!? You almost want to reach out and pinch its cheeks. And I do have one great memory of that place that just bubbles up the respect whenever I think of it. Arsenal were playing Pompey in the FA Cup. I want to say it was the 5th Round, about 8 years ago. Arsenal were very much in their full pomp and led 5-nil at the start of the second half (as memory serves). Those supporters, bless their gigantic hearts, banged their drums, jangled their bells and sang the theme from The Great Escape (this video will give you a small idea of what I'm talking about if you don't follow) through the entire 45 minutes of the second half. I particularly remember the way the Arsenal players hung back after the whistle to applaud not only their own traveling supporters but the home Portsmouth supporters who put in such an incredible display to embrace, enjoy and exalt football for all of its beauty, joy, flaws and heartbreak. It warmed the heart and was just such a wonderful glimpse into the soul of The Football Supporter. No hubris here, folks. Just people who love football.

Would someone please get this supporter a respectable man or woman to buy his football club?

We love our despotic world leaders

2010-02-07T20:36:00.010-06:00

Ring the bells! It's a Match Pricks Caption Contest! Why? Why the hell not. And besides, assigning absurd personalities to goofy world leaders is fun. Especially when you link them to football.

As our longtime readers know (heh, that was kind of ridiculous), we love to take pot shots at the 'leaders of the world'. Most of it stems from the Beijing Olympics.

There was this fabulous shot in the stands of former President George W. Bush in the

stands with his wife Laura, demure as ever. Ol' George was on the homestretch of his, ah, administration, and was ready to let loose a little. That tie of his was looser than the brush he loved clearing away back in ol' Texas. Those sleeves of his were rolled so hastily us Match Pricks were convinced Joachim Loew's official Sleeve Roller must've been unavailable. (yeah, that was a stretch, whatever, I wanted to work it in)

So there he was, watching China versus the United States in hoops. Someone on the American team posterized Yao Ming and ol' George reflexively leans clear across Laura, who froze with a look of horror, as ol' George pointed right in the face of the Chinese official sitting just to their left. Now, realize some assumptions were made for the sake of entertaining discourse as we were watching that game. Among them,

The Chinese official must have been Chinese President Hu Jintao.
What United States of America President George W. Bush actually said to Hu Jintao was "Ha! In your face, Jintao! Take that you dirty little red!"

Again, they were assumptions. People forget how things were so long ago. I think, given the tone of the times, they were safe assumptions.

At any rate, that was right around the creation of Match Pricks. One thing led to another and we ended up sticking it to Jintao, Putin and the rest straight on through. One fellow who didn't fall into our crosshairs too often, though he certainly deserves it, is ol' Ahmadinejad. Well, step right up, buddy. I'm gonna go ahead and enter this picture, plucked from The Telegraph, for some reckoning.

I'd love to hear your own captions for this masterpiece. So please, let 'er rip in the comments. We'll pull together a listing of the best. The possibilities are endless. No prizes save an ego boost and even more adoration from us.

I'll start.

"Huh? I can get Pompey for how much?"

The team that wasn't there

2010-02-04T13:35:00.006-06:00

(Editor's note: Colin and I really are trying to rediscover our Match Pricks efforts. We're not happy about the lack of posts, and we hope to keep consistent with our attempts to throw new thoughts out here. Here is the entirety of an e-mail I sent Colin earlier today. One of the things we've found is that our e-mails to each other or Saturday morning conversations between matches essentially capture all the fun and spirit of what we've always wanted to do with Match Pricks. Rather than recognize that and fail to change our habits, here's an attempt to translate those exchanges into our wider forum. My thoughts below represent the entirety of an e-mail I sent Colin this morning after I read the latest Portsmouth story at the Guardian.)

Not sure how closely you're following this Portsmouth thing. I just read the full story of the latest development. Remember I mentioned last week how the owner of the team possibly has never been photographed? They legitimately couldn't find a picture of the guy, even after a few months of him owning the team. Anyway, that guy, something-something Faraj, no longer owns the team. This Hong Kong guy who basically financed Faraj's takeover called in his markers, and now Hong Kong guy owns the team. But the story has all these wacko details about this Faraj guy. I'm starting to think Faraj has never existed. It's a real-life Carlos the Jackal thing. The guy is a Saudi Arabian businessman who borrowed £17 million from this Hong Kong guy so he could take over Portsmouth. The Hong Kong guy never met Faraj, never saw him face to face, and despite Faraj owing £17 million to Hong Kong guy, Faraj never agreed to meet and discuss paying back that money. So Hong Kong guy just took over the team in a kind of, "Well, our contract says I get the team if he doesn't make payments, and he's not even trying to make payments, so ..."

But this Faraj, I mean, dios mio! He NEVER visited Portsmouth at any point from being interested in the team, taking it over and actually being the owner. Not once. His lawyer, who is friggin' speaking for him in the papers about all this – HAS NEVER MET HIM! The guy's personal lawyer has never met him!

It's just astonishing. They've had four owners in less than a year, the team's official website went down because the IT hosting company didn't get paid, the players and employees get their salaries days and weeks after they're supposed to. And the killer is there's just this trail of debt that gets added on. One of the previous owners is owed £28 million – by the club. Somehow, this guy who couldn't afford to run Portsmouth and had to sell the team is owed £28 million by the team.

And then, the icing on the cake, they beat Liverpool 2-0 in December. It's like losing to a team that doesn't even exist.

The kid who tried too hard

2010-02-01T19:00:00.003-06:00

The kid who tried too hard to be cool. To be accepted. To be a part of the pack. The kid who had to walk at double-time just to keep up, even though he knew he wouldn't be talked to or included. Even though he knew he wasn't much more than a patsy. To call him a tag-along would be kind. It implies that he was welcome to be a part of the pack, even if it was just as a satellite.

Mmmm (and if you recall from last year, that's the "mmmm" of dulled acceptance, not of something delicious .... like booze).

I enjoy watching football because I think it's an artist's game. I grew up watching hockey, idolizing Wayne Gretzky and struggling to stay awake to see his Edmonton Oilers win Stanley Cup after Stanley Cup in the far reaches of Alberta while my 7 year old eyes tried their best to close. I enjoyed the shifting nature of the positions, the speed, the ability to see three passes ahead and the patience to do what is necessary to get to that final pass. More than just a pass, I embrace the movement that it takes to evolve what you see ... to ameliorate what is presented to you. To evolve how the pieces are set on that table. If you pass it there fine ... but what if you also move over here ... what will happen? How will that change the dynamics of what we're watching? How will it lead your teammates, extensions of yourself, to the right destination? Do they see what you see? Will they recognize the work that needs to be done or will they try to skip ahead? Will they fancy themselves too much and force a move from step one to step three ... or most ineffectually ... just try a round-about straight to the end?

That's why I watched hockey growing up (along with having a father who played the game professionally, but that's beside the point). That's why I so embraced Wayne Gretzky. He plotted the course with each movement. He plotted the course for the others, teammates and opposition alike, without them even knowing it. Gretzky retired from the game in 1999 and I was already falling out of love with it. The players got bigger. The movement more urgent. It was like a college placement exam with the time cut in half. I like things you can ponder.

That's one of the reasons my spirit of sporting idolatry passed to Zinedine Zidane. Watching him play is like witnessing a miracle. You want to talk about knowing the steps ahead of time? Here's your man. To say he conducted the game would be an understatement. He didn't just play. What he was doing was executing something he already written, something he already conceived.

While I'm inclined to say that's all beside the point, fact is it's directly to the point. While I enjoy settling down to watch my football unfold, and trust that the team I support sees it as I do, there are times when the tension makes it slightly unbearable. You want it to be, you tell yourself it will be ... fun. And it is. Awfully fun. Except ...

Except when they lose the plot completely. When they are completely unrecognizable there's not much you can do as a supporter but throw your hands up in the air. And that's the nut of this torturous existence we all lead as football supporters.

Quick sidebar: I heard/read (can't remember which) recently a comment about college sports in America. You buy the ticket, you take the ride. People sign up for that winning feeling. They go to a 'big school' because they want the guarantee of more fun weekends and wins than of sulking losses that are meaningless. When it comes to football ... I'm not signing up for a particular feeling each weekend. I'm signing up for an understanding. I expect and understand that my team will play the way I see the game. The way I identify with it (and yes, I've fully explored the notion of what will happen to me should Arsene Wenger even retire and I have to settle for something ... less). I turn to it because I expect to see an artful evolution, because when I dream about the game, I dream about how the players will come together to express a series of moves that lead to the inevitable. Step 1. Step 2. Step 3. Step 4. Step 5. Step 6. And every little movement in between.

I often joke about how a team needn't really score a goal. The goal just ruins everything. It brings an end to the proceedings ... to the creation of it all. A goal brings an end to the creation and a trophy just inserts gnawing tension where we'd otherwise have football as a altruistic art form. After all, no one wins at the ballet, do they? It's just ... appreciated.

That's all a long way of explaining that I didn't get to enjoy the Arsenal game on Sunday as they were battered by Manchester United. It happens. Losing you can accept. To say it again, buy the ticket, take the ride. It's appropriate though. I bought a ticket, dammit, and I didn't get to take the ride I signed-up for.

Arsenal shrugged off everything they stand for. They tried to make one pass do the work of four. Football is awfully geometric. That's nothing new. But a triangle, obtuse as it may be, takes three points. You plot one with a pass, then you need to stretch the pivot to a new spot, or you need to know ahead of time that someone else is in the know as you are and that they'll fill the place and allow that angle to come to life. It takes an awful lot of lateral movement and you need to ponder what you're doing. You can't race along like a bat out of hell and hope all the brilliance will just come.

It was all absent on Sunday. They didn't play their game. They didn't play my game. The one I expect to see. The one I bought the ticket for. Instead, they played like the kids struggling to keep up. The ones who were too eager to impress the cool kids. They were too damn eager to pretend they belonged that they gave nary a thought to the fact that they actually do have the credentials to be there on their own merit. Dammit (just for good measure).

When you're cool enough to be at the party, there comes a point when you don't have to keep telling people. They just know. And it's when you just be yourself.

Dammit.

A sad day

2010-01-26T08:00:00.003-06:00

Just because I needed a giggle this morning, I was plucking along through the vast Match Pricks archives looking for that little gem that linked to the uncensored audio file of Match Pricks' favourite, Joe Kinnear and his phenomenal rant from about 16 months ago.

Yet, to my SHOCK! and HORROR! Any traces of the audio file seem to have withered away. Sure, about three more minutes of research and I might've been able to come up with it, but you don't read Match Pricks for research and we both know it.

At least we'll always have the transcript.

Politics aside, I enjoy a well crafted and well delivered speech. As such, I've had President Obama's nomination acceptance speech pinned up on the wall in my office at work. I might slap this puppy right alongside it.

Give it a read. And smile.

Just because.

2010: The year I quit smoking and/or support Lucas

2009-12-30T09:39:00.004-06:00

As you can see, I'm really going for it with my New Year's resolutions this time around. It's going to be a hard dollar to do the double, but the time has come to go for it. I'm in an ambitious mood after yesterday's Torres (late, late, late) winner at Villa Park.

Adding to all this is over the last couple days of my holiday vacation, I've been watching bits and pieces of Liverpool 2 - United 0 from October. First, it was just for the nostalgia of a consistent Liverpool performance. Then today – to be more precise, five minutes ago – I finished watching the last half hour plus stoppage time. Golly that was fun. Other than the simple thrill of the victory, repeat viewings of it keep leading me to see that match as the last great marauding show of defiance from Jaime Carragher. He had somewhere between 20 and 4,357 headed clearances in the match. I'm not sure about the exact number, but it seems closer to the latter number the more I watch that performance. Age will take him sooner than later – as it will for all of us – so let's appreciate things while we can.

That brings me back to the resolutions. I've got my Liverpool moaning out of the way, as you can read in this post, where I all but hump an 8" x 10" glossy photo of Xabi Alonso. That's OK. Sometimes reactions like that are unavoidable, particularly after losing to Portsmouth in this of all seasons. From this point forward, it's time to appreciate what I have.

So Lucas, you're in luck in 2010. RJ Reynolds, not so much. There's 18 matches left in Liverpool's season, and the team is four points out of fourth. That's the goal now, and there probably isn't a "Jim kvetching" level I can reach that will affect whether Liverpool finishes there or lower, which is why I'm throwing my support to you, Lucas. I was irrationally harsh toward you at the start of 2009, and I'm going in the other direction to end the year. It's not your fault the term "favorite son" is an understated way of describing how Rafa treats you. Lately, I've come to appreciate your more subtle gifts, such as how you play well against United – which always counts for a lot in our world – and you've shown a gift for falling down when slightly challenged outside the box in a way that consistently convinces the referee just enough that there's been a foul committed.

See, we're off to a good start.

The whole coming year feels like a countdown. We're 162 days from the World Cup. We're however many days from this potentially life-altering, paradigm-shifting, future-wrecking, Leeds-inducing change in the course of Liverpool Football Club. And on July 5, 2010, all of the city of Milwaukee goes smoke free. Many of my friends, along with my Match Pricks co-writer Colin, cannot wait for that ban to take effect. I've come to accept it and realize people I care about want it to happen now, though they're just glad it will become law soon. Plus, it's as good an incentive as you can find to get on with dropping the habit. It's going to be odd handling my typical match day nervousness when it's 0-0 in the 86th minute and I can't chase my shot and a beer with the full, rich taste of a delicious cigarette. Then again, it would be much more difficult to handle those moments next season with Torres playing for Barcelona, so there's no point in worrying about my own struggles while watching these things transpire.

I got your back, Lucas. After all, if things don't go well, maybe Liverpool won't even be able to entice you back for another year. I don't want to live in a world where your blond pompadour isn't adorned in red. Kick some ass in 2010, buddy.

Would you calm down already!?

2009-12-29T09:22:00.003-06:00

Goodness me. You'd think the trains stopped going to the Emirates and Arsenal were crashing into 13th place.

Allow me to offer a brief preface as I get my ankles wet here. And by the way, yeah, I know ... far too many prefaces given the fantastically sporadic nature of Match Pricks in the last several months. It's like each post needs a mea culpa. He pleads, with his hands up and a knowing if not utterly regretful sideways grin etched across his face, "look, I know, you know, we all know, alright? But hey, it's a start. Gotta get the, what do you call it? Momentum, yeah, momentum, going again somehow or another, don't you?" I don't have a lot to say here this morning. This isn't a treatise that I've been munching on and outlining for days and hours on end. But it's a start. And it's better than nothing, which is, frankly, just about all you've gotten ... save some micro-blogging via the Match Pricks Twitter feed.

Here's the situation ...

Cesc Fabregas, Arsenal's still very young captain, has rounded the corner and is clearly pulling away from the pack. Even considering the substantial amount of time he missed last season, he jumped into the '09 - '10 season with bold vigor and a clear statement for all to recognize - that he is vaulting himself into the conversation as one of the very best in the world. For years, everyone recognized his talent and potential. Yet, to be very honest, I for one was beginning to tap the counter with hidden utterances that followed along the lines of, "ok, Cesc, let's see it then ... start winning games ... " And no, I'm not mad.

But he's been doing just that, winning games. He's been turning games, changing them, adding the all important element of 'exerting his will.' Cesc gathers possession near the center circle and the opposition just about shits themselves. His passing makes the masses groan with adoration as well as the passing hope of 'would you look at that, it's so simple,' and he's got a helluva Street Clothes wardrobe.

Of course, for evidence we need look no further than his display against Aston Villa in what was not only a massive game, it was a game that needed a statement. And he made it.

Cesc is undoubtedly important for the Arsenal's title hopes this season. The team is not simply poised to launch an attack on Chelsea and United for the top two or for the title. They are making an attack for the title. They have been all year. It is not a shock assault for the title. It is not the whispered hope of a bunch of kids oozing with inexperience. This team has been together for many years now. They have been together for many big games ... home, away, in Europe, far from home, in derbies, in rain, sleet and snow, in front of 60,000 and in front of 20,000. They have been tested and they have had answers.

They have lost four matches this season. Sunderland came after an international break and they 'just weren't up for it.' Granted that is an excuse that no longer cuts the mustard when pushing for a title, but it's the situation. Chelsea and Manchester City socked them and socked them good. If there's such a thing as a bogey team(s), they fit it at the moment. It's a hurdle, psychological in the case of City I think, and clearly physical in the case of Chelsea. As for the champions, Manchester United? I may catch some heat for this but we played them off the park at Old Trafford for the majority of the proceedings. Losing that match was a clear case of, 'well, that's football, isn't it?' So as it stands they are five points back of the leaders and hold a game in hand. Not bad, eh? That could well be called, 'right in the thick of it.'

But all that is beside the point. Just a quick glance at the records and the table to show that yeah, Arsenal are in it ... not as darkhorses but as legitimate candidates for the title and they should be recognized as such.

What's making me lurch over the last couple of days is that apparently the final chapter in Arsenal's title assault is being written as we speak. Somewhere in London, Cesc Fabregas, the young man who is performing so brilliantly and is so brilliantly leading the way to what will - either way - be a thrilling April and May, is climbing onto a table to receive a scan on his injured hamstring upon which the fate of the entire team hangs.

You see, after a downright moving first half against Burnley on December 16, Cesc limped off with a bit of niggle in his hamstring. He missed the 3-nil win over Hull that weekend and would only feature on the bench against Villa. All week he was noted as 50/50 to play. Would he have made a difference were he to play? Surely. If he didn't feature, might the Arsenal have found a way to win? Quite possibly yes, the match was very much in the balance, wasn't it? Arsene Wenger, in his stunning and sterling wisdom (that I will never question, no siree), brought him on in the second half. Cesc scored two stunning goals to pave the way to the win. One from an unlikely free kick (he's never been particularly strong in that department) and the second from a gut-busting (and apparently hamstring-busting *cymbal clash*) run and a delightfully gilded pass from Theo Walcott. Sure enough, Cesc limped off with the hamstring barking at him and the game wrapped up for his team. A world-beater performance. A best-in-class performance. A performance that could well cost the team but with such massive points on the table to be picked up against a worthy challenger it was a risk worth taking.

Immediately following the match, Arsene supposed that AT WORST Cesc could miss three weeks. Three weeks, people. That covers Pompey, West Ham in the FA Cup, Everton and Bolton. And now we get passages like this from the article in the Times that I linked to above:

Arsene Wenger, the Arsenal manager, predicted a worst-case scenario of “three weeks” out for the midfield player, an absence that would seriously hamper the team’s pursuit of Chelsea and Manchester United at the top of the league.

And we get headlines like this:

Arsenal braced for the worst with Cesc Fabregas set to undergo injury scan

Look, I never expect any level of level-headed self-restraint from the media, much less the football media (bless their little hearts). Still, the man will be fine. Arsenal will be fine. Cesc missing a couple of games will by no means whatsoever derail Arsenal's fine season. In fact, it'll be good to get Diaby, Ramsey or Denilson a little more time and a little more responsibility.

Occam's Razor, Jesus Christ and my treasured Sidney Moncrief 'Sir Sid' poster

2009-12-20T08:34:00.009-06:00

Yes, after two-plus months of inactivity, my return to actual writing – not tweeting! – at Match Pricks is going to be a fan's lament about Liverpool. However, I can offer you a 100 percent money back guarantee that you are not going to come across one similar to this – at least in execution. It'll be like scrolling through one man's private journal, only any sexual allusions that somehow end up in this will be more comical than you might expect.

I have spent a good deal of time during the past two or three months thinking about why I can't seem to piece together long-form (i.e., more than 140 characters) football thoughts here at Match Pricks – enough time, actually, to probably write four or five fun and somewhat-interesting posts. It's been a good deal of wasted energy thinking about football, and I've definitely overthought it. After all, I'm the Liverpool guy here, and there's little else to do when you have a massive football obsession but your team is currently specializing in conceding stoppage-time winners and equalizers, own goals and whatever that was yesterday at Portsmouth.

I could've written a dozen posts about the team's injuries. There also is fodder for the strategic approach: breaking down Glen Johnson's forward style at fullback; breaking down how Glen Johnson's defense is always breaking down; the sudden, unexpected demise of Jamie Carragher (minus the United match); and, of course, The Aquilani Conundrum™.

Look, nobody cares what I think the reason(s) might be for Liverpool spray painting the word "SUCK" all over English top-flight football grounds (and the one in Florence, too). But I do want to shout out a simple reason for my own unique pain. It's the simplest answer available: I miss Xabi Alonso. Not, "I wish Alonso was still there." Not, "The team was better with Alonso" or "They failed to replace Alonso." I miss Xabi Alonso.

I didn't work as a newspaper reporter and editor for 7 1/2 years because scientific theory and mathematics were my specialty, so until recently I never understood what Occam's Razor represented. In thinking more philosophically in my old age, I came to realize the easiest answer or possible solution to something was also the easiest one to defend and explain a situation. Of course, a few weeks back I stumbled across Occam's Razor in the dictionary. (There's the sentence you'll never see in any other Liverpool fan's lament.) Well, I started thinking really hard again, but in a much more clean, productive way.

Ultimately, this is an irrational hobby I've dedicated myself to enjoying. There's a million ways to explain it and also no ways to explain it. I could give you five hours of one-sided conversation about why I love Liverpool and football in general, but sometimes it comes down to "I miss Xabi Alonso." Last year, it came down to "I worship Xabi Alonso! He's a footballing genius!" In 2005 it was, "Way to finish off Juve, Xabi!" There's two moments lately that have kept popping into my head, both innocuous but unforgettable. In the Carling Cup at Tottenham last season – a match in which Philipp Degen etched his name on the "Rafa Benitez failed transfers" granite tablets alongside that of Dossena, Voronin, Pennant and the others – Alonso came on as a second-half substitute. Previously, Liverpool had looked even worse than their most-abysmal performances from this season. He suddenly calmed all of the action around him. Things slowed down but didn't become ponderous. Liverpool took a deep breath and the team's play became coherent. They had been losing something like 3-0 or 4-1, and if I'm remembering correctly, they actually got within a goal and briefly threatened to make a game of it. The transformation in the entire team's play was what was unforgettable – and not a coincidence.

The other moment was at Portsmouth last season, a match Liverpool trailed 0-1 and then 1-2 with only a few minutes left. Again, Alonso was a second-half substitute. The action at the end was quite frantic and Liverpool was desperate for possession to create their winning chances. There was a scramble for the ball in the Portsmouth half along the right side, about 35 or 40 yards away from goal. Four or five players spent several seconds fighting for it. Alonso put a foot in and flicked the ball over his head into free space – which he didn't glance to see was available – then turned to control it, assessed his options and restarted the Liverpool attack. Watching it at my friend's place, I gasped. We shared a quick moment muttering something like, "F***ing genius," and then we went back to the match.

Now, that's an ephemeral quality that's impossible to fully convey the emotion of seeing, so your impression of my brief description there might be underwhelming. But I'll never forget it. Never.

That's why this week Colin and I had an email exchange that brought all of this together. It was the very first thing that popped into my head when I read a short note from Colin about a Mascherano transfer rumor. Here it is:

"One of these days, I'm just going to have this "born-again" moment. Only instead of finding Jesus, this figurative dark shroud is going to be lifted from around my head and all the truths of Liverpool without Alonso will be revealed to me in a soul-shattering epiphany that leaves me weeping uncontrollably on my knees in the middle of the bar at 9:21 a.m. on a Saturday.

"What I'm getting at is, I miss Xabi Alonso."

Other than the moment actually happening at my desk in the middle of the afternoon, everything else there is true – well, I didn't weep on my knees, but you get the idea. It sounds ridiculous and absurd, but it's how I'm viewing my Liverpool fandom at this moment. At a Christmas gathering yesterday, during a conversation about traveling to Spain, I mentioned how I want to go to San Sebastián. Of course it's because that's Alonso's hometown! I want to see Real Sociedad play a home match. I want to just walk around there and enjoy the experience, the whole time knowing in the back of my mind that this is the place that gave birth to Xabi Alonso, my favorite player of all time. The midfielder who revealed the secrets of football passing, tempo and control to me as a latecomer to the experience that is the best-possible way to kill two hours during any day.

It's an idealistic, childish way to look at something I take so seriously. It's also goofy and a little weird. Yeah, so?

Whatever your reasons for following a sport might be, fun has to be in there. Are you having fun? Is this a fun thing to do? Did I consider the previous two hours a fun experience? You want to answer "Yes" to those questions as often as possible. And you want to do it as simply as possible. It's why I wish I still had my Sidney Moncrief "Sir Sid" poster from when I was a boy. Surprisingly, I can't find it on the Web to post here. It's a crazy, "only in the '80s" sort of sports hero worship. Milwaukee Bucks guard Sidney Moncrief, dressed in his uniform and holding a basketball, posing with a full suit of armor. I had it as a boy, and in college we tracked down one of them to re-live the joy of it.

Now I'm going to be 33 years old in a week and a half, and I'm searching for my current version of the "Sir Sid" poster. I had it every time Alonso stood on the ball in a Liverpool shirt. Last year, it was in a golden, diamond-encrusted frame when I watched the proceedings at White Hart Lane, Fratton Park, Anfield and elsewhere. Now, I can't find it anywhere. It doesn't get beamed to me via satellite television technology and Web searches are fruitless, so I'm stuck recalling it in my mind's eye.

Well, that isn't a lot of fun.

#JohnnyCashfootballsongs

2009-12-09T23:01:00.003-06:00

This isn't the glorious return to Match Pricks I envisioned when I came home from work tonight, but I just can't let go of the Match Pricks Twitter-plosion from Wednesday, December 9 that was #JohnnyCashfootballsongs among this here site's oft-used Twitter feed and the more-polished, regular writers from Run of Play, Sport Is A TV Show and others.

So, here then, for better or (groan-inducing) worse, is "Personal Jesús Navas"

Reach out and touch del Bosque
Your own Personal Jesús Navas
Someone to hear your prayers
Someone who attacks with flair
Your own Personal Jesús Navas
Someone to hear your prayers
Someone who's there – on the wing

Feelings unknown and you're all alone
Flesh and bone but can't go out on loan
Haunted by homesickness
Shows the limits of your quickness

Take second best
Put me to the test
Just got a first cap – hey!
Came on for Iniesta!
I will deliver
You know I'm a forgiver
Reach out and touch del Bosque

Your own Personal Jesús Navas
Feelings unknown and you're all alone
Flesh and bone but can't go out on loan
Haunted by homesickness
Shows the limits of your quickness

Lift up the receiver
Chelsea wanted you with Sheva
I will deliver
You know I'm a forgiver
Reach out and touch del Bosque

Your own Personal Jesús Navas
Reach out and touch del Bosque

He just can't get enough

2009-11-17T08:09:00.003-06:00

Here he is, ol' Crouchy (long-running joke wherein I insist athletes who are called, affectionately, "Crouchy or the like, are actually called "Croucher" is inappropriate in this instance, though I'll stick to my guns on it in any other situation) ...

Ol' Crouchy wants that striker position for South Africa next summer. It's probably the thing he's wanted most in his professional life. The whip-cracking manager Fabio Capello is deadset on getting the team in his image. They'll behave. They'll train. They'll do things his way, dammit. They'll even ... ready for it? ... respect the team.

It's working for them so far. No one would argue that the England team are wholly unrecognizable from the one under Steve McClaren.

Still ... There's ol' Crouchy ... Sure he's training. Sure he wants in. But we are what we are, aren't we? And Crouchy ... That man needs to dance. Regardless of what he may insist. What's that they say, after all, about men over 6' 5"? I don't know either, but they must say something.

We interrupt this radio silence

2009-10-20T07:55:00.003-05:00

Who would have thought?

I've been silent here for more than a month. It's bothered me, but then again, so has football. So has covering every inch of football. So has covering every inch of the covering of football (are you with me on that one?).

Don't get me wrong. I am in love with Arsenal's start to the year. It makes me giggle. There's a lot to be happy and proud of. To get into what has driven me to a certain level of disgust over the last several weeks will take a long time. And frankly, it's old news. No one cares. Reactionary press, managers who deserve to be dropped in the wild somewhere ... I'm a pacifist, I won't directly contribute to the violence that should be bestowed on them. Indirectly? Hey, it's not on me.

Yet who would have thought the one instance that made me stir enough to put a quarter back in the Match Pricks machine came from a comment on an article on the Internet of all places. I mean, those are generally reserved for the leeches, the bottom-feeders of society, aren't they? Not this one. Take note ... and here's the article. Yeah, sure you play to win the games. You play to eventually haul in a trophy. You play to succeed. But, aren't there levels, or degrees of success? It is, after all, a venture there to uncover happiness and joy, isn't it? As treacherous as the path may be ....

lja Albrecht wrote:

Trophies and silverware are for people who need something to waggle in front of other people's faces, be it a t work or in the boardroom.

To declare this the single goal for a club is one of the best explanations for the sad state football is in today: A reckless money-game that will one day culminate in a football-version of the the credit-crunch.
Arsenal are playing the game in all its beauty and, supported by a vast majority of their fans, have the patience to wait until their time has come - winning it with sheer talent and craftsmanship rather than buying titles like most of the others do these days. To achieve this and at the same time manage the club into financial soundness is a masterpiece. Anyone who doesn't see this either has no idea about the game or abuses it for personal/business reasons.

2009-09-29T15:23:00.001-05:00

Voronin for Kuyt = Well, we do have that match at Chelsea on Sunday, so ...

2009-09-29T15:12:00.001-05:00

Well, at least they have the all-white kits. If you're going to play poorly in Italy and lose, might as well look nifty while doing it.

2009-09-29T14:49:00.001-05:00

Back of the bar is me and three Fiorentina supporters. Italian is being spoken at a rapid pace. Ominous doesn't really do justice to the tone right now.

2009-09-29T14:31:00.001-05:00

Halftime thoughts: I can only assume Liverpool has been inflicted with some kind of grave illness/Tuscan gypsy curse.

2009-09-29T14:24:00.001-05:00

Fiorentina is redefining attacking in space. This is brutal. What I wouldn't give for boring ol' Arbeloa, no attacking fullbacks Liverpool right now.

2009-09-29T14:16:00.001-05:00

Carragher put more effort into the offside appeal than he did into defending that attack. Ugh.

And the commentator is taking shots at Liverpool for beating Hull. Whatever.

2009-09-29T14:10:00.001-05:00

Is the pitch 25 yards wider? Can't believe how much space is available on these Fiorentina attacks.

Meanwhile, I've added about three of these all-white kits to my Christmas list.

2009-09-29T14:06:00.001-05:00

Missed the start, don't know who's playing yet, sound has crapped out for a minute. Perfect.

Love the all-white Liverpool European kits.

2009-09-29T12:45:00.001-05:00

Liverpool v. Fiorentina posts coming via this damn phone.

Here's the deal: I am connected to this phone at all times. Steve Jobs' marketing and magic tricks have me in thrall. If he said BlackBerry owners should be thrown into a pond and if they float that means they're witches, well, sure, I'd believe him.

So I am going to make a half blogging return to Match Pricks for the match today - on this phone. I mean, I'm not even tapping this out in landscape mode. That's how sick in the head I am with this phone!

I'm looking forward to this. Liverpool and Fiorentina, and then Chelsea on Sunday. Oh yeah, things are picking up again. Let's see what happens.

I remember when you could still tell a joke in this bar without the world coming to an end

2009-09-09T03:28:00.009-05:00

A couple weeks ago, I pulled myself out of my typical midday, pre-work routine of playing poker online while guzzling black coffee and huffing cigarette after cigarette long enough to wander upstairs and push the appropriate buttons on the remote control – in the correct order, this time – to put Arsenal v. Celtic on the TV. I had remembered about the match after it started. Sure, I knew Celtic wasn't likely to come close to even getting to extra time, but I always enjoy the football.

Much to my surprise and eventual delight, I tuned in, if that term still applies to television in 2009, right as Eduardo had won a penalty and given Arsenal the lead. My first thought? "Oh well. Celtic wasn't going through anyway." But as I continued settling into the couch, I started to feel a little quiver and jolt in the parts of me that react in such ways when a controversial sporting moment takes shape. The commentators were moaning about something Eduardo had done. "It's probably best if I wait for a replay," I thought. Well, it took a few different angles, but finally I witnessed what I was sure would be comedy gold and powerful ammunition for weeks and months to come among my friends.

I saw Eduardo – conclusively, definitively, undeniably – go down like a community playhouse trainee desperate to impress the leading lady he had been longing for since the auditions.

It was outstanding – beyond funny, really. I couldn't wait until the weekend so I could meet my friends and regulars, some of them Arsenal supporters, at the only bar in Milwaukee stupid and crazy enough to open at 6 a.m. for "soccer" matches. I was prepared to, quite frankly, give them loads of shit about such an abysmal effort from one of their heroes.

Then everyone in the world went loony tunes about it. Of course, the most important has been the two-game ban Eduardo received. I maintain it's essentially meaningless because Arsenal will sashay through their Champions League group, but still, it's a real thing that has been put into effect and it has repercussions, however unimportant I deem them. But also, there have been the downright silly tangents that sprung from that decision. Arsenal supporters have, perhaps understandably, jumped to Eduardo's defense. But the obscene reactions to the ban startled me, and there's now Zapruder-esque compilations online of "fellow diver" Wayne Rooney that have been posted as a response. I've read calls for a full UEFA retrospective of dives that have affected Arsenal. On the other end of things, the Daily Mail is excitedly urging (is there any other action for that paper?) to join their campaign to "shame the divers."

The back and forth about this for two full weeks has been stunning, even surviving the similarly outrageous Chelsea "child trafficking" development and all it has given birth to regarding luring talented young players from overseas to the promised land of Premier League riches. Such is the never-ending bore of each and every international break.

Not all of this ruckus has been pointless, of course. These debates are revealing as to what sprouts from the mind-set of modern football supporters. The best take that I've seen came from Sport Is A TV Show, which offered many more sensible layers and arguments about diving than I'll likely ever be prepared to discuss here – particularly the case for a player having the good sense to go down once he is actually fouled in the box.

See, I've written this post about seven times since Eduardo dived, but the central point has never changed: Eduardo's dive was a gifted moment I could use over and over to enliven the ephemeral qualities that make watching football in a large group so much fun. I feel like climbing to the top of Kilimanjaro and shouting, "But wait, wait – just wait a goddamn minute!! He got caught in an hilariously awful dive! We can use this!"

When I was on that couch watching those replays, the very first thing that entered my mind was how I could point to such a silly display the next time I was at the bar, seeing my Arsenal-supporting pals "Ooohing" and "La-La-ing" when Eboue and Arshavin and van Persie played a nifty yet fruitless triangle sequence among them that ended with a through ball played a touch too hard that Jussi Jaaskelainen would easily collect. These are the moments we, as snorting and chortling men, come to embrace while taking part in our routine of getting together, watching these most-often agony-inducing matches and loving how we can do it again and again and again.

And with it happening so early in the season, I had a full nine months to wear that joke out. I couldn't wait. Now, it seems like all the fun is gone. Why bring it up anymore in such a setting? "But, but, but Boruc kind of nicked his foot!" "Johnny Foreigner always does such things. We must stop it!" "Rooney dives, too!! At least Eduardo doesn't snog his granny!!!"

Ack, to hell with it. Look, these sorts of moments matter, people. Eduardo falling over like someone told him to pretend he was studying under Lee Strasberg had a lot of potential. This was something to cherish for those among us who love our Arsenal-supporting friends but, honestly, must admit sometimes it all becomes a bit much. I've seen Colin – and buddy, I'd take a bullet for you – turn over a scoring sheet at a bowling alley and sketch out Arsenal's attacking intricacies for a perfect stranger! Turning to a friend like that and reminding Eduardo was shamelessly exposed for a fraud one time helps keep our loved ones grounded. It keeps them humble – and if anyone could use some humility right now it's Arsenal supporters.

Look, football is humbling in its nature. The highs are followed by equal lows – I know as a Liverpool supporter – and moments like what happened with Eduardo are natural examples of that aesthetic. But the wild-eyed reactions all around with Eduardo's dive have, I feel, robbed me of that opportunity. I could've kept my great friends on their toes and level-headed all season if people would've just laughed and shut the hell up. Accept what happened for what it was and move on. Instead, I'm forced to spell it out in a more-direct fashion in this post.

The world took all the fun out of Eduardo's dive. Pardon my unseriousness, but that's the biggest travesty for me.

Fired up, ready to go

2009-09-07T20:52:00.001-05:00

The Man With All The Answers!

The CW Chimes in

2009-09-03T07:18:00.006-05:00

I hope y'all read. There's lots of fun out there. In particular, on our recommended reading list. The fantastically crafted "Sport is a TV Show" blog is a gem worth remembering and spending time with.

Of note today on Sport is a TV Show, a sneak peak at the CW's Gossip Girls. Now please note that were I to come across the show, I wouldn't be able to recognize it from the belly of a whale. I am a 32 year old male, not a 23 year old male wishing I was spending time with 23 year old females. That said, I may well watch an episode in the near future, provided I can find the CW on my dial. It would appear, at even a passing glance, that the writers of the show, and even the young woman who so delightfully delivers the lines, have scored a blow clear across the brow of Jintao - that cretinous little letch.

See, as has been well documented, Jintao and his troops (even his proteges, we see that smarmy little smirk on your face Nani) want you to submit. They want you to ignore their leering existence so they can continue to run rough-shod over the ideals of the just and fair ... and turn in their FREE PENALTY token whenever the script-girl seems to have ignored her responsibilities and let the play get away from what was the expected outcome by page 45. "Oi, says here, yeah, right here on this token I've got that we've a FREE PENALTY coming to us. Wha? No, doesn't say when, just that it expires by the 94th minute. Might as well go ahead and use it then, eh?"

Fortunately, the good folks at the CW are keeping the fight alive for freedom from the skewered world view so many subject us to on such a regular basis, unsanitary as it may be (as Marina Hyde clocks in with another blow, honestly, it's like a tag-team of justice today). And fortunately Sport is a TV Show has served this wonderful adjustment to the accepted plot for us all to enjoy. Go for the clip, stay for more, go back another day.

Watch it, and just soak in the way that saintly actress delivers the lines ... and smacks Jintao square in the mouth while he scrambles for a page in the script he is certain is missing. Oh no, Sir Alex, that was most assuredly not in the script. Not in the least. Every now and again, things might get away from you a little, eh?

They may as well have had Purple Rain playing in the background. Hell, maybe they did, it was only a clip.

Never a better time ...

2009-09-02T08:03:00.002-05:00

... to trot this one out after Saturday's 2-1 loss for the Arsenal at Old Trafford. Say it with me now!

Murky waters

2009-09-02T07:26:00.004-05:00

I'm not sure I even want to dip a single toe into this whole thing. If you so much as open a newspaper's (or rather, click on one) sporting section across the globe, you'll have seen all of the details, opinions (including these interesting comments from Scotland goalkeeper Craig Gordon. Hey, Craig, by the way, the tie was over. "They pay the games" and all, but it was over), facts, misstatements and over-reactions. I have some remarks, draped in what was, at the time, disgusted brevity, down below from last week (remember the Match Pricks motto, scroll, baby, scroll!).

Now, after Eduardo's dive and the "witch-hunt" as Arsene Wenger put it, he has indeed been - rather arbitrarily, mind - suspended for two games in the Champions League group stage. Am I angry about it? Yeah. I think it's unjust finger-pointing and I definitely have a major whine here in the treatment of Arsenal as a special case. Whatever that complex is, it's real. And the anger was only multiplied on Saturday against a Manchester United side that showed nothing in the face of an Arsenal team that looked like they'd be winners from the start (in spite of a rather toothless effort in the very final yards of the pitch).

First, Arshavin is torn down in the box with a clear chance on goal. The defender hadn't even considered the ball. He flew in with both feet in the space that Andrei owned. Ball or no ball, he took the space with a foul and it was in the box. It was a penalty. But it was at Old Trafford, wasn't it? No penalty. Didn't matter much as a clearly steamed Andrei Arshavin belted in a magnificent effort with zero run-up or planting to the ball (for the Americans out there, it was like Brett Favre throwing a zipper across the field on his opposite foot). 1-nil to the Arsenal at halftime.

Anyone who has seen United knows it would have been important to survive immediately after the half. Arsenal didn't. Rooney went down in the box in one of those penalties that just really grinds your gears, you know? What is the keeper, Manuel Almunia, supposed to do in that situation? He went for the ball on floor, Rooney was going down. It wasn't a dive, it may not have been a clear penalty. In my clearly skewered opinion, it was a 50/50 ball that both players had a right too. Rooney won the penalty and Almunia won a yellow card for the effort. 1-1. And you know what it reminded me of? Jens Lehman's sending off in the Champions League Final against Barcelona in Paris in 2006. Then, that was unjust. This week, it's still unjust. To top it off, a circus own goal from the always-improving Abu Diaby gave United their only other chance and a 2-1 lead. Arsenal responded well after the penalty, poorly after the own goal. But they still played football. They just didn't have the cut in the final 20 yards of the pitch to make the difference.

The final thing I was reminded of with the dives and penalties this week? Rooney's dive against the Arsenal to snap the 49 game unbeaten streak. Remember that? Hmmm, not much of a furor there, eh? Or what about every single time Cristiano Ronaldo stepped on the pitch? Or what about Didier Drogba, a man who has even claimed that, yes!, he dives all the time?

Can of worms and all that. The points have been covered. I'm just angry and I have a very sour taste in my mouth right now. Damn good thing I watched the match in the solitude of my living room as I had to scoot off to a wedding straight away. Not sure how I would've been in public. Anyway, here's Arsenal's response and I fully agree with them. I also appreciate the backing they are giving their player. We know he dived and made a meal of the confrontation but everything that has come after sure doesn't seem in line with the way the world has been cast.

Look, there's a laundry list of incidents that stir the bile and I'm fully aware that it's the same case for every team out there. But for now, Arsenal supporters will clearly feel aggrieved. (SIDEBAR: those drunk-driving commercials with the guys in cars filled with booze, olives, cranberry juice and beer ... whew, I don't know about you but the last thing they make me want to do is have a bevvy and drive even a single block.)

But then again, I said it myself last week, didn't it? What goes around comes around. Sometimes, in a win, you create your own luck. Sometimes, in a loss, you create your own bad luck. Jintaodenfreude. Just sucks when you're on the receiving end of it.

On Milwaukee ... on Match Pricks

2009-09-01T12:09:00.004-05:00

The proverbial hat tip goes out to Drew Olson and OnMilwaukee.com for their mention of Match Pricks in this look at watching live football/soccer at pubs in Milwaukee.

If you haven't checked us out at the Highbury at 2322 Kinnickinnic Ave., what are you waiting for?

Your favorite team's Champions League group of death scenario is quite real, my friend

2009-08-27T10:32:00.005-05:00

We've got the 2009-10 Champions League group stage draw less than a half hour away, and while poking around UEFA's Web site a minute ago, I stumble upon this very real – though, of course, statistically far-fetched possibility – for one of the eight top seeds:

1. Liverpool/Arsenal/Utd./Barca/Chelsea/Milan/Bayern/Sevilla
2. Real Madrid
3. Atlético
4. Wolfsburg

How's that grabbin' ya, ultra-confident fan of a No. 1 seed side?

Real Madrid in that pot of No. 2 seeds: You don't need me to say any more than that. Atlético in the post of No. 3s, with Kun Agüero and Diego Forlan might not have enough in defense to really scare the balls off anyone, but that attacking talent is certainly more dangerous to face than some of the others in that pot, like Olympiacos, Bordeaux and Besiktas. And lastly, for the top teams, those two matches with the No. 4 seed are supposed to be walk-throughs that only aid qualification for the next round. Well, Wolfsburg only won the Bundesliga last year.

OK, that's the end of this post, or as I call it, "The perfect example of the 21st-century short-attention Internet generation." I spent 10 minutes writing something that has a shelf life of exactly 20 minutes.

On with it then ...

UPDATE: Barry Glendenning informs me that apparently the group stage draw offers country protection, so Atlético could not be in my little fancy-pants "group of death" vision. But Chelsea and Liverpool got paired together only a couple, two, three years ago. Hmmm ... For argument's sake, throw Dynamo Kyiv in there as a replacement because no one really enjoys traveling all that way to play in some dodgy relic of a stadium.

UPDATE: 'Eh, screw it. My little scenario theory is shot right through. I couldn't even get a blog post up to last more than 10 minutes or have any usefulness. I'm leaving this up just so you can laugh at me. I'm cool like that sometimes.