The (Soccer) Weekend in Pictures

or, would I be able to express myself without parentheses?

(not that anyone would notice!)

Kevin Hartman makes a desperate attempt to crawl out of Giants Stadium as Juan Pablo Angel makes it 2-1, Red Bulls. JPA was also my fantasy captain, and with 69 points X 2, put me ahead of Austin AND Josie for the first time this year. Go, mom!




I think this photo sums up Saturday's slaughter (which is, of course, a relative term) of New England for the Columbus Crew. Something Faulknerian via Shakespeare - a tale told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, signifying nothing, because in the end, it didn't matter that they'd learned to score, that they'd learned how to come from behind or even that they'd learned how to win on the road. To the Big Show, they don't go. Again. I'm not calling for Sigi's head. Mostly, because I'm afraid he might EAT me. But it is my sincere hope that they can hold on to Schelotto and Gaven this winter.


And finally, let us now sing the praises of the Bright Blue Boot.



These belong to Damarcus Beasley (you can tell by the "Beas" there above the swoosh). All the cool kids are wearing them, from Landon D to the Mostest from Nacogdoches himself, Clint Dempsey.

Fun With Wigs

In the beginning was Juan Toja.


And in his hair, was power and strength and glory. And other things best left unnoticed.

The people saw this and said it is good. And a great craze swept Pizza Hut Park.



Soccer. It's all about the hair.

Between a Rock and a Hard Place

or, How Hard Was It To Cheer For ANYBODY at the Lamar Hunt Open Cup Final?

On the one hand, you've got this twit scampering (yes, scampering!) up and down the field like God's Gift to American Soccer. I know his mama loves him. A lot of people think he's good looking. I just want to backhand him a goodun and wipe that smirk off his face.




On the other hand, how could I not enjoy the suffering of Carlos Ruiz?

I was all twisted in side. I like Toja (note to self: schedule haircut). I hate Ruiz. I like Michael Parkhurst. I despise Jay Heaps.

In the end, it was Viva la Revolution, death to FC D (a/k/a First Class Divers - well, Diver, anyway).

Bring on the playoffs.

meet the fam, v. feline

Meet Speck, the legless wonder.

No, he's not really legless. We call this pose "meatloafing" because, well, he looks like a fluffy white meatloaf. With a couple of burnt spots. Speck is our special needs kitty. He's got that idiot savant thing going. While he's a genius at killing small mammals and presiding lion-like over our yard, his vocalizations need work. His meow is like one of those silent dog whistles, just at the edge of human hearing. And his purr - well, I can purr better than Speck. He also has issues with doors. If he is in, he wants out and if he's out, he wants in. I think he would be driven mad by having a pet door at his disposal, so we don't have one. We call him Speck not because of the specks (otherwise, we'd call him "Specks" now wouldn't we?) but because our first sight of him as a little white speck hopping through the tall weeds next to our yard. He plays bigger than he is.


This is my little black boy Socks. My son always calls me a racist when I call him that. I don't mean to be. I call his brother my little white boy, so I guess I'm being equally racist, which in the confounding algebra of political correctness might reduce down to non-racism. I hope so. It would be difficult to stop calling them 'the white cat' or 'the black cat' at this point in their lives. Socks likes to hang out on the windowsill. His evil white brother only allows him the freedom of the living room and the master bedroom. Everywhere else, he gets attacked just for breathing. By the way, unlike his brother, he *can* purr. Quite nicely, the sound of which is one of the great pleasures of cat companionship. Many evenings we snuggle up together reading and/or watching tv. The only problem is he drools when he's happy.

So, those are our cats. Not great literature, sure. But a post! A post! My kingdom for a post!

Unlike Generalissimo Francisco Franco

I am still alive.

but buried in work. I will get back to slacking shortly. Here's a gratuitous soccer hottie, just cuz.



Mr. Clint Dempsey, show us your ...

...

...

well, whatever you want, sweet pea.

Don't Go Getting the Big Head, Clint

Now that you're Fulham's Player of the Month.

Big ups, Deuce!

Big Soccer Sunday!

USA 2, Brazil 4. Ok, we lost. But Brazil did not score one run-of-play goal. Not one. And we did. So, I give us a solid B and say that was some serious hotness on the field: Kaka, Benny Feilhaber, Clint Dempsey (with a very nice goal, but no dancing, dammit!), Little Michael Bradley, Josh Wolfe, Oguchi Onyewu... Serious heat, peoples.

Out on the left coast, the Red Bulls got pounded by Chivas USA. Yes, you read that right. All I can think right now is 'least said, soonest mended.' Let's hope so.

So, It was my birthday

and this is what Josie gave me. The Nemo she won at the fair, to remind me to 'just keep swimming, just keep swimming - what do we do? we swim swim swim' and this lovely poster that declares her love for me, adds 10 years to my age and calls me Oldelocks to boot.

If she had been born first, she'd be an only child.

That's My Boy

And his Balto.

Took the gang to the Sevier County fair last night.

Josie beat her older sister in the water gun game and won a stuffed Nemo.

Austin took $2 over to the basketball game. He paid and the guy kept giving the ball to this other kid who could not sink a shot and kept handing the guy another $2 to try again. I was just about to go postal on him when he realized he was ignoring Austin, apologized and gave him the ball. Austin moved a step forward. He got into his "shot stance" (I don't know what else to call it, so I apologize - apologies are contagious!). I was trying to say bounce it a couple of times just to get a feel for it and have a little more of a chance at it, but he was already arm back and throwing.

Nothing but net, baby.

Fortunately, we had a pedestrian witness. The guy had gone back to LoserDude and was paying absolutely no attention. In fact, he seemed quite incredulous that it had gone in. Like that never happened at his game...


Anyway, Austin has his Major Prize. I'm glad it's not a leg-shaped lamp.

A Letter From Henry

Henry Rollins on David Beckham, soccer, metrosexuality, etc.

Gotta remember to see if I get IFC.

Scientology...gay!!!

Landon Donovan, I Feel Your Pain

Well, maybe not physically.

But psychically, yep, I'm right there with you, dude.


Yesterday, nothing went right. Not one damn thing. USA loses to Sweden - ok, that's not unexpected. But does Cherundolo have to be pushed around like a nerd between two schoolyard bullies? NY loses to DC. Again, not unexpected, and as Austin said, at least we won it once. But 2-0 in the first eight minutes? 2 to freakin' nothing in EIGHT minutes? I hate Ben Olsen. I hope he has multiple flat tires on the interstate in the rain. I hope he spills his coffee all over his man parts in the drive thru at Mickey D's. I hope he has lots of ugly ungrateful children. I ... well, I should save some of the hate for Jaime Moreno and his 108, but that kind of rhymes so it almost makes it ok. Godfather of Goals, my ass, tho.

Tonight, it's the Superclasico. I don't really have a dog in that fight, but I gotta hope the Galaxy win. I like their uniforms better. But Sacha Kljestan *is* kind of cute and Jonathan Bornstein, he's not hard to look at either. Here's my prediction: Beckham won't play, but Landon will; Gals will eke out a win; goats all over California will be nervous; I will feel right with God when the jerseys come off.

It should be noted that, just in case none of this happens, it was because of ME. I have the Power. The Power of Opposite, whereby the exact opposite of whatever I think will happen, happens. Capisce?

Àngel + Altidore (with a little Mathis Magic) = Absolute Awesomeness

Everything Jeff Bradley asked for. And more. Nine freakin' goals. Atmosphere out the wazoo. Records broken. This was one of those games. Those games that set benchmarks, that are storied into myth, one of those games that I should've set the VCR for.


There were scuffles.


Becks did the whole 90. On turf.

And he looked really pissed about it. The Geico Gecko was never that ferocious.


My only complaint? Jerseys stayed decidedly ON. Even after the final whistle.



Usually Fox Soccer will replay their one allotted MLS game a gazillion times the following week. Not this time. "Real" soccer has started up out there in the Rest of the World, so time slots are scarce. MSG to the rescue, with replays Tuesday (9 pm, 11 pm and1 am) and Wednesday (noon, 2 pm and 6 pm). The only downside? Trying to watch Revs and Wizards last night - just wasn't worth it.

My Favorite Things

well, thing, actually. This commercial for Mastercard.




It almost makes me want to apply.

I learned something today...

I've been seeing this symbol on rear windows up and down I-40 for a while now. I thought it had something to do with Corona beer.


Turns out it's the official symbol of South Carolina.

Who knew?

This Week in MLS!

We learned the hokey-pokey.

Or is that some variation of the Chicken Dance? I dunno. I do know the Red Bulls looked good, in spite of Joe Vide's Sally Brown hair style, and that Jozy Altidore is Da Kid. In time he'll be Da Man, but at that point he'll probably be playing for some candy-ass YerOPean team.



That second goal was a thing of beauty.

I watched a little of the L. A. Galaxy/New England game and it was a study in contrasts. New York came out looking confident, in charge. It was obvious that it was just a matter of time before they put one in. L. A. (and I called it before the game started - no grass, no Beckham - do I win a prize?) just looked aimless, kind of like Crock's Lost Patrol, doomed to wander the MLS wastelands in search of goals and wins. Or just a common page to be on all together. I feel sorry for this team. It's as if their own management didn't quite believe they'd really scored Becks, and then it's damn! we better find him some talent to play with! so they go down to Trades R Us, shop the discount rack and come up with Carlos Pavon, Edson Buddle, Chris Klein and (just because it's Buy-One-Blond-Get-One-Free week) Abel Xavier. They're not a team, they're a random group of strangers. And in New England yesterday, they looked like they were waiting for a bus.

Beck's Big Day (version MLS)

In which he went from this (and if you look carefully you can still see the bruise. 8 weeks later)...



to this...

I regret that I did not get to see the entire game, but I did manage to see his first steps on the field and the jersey change. The shouts from the crowd - rock star worthy. One of the increasingly annoying ESPN announcers proclaimed it "Beatles-esque."

I won't indulge in any tacky wedding night metaphors. I think, like a lot of folks, I'm just glad to get that over with so we can get back to some semblance of normality. I do take exception to one piece of disinformation I've heard ad nauseum during this whole When Will David Play? saga. To wit, that his ankle has to be back to 100% before he'll play. 100%. Not 99 44/100. 100%.

And how many athletes DO play at 100%? Someone ask Cobi Jones when was the last time he played completely healthy. Or Carlos Mendes. Or Alejandro Moreno. Just don't ask Eddie Johnson because he has to be stretchered off after the game opening handshakes.

p.s. It was the biggest raindrops ever.

If It's Not the Heat, It Must Be...

the company.

There must be one mean little black raincloud following me today because I am literally seconds away from kicking somebody. Anybody. A puppy, even.

Honest to God, I don't think I've ever had a day with sooooo many people getting on my nerves. Is it Piss Off Debbie Day and nobody told me? I hadn't even been at work an hour before it started. One of my co-workers (I call her Old Hateful) addressed the office at large, asking what was the legal corporate name of one of the motels. I told her. So, she asked another girl. I told her again. So she opened the tax cabinet and began to search amongst the myriad files. Did I stutter? Truly, this happens to me so often, I should be laughing. I guess I just don't have a "believable" voice. Assholes.

And then there was a visit (via a phone call to somebody else) from El Jefe, who is in one of those astral phases where he has to make sure that everybody (and I do mean everybody) knows he's the one signing the paychecks. Figuratively speaking, of course. So, let's void all the shit we did yesterday and re-do it, and then void it again because we put the wrong effing date on it and then send it off with Miss Information for further abuse. Jackass.

My husband has gotten in on the action as well. At some point in his sleep Sunday night, he tore his ACL. At least, that's what he'd have you think. He's not going to any damn doctor, so the rest of us have to suffer with him. I'd be a lot more sympathetic if he didn't get a lot worse when I'm in sight. And the groaning! I'm pretty sure that's a legitimate legal alibi right there. I'm sorry, your honor. I couldn't take the groaning anymore.

No worries. I'm going home and downing a quadruple dose of St. John's Wort and I'll sit quietly by the tomato plants until the murderous thoughts subside. It's a good day to pick ticks off the dog, let me tell you.

Etceteras

This is why I love American soccer. Too bad it didn't work out.


Best. T-shirt. Ever.

















And a little funny stolen from Comedy Central.

Christmas was just around the corner, and a father was a bit upset with his son, who would always say "motherfucking."

Especially troubling was his letter to Santa, which read: "I want a motherfucking bike and a motherfucking train set right under the motherfucking tree, motherfucker. Love, Sam."

So the father decided that instead of presents, he would leave piles of dog shit under the tree for the boy. On Christmas morning, the father got up to see his son sitting in the living room.

"What did Santa get you, son?" the father asked, a malicious grin spreading across his face.

"A motherfucking dog, I guess, but I can't motherfucking find it."

It Was That Kind of Game

I hope His Royal Beckness was taking notes last night (while bench-warming [via special permission from MLS - because apparently you just can't have just *anybody* hanging around the sidelines] in a very natty suit) because once his ankle heals, methinks he'll be tasting a lot of Field Turf and grass.



Like his little buddy Landon here, who could not buy a call last night.

The word went out all across the Canadian nation: Wins? We don't need no stinking wins. We just don't want to lose to the (really clever dis alert) Galactically overhyped. As long as they *don't* win, we win. That's Canadian for Take No Prisoners or something. Clearly, there's a language problem. They build a beautiful stadium, sell record numbers of season tickets, build enthusiastic crowd support out of The Great White North, and what do they play on? Turf. Field turf. Why, oh why, Canada?

Anyway, as the time nears (that pesky ankle can't be swollen forever, can it? can it?) to his actual MLS debut, I have one little question. How will he be reffed? Because you can't put yer $25 million Precious on the field and let Dema Kovalenko (or Carl Robinson, as the case may be) go all Dirty Harry on him.

Can you?

Maybe we'll find out Thursday. ESPN2.

I Woke Up in Love This Morning.

Apparently, I'm having a Tiger Beat psychotic break.

Last night, I dreamt about Tim Armstrong. Specifically, hanging out with Tim in some anonymous airport, flirting with him, holding his very lovely hand, and inscribing my cell phone number in blue Flair on the inside of his wrist.

I had a dream I was a vigilante's sidekick...

And it was sweet. In all senses. Very 5th grade, just two steps away from passing the I-Like-You-Do-You-Like-Me? note in history class. I fought very hard to stay in that dream when my alarm clock went off.

I can't believe you're with me after dark, so let it come together in Echo Park...

Now the mists have evaporated and I'm left wondering: did I have a stroke or something? Have I become some love-starved weird old lady destined to prowl yard sales looking for used Harlequin romances? I already have two cats and a pretty serious Hallmark card problem. I don't need another reason for people to stare. And who has hand-holding dreams anyway?

And I dream of this girl - yeah, an angelical ghost I met dancing through my neighborhood...

That could be me.

Sure, it could.

Telefutility, Or Why I Hate Directv

Because this sounds like one h-e-double-toothpicks of a game: L. A. Galaxy 6, F. C. Dallas 5. Gals only need a tie to advance, but Dallas had to win. Gals come out strong, scoring 4 goals in 17 minutes. Then, just to make things interesting, they give up 3. Landon "Beer Run" Donovan added another for the Gals (and pissed off the Dallas faithful something awful) before Carlos Ruiz biked one in for the home side. Another goal each in stoppage time and the Galaxy go home with the win and a place in the semis.


Eleven freaking goals.

And what was I watching last night?

Law & Order SVU reruns.

Again.

I hate Directv.

Nobody Likes Me, Everybody Hates Me

Think I'll eat some worms...


Me and Nick "You Can't Call Me Butterfingers If I Don't Actually Touch The Ball" Rimando. Bless his heart.

Maybe it's the weather, which is gloomy and depressing. Maybe it's the time of the year - the stultifying dog days and that point in the soccer season when good games get scarce. Maybe it's because all my younguns (except one) are having fun in the Florida sun. Maybe it's just me.

Gloom, despair and agony on me
Deep dark depression, excessive misery
If it weren't for bad luck, I'd have no luck at all
Gloom, despair and agony on me.


My new philosophy: when things are bad, think Hee Haw.

The East Coast Beckham

I think we need to play up (and ... uh ... invent) this rivalry.



and we could start with a Zoolander-style walk off.












See? He looks excited about it.


Smokin' hot to Dumb and Dumberer in .005 seconds.


But welcome to the team, to MLS, to the freakin' United States of America, Juan Pablo Angel.

I Didn't Quite Believe It

So, I was trolling the internet for Tim Armstrong pictures the other day and this one popped up. Ostensibly, this is a high school graduation photo of Mr. Armstrong. In a bow tie, no less!


But look how happy he looks. So California-kid-next-door. I think that's what made me doubt. That and the bat-like ears. In the biography I invented for him, Tim never graduated from high school - I mean, how NOT punk rock is it to stay in school? He was homeless and drug addled - how could he possibly look so clean cut, so Beach Boy-ish? But the eyebrows and the eyes - who else could they belong to?





His face, to me, is incredibly fascinating. And this is one of my favorite pictures. There's a wary intelligence, a little physical menace, some non-cocky self-assuredness and a genuine individuality (which is tough to accomplish in a punk milieu).


He's cute, too.


In both photos.


And it's a slow news day. ;)

Been a while

since I waxed rhapsodic over Tim Armstrong. I was listening to this on the way home the other day and experienced an epiphany: Tim's Oh No as the new David Beckham/L. A. Galaxy theme music. Listen and imagine the free kicks, the abs, the hair, the abs, the right foot, the abs...

Honestly, I think it's genius. That beat is soccer driven, and it does ... um, ...bend. I put this magnificent idea to one soccer buddy who could not be bothered to reply. I put it to another, who was delighted with the 'oh no' aspect (him being all pissy Englishter, and stuff). I even emailed it to the Galaxy who have yet to acknowledge (possibly to avoid future legal problems). So, send the Gal's an email: customerservice@lagalaxy.com. Let 'em know you're in love with Los Angeles, you're in love with her sooouuuulllll. Or at least in love with My Idea.

Thank you for your support.

No Soccer Today

Meet my trend-setting daughter, Josephine.

This was her ensemble for a recent after-work/after-summer camp stop at the grocery store.


I guess that's my thumb on the left.


What I love about this is that she's not at all worried about looking dorky or stupid. She wants to go in and get some candy, this is what she has on, this is what she wears.

Of course, being 9 and ridiculously cute, she can get away with outfits like this. People might stare, but they're smiling when they're staring. If I were to wear this, well, I'm not sure what would happen but visions of police and psych holds come to mind.

Here's hoping we all find our inner 9 year old and rock some Tater Tot Style. Big ups to being who you are, no matter where, no matter what.

I Wasn't Gonna Do It

Talk about soccer today, that is.



But, unfortunately, the onus is upon me and I can't think of anything else to write about except work, and if there's anything more boring than me going on and on about soccer, it's me going on and on about my job.



It's the lesser of two evils. Really!



Today's subject: Unsung Heroes of the Columbus Crew. Specifically, Alejandro Moreno who came to the Crew via a trade with Houston for Joseph Ngwenya (who had that sweet goal last week). Alejandro, the Venezuelan Curious George, has the distinction of being the most fouled player two years running. In 17 games for the Crew this year, he's scored 3 goals and been credited with 5 assists, but his most profound contribution to the team may just be that he is a real "team" kind of guy. He knows how to Take One For the Team. Like a Timex watch, he takes a licking and keeps on ticking. Like a good neighbor, Moreno is there. Like Avis, he tries harder. He will sell no wine before it's time because somebody put a tiger in his tank. Alejandro Moreno, this Bud's for you!

Becks Big Day

For starters, don't call it his MLS debut. This Chelsea/Gals "world series" game was not an MLS game; ergo,it cannot be his MLS debut. But there can be no doubt now that the circus is in town. We had the DB one hour bio previous. We had half an hour of DB chatter and celebrity sightings before the game started. We had a swarm of photographers following him on to the field.


Really, truly, unabashedly surreal. Nobody has ever pandered to me as a soccer fan before.

Cool!

Random observation #1: Pete Vagenas doesn't look all that comfortable with his new teammate. He practically sat in Chris Albright's lap to avoid physical contact with DB. Could it be having to give up #23? The massive pay differential? Perhaps he doesn't care for Dave's aftershave. This picture doesn't really capture the chill, but it was there. I saw it with my own two eyes. Pete's the one with his legs crossed. His whole body language was "don't touch me!"

Random observation #2: who knew Katie Holmes was such a soccer fan? Or is she a Posh fan? She brought the Stepford Baby, which no doubt gave her something to do in those boring stretches without Becks. She uses Playtex bottles. Less air in Suri's tummy.


Random observation #3: I'm way past ready for all this hoopla to die down. If one has been playing DB drinking games the last few days, one is in serious danger of alcohol poisoning. Let's just play the game, ok? *Not* the drinking game.

Sad fact #1: I didn't actually see him step on the field. I fell asleep. But, somehow, I just don't think I missed much.




Back to some semblance of normalcy, please.

Watch This Space

The goal is 30 days of continuous posting.

Yes, I have been challenged, nay called, as from a higher power, to do my part, to commit my random acts of prose in the name of freedom of speech (or freedom to be a jackass, depending on how you look at it). Global warming just ain't happening fast enough. I want my house ocean front now. So, I'm dedicating the next 30 days to gasbagging, blowing wind and piling up the bullhockey. It will be an arduous task - it may look easy from that side of the keyboard, it may appear simple and free-flowing, but it's not. I work at this, searching for words, thumbing Roget's so I'm not redundant, constantly hitting that 'view next blog' button for inspiration. It rarely works - naked women just don't do much for me - but it sometimes makes me think, 'hey, I'm not the worst blog on the internet. and I mostly spell right. and I don't use an ugly background making what I do write indecipherable.'

Anyways, that's the challenge.


And the first post! :)

The MLS All-Star Game v. 2007

What? You don't believe in All-Star games? Hater.

I love the idea of them - the best choosing the best of their own. I kind of wish they were post-season, but who would care then?

So, MLS looked good last night. Celtic are pre-season, sure, but they looked a whole lot better than Chelsea who looked lazy, sloppy and fat at last year's. I'd give the boys in the green and white stripedy shirts a B- for effort. I mean, look at that dude's face. He looks pissed. And not in a fun way.

Juan Pablo Angel with goal #1, Juan Tojas with goal #2. Bad pun alert! Juan plus Juan equals two. Tojas, don't ever cut your hair. I think it gives you special powers, special protection. Now if we can just perform some Santeria ritual and have Dallas (and the rest of the league) forget you're signed to them, and have Bruce bring you over to the Red Side... mmmwaaahaaahaaahaaahaaa!

Is there anything more inspiring than a big sweaty man hug? I think not.

Big ups, all you all stars.

So, it wasn't our best showing

But it could have been worse.

Ok, I'm just saying that.

What the hell am I talking about? Copa América. And our 0-3 record. Losing to Argentina was expected. Losing to Colombia was not. It was an invaluable learning experience. It will pay off big time during WC qualifying. We will be stronger for the effort.

Etc.

Really, that's how it seems to me. Given the timing (right after the Gold Cup - our regional championship where we won that ugly gold ... uh, cup, mid-MLS season and smack dab in the middle of the U-20 World Cup) and the ambition (to whip this national program into shape before the next World Cup), this was the way to handle it, so big ups Bob Bradley for having the cajones to do it.

I guess I've just swallowed the Official USSF policy hook, line and sinker.

Anyway, here's a poolful of gratuitous hotties to help us all forget...

I am the water. I am the water. I am the water...

Argentina 4, USA .... 1

A brilliant beginning.

60 minutes of inspired play.

We actually LED for two whole minutes.

And somewhere, around minute 62, things went to h-e-double toothpicks in a handbasket. Was it the subs? The heat? The humidity?

Nah. It was the stripes. The butt-ugly pinstripes. The last time we wore these with the white shorts: a friendly with Guatemala in March, which was possibly the ugliest, least interesting, most depressing game ever with Mostest and Feilhaber in the starting XI.

But, in the end, it's not whether you win or lose, but what you discover about your players that's important. Just keep saying to yourself 'it's a four year master plan, it's a four year master plan.' All will be well in the end.

Things Could Get Interesting

at the Copa America.

Mexico 2, Brazil 0. WTF?

Beautiful goal from Nery Castillo - and those are hard words to write.


We beat Mexico. Mexico beat Brazil. Ergo, we are better than Brazil.

It's logic, baby. ;)

Sure, It's Ugly, But It's Ours.

And these guys seem pretty happy about it. USA 2, Mexico 1. Landon Donovan's veins are filled with ice water - how can you be that collected with Osvaldo Sanchez blowing kisses to you? And curly-haired Mexican player #18 (who may or may not be Guardado) also had some words of advice to give him while LD was doing his voodoo.

Seriously, is that supposed to be one of those minimalist masterpieces?

Saturday Soccer Madness

It's an all day show, peeps. Well, most of the day. The best part of the day, how 'bout that?

First up, Team America versus Panama, 4:00 PM, live from Foxboro, Mass. I have some trepidation about this one for some reason. Soccer angst, I suppose. Or perhaps they'll be out for revenge against me after my wish for a Mexican miracle in their last game. Panama will be missing two key players due to red cards from that brouhaha, but they are a speedy bunch.

Break a leg, USA.
Kenny Cooper says hey, hey
Win this one so we can go
win it all in Chicago!

thank you, thank you, thank you.

Next game: back to Foxboro (there's a song there - don't go back to Foxbro and waste another game...) for what I hope will be a so-hungry-they're-salivating Columbus Crew eating the Revolution for breakfast/lunch/AND dinner. Wanna see the Gaven and Guille show. And lots of Crew goals. They will actually be playing on grass, since they covered up Gillette's lovely lovely astroturf for the Gold Cup games played earlier. So, in an ironic twist worthy of O. Henry, the visiting Crew will technically have home field advantage.

Last game: those fabulous New York Red Bulls (hopefully) smacking down the Eddie Johnson-deprived KC Wizards. This is either #2 v. #1, or #3 v. #1, or alternatively, #1 v. #2 depending on whose rankings you subscribe to. Wanna see Mathis shine.

insert gratuitous soccer hottie here
Now, don't YOU feel like a winner too?

If I'm going to have a stupid moment

chances are, it won't go unnoticed.

Take last night, for instance. I settled down in the den with the Austinator to watch the first match of the Copa Libertadores final. Boca Juniors versus Gremio at La Bombonera. See these fans? Incredibly enthusiastic.

I had wanted to see the Mexico/Panama Gold Cup game, but could not find it on the 1000 + channels Directv claims to air. So, we tuned in to FSE to watch Guillermo Barros Schelotto's old team. FSE is broadcast in Spanish. I know this. And still, when I tuned in and couldn't understand a word, I did the only sensible thing.

I turned it up.

Which provided Austin with the best laugh he's had since the Spongebob P.O.O.P. episode.

It seemed like the logical thing to do at the time. I have noticed that people tend to speak louder when they're trying to communicate with someone who speaks another language. So, following that train of thought, if I just listened harder, I would understand better.

And part of me actually believed that.

I've been a mad juggler the last few years anyway, trying to keep my Balls of Knowledge and Experience in the air so my kids will keep believing I'm invincible and omnipotent. They already know I can't kiss the boo-boos away. I was hoping for a few more years of quasi-respect and awe.

Bribery or threats? Money or military school? You decide.

On to the quarterfinals

And looking pretty darn happy about it. USA 4 (which, again, should have been 6), El Salvador nada. 3 shutouts, 7 goals, 9 points. Maybe we are finally living up to our Gold Cup potential. We have certainly been playing down to our opponents.

Last night's highlights: Landon Donovan's composure after having the pk saved, scoring on the rebound and having the referee call it back because the keeper came off his line too soon, and then burying the second one; DaMarcus Beasley's 2 goal joy; Dempsey's no-look/then-look-hard-just-to-be-sure pass to Twellman (could it have been to somebody else, please?).

Last night's lowlights: Brian Ching's speed, which hovered around lollygag/saunter most of his playing time; Oguchi Onyewu's hesitation - clearly his 2-yellows-gets-you-a-red Guatemalan adventure was on his mind; Benny Feilhaber - are you color blind? not in the I'm-no-racist sense, but in the real can-you-tell-blue-from-white-for-god's-sake sense?

Dilemma: Mexico plays tonight. If they lose, we play them Saturday (I think - the permutations are really freakin' complicated), which is too soon. I want to kick their asses in a semi or even a final. So, here I am hoping Mexico can ... win.

Unclean! Unclean! These thoughts are troubling and unclean!

Landon Donovan: Young, Gifted and

apparently portable.

USA 2, Trinidad & Tobago 0. Goals by Brian Ching (off a sweet Justin Mapp cross) and Eddie Johnson, who was gifted by Donovan, thus the photo above. My question is, was LD deliberate in giving EJ a big international confidence boost or was that simply the best play? I can see him going either way, and both ways are good. Against a rented T&T team, we should have had at least four more goals.

UPDATE: Landon answers, via the much more informed and articulate Sideline Views.

But that was the way of my soccering this weekend.

Red Bulls 2, DC 4. Ben Olsen gets a hat trick? BEN OLSEN gets a hat trick? I'm glad I couldn't watch it, thanks Telefutura.

But I did see Columbus lose to the Dynamo (the artists formerly known as the Earthquakes AND Houston 1836) on an own goal. Sparks and desolation. Sparks and desolation.

Tomorrow night, USA v. El Salvador. I wanna see a 8-0 scoreline.

Gold Cup 2007: USA 1, Guatemala 0

One up. Clint Dempsey (a/k/a The Mostest from Nacogdoches) scored in the 26th minute to give Team USA its winning (and only) goal.
One down. The Hotness His-izzle, Oguchi Onyewu, was ejected in the 73rd minute, leaving ten men to defend that lead. Seen here providing a scoreline update to the Guatemalan fans.


















Frankie Hejduk makes friends with Jose Contreras shortly before receiving a yellow card.


Much better game than the friendly in March. Quite entertaining overall. Question for the world at large: wtf happened with Donovan and Ruiz?

Bring on Trinidad & Tobago.

JPA (a/k/a Juan Pablo Angel)

is Mr. May. So, he looks a little like a Dumb and Dumberer extra here. He's my second favorite use of the word Colombian.


Coffee!

I was thinking coffee!

Quite possibly

the best looking team we've ever fielded. How anybody in their right mind could confuse Gooch (first from left) and Beasley (facing the team) is quite outside the realm of reason. That's like the soccer equivalent of confusing the Skipper with his Little Buddy (referencing relative size disparity only of course).

Guatemala on Thursday. Hope it's better than the last meeting, which epitomized the word turgid.

This Weekend in Soccer

These guys made me LOL right there in my living room. Big ups to Benny Feilhaber for his first national team goal and bigger ups to Sacha Kljestan for teaching Benny a few steps in the down time. USA 4, China 1. Besides Feilhaber, it was Beasley on the PK, Dempsey (sedate elder statesman - whoda thunk it?) and Oguchi Onyewu.

In MLS, the Red Bulls lost to the center ref and Kansas City. Good to see Eddie Johnson on a scoring bender right before the Gold Cup. Bad to see him get his 2nd hat trick IN A ROW off the Red Bulls. Clint Mathis: 8 games, 4 goals, 2 ejections, 1 assist. Still cute.

As for the beleagured, beloved Columbus Crew...

How 'bout them Cavs?

It's Easy to Hate...

and all the best ideas are stolen, anyhow.

40 Things I Hate More Than Paris Hilton.

(thanks, Rob Sheffield. I'll watch my slang and punctuation on the internets from here. on. out.)

I know this is hardly unchartered territory for me. I'm beginning to feel a little like Ouiser in Steel Magnolias: I'm not crazy, I've just been in a very bad mood for 40 years.

40. Litter. I saw a condom discarded on the road while walking my dog this morning. Sure, it's kind of a rural area, but not so sleepy that people park at stop signs. Truly, I am puzzled at the placement. Did this man just happen to notice while taking a left on Neal Drive that the condom was still on?
39. Don't go there. The descent from catchphrase to cliche is a slippery slope.
38. Spitting in public. Would it bother you if I bled on your shoes? Then don't hock loogies on my sidewalk.
37. Hummers. Not the little birds. The big, bo-honking, gas-guzzling, environment-wrecking vehicles of Satan and his evil minions.
36. Because, besides the aforementioned, when they want to turn left and I want to turn right, they always creep out in front of me and obstruct my view so I can't see if I'm about to be annihilated by another one of them driving hellbent on destruction and mayhem.
35. Anybody who interrupts me when I'm eating. I bite. Really!
34. Social climbers, particularly out here in the boondocks. I have a clever name for them: SC2, which would be even more clever if I could figure out how to raise that "2" so it would be "squared". Sevier County Social Climber. S.C.S.C. Get it?
33. The relentless telemarketers who work for Rolling Stone. A new standard in harassment.
32. Whineybutts. Shut up, already.
31. This whole global obsession with reality tv. I invite every one of you sad obsessed bastards to spend a few minutes out in fresh air doing some actual people watching.
30. Eurosnobs. You can't enjoy domestic soccer because it doesn't have the EPL atmosphere? NOT going's gonna help that a lot. Even sadder bastards than the reality addicts.
29. Americans who refer to the guys on the SOCCER team as 'the lads.'
28. Lapdogs. And I have Paris to blame for this. Chihuahuas, Malteses, tea cup poodles, and things of that ilk: eminently bootable.
27. The phrase 'in reality.' I'm quite positive MY reality is radically different than yours, thank you very much.
26. The location of my cubicle. Inevitably, I will be sitting between my boss and a coworker
25. "touching base" over my head as I desperately try to keep up with all things Costello on the internet.
24. The coworker who drums her fingers on my filing cabinet
23. while waiting for her faxes to go through. Go back to your desk already, heinous bitch!
22. Americans who exclaim "spot on!" in response to a righteous point. The soccer geeks somehow think they sound more *authentic* spouting such Anglicisms. Can we build our own soccer vocabulary already? They tried and failed to colonize us a couple hundred years ago. Get over it.
21. The people who think this country is for Americans only. I mean, forget about that big statue with the 'bring us your tired, your huddled masses, etc'. The only native Americans are the Native Americans. So, go home already.
20. Crowds, and the herd mentality.
19. Always being The Responsible One. When my kids leave home, get out of my way.
18. Answering the phone and hearing a recording. It's bad enough that all my mail is junk mail, must all my phone calls be junk as well?
17. That strange brown slime that's growing on Dan Marino's upper lip in the Nutrisystem commercials.
16. Working on major holidays, when the rest of the world has a day off. Hell, it seems like I'm always working when the rest of the world is loafing.
15. People who throw their gum down on the ground. Punishable by death, I say.
14. The person or persons in my office who leave four squares of the world's cheapest toilet paper on the roll. We all know it takes a good yard of this cheap tp to do the job proper. What am I supposed to do with four measly squares?
13. Improper parkers. Honestly, the rest of the world just needs to go back for remedial driver's ed with an emphasis on parking. What is so darn hard about pulling in straight when you've got two white lines to guide you? I say it over and over and the world refuses to listen: if you can't park it, don't drive it.
12. Other people's loud radios. I might accidentally hear Paris "singing" and then I'd have to pour Mr. Clean in my ears.
11. Those freaking Maxoderm commercials. The one dude is a dead ringer for Dan Rather, I must say. Not sexy.
10. Remakes. Songs, movies, etc. Has Hollywood run out of ideas?
9. People whose musical curiousity died the day they graduated from high school.
8. George W. Bush - why did it take me until the last ten to get to him?
7. Cole slaw.
6. Loud restaurants.
5. Fart mufflers and
4. Bullet bikes
3. The power of the 18-34 year old male demographic. We are doomed to be plagued by Adam Sandler movies for the next 10 years.
2. Larry the Cable Guy and the phrase
1. Get R Done.

Soccerlogged.

You know that feeling, where you've been at the beach or the lake or the river all day, swimming and floating and swimming and sunning and swimming some more, and it's about to get dark so you go inside, dry off and sit down to relax, only you can't because you feel all weird and soggy and sore? Well, I had the soccer equivalent of that last night.

180 miles, 48 hours, 5 games, 4 points, 3 goals (one called back) and one chatty nine year old companion later, somebody give me a gold medal for Being a Good Sport. I did not abuse the referees, even when they deserved it (that goal was IN!!). I cheered supportively, not negatively (and honestly, how many times can you say Go, Purple! with feeling ???). I sat through Shrek 3 (and that franchise has lost its charm, let me tell you). We are now done for the season.

And I miss it already.


pictures to follow!

Those Who Do Not Learn From History

are, of course, condemned to repeat it. This is particularly true in high school, but perhaps more applicable to algebra. Anyway, the gods have got it in for me this week. First I was wrong about the signing of the year. Now I am at least partially wrong about emergency rooms. Partially.

It was the Austinator, naturally. An old friend told me when my first child was about a year old that I would be lucky if I only took him to the ER once in his formative years. This was Austin's second trip in 13 years. Ergo, he's pushing me to the edge of my maternal sanity. The first was the infamous bicycle incident when he was 7, in which he drove his bike into a mail box, sailed over the handle bars, landing in a blackberry bush and coming out with a knot the size of a super bouncy ball on his forehead. Somehow I managed to get him (wailing and bleeding and slobbering), the bike and the dog back home and then to the ER to check that knot. Which was NOT a concussion. Everything else was bandaid-able.

But not last Tuesday.

Last Tuesday, May the 15th, in the year of our lord 2007, our family suffered its first fracture. OK, so that's technically not quite true, since Katie mysteriously broke her collar bone when she was a toddler - I still don't know how that happened. I suspect it had something to do with her love of climbing up things and jumping off them. I still have a hard time keeping her grounded. But this was our first major sports injury which, in 15 or so years of soccering, is a pretty good record, considering.

But I digress.

They were big, but they weren't that skilled, these hell children from Carpenter. So that meant they relied on their physical abilities to win balls. With slide tackles, which Austin deftly jumped over; elbows to the neck, face and torso, which he fended off; and hip checks. Hip checks, as in hockey. And one particularly demonic psycho-player hip checked my baby boy. Really hard. Austin didn't bounce right up this time. I yelled at the referee with a complete lack of abandon to do something about the fouls, and my baby was still lying there. The whistle blew for the end of the half and he was still down, but now his coach was with him. Eventually he got up so I thought, he's going to be ok, but I went to check on him anyway. And he's walking toward me holding his little hand up with his face all scrunched up, almost crying but trying to be tough and he says 'I can't close my fingers.'

So, of course, I calmly and collectedly escorted him to the car and calmly and collectively drove to the ER. No, not really, I think I yelled at some people to get out of our way and I drove past a policeman doing 60 in a 35 mph zone (but he looked the other way, thank you traffic gods). And I know my hands hurt the next day because I was hanging on to the steering wheel so hard. But I'm digressing again. We got there and for the first time ever the lobby was completely empty. All we had to do was fill out paperwork (which gets on my tits - what do they do if you're unconscious? dying? have a mangled limb hanging off your body? do you STILL have to fill out the paperwork before you can be seen?). And we got sent back to the non-emergency care section, which also angered me. Just what constitutes an emergency??? We sat there for a while, Austin grimacing and looking pale and me saying 'just breathe. just breathe in and out' like he was in labor or something, and Josie needing to go to the bathroom and Heely around the halls. We wheeled down for some X-rays. Josie went to the bathroom again. A fellow soccer parent who is also a doctor stuck his head in to say he looked at the x-ray and it looked ok to him. A very nice physician's assistant examined Austin and the x-ray, pronounced it a soft tissue injury that needed a splint and left to get said splint. She returned a few minutes later to say oops, it is indeed broken and showed us on the x-ray exactly where. We will need to see an orthopod in the next 5-7 days (!! and I took that at face value, thinking they will be angry when I call them tomorrow!) and we will get that splint on now. Again, she goes to get the splint or play solitaire on her computer or something. A very nice nurse comes in and asks Austin how long it's been since he ate. She's got some pain medication for him so she suggests a soft drink to go with, in case it makes him nauseous. I ask her what she's giving him and she says Tylenol-3. She then turns to Josie with the pill wrapper in her hand and asks if she wants something as well. As God is my witness, I thought she was offering my daughter a hit of Tylenol-3. Austin and Josie both think this is hilarious, and the nurse is looking at me like I'm not quite sane and DHS ought to be called.

And then the rest of the team showed up.

Well, ok, not the whole team, but his four best buds Brandon, Marcus, Caleb and Cody. And their parents. And both coaches. And I have never been so glad to see these people in my life. It was just such a nice thing to do. I try to downplay hospital/doctor visits as much as possible, trying to give my kids the impression that whatever it is, it's no big deal because kids (and moms) take tiny pieces of information and imagine the worst possible scenario, and that Austin, he just gets ideas in his head sometimes. I've always tried to keep our medical party small, usually just me and whoever needs to be seen. Tuesday, we're having a pep rally in Curtain One.

It was nice to know they cared. Thanks, guys. And big ups/thanks to the ER staff who put up with our little pep rally.

News Flash: I was wrong.

The MLS signing of the year is not Luciano Emilio. It is not even the Geico gecko. I have seen the future of soccer in America and his name is Guillermo Barros Schelotto. The Columbus Crew #7. That's right, Columbus, a/k/a Cowtown, C-bus, BFE, Middle of Nowhere, insert-a-derogatory-nickname-here. In Ohio. Middle America. Land of the Average Joe. The Non-Coast.

And that's just as it should be, because Guille (an icon to Boca fans the world over) seems like a laid-back, hard-working family man. A workhorse like his former teammate Carlos Tevez. Dependable. Steadfast. Skilled. Prepared. A soccer-playing Boy Scout, if you will.

If you happened to watch the Crew NOT lose to Chivas Saturday evening, then you know why I'm excited. Schelotto brought creativity, brilliant vision and, given the language barrier, excellent direction. All that skill and talent and leadership and intelligence is the Crew's for the next two years, and the Crew have a herd of young players who can learn a lot. There's so much potential there, it's scary.

I smell ... a dynasty.

Welcome to Columbus, Guille.

Inner City Violence

my latest obsession.

I thought oh, brother when I heard the sirens at the start. Another street fighting poser song. And then the horns came in.

It's a minimalist masterpiece. Not one extra note, not one gratuitous sound. Restrained and evocative guitar, almost gentle vocals and sweet, sweet horns. Which is not to say it's quiet. There's a LOT of sound there.


Download it here and turn that mother up.

Saturday Night's Alright for ...

concerts!

Outdoor, summertime, beer & lawn chair concerts.

And to start the season out right, Jim and I headed down to Maryville (pronounced MUHRvull) to The Shed at the Harley-Davidson dealership. Yes, I said Harley. It's a cool little venue: basically a covered pavillion there to the side of the store with enough room to put a couple hundred folks under the roof. They sell beer and BBQ, but you have to bring your own lawn chair - but that's not a problem for this intrepid soccer mom. It's right on 321, but there's not a lot of traffic noise. There's not all that much traffic in Maryville, especially when you venture out to the outskirts. Saturday night's headliner was James McMurtry and I assume the guys with him were the Heartless Bastards. I took one picture with my phone, but it was garbage, so I stole this one. Just put him in a faded black baggy T shirt and black jeans and that's my picture.

We were joined by our good buddy and pal whom I have previously referred to as The John Prine Ticket Master. I am officially changing his name now to Hayseed Wannabe, and I'm gonna buy him his first pair of overhauls. Maybe a John Deere cap, too. I like him *that* much. We met Hayseed at a Mexican restaurant pre-show. Did I mention it was Cinco de Mayo? Not one of my better ideas, but damn did they feed us fine. Great food and a whole lot of it. Hayseed recently celebrated a big birthday, so I'm going to give him an Alzheimer's pass for not knowing the show started at 7. Not 8. 7. 7, Hayseed. We only missed a little of the opener, whose name escapes me (but I bet Hay will remember!) and whose voice I found vaguely irritating.

James McMurtry has a bunch of guitars. Like, eight. And this guy came out and tuned them all. Diligently, lovingly and excruciatingly slowly. Then these random guys came out and picked up instruments. No, they are not vagrants, they are the band. JM is the kind of guy you would probably avoid eye contact with on the street. He looks a little dangerous in a redneck survivalist kind of way. So, it's a good thing he can write a good song and pick a good tune, because you wouldn't buy a car (new or used) from him. He's not a chatty kind of guy either. He looks like he could just as easily tell you to go to hell as tell you to come back and see us again real soon. And he's most definitely NOT a republican. Probably not a democrat, either, but I wouldn't count him amongst the John Birchers. He has a voice and a point of view, and he's not afraid to use either. So I was thinking he would get a fairly hostile reception, here in ardently republican east Tennessee. The audience was part bikers, part overall-wearing country boys, part LL Bean type couples. And us. Fisticuffs seemed inevitable.

Alas, it was not to be. Everybody seemed to be having a great time. I'm not sure they all understood all the words, because I'd give JM a C+ in subtlety. Some good tunes all around, my favorite being Choctaw Bingo, which is just an absolute verbal locomotive, a barrage of character sketches and X-acto knife insights, with some incestuous fantasies thrown in for good measure. Maybe it's not incest if you're second cousins - I'm really not sure of the legalities. He played all those guitars. They did a one song encore. And then we all went home.

And that's a fine way to spend a summer evening.

Like Elton John said

Saturday night's alright for fightin'

relegation!

Clint Dempsey, a/k/a The Mostest from Nacogdoches, scored what could be a $50 million dollar goal for Fulham. Sure, it was against a Liverpool reserve team, but like the man says, three points is three points.

see it here - it is rather pretty.


I expected a stylin' & profilin' celebration, but I guess he was caught off guard. Good for him, good for Fulham. I say he gets the start on Sunday.