I've been thinking about hope a lot lately--a topic that is tough to think about for too long without beginning to assess and eventually doubt one's own mental state. Hope is a funny thing. If you have too much hope, you're a grinning lunatic that mothers herd their children away from. If you hold on to too little hope, you're the depressive in a trench coat that mothers herd their children away from. Society has a very strictly defined limit of how much hope is "normal" to keep on your person. You know, like body hair. Or hard liquor. Or marijuana in California.
I was initially pondering this mystery whilst watching Greece play Germany in the Euro 2012 quarterfinals (I know, that was like 2 weeks ago: I've been procrastinating). I was assuming a pro-Hellenic stance, on account of my distant Greek roots and a strong distaste for sauerkraut. I had very little logical reason to believe Greece would win. By every objective measure, the Greeks stood about as much chance to win the match as they had to muck out the Augean stables of their economy. Sorry, I couldn't pass up a good economy joke. Logically, I had about two dozen better things to be doing with my time--sleeping, eating, writing letters to Congress--but like the sucker I am I tuned in anyways. I then proceeded to be not surprised at all at how the Germans were controlling every facet of the game. Exactly like they were expected to do. It was an act of Zeus they went into the break down a mere one goal. Spirits, I must confess, were low. I looked in the fridge, to evaluate my beer supplies. Rationalizations began to be formed. Hope, in short, was running low.
So imagine my surprise, and jubilation, when "Greek Jesus" Georgios Samaras knocked a low cross past Manuel Neuer to level things at one. And just like that, my imagination was kicked into high gear. The Greek attack was looking formidable: one goal out of one chance! With that conversion rate, we can hardly lose! The Germans were playing sloppily--it's further proof that blond-haired, blue-eyed people can never fully subjugate the darker races! Sorry, I couldn't pass up a good Holocaust joke. For five giddy minutes, the possibilities were endless. Of course, after those five minutes the karmic universe righted itself, Sami Khedira banged home a full volley, Miroslav Klose nodded home a third, and then Marco Reus buried the Greeks with a thunderbolt volley. Beers were consumed, mourning colors were donned, and sacrifices were made to Ares so that his wrath may be called down upon the German nation.
In one sense, the defeat was completely expected and justifiable: Greece had been the obviously inferior side for the full 90 minutes. But in another sense, it was brutal. I had genuinely believed that Greece had a puncher's chance for those five minutes. I let my guard down. Most sports fans (especially fans of bad teams) will always swear that they're not going to drop their guard, and that they can always expect the worst, and that nothing will ever change their mindset. But I think they're all liars. Inside, we all get excited by the possibilities. And yes, they're usually crushed. Logically we should know better. But for some reason, the chump in all of us will continue to believe that it'll happen. Otherwise, why watch?
After a win today, my Orioles sit at 44-37, a record whose respectability is exceeded by it's improbability. The Orioles, as you may be aware, aren't a very good team. Since 1997 (our last playoff berth) we've started pretty much every year knowing that we're not going to the playoffs, we're not winning the World Series, and we probably won't even play respectably for long stretches of the summer. So why watch? Why give up our precious time and hard-earned dollars to follow a team that is best described as "fucking train wreck"? Hope. Hope that we'll put some pieces together and surprise the baseball-following world with our new-found competence, exactly as we have for the first half of this season. Logically, I know it'll probably end sometime in July or August. But I'm sure as hell going to be watching to find out.
I've been going on for five paragraphs now about hope in sports, which is OK, but makes for an unsatisfying ending to a column. "That's all well and good," I hear you saying, "but where's your point?" So far, I guess the closest thing I have to a point is some trite moral about the virtues of moderation in all things, especially hope. Which is a really shitty point, to be honest.
So I was sitting here, reflecting on said shittiness and getting ready to go to work, when I had a thought. I have lots of thoughts throughout the day, but most of them aren't as good as this one was. I was putting on my black clothes and non-slip shoes for another evening of waiting tables and dealing with shitty customers, I thought about myself and my coworkers. Waiting tables isn't a terribly prestigious job, the sort of occupation that makes beautiful women open to your seduction. Everybody that works in food-service believes it to be a strictly temporary thing, a way to make money until they start their "real" career. And this is probably true, to at least a minimal degree. But there are people there in their early 30s who are still "stalling". How do they keep from going insane and shooting up the entire restaurant before turning the guns on their own now-slightly-greying heads?
Because they have hope. Hope of a better job, hope of a promotion in the restaurant, hope of winning the lottery or having a wealthy relative die unexpectedly bequeath them everything. It doesn't really matter what it is, as long as it gets you out of bed in the morning. If there's one thing to take away from this, it's this: you don't need a Greek Jesus to give you hope. You can do it yourself. Just like....well, nevermind.
Thursday, July 5, 2012
Tuesday, June 5, 2012
Zombie apocalypse 2012!
You may have noticed I haven't posted in a while. I apologize. It's because I've been building shelters and stocking supplies for the impending zombie apocalypse. Oh, you didn't know that the zombie apocalypse was starting? It's true. Grab your canned goods and boomsticks while there is still time, dear reader.
There have been two high-profile incidents of cannibalism in the United States over the past two weeks, which is exactly two more incidents of cannibalism than I can remember reported over the past 22 years of my life. It started with a man named Rudy Eugene, who I will call Patient Zero from this point forward, attacking a homeless man in Miami and literally chewing his face off. No, seriously. And to put the cherry on top of the sundae of creepy in that story, he remembered to strip naked before commencing his feast. The Miami-Dade police, displaying an awareness of the zombie threat rarely found in law enforcement agents, shot the man dead--a process that took no less than a half-dozen shots, according to initial reports.
A few days later, the terror struck close to home when a student at Morgan State University 'fessed up to killing his roommate and proceeding to eat his heart and brain (to absorb his power, one would assume) and disposing of the rest in a dumpster behind a church. The crime only came to light when police arrested the student after his brother found a human head and two hands in a trash can in the student's residence. Again: no, seriously.
I can't speculate how the infection spread from Florida to the mid-Atlantic so fast, but its presence in such highly-populated areas is certainly a bad sign for our chances in coming war for our survival. The shuffling hordes of Latino zombies headed north in the coming months, marching to meet their Yanqui compatriots in a diabolical yet shambly pincer movement, might well spell our doom unless awareness is spread and preparations are made. Don't delay! These sorts of things can't be done overnight. Ready your weapons and supplies now. Start cramming on zombie lore now-- to quote Chinese general and all-around man's man Sun Tzu: "It is said that if you know your enemies and know yourself, you will not be imperiled in a hundred battles; if you do not know your enemies but do know yourself, you will win one and lose one; if you do not know your enemies nor yourself, you will be imperiled in every single battle." If anybody would know about the level of danger we're in right now, it's definitely a long-dead warrior/philosopher who may or may not have existed.
On one hand, I am a little bummed out over the end of civilization as I know it. But it is good to know that all those hours I spent playing Resident Evil and Left 4 Dead won't have been for naught. I evidently spent my teenage years in vital research for the betterment of mankind! Huzzah! If this blog goes dead for an extended period I think it would be safe to assume that I've been killed by a rogue zombie who has eaten my face and vital organs. Heck, maybe this means the Mayans were right after all!
There have been two high-profile incidents of cannibalism in the United States over the past two weeks, which is exactly two more incidents of cannibalism than I can remember reported over the past 22 years of my life. It started with a man named Rudy Eugene, who I will call Patient Zero from this point forward, attacking a homeless man in Miami and literally chewing his face off. No, seriously. And to put the cherry on top of the sundae of creepy in that story, he remembered to strip naked before commencing his feast. The Miami-Dade police, displaying an awareness of the zombie threat rarely found in law enforcement agents, shot the man dead--a process that took no less than a half-dozen shots, according to initial reports.
A few days later, the terror struck close to home when a student at Morgan State University 'fessed up to killing his roommate and proceeding to eat his heart and brain (to absorb his power, one would assume) and disposing of the rest in a dumpster behind a church. The crime only came to light when police arrested the student after his brother found a human head and two hands in a trash can in the student's residence. Again: no, seriously.
I can't speculate how the infection spread from Florida to the mid-Atlantic so fast, but its presence in such highly-populated areas is certainly a bad sign for our chances in coming war for our survival. The shuffling hordes of Latino zombies headed north in the coming months, marching to meet their Yanqui compatriots in a diabolical yet shambly pincer movement, might well spell our doom unless awareness is spread and preparations are made. Don't delay! These sorts of things can't be done overnight. Ready your weapons and supplies now. Start cramming on zombie lore now-- to quote Chinese general and all-around man's man Sun Tzu: "It is said that if you know your enemies and know yourself, you will not be imperiled in a hundred battles; if you do not know your enemies but do know yourself, you will win one and lose one; if you do not know your enemies nor yourself, you will be imperiled in every single battle." If anybody would know about the level of danger we're in right now, it's definitely a long-dead warrior/philosopher who may or may not have existed.
On one hand, I am a little bummed out over the end of civilization as I know it. But it is good to know that all those hours I spent playing Resident Evil and Left 4 Dead won't have been for naught. I evidently spent my teenage years in vital research for the betterment of mankind! Huzzah! If this blog goes dead for an extended period I think it would be safe to assume that I've been killed by a rogue zombie who has eaten my face and vital organs. Heck, maybe this means the Mayans were right after all!
Monday, May 7, 2012
Advertising campaigns that wouldn't suck
The product: Men's body wash/cologne/deodorant/etc.
The tagline: "You won't smell awful."
The pitch: I consider myself a mostly reasonable man, at least when I'm not in the vicinity of a Chipotle or Five Guys. So already I know that I'm not in the target demographic for Axe body spray and similar products. I, like many similarly sane consumers, know that no matter what sort of scent I apply to myself I'm not going to make women drop what they are doing and chase after me. All I want is to not smell awful. I don't want to smell like body odor, but I also don't want to smell like a douchebag who doused himself with cologne because it think it will help him "score some pussy" or whatever. I'd enjoy a bland, mildly pleasant scent that will allow people's first impressions of me not involve the olfactory sense.
Odds of it happening: Pretty good. I believe there's a fairly sizable chunk of people who are similarly annoyed by the cloying scents on the market today, so it's not unreasonable that some manufacturer might court that demographic with such a campaign.
The product: Junk food
The tagline: "Worth the impending bypass surgery."
The pitch: Products like Doritos and Cheetos and Hot Pockets would like to focus on anything except the nutritional content of their stuff--a fuzzy mascot, their innate appeal to the intoxicated, the convenience with which they can be imbibed. And this is all for good reason, since that shit will kill you faster than a vacation to Iraq. But if there is anything that Sarah Palin has proved, it's that middle America will tolerate any level of idiocy as long as it comes out of a mouth it would collectively like to fuck. If there's a second thing that Sarah Palin has proved--specifically, with the level of offense she takes at Michelle Obama's measures to curb childhood obesity, and the positive reception it subsequently gathers--it's that as a country we love our junk food more than we love our health. If Hostess, for instance, were to run out a campaign that said, subtly, something along the lines of "All those hippies say this shit will kill you, but we think these cupcakes are fucking delicious and you should eat 'em if they taste good to you," you think that wouldn't strike a chord with some red-state residents? Enough to make it worth Hostess' while? Shit, I think it would be worth it just to watch the furious reaction from health groups.
Odds of it happening: Somewhere between 0 and never.
The product: Mid-range beer/liquor/wine
The tagline: "It'll do, for the price!"
The pitch: This sort of pitch would work even better with the Keystones and Natty Lights of the world, but those brands don't really produce advertising because they don't need to. College kids are going to buy their shit no matter what the companies say. High-end booze can't reasonably say it's worth the money when the average consumer can't appreciate the fineness of what they're drinking, especially after they've mixed it with Coke and chugged it on a dare. A $30 handle of Smirnoff will be a similar amount of fun as a $60 handle of Grey Goose, so why not point that out? It seems like the moderately-good brands like Smirnoff or Cuervo would attack the good stuff with this line of thought, and see if they can't grab a little market share with honesty instead of the usual bullshit.
Odds of it happening: Next to nil. Companies, as a rule, don't like to admit that their product is inferior, even if it very obviously is. They'll keep trying to sell us on how hip and fun they are and how beautiful women will have sex with you if they drink their product.
The tagline: "You won't smell awful."
The pitch: I consider myself a mostly reasonable man, at least when I'm not in the vicinity of a Chipotle or Five Guys. So already I know that I'm not in the target demographic for Axe body spray and similar products. I, like many similarly sane consumers, know that no matter what sort of scent I apply to myself I'm not going to make women drop what they are doing and chase after me. All I want is to not smell awful. I don't want to smell like body odor, but I also don't want to smell like a douchebag who doused himself with cologne because it think it will help him "score some pussy" or whatever. I'd enjoy a bland, mildly pleasant scent that will allow people's first impressions of me not involve the olfactory sense.
Odds of it happening: Pretty good. I believe there's a fairly sizable chunk of people who are similarly annoyed by the cloying scents on the market today, so it's not unreasonable that some manufacturer might court that demographic with such a campaign.
The product: Junk food
The tagline: "Worth the impending bypass surgery."
The pitch: Products like Doritos and Cheetos and Hot Pockets would like to focus on anything except the nutritional content of their stuff--a fuzzy mascot, their innate appeal to the intoxicated, the convenience with which they can be imbibed. And this is all for good reason, since that shit will kill you faster than a vacation to Iraq. But if there is anything that Sarah Palin has proved, it's that middle America will tolerate any level of idiocy as long as it comes out of a mouth it would collectively like to fuck. If there's a second thing that Sarah Palin has proved--specifically, with the level of offense she takes at Michelle Obama's measures to curb childhood obesity, and the positive reception it subsequently gathers--it's that as a country we love our junk food more than we love our health. If Hostess, for instance, were to run out a campaign that said, subtly, something along the lines of "All those hippies say this shit will kill you, but we think these cupcakes are fucking delicious and you should eat 'em if they taste good to you," you think that wouldn't strike a chord with some red-state residents? Enough to make it worth Hostess' while? Shit, I think it would be worth it just to watch the furious reaction from health groups.
Odds of it happening: Somewhere between 0 and never.
The product: Mid-range beer/liquor/wine
The tagline: "It'll do, for the price!"
The pitch: This sort of pitch would work even better with the Keystones and Natty Lights of the world, but those brands don't really produce advertising because they don't need to. College kids are going to buy their shit no matter what the companies say. High-end booze can't reasonably say it's worth the money when the average consumer can't appreciate the fineness of what they're drinking, especially after they've mixed it with Coke and chugged it on a dare. A $30 handle of Smirnoff will be a similar amount of fun as a $60 handle of Grey Goose, so why not point that out? It seems like the moderately-good brands like Smirnoff or Cuervo would attack the good stuff with this line of thought, and see if they can't grab a little market share with honesty instead of the usual bullshit.
Odds of it happening: Next to nil. Companies, as a rule, don't like to admit that their product is inferior, even if it very obviously is. They'll keep trying to sell us on how hip and fun they are and how beautiful women will have sex with you if they drink their product.
Tuesday, May 1, 2012
Liverpool v. Fulham, 5/1/2012
Oh, mercy me. We as fans often complain about tanking around this time of year, with the NBA regular season having just winded down (the gold standard for tanking) and the NFL draft having just gone on (the Colts having reaped the reward of their previous season's tank) but I've never seen anything in American sports to compare to this debacle. Today's match on ESPN2 features the Liverpool JV team against Fulham, whose first XI are ostensibly playing but really sort of drifting about the pitch as if they're waiting to punch out their timecards and go home. It is probably the worst game of professional soccer I've yet seen--and I've watched the MLS.
As I typed that last sentence, Liverpool's Stewart Downing launched a ball from the right side of midfield to the left edge of Fulham's box. I groaned aloud as he did that, like much of the Anfield faithful, because there were no Liverpool players standing anywhere near the left edge of Fulham's box. The nearest red shirt was the one worn by Andy Carroll, standing on the right hand side of the penalty area, between the penalty spot and the channel. I'm pretty sure I saw him roll his eyes as the ball flew hopelessly over him.
Liverpool today trotted out their second string so that their first eleven will be well rested for the FA Cup Final this weekend, a game which a team in 9th place has determined is more important to win than a comparatively-meaningless Premiership game against an opponent who they have no real animosity against. Fulham, for their part, is one of the complement of teams who are comfortably above the specter of relegation yet not so competent as to be challenging for a spot in Europe. Their season is for all intents and purposes over, and the only motivation left they have is of the strictly selfish variety of padding stats and inflating value for their next contract negotiations.
As the ball flies over the uninhabited wasteland of Fulham's penalty area, one white shirt settles underneath it. It's Stephen Kelly, the right back of choice for Fulham. There is no opposition around him. Behind him and to his left is his goalkeeper, Mark Schwarzer. To his left, standing perhaps three yards outside the 18 and centered in the goal, is his center back Aaron Hughes. About a dozen yards in front of and maybe 5 yards to the right of him is Maxi Rodriguez, standing in the posture of a man waiting for a bus or perhaps standing in line of Starbucks. The situation could not be less pressure-filled; all Kelly has to do is take the ball down, get his head up, and then find a pass forward for Fulham. As the ball falls towards him, he hauls his right foot back and takes a mighty swing at it. He scuffs it off the outside of his foot and the ball spirals lazily towards Rodriguez, who controls it out of instinct more than anything and now finds himself more or less wide open 20 yards out from goal.
As I've been composing this bit, play has of course continued at Anfield. The quality has not improved, and we're now entering second-half stoppage time as the fans stream from their seats in a disgruntled sort of way. I'd be disgruntled, too, had I paid over 40 pounds for a ticket ($65, for those without a grasp of world financial systems) to watch 22 very wealthy men half-ass it for a little over ninety minutes.
The biggest difference between the European football season and American athletic seasons is that the former doesn't include any form of playoff (the lower divisions do include a playoff for promotion purposes, but for simplicity's sake I'll stick to the top-flight leagues here). This works out perfectly well for soccer, which is a game in which form plays such an important role in any given match. It's impossible for a team to struggle for 2/3 of the season, sneak into the playoffs, catch fire and wind up winning a title. Winning the Premiership or La Liga or a scudetto takes consistent excellence over eight months, not a run of good results when it counts. On the other hand, it gives teams like Liverpool or Fulham (sitting safely midtable) very little incentive to push themselves at the tail end of the season.
Of course, on the other end of this equation is that the threat of relegation ensures that the bottom-feeders will be fighting to the bitter end, no matter what. Anybody who has watched a local NBA or NFL team "limp" to the finish line may find relegation to be an appealing alternative, as unlikely as it is to ever appear in a major American sports league.
Maxi Rodriguez, to return to our sad narrative, now possesses the ball within shooting range of Schwarzer's goal, with plenty of time to let it fly. Past history suggests that he's primed to bang one home from this range. He looks up at goal, back down at the ball, swings that right leg of his back, and buries one into the mass of portly men standing in row M to the left of the goal. It's the perfect conclusion to this microcosm of midtable drudgery I've been walking us through, and both the Anfield crowd and I on my sofa can't contain our disappointment. After the comparative excitement and relative quality of the Manchester derby yesterday, I suppose most games would be a letdown. But even still, I can't help but wonder if I can't have found a better use of my afternoon off. Here's to waiting for next August, when all 20 teams will once again have hope--and motivation.
As I typed that last sentence, Liverpool's Stewart Downing launched a ball from the right side of midfield to the left edge of Fulham's box. I groaned aloud as he did that, like much of the Anfield faithful, because there were no Liverpool players standing anywhere near the left edge of Fulham's box. The nearest red shirt was the one worn by Andy Carroll, standing on the right hand side of the penalty area, between the penalty spot and the channel. I'm pretty sure I saw him roll his eyes as the ball flew hopelessly over him.
Liverpool today trotted out their second string so that their first eleven will be well rested for the FA Cup Final this weekend, a game which a team in 9th place has determined is more important to win than a comparatively-meaningless Premiership game against an opponent who they have no real animosity against. Fulham, for their part, is one of the complement of teams who are comfortably above the specter of relegation yet not so competent as to be challenging for a spot in Europe. Their season is for all intents and purposes over, and the only motivation left they have is of the strictly selfish variety of padding stats and inflating value for their next contract negotiations.
As the ball flies over the uninhabited wasteland of Fulham's penalty area, one white shirt settles underneath it. It's Stephen Kelly, the right back of choice for Fulham. There is no opposition around him. Behind him and to his left is his goalkeeper, Mark Schwarzer. To his left, standing perhaps three yards outside the 18 and centered in the goal, is his center back Aaron Hughes. About a dozen yards in front of and maybe 5 yards to the right of him is Maxi Rodriguez, standing in the posture of a man waiting for a bus or perhaps standing in line of Starbucks. The situation could not be less pressure-filled; all Kelly has to do is take the ball down, get his head up, and then find a pass forward for Fulham. As the ball falls towards him, he hauls his right foot back and takes a mighty swing at it. He scuffs it off the outside of his foot and the ball spirals lazily towards Rodriguez, who controls it out of instinct more than anything and now finds himself more or less wide open 20 yards out from goal.
As I've been composing this bit, play has of course continued at Anfield. The quality has not improved, and we're now entering second-half stoppage time as the fans stream from their seats in a disgruntled sort of way. I'd be disgruntled, too, had I paid over 40 pounds for a ticket ($65, for those without a grasp of world financial systems) to watch 22 very wealthy men half-ass it for a little over ninety minutes.
The biggest difference between the European football season and American athletic seasons is that the former doesn't include any form of playoff (the lower divisions do include a playoff for promotion purposes, but for simplicity's sake I'll stick to the top-flight leagues here). This works out perfectly well for soccer, which is a game in which form plays such an important role in any given match. It's impossible for a team to struggle for 2/3 of the season, sneak into the playoffs, catch fire and wind up winning a title. Winning the Premiership or La Liga or a scudetto takes consistent excellence over eight months, not a run of good results when it counts. On the other hand, it gives teams like Liverpool or Fulham (sitting safely midtable) very little incentive to push themselves at the tail end of the season.
Of course, on the other end of this equation is that the threat of relegation ensures that the bottom-feeders will be fighting to the bitter end, no matter what. Anybody who has watched a local NBA or NFL team "limp" to the finish line may find relegation to be an appealing alternative, as unlikely as it is to ever appear in a major American sports league.
Maxi Rodriguez, to return to our sad narrative, now possesses the ball within shooting range of Schwarzer's goal, with plenty of time to let it fly. Past history suggests that he's primed to bang one home from this range. He looks up at goal, back down at the ball, swings that right leg of his back, and buries one into the mass of portly men standing in row M to the left of the goal. It's the perfect conclusion to this microcosm of midtable drudgery I've been walking us through, and both the Anfield crowd and I on my sofa can't contain our disappointment. After the comparative excitement and relative quality of the Manchester derby yesterday, I suppose most games would be a letdown. But even still, I can't help but wonder if I can't have found a better use of my afternoon off. Here's to waiting for next August, when all 20 teams will once again have hope--and motivation.
Thursday, April 26, 2012
Praise the Ward!!
What a fantastic finish, for both lovers of the Capitals and fans of pun-related headlines. The bar I was in was cracking from the first faceoff, and then emitted a scream best described as "primal joy" when Ward banged home the winner.
And I know it's the 21st century, and that we've elected a black president and thus ended racism in America, but I have to wonder: is this not the highest point a black man has ever reached in the realms of professional ice hockey? I mean, the list of black NHL players if fairly limited, and those who spring to my mind aren't exactly Hall of Fame-worthy. Kevin Weekes was a serviceable backup goalkeeper but no Braden Holtby, if you catch my drift. Donald Brashear was a stereotypical goon. Grant Fuhr won a cup and is the in the HOF, but he's only half-and-half genetically and was raised by whites, which means he hardly counts. Yes, I know, we're not to talk about race in the public domain (do you think we'll hear this sort of discussion on SportsCenter this week?) but these are the questions I have to ask.
Awkward racial discussions aside, the Capitals have put me in a joyous mood and I have beers to drink and thoughts to think and therefore must bid you a fond adieu, dear reader.
And I know it's the 21st century, and that we've elected a black president and thus ended racism in America, but I have to wonder: is this not the highest point a black man has ever reached in the realms of professional ice hockey? I mean, the list of black NHL players if fairly limited, and those who spring to my mind aren't exactly Hall of Fame-worthy. Kevin Weekes was a serviceable backup goalkeeper but no Braden Holtby, if you catch my drift. Donald Brashear was a stereotypical goon. Grant Fuhr won a cup and is the in the HOF, but he's only half-and-half genetically and was raised by whites, which means he hardly counts. Yes, I know, we're not to talk about race in the public domain (do you think we'll hear this sort of discussion on SportsCenter this week?) but these are the questions I have to ask.
Awkward racial discussions aside, the Capitals have put me in a joyous mood and I have beers to drink and thoughts to think and therefore must bid you a fond adieu, dear reader.
Wednesday, April 25, 2012
Chelsea v. Barca
Some days you're the windshield, some days you're the bug. Or, in Barcelona's case, you're the windshield moving 65 mph (105 kph, if they're playing in Camp Nou) that runs into a bug wearing Chelsea blue that was apparently created in a lab, given an adamantium exoskeleton, a penchant for parking the bus, and a flair on the counterattack (This is evidently the same lab that tore down and rebuilt Fernando Torres, replacing his malfunctioning scoring unit).
Rarely have I seen a team defend as resolutely as Chelsea did today, a display made even more impressive by doing it without proper center-backs. Terry definitely deserved his red card, regardless of what excuse he trots out about Sanchez stopping short or the devil making him do it or whatever. I, for one, thought that was the end of Chelsea's chances. Having already conceded, the crowd rocking, and the captain in the shower, I was pretty sure that was taps. I hadn't reckoned on the ability of Ramires to take the high road, Didier Drogba doing his best center-back impression, Petr Cech doing his best brick wall impression, and the timely resurrection of Fernando Torres.
Today also shone light onto the ugly underbelly of this Barcelona team, which is the fact that their back-line and keeper are actually fairly mediocre. Their best defensive strategy is their possession, which isn't all too bad of a thing given the quality of their possession play. But once they do (finally) give up the ball they're quite open at the back. The midfielders and forwards do a good job of pressuring immediately after turning it over, but if you can move the ball quickly after a takeaway there will be plenty of green to run into. Chelsea did a great job of that for all three of their goals in the tie. Granted, the circumstance was probably exacerbated by Barca's attacking desperation, but Real Madrid did something similar over the weekend in less dire circumstance.
The other problem they have is that Victor Valdes, to be honest, isn't very good. Oh, sure, he's good enough to play in La Liga and is vastly better than I or probably anybody reading this will ever be. But facts remain that Chelsea scored three goals on four attempts over the two legs of the semifinal. When Barcelona needed him to save the bacon, he was nowhere to be found. On Tuesday there was probably little that he could have done differently on Ramires' chip, but his dive at the feet of Torres in second-half stoppage time was, to be frank, pathetic. Even Fernando Torres--the butt of so many jokes these past months--was able to dribble around the prone keeper and find the empty net. It looked like a sniper hired by Roman Abramovich had taken him out at the last opportunity. It's a tough thing to do, to stand there idle for much of a half and then be called upon to keep the team in it, but it's what is required by the Catalans' no. 1. If Valdes can't prove that he can do that consistently, I think that they might have to look into finding somebody who can.
I had a slight rooting interest for Barcelona in this one, strictly because I think they play the more beautiful football, and nothing I saw today caused me to reconsider that stance. But them's the breaks, and I'd be lying if I said it wasn't an immensely enjoyable 2+ hours. Here's to hoping that Real and Bayern can give us comparably entertaining stuff tomorrow afternoon.
Rarely have I seen a team defend as resolutely as Chelsea did today, a display made even more impressive by doing it without proper center-backs. Terry definitely deserved his red card, regardless of what excuse he trots out about Sanchez stopping short or the devil making him do it or whatever. I, for one, thought that was the end of Chelsea's chances. Having already conceded, the crowd rocking, and the captain in the shower, I was pretty sure that was taps. I hadn't reckoned on the ability of Ramires to take the high road, Didier Drogba doing his best center-back impression, Petr Cech doing his best brick wall impression, and the timely resurrection of Fernando Torres.
Today also shone light onto the ugly underbelly of this Barcelona team, which is the fact that their back-line and keeper are actually fairly mediocre. Their best defensive strategy is their possession, which isn't all too bad of a thing given the quality of their possession play. But once they do (finally) give up the ball they're quite open at the back. The midfielders and forwards do a good job of pressuring immediately after turning it over, but if you can move the ball quickly after a takeaway there will be plenty of green to run into. Chelsea did a great job of that for all three of their goals in the tie. Granted, the circumstance was probably exacerbated by Barca's attacking desperation, but Real Madrid did something similar over the weekend in less dire circumstance.
The other problem they have is that Victor Valdes, to be honest, isn't very good. Oh, sure, he's good enough to play in La Liga and is vastly better than I or probably anybody reading this will ever be. But facts remain that Chelsea scored three goals on four attempts over the two legs of the semifinal. When Barcelona needed him to save the bacon, he was nowhere to be found. On Tuesday there was probably little that he could have done differently on Ramires' chip, but his dive at the feet of Torres in second-half stoppage time was, to be frank, pathetic. Even Fernando Torres--the butt of so many jokes these past months--was able to dribble around the prone keeper and find the empty net. It looked like a sniper hired by Roman Abramovich had taken him out at the last opportunity. It's a tough thing to do, to stand there idle for much of a half and then be called upon to keep the team in it, but it's what is required by the Catalans' no. 1. If Valdes can't prove that he can do that consistently, I think that they might have to look into finding somebody who can.
I had a slight rooting interest for Barcelona in this one, strictly because I think they play the more beautiful football, and nothing I saw today caused me to reconsider that stance. But them's the breaks, and I'd be lying if I said it wasn't an immensely enjoyable 2+ hours. Here's to hoping that Real and Bayern can give us comparably entertaining stuff tomorrow afternoon.
Sunday, April 15, 2012
Kevin Gregg is the worst pitcher in baseball
There. I said it. This fucking guy is terrible. You know you're awful when even the Baltimore Orioles--the owners of the 14 consecutive losing seasons Baltimore Orioles--decide that you suck too much to be their closer. They don't even get enough leads to need a good closer, and they decided to go in a different direction than Kevin Gregg. Now he just gets to blow games in the middle innings, which produces the same result but is convenient from the fans' perspective because it saves us about an hour of suspense. Extra time to start drinking, which is the only way to console yourself that you still support a team who pays that jackass many, many times more than your annual wage.
I refuse to believe that there isn't anybody in professional baseball that is better than Kevin Gregg. For that matter I refuse to believe that there isn't anybody in amateur baseball that is better than Kevin Gregg. Somewhere in Japan, there surely must be a 19-year old phenom with a filthy slider and an anime fetish that we could sign. Hell, I'd be happy with some other mediocre 30-odd journeyman reliever, as long as he doesn't have those stupid RecSpecs and ability to inspire terror in the fanbase. Good Christ, I need to go crack another beer or three after merely thinking about him long enough to write this.
I refuse to believe that there isn't anybody in professional baseball that is better than Kevin Gregg. For that matter I refuse to believe that there isn't anybody in amateur baseball that is better than Kevin Gregg. Somewhere in Japan, there surely must be a 19-year old phenom with a filthy slider and an anime fetish that we could sign. Hell, I'd be happy with some other mediocre 30-odd journeyman reliever, as long as he doesn't have those stupid RecSpecs and ability to inspire terror in the fanbase. Good Christ, I need to go crack another beer or three after merely thinking about him long enough to write this.
Thursday, April 12, 2012
FUUUUUUUUCK
Goddamned Chris Kelly went and ruined what had previously been a fine evening for the Capitals, who had been enjoying a nice defensive performance and excellent work from Braden Holtby in his first playoff start. I mean, it wasn't exactly the most titillating (heh heh heh) game in the world, but it was certainly much more exciting than the 0-0 scoreline would imply. In fact, if you were a fan of neutral zone turnovers, battles for pucks in the corners, and dumping and chasing you were happier than a pig in shit during game one. Also sure to be pleased were fans of jumping up excitedly as scoring chances materialized, only to sit down sheepishly when the onrushing attacker whiffed on his shot and the puck returned to its natural habitat along the boards.
As losses go this one really hurt, because it was such a different way to lose than I'd been anticipating. I was thinking it was going to be more along the lines of 5-3, with the Capitals jumping out in front early and then having a defensive lapse and/or a soft goal past Holtby derail them. As more and more time went by and the back end held up, the more you thought that Washington would be able to steal game one with a goal in the third. Alas, not tonight. I am doing my best to stay optimistic for the rest of the series, seeing now that our defense and goaltending have shown they can hang with the B's, but it's hard after such a deflating defeat. And unfortunately even my rose (crimson?) colored glasses can't overshoot the gross disparity in shots, and hits, and other such objective numbers.
So all in all I'm not feeling too great right now. The best I can say is that this year I was at least expecting an early elimination, unlike previous iterations of Lord Stanley's Challenge. It's much less exciting to be that cynical, but at least I won't get blindsided by the Tampa Bay Lightning again. So at least there's that.
As losses go this one really hurt, because it was such a different way to lose than I'd been anticipating. I was thinking it was going to be more along the lines of 5-3, with the Capitals jumping out in front early and then having a defensive lapse and/or a soft goal past Holtby derail them. As more and more time went by and the back end held up, the more you thought that Washington would be able to steal game one with a goal in the third. Alas, not tonight. I am doing my best to stay optimistic for the rest of the series, seeing now that our defense and goaltending have shown they can hang with the B's, but it's hard after such a deflating defeat. And unfortunately even my rose (crimson?) colored glasses can't overshoot the gross disparity in shots, and hits, and other such objective numbers.
So all in all I'm not feeling too great right now. The best I can say is that this year I was at least expecting an early elimination, unlike previous iterations of Lord Stanley's Challenge. It's much less exciting to be that cynical, but at least I won't get blindsided by the Tampa Bay Lightning again. So at least there's that.
Wednesday, April 11, 2012
Now reading
Well, rereading, technically, but at the moment it's The Exorcist by William Peter Blatty. I'd read it once before about...6 months ago, I think it was, but I finally got around to seeing the movie last week and wanted to see how closely the two meshed. Quite closely, as it turns out. Due in no small part to Blatty's involvement in the movie version's production, I'm sure. I didn't think that the movie QUITE lived up to it's billing as "the scariest film of all time" but it was definitely a good one. The gore and grotesqueries were applied sparingly but they were definitely effectively when trotted out. I was never a big fan of pea soup to begin with, but I think I can safely swear it off forever after that one particular scene. You know the one I'm talking about.
Also recommended: A Short History of Nearly Everything by Bill Bryson. It actually makes science comprehensible! And, although I can scarcely believe that me and my liberal-arts degree are typing this, it's even pretty interesting. Seriously. Your eyes will not cross of their own accord when you're reading this book.
Also recommended: A Short History of Nearly Everything by Bill Bryson. It actually makes science comprehensible! And, although I can scarcely believe that me and my liberal-arts degree are typing this, it's even pretty interesting. Seriously. Your eyes will not cross of their own accord when you're reading this book.
Sunday, April 8, 2012
Happy anniversary!
Roughly 1972 years ago today, Zombie Jesus rose from his tomb to try and spread the infection throughout the known world. Luckily for us, the ancient Middle Eastern-ers put an end to his shennanigans before civilization could be extinguished. Celebrate the memorial with lots of candy and beer!
Friday, April 6, 2012
Orioles magic!
I know, I know, it's only one game out of 162. The Moneyball-ers are screaming "small sample size!" in their heads and possibly (in extreme cases) aloud at their televisions. And I hardly think that one win portends anything significant for the remainder of the season. But dammit, it did feel good to watch the boys in black and orange step out there and put on a good show on Opening Day. Especially after losing to a community college in our last exhibition game. (Oh? You didn't hear about that?)
Much Greek love to Nick Markakis, he of the 3 RBIs and a shining beacon of Hellenic baseball prowess. And of course much love to Jake Arrieta for the seven shutout innings. A big thumbs down to Troy Patton, for making the ninth much more stressful than it needed to be. The first of many bullpen-induced anxieties, to be sure.
But for now, I'm content to crack open a Natty Boh and reflect on being undefeated in MLB play.
EDIT (7 April 2012): 2-0! Holy shit, it gets better and better! More Bohs for everybody!
EDIT (8 April 2012): Goddamn, who are these imposters wearing the Orioles uniforms? They actually look like major-league ballplayers!
EDIT (9 April 2012): Well, back to reality.
Much Greek love to Nick Markakis, he of the 3 RBIs and a shining beacon of Hellenic baseball prowess. And of course much love to Jake Arrieta for the seven shutout innings. A big thumbs down to Troy Patton, for making the ninth much more stressful than it needed to be. The first of many bullpen-induced anxieties, to be sure.
But for now, I'm content to crack open a Natty Boh and reflect on being undefeated in MLB play.
EDIT (7 April 2012): 2-0! Holy shit, it gets better and better! More Bohs for everybody!
EDIT (8 April 2012): Goddamn, who are these imposters wearing the Orioles uniforms? They actually look like major-league ballplayers!
EDIT (9 April 2012): Well, back to reality.
Wednesday, April 4, 2012
explanation of awol
Spent most of last week in Nashville. Posts coming in the next few days, I promise. Hate to have to resort to posting about vowing to post more. Won't happen again, I promise. One love.
Wednesday, March 21, 2012
Matt Christiana makes me want to put one in my own ear
Goddammit, this commercial contains so many things that I hate. In fact, I'm pretty sure that Matt Christiana is now my least favorite person in America. Possibly my least favorite person in all of North America, although I'm pretty sure Cristiano Ronaldo is still the world-wide belt holder.
Gratuitous aside: 3 more for Messi! FCB all-time leading scorer at age 24! Holy hell--viva el rey! I can't stop using exclamation points!
First off, let's start with his nasty-ass hair. You know the situation is severe when even a stylist can't get your hair to look presentable for a nationally-aired commercial. I shudder to think about what it looks like on a daily basis, particularly since anybody who is that passionate about Taco Bell's "cuisine" clearly has something of a deviant relationship with grease.
Even beyond the disaster residing on top of his cranium and his unhealthy passion for Taco Bell, look at how this dick treats his friends. At 0:13, dear lord, is he giving his unsuspecting friend a wet willie? Is there anybody older than 13 who still thinks wet willies are acceptable? Matt Fucking Christiana does, evidently. As if getting dragged across the country in a confined space with your douchebaggery wasn't enough of a punishment? Jesus, Matt, the only reason he went to sleep was to escape from you and your shit-eating grin for a few brief minutes, and you couldn't even give him that little bit of peace.
I'm not even going to make fun of that abomination he calls his mustache. No degree of difficulty in that. You just go ahead and fill in your joke here.
And then when they get there, I think the best way I could describe his friend's reactions is "barely disguised disappointment." You know when you're friend's been talking up a movie for days or weeks, and you finally watch it with them and it's awful? You plaster that halfhearted smirk on your face throughout the thing and mock it incessantly in your head, right? Well, I feel like that describes their entire relationship with Matt. I wouldn't be shocked if he got them into the car at gunpoint. They, like almost all of the non-stoner population of America, probably realized at once that a taco with a Doritos shell would be vile. Only one jackass in that advertisement seems even remotely excited.
Also, how environmentally irresponsible was this little adventure? Driving 1800 miles round-trip in what appears to be a pisshole of a car just for some fucking tacos? His carbon footprint probably looks like Paul Bunyan's. At least when Paul Bunyan cut down a bunch of trees and raped a landscape we got some lakes out of the deal. All Matt's jaunt down the highway produced was long-term climate change and (hopefully) his eventual heart failure.
Matt Christiana, I wish upon you a death most painful. I wish that your "friends" (I can't use the term anymore without sarcastic quotation marks) hogtie you in the Taco Bell parking lot and leave you to be picked at by buzzards and hobos. I wish that you contract an extremely virulent and painful case of food poisoning that renders you incapable of leaving your bathroom for days at a time and makes your asshole burn with the fury of a thousand supernovae. Then maybe, just maybe, you will have some idea of the pain you've inflicted on the unsuspecting American public by subjecting us to this commercial.
Tuesday, March 20, 2012
All-Literature First XI
Holy shit. Well, I'm back. I don't really feel like writing about Mass Effect at the moment, having spent the majority of my leisure time over the past two weeks playing or thinking about it--interrupted only by my schedule of employment and a daylong bender on St. Patrick's Day. I regret nothing.
I've been mulling on this idea for a while now, but never really had an opportunity to put it down in a coherent manner until now. My musings began when I was poking through Galeano's Soccer in Sun and Shadow (a fine read, for those who are curious) and stumbled through a line in the final third of the book where the Uruguayan states something to the effect that "tell me how you play, and I will tell you who you are." Evidently, the manner with which we run around a predefined rectangular area in shorts and kick an inflated sphere is the window to our inner workings. Who knew the profession of psychology was so superfluous? Instead I took it in the opposite direction--I looked at characters whose personalities I knew and extrapolated them onto a hypothetical pitch.
So one thing leads to another up in the old brainbox, and I find myself pondering things like "Who would be the most offensively inclined character in As I Lay Dying?" or "Who would take the penalties in Hard Times?" It was about that time I realized I may have a problem.
OK, here we go. I've tried to include a mix of contemporary and classic characters, simply for the sake of variety. We'll play 4-3-3 for no other reason than I like the 4-3-3.
Keeper: Monsieur Meursault (L'Etranger, Camus) Keepers are different, it's universally agreed, and Meursault certainly fits the bill on that score. It's hardly surprising, given Camus' pedigree between the sticks, that his most famous character would be a natural in the position (Camus played goal at the University of Algiers). Meursault has the solitary nature and steady disposition to hold down the fort, but underneath that he's also got the fire to support his teammates--and probably scare the piss out of any forward who has to challenge him in the air. Gets the starting nod over Ron Weasley.
Left back: Humbert Humbert (Lolita, Nabokov) Humbert is the thinking man's player: never out of position, never tricked by a stepover, never baited into a poor pass. Doesn't do anything spectacularly right but certainly never gets anything spectacularly wrong. Not averse to getting forward if the situation permits (he does like to score, after all--hey-o!) but he won't abandon his defensive responsibilities to do so. Problems could arise for certain road games, seeing as he is legally barred from some parks and schools.
Center back: Jean Valjean (Les Miserables, Hugo) A workhorse at the back. Marks everybody, tackles everything that gets near him, wins every header in his own half. Spends the whole match cleaning up everybody's shit and making Meursault's life easy. Not much of an offensive presence, but has been known to pick up the occasional goal from a corner. He's also maybe the only player in the side still wearing Adidas Copa Mundials.
Center back: Jaime Lannister (A Song of Ice and Fire series, Martin) As Commander of the Kingsguard, he's obviously concerned with protecting what's important in his life (regardless of how political his appointment was initially). He plays a very different center back from Jean Valjean, one that involves a great deal more trash talk and aggressiveness. Sometimes the risks he takes backfire--there's a reason he only has one hand, after all--but those instances are outweighed by the havoc his workrate and bravado wreak.
Right back: Don Quixote (Don Quixote, de Cervantes) The old boy on the squad, Don Quixote makes up for his distinct lack of pace with a defensive craftiness and competitive zest that younger competition can rarely match. As long as his Dulcinea is on the sidelines (or rather, as long as he believes that she is) not much will get past him down the flank. Not the most offensive outside back in La Mancha, but prone to the occasional flight of fancy down the touchline. Also good in the air, albeit more as a product of his gangly stature than any fantastic aerodynamic inclinations.
Left midfield: Huckleberry Finn (The Adventures of Tom Sawyer/Huckleberry Finn, Twain) He won't be able to join the boys in the bar afterwards, but Finn can hang with his more elderly teammates during the game. He's obviously a work in progress, but even now he possesses both the pace to beat men down the line or the touch to cut it inside them. Discipline could be an issue: his carefree attitude means he's often out of position or careless with his defensive responsibilities, but what adolescent does have perfect discipline? It's a good thing that Humbert Humbert and Yossarian play nearby, to keep his temper in check when necessary.
Center midfield: John Yossarian (Catch-22, Heller) Yossarian's always been about keeping it real, and he does that in the middle of the park with aplomb. The 4-3-3 formation is weaker in the center than a 4-4-2 or 4-5-1, so the center midfielder is forced to do twice the work with half the help. But luckily Yossarian is used to that after his extended tour of duty in the 256th Squadron. Drapes himself on the opposing number ten, busts up incoming runs, links up with the frontline and starts the counterattack. He's not afraid to have a shot from distance, as a nod to his roots as a bombardier. Think Scott Parker, with a more subversive worldview.
Right midfield: Samwise Gamgee (The Lord of the Rings trilogy, Tolkien) Sam's schtick has always been about help: helping keep the garden at Bag End, helping Frodo across Middle-Earth, carrying his inert master up the slopes of Mount Doom in the finale. Maybe he'll get a little more heroic in his role in the midfield, although I suspect a fair bit of his time will be spent helping Yossarian cover for Huck Finn's defensive indiscretions. On the other hand, he's resourceful, clever, and always seem to be in the right spot. Maybe not terribly dangerous as a goalscoring threat, but he could certainly create for the front three or pick out a final ball. One can only hope there's less sexual tension between Sam and his teammates than Sam experienced with Frodo.
Left wing: Katniss Everdeen (The Hunger Games trilogy, Collins) Loads of pace, deft touch down the line, crosses usually on point. A surprisingly good finisher, on the rare occasions she finds herself in front of goal, but she's much more home out on the wing and in the channel. She won't win too many in the air and can get knocked off the ball if you can catch her, but good luck with that. Don't fuck with her, or you'll be getting a kick to the ankle and your hand stepped on when you're down.
Center forward: Zaphod Beeblebrox (Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy series, Adams) He's cocky. He's arrogant. He'll never shut the fuck up. His boots are giving the spectators migraines. All the opponents and most of the neutral observers hate him. Hell, half of his own team probably hates him. But here's the thing: he's good. He's spent the first ten minutes making obvious runs into offside positions, demanding fouls that clearly weren't committed, and talking his marker's ear off all the while. And just when you're writing him off as a scrub--BAM! He's in at goal, around the keeper, and scored. Whammy. Pan-Galactic Gargle Blasters on him at the postgame drink-up. He'll want to take all the penalties, although Katniss might have something to say about that if she can get the ball first.
Right wing: Rupert Angier (The Prestige, Priest) He's a magician. He's tricksy. He's good on the ball. Where were you expecting me to go with this? It's not always very complicated. Angier's defensive workrate is fairly abysmal, but I suppose I'm willing to overlook that for the pleasure of watching him dribble through the other team. His finishing and crossing are acceptable--not great, but acceptable--yet pale compared to his technical skills.
Captain: Jean Valjean Calm, dignified, always the voice of reason. A reassuring presence for the entire side and somebody everyone respects in times of duress. Maybe the only person on the team that Beeblebrox would listen to.
I've been mulling on this idea for a while now, but never really had an opportunity to put it down in a coherent manner until now. My musings began when I was poking through Galeano's Soccer in Sun and Shadow (a fine read, for those who are curious) and stumbled through a line in the final third of the book where the Uruguayan states something to the effect that "tell me how you play, and I will tell you who you are." Evidently, the manner with which we run around a predefined rectangular area in shorts and kick an inflated sphere is the window to our inner workings. Who knew the profession of psychology was so superfluous? Instead I took it in the opposite direction--I looked at characters whose personalities I knew and extrapolated them onto a hypothetical pitch.
So one thing leads to another up in the old brainbox, and I find myself pondering things like "Who would be the most offensively inclined character in As I Lay Dying?" or "Who would take the penalties in Hard Times?" It was about that time I realized I may have a problem.
OK, here we go. I've tried to include a mix of contemporary and classic characters, simply for the sake of variety. We'll play 4-3-3 for no other reason than I like the 4-3-3.
Keeper: Monsieur Meursault (L'Etranger, Camus) Keepers are different, it's universally agreed, and Meursault certainly fits the bill on that score. It's hardly surprising, given Camus' pedigree between the sticks, that his most famous character would be a natural in the position (Camus played goal at the University of Algiers). Meursault has the solitary nature and steady disposition to hold down the fort, but underneath that he's also got the fire to support his teammates--and probably scare the piss out of any forward who has to challenge him in the air. Gets the starting nod over Ron Weasley.
Left back: Humbert Humbert (Lolita, Nabokov) Humbert is the thinking man's player: never out of position, never tricked by a stepover, never baited into a poor pass. Doesn't do anything spectacularly right but certainly never gets anything spectacularly wrong. Not averse to getting forward if the situation permits (he does like to score, after all--hey-o!) but he won't abandon his defensive responsibilities to do so. Problems could arise for certain road games, seeing as he is legally barred from some parks and schools.
Center back: Jean Valjean (Les Miserables, Hugo) A workhorse at the back. Marks everybody, tackles everything that gets near him, wins every header in his own half. Spends the whole match cleaning up everybody's shit and making Meursault's life easy. Not much of an offensive presence, but has been known to pick up the occasional goal from a corner. He's also maybe the only player in the side still wearing Adidas Copa Mundials.
Center back: Jaime Lannister (A Song of Ice and Fire series, Martin) As Commander of the Kingsguard, he's obviously concerned with protecting what's important in his life (regardless of how political his appointment was initially). He plays a very different center back from Jean Valjean, one that involves a great deal more trash talk and aggressiveness. Sometimes the risks he takes backfire--there's a reason he only has one hand, after all--but those instances are outweighed by the havoc his workrate and bravado wreak.
Right back: Don Quixote (Don Quixote, de Cervantes) The old boy on the squad, Don Quixote makes up for his distinct lack of pace with a defensive craftiness and competitive zest that younger competition can rarely match. As long as his Dulcinea is on the sidelines (or rather, as long as he believes that she is) not much will get past him down the flank. Not the most offensive outside back in La Mancha, but prone to the occasional flight of fancy down the touchline. Also good in the air, albeit more as a product of his gangly stature than any fantastic aerodynamic inclinations.
Left midfield: Huckleberry Finn (The Adventures of Tom Sawyer/Huckleberry Finn, Twain) He won't be able to join the boys in the bar afterwards, but Finn can hang with his more elderly teammates during the game. He's obviously a work in progress, but even now he possesses both the pace to beat men down the line or the touch to cut it inside them. Discipline could be an issue: his carefree attitude means he's often out of position or careless with his defensive responsibilities, but what adolescent does have perfect discipline? It's a good thing that Humbert Humbert and Yossarian play nearby, to keep his temper in check when necessary.
Center midfield: John Yossarian (Catch-22, Heller) Yossarian's always been about keeping it real, and he does that in the middle of the park with aplomb. The 4-3-3 formation is weaker in the center than a 4-4-2 or 4-5-1, so the center midfielder is forced to do twice the work with half the help. But luckily Yossarian is used to that after his extended tour of duty in the 256th Squadron. Drapes himself on the opposing number ten, busts up incoming runs, links up with the frontline and starts the counterattack. He's not afraid to have a shot from distance, as a nod to his roots as a bombardier. Think Scott Parker, with a more subversive worldview.
Right midfield: Samwise Gamgee (The Lord of the Rings trilogy, Tolkien) Sam's schtick has always been about help: helping keep the garden at Bag End, helping Frodo across Middle-Earth, carrying his inert master up the slopes of Mount Doom in the finale. Maybe he'll get a little more heroic in his role in the midfield, although I suspect a fair bit of his time will be spent helping Yossarian cover for Huck Finn's defensive indiscretions. On the other hand, he's resourceful, clever, and always seem to be in the right spot. Maybe not terribly dangerous as a goalscoring threat, but he could certainly create for the front three or pick out a final ball. One can only hope there's less sexual tension between Sam and his teammates than Sam experienced with Frodo.
Left wing: Katniss Everdeen (The Hunger Games trilogy, Collins) Loads of pace, deft touch down the line, crosses usually on point. A surprisingly good finisher, on the rare occasions she finds herself in front of goal, but she's much more home out on the wing and in the channel. She won't win too many in the air and can get knocked off the ball if you can catch her, but good luck with that. Don't fuck with her, or you'll be getting a kick to the ankle and your hand stepped on when you're down.
Center forward: Zaphod Beeblebrox (Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy series, Adams) He's cocky. He's arrogant. He'll never shut the fuck up. His boots are giving the spectators migraines. All the opponents and most of the neutral observers hate him. Hell, half of his own team probably hates him. But here's the thing: he's good. He's spent the first ten minutes making obvious runs into offside positions, demanding fouls that clearly weren't committed, and talking his marker's ear off all the while. And just when you're writing him off as a scrub--BAM! He's in at goal, around the keeper, and scored. Whammy. Pan-Galactic Gargle Blasters on him at the postgame drink-up. He'll want to take all the penalties, although Katniss might have something to say about that if she can get the ball first.
Right wing: Rupert Angier (The Prestige, Priest) He's a magician. He's tricksy. He's good on the ball. Where were you expecting me to go with this? It's not always very complicated. Angier's defensive workrate is fairly abysmal, but I suppose I'm willing to overlook that for the pleasure of watching him dribble through the other team. His finishing and crossing are acceptable--not great, but acceptable--yet pale compared to his technical skills.
Captain: Jean Valjean Calm, dignified, always the voice of reason. A reassuring presence for the entire side and somebody everyone respects in times of duress. Maybe the only person on the team that Beeblebrox would listen to.
Tuesday, March 6, 2012
Taking Earth back...brb...
Mass Effect 3 just released--going off the grid for a few days. Don't wait for me for dinner.
Friday, March 2, 2012
USMNT v. Italy review
A day late, a dollar short, I know, but here we go with my impressions with the United States' win over Italia yesterday.
Before I go into any more detail, I'd like to put it out there that ANY win for the USMNT is a good win, especially when we can claim a high-profile scalp like that of Italy. Especially with the opening phases of World Cup qualification looming, winning is a fantastic habit to get into.
So, now that we've got that cleared up, I'm going to have to go on record as being a little disappointed by yesterday's match. I know, I know. First ever victory over Italy. Beating the four-time World Cup champs on their own soil. All of this is fine. Fantastic, even. It's a grand accomplishment. But I still find myself a little disappointed by the performance yesterday.
International friendlies are more about performances than results. The result on Tuesday was a good one. Our performance, conversely, I found to be mundane. Anybody who's followed the USMNT over the past few World Cup cycles was familiar with yesterday's game. Defend well. Absorb pressure. Win possession in midfield and try to break upfield quickly. Grab the lead against the run of play. Trust Timmy Howard and the back four to keep us in front. Proceed to profit. It's not a bad system--hell, it's been working for us the past decade, hasn't it?--but it goes against what the emphasis on this team is now supposed to be.
Jurgen Klinsmann's reign was supposed to be about getting America to take the next step--to playing teams like Italy as equals. About retaining possession and playing good, technical soccer (football?) against the world's best. Bob Bradley was fired because he produced too many results like the one we had yesterday--practical, ugly, yet effective (at least, he probably was...I can't claim firsthand knowledge of US Soccer's inner workings).
And personally, I love that approach to soccer (football?). For the US, particularly, it's fantastic way to play. It emphasizes our strengths (pace, athleticism in midfield, commitment to solid defending, goalkeeping) and downplays our weaknesses (lack of technical prowess in midfield, inconsistent forward play, outside backs' inability to get forward effectively). For me, this style of soccer wasn't broke, and we consequently didn't need to fix it. Suni Gulati and company evidently felt differently.
The progress Klinsmann has made in his quest for possession and technical domination will get a different kind of test in World Cup qualifiers--starting in June--where the US will be favored in virtually every match it plays. Objectively speaking, we SHOULD control possession and boss the game against the likes of Barbados & Antigua and Guatemala. While there's no such thing as a gimme World Cup qualifier (that goes double when we're on the road) we have no excuse not to progress with relative ease. These games will provide a better barometer about the team's progress under Klinsmann.
If we put on a Barcelona-esque display of passing and savvy, I'll be willing to buy into the new reign. On the other hand, if we have to resort to kickball and set pieces to triumph over inferior opposition, I'll have to wonder if Klinsmann has the right plan to take the team to the next level: consistently playing on level terms with the world's best. Not an easy task, but US Soccer's sacking of Bradley shows that the powers that be weren't content to play efficient counterattacking soccer (football?). The new challenge is to become one of the big boys, and not just play them well. It's still early in the World Cup cycle and the boys still have lots of time to settle into Klinsmann's system and develop but I have to conclude that early results have been at best mediocre. I'd love to be proven wrong in the future, but I can't help but wonder why exactly we got rid of Bob Bradley in the first place.
Before I go into any more detail, I'd like to put it out there that ANY win for the USMNT is a good win, especially when we can claim a high-profile scalp like that of Italy. Especially with the opening phases of World Cup qualification looming, winning is a fantastic habit to get into.
So, now that we've got that cleared up, I'm going to have to go on record as being a little disappointed by yesterday's match. I know, I know. First ever victory over Italy. Beating the four-time World Cup champs on their own soil. All of this is fine. Fantastic, even. It's a grand accomplishment. But I still find myself a little disappointed by the performance yesterday.
International friendlies are more about performances than results. The result on Tuesday was a good one. Our performance, conversely, I found to be mundane. Anybody who's followed the USMNT over the past few World Cup cycles was familiar with yesterday's game. Defend well. Absorb pressure. Win possession in midfield and try to break upfield quickly. Grab the lead against the run of play. Trust Timmy Howard and the back four to keep us in front. Proceed to profit. It's not a bad system--hell, it's been working for us the past decade, hasn't it?--but it goes against what the emphasis on this team is now supposed to be.
Jurgen Klinsmann's reign was supposed to be about getting America to take the next step--to playing teams like Italy as equals. About retaining possession and playing good, technical soccer (football?) against the world's best. Bob Bradley was fired because he produced too many results like the one we had yesterday--practical, ugly, yet effective (at least, he probably was...I can't claim firsthand knowledge of US Soccer's inner workings).
And personally, I love that approach to soccer (football?). For the US, particularly, it's fantastic way to play. It emphasizes our strengths (pace, athleticism in midfield, commitment to solid defending, goalkeeping) and downplays our weaknesses (lack of technical prowess in midfield, inconsistent forward play, outside backs' inability to get forward effectively). For me, this style of soccer wasn't broke, and we consequently didn't need to fix it. Suni Gulati and company evidently felt differently.
The progress Klinsmann has made in his quest for possession and technical domination will get a different kind of test in World Cup qualifiers--starting in June--where the US will be favored in virtually every match it plays. Objectively speaking, we SHOULD control possession and boss the game against the likes of Barbados & Antigua and Guatemala. While there's no such thing as a gimme World Cup qualifier (that goes double when we're on the road) we have no excuse not to progress with relative ease. These games will provide a better barometer about the team's progress under Klinsmann.
If we put on a Barcelona-esque display of passing and savvy, I'll be willing to buy into the new reign. On the other hand, if we have to resort to kickball and set pieces to triumph over inferior opposition, I'll have to wonder if Klinsmann has the right plan to take the team to the next level: consistently playing on level terms with the world's best. Not an easy task, but US Soccer's sacking of Bradley shows that the powers that be weren't content to play efficient counterattacking soccer (football?). The new challenge is to become one of the big boys, and not just play them well. It's still early in the World Cup cycle and the boys still have lots of time to settle into Klinsmann's system and develop but I have to conclude that early results have been at best mediocre. I'd love to be proven wrong in the future, but I can't help but wonder why exactly we got rid of Bob Bradley in the first place.
Wednesday, February 29, 2012
Introductory remarks
So at last I've given in. I've joined the ranks of the bloggers. I've done my best to stay out of the "social media" craze--I have a minimal Facebook presence, have never tweeted, and stay a safe distance away from Foursquare and all the rest. And I have consequently been forced to observe, helpless, as the interwebs were filled up with description of meals and pictures of generic-looking sunsets or kissy-faced sorority girls.
It's a situation that needs remedying. A bleak ocean of drabness, in need of a knight in shining armor forged from insight and proper punctuation. So now I wade into the fray. Before I go any further with this, let's get a few things straight. I very solemnly swear that I will never author a post about how delicious something I just ate was. I will never use the acronym "lol"--well, unless I'm using it in scorn. I'll do my best to avoid posting anything for the sake of being "ironic", although it is very possible (perhaps even probable) that at some point I'll have to write something about the correct use of the term "irony". But I give my most reverent vow that I will not use the Alanis Morissette song as a point of reference. I'm hoping that through these actions I will be able to distinguish myself from the rather...juvenile tone that pervades many of the blogs composed by my generation.
The blog title is a slight pun (my, how I love a good pun) on my enjoyment of books and my fondness for soccer/football/futbol/calcio. For those who don't speak fluent soccer, a bookable offence is a foul worthy of a yellow or red card, colloquially called a booking. Although it is certainly a happy coincidence two things I am passionate about colluded to give me a snappy title for this endeavor, they are by no means the only topics I'll be writing on. It seems likely that you'll be treated to (or subjected to, depending on your perspective) my views on myriad sports, various aspects of American culture, original creative works, and the food service industry. Not necessarily in that order.
So I'll be taking my leave of you now, dear reader, to resume my interest in the Spanish-language broadcast of the U-23 international friendly between the United States and Mexico. Until we meet again, I wish you good health and many, many gooooooooooooools!
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