Why I'm Forever Blowing Bubbles

No offense to the MLS, but the  English Premier League (which now has another official name that I refuse to use because we all have enough corporate sponsorship in our lives) is the biggest soccer league in the United States. It's got the quality and star power the MLS can only dream about and a television package that La Liga and Serie A would kill to have. It's the only league to have coverage on a major network -- the occasional game on NBC, weekly coverage on NBC Sports Network, which may seem like a niche channel but is fucking omnipresent compared to beIn Sport. It's the league that's on at pubs and restaurants every Saturday morning. The fact that pubs and restaurants will open on Saturday morning strictly to show these games speaks to how entrenched it is in American soccer culture.

It's sad, though, because of all the people I know that watch the Premiership I would approximate that 90% of them follow one of the following teams: Manchester United, Chelsea, Arsenal, Liverpool. You knew which ones were coming before I even typed them. If we add Spurs into that equation the percentage jumps to about 98%. Which is fine, I suppose, because those are all excellent teams and they have exciting players and when you play with them in FIFA you probably won't lose. But they're not for me. I've sworn myself to West Ham United.

Just about every time this fact comes up, I get the same question. "Why do you want to root for West Ham?" To which I always want to counter "Why do you want to root for the Big 4?"

Photo by: "philosophy football." Licensed under CC BY 2.0/Flickr

 Sure, you get to win trophies and see the best players and you definitely won't get relegated. But where's the fun in cherry-picking the best team to root for when you start following a league? Nobody here in the US grew up with a soccer team the way we all did with a football team and a baseball team. We all chose these clubs at some point. And you picked one just because it was the best? Because you knew it was guaranteed to win on regular basis?

We hate teams like that in America! That's why everybody except New York assholes and frontrunners hate the Yankees. That's why the Dallas Cowboys still inspire such loathing, even though they've been mediocre for years. That's why everybody turned on the Miami Heat, when they brought in the biggest stars and turned them loose on the rest of the league. But when it comes to soccer, we all turned into bandwagon fans. I don't get it.

So why do I support West Ham, you ask. I began to follow soccer in 2005, the year after I started to play the sport. I knew for damn sure I didn't want a seat on the bandwagon of a Man. U or an Arsenal. That's not who I am. I never support the big dogs unless I have good reason to, and I had no good reason to root for the top sides. I wanted a team of mortals, not giants.

I won't lie to you, even through the anonymity of the internet: I had no good reason for settling on West Ham. I just liked the crest and the kits and saw they were in the middle of the table. But I was on board. I started to learn the squad, learn about the club, learn the history of the Irons --the good history, and the bad. And it was then I knew this was the only team for me.

Photo by: Ben Sutherland. Licensed under CC BY 2.0/Flickr.

We're not one of the glamor clubs. The club's most famous icon (Bobby Moore, in case I needed to spell it out) is a center back. A great center back, but never a flashy one. The perfect representation of a club from the East End. He wasn't the fastest or the strongest nor could he jump the highest. But he knew how to play the game the best. He out-thought opponents because he couldn't outrun them. And when it came down to it in the World Cup Final, England's most important match, he was the skipper and the one to get it done. Sadly, it's all been downhill from there.

Since I've been watching the team, we've never won a trophy, lost one of the most heartbreaking FA Cup finals in history, and spent a season in the purgatory of the Championship. I couldn't have picked a better team. Sure, I haven't seen any claret and blue confetti rain from the sky at Wembley, but I've had the joy of watching an ugly little Argentinian pull us back from the brink of relegation virtually singlehandedly. I got to witness Rob Green put on the greatest display of goalkeeping I've ever seen in the Emirates Stadium, and then saw Bobby Zamora make the 60,000 people inside it go so quiet you could hear his teammates congratulating him on TV. None of our managers have been knighted, but they've inspired some pretty good gallows humor from the crowd.

My favorite player -- Mark Noble -- isn't a foreigner that we paid $20 million to import, but a home-grown guy who loves the club and plays like his life depended on it. Through all the losses and goals conceded and that relegation I've grown to love this team and the game more. The whole of the team and the whole of the game. Not just the trophies and 4-0 cakewalk victories and Tuesday night Champions League matches. We don't always play beautiful soccer, but when we do you can be damn sure it's appreciated.

That's why I support West Ham. Because when I'm on the edge of my barstool, watching our defenders throw themselves in front of shots to preserve our clean sheet at Stamford Bridge, I know I've gotten the full experience of a supporter. Some of the moments I cherish most are the ones my friends who support the top clubs would never have gotten the chance to have enjoy. If we never got relegated, I wouldn't have had the happiness of watching Ricardo Vaz Te score in the Playoff Final to send us back up. And if (when) we get stomped by City and their billions of petro-dollars, that just makes it all the sweeter when we hang on for a point or even three in the return fixture.

So you all go ahead and cheer for the Goliaths of sport. West Ham and I will be waiting down here in mid-table with our sling, just waiting for our chance. And if the stars ever align and we do make it to a Cup Final or Europe, it will be even better than it is for you lot. Because we'll have earned it. The hard way.

Truth On The Rocks: An Exposé

I work in a Mexican restaurant. I'll decline to say which one, but it is a fairly prosperous regional chain. We have two choices for margarita sizes-- 16 ounces and 27 ounces. When we first opened, the 16 oz. margaritas came in a standard pint glass. Thus.

About six months after we opened, the management printed up new drink menus, raised the price of the margaritas from five dollars and change to nearly seven dollars, and bought us brand new glassware to serve it in. The new glasses look like this.

Its a neat-looking glass, and feels good in your hand, but I immediately suspected it was smaller than our old pint glasses. I was right. This is one of our new glasses filled with Coke.

And then when I pour the Coke into a pint glass...

So I would approximate that these new glasses have a capacity of about 12 ounces. Meaning that you're being overcharged by 33% when you buy a "16" ounce margarita where I work--and that's even overlooking the price increase that accompanied this change. That's bullshit. You're now paying almost $7 for no more than an ounce or two of the cheapest tequila known to mankind (Mi Cosecha brand, if anybody is curious.)

I'm not proud to have been part of the deception, but I haven't said anything before because increasing the prices have increased my tips by about 50 cents on every margarita I serve, which is a pretty substantial number. The restaurant itself is cleaning up on these, seeing as they're now receiving more money for less product. Bastards.

The 27 ounce glasses are true to size and have not been tampered with, although the price was increased at the time the new menus were printed.

A surefire way to nearly crap your pants

1) Buy Chuck Palahniuk's book "Haunted." Make sure you get the edition that has this cover on it.

2) Read for an hour or so.
3) Leave the book propped on your pillow.
4) Leave to go to a friend's for the evening.
5) Consume five pints of beer.
6) Catch a ride home.
7) Come back to see this waiting for you on your pillow.

 

 8) Turn light on, leave it on for the remainder of the night.

The Depressing Future of Football in 3 Photos

Andy Carroll was sent off this weekend after "assaulting" Chico Flores. It was bullshit, and after poring over the footage like it was the Zapruder film this week I've managed to distill down to 3 stills that prove why football is fucked moving forward. Keep in mind that Chico Flores is a center back, theoretically the most physically imposing position on the field.

 This is the incident. Note how Andy Carroll's arm is grazing the very top of Flores' hairline.

 What sensitive hair you must have, Chico, if having it get hit sends pain all the way down to your face! Maybe you should try switching shampoos. I hear one is marketed as "No More Tears." Seems like you could use that.
 

And then, of course, the sending off. Which the FA then upheld upon review. Way to take a stand against diving, guys. I'm sure this won't encourage more players to take a flop, knowing that they're essentially immune to the consequences of their actions. When a team can't cope with a player--like Swansea was getting run over by Carroll on Saturday--this will probably become their go-to tactic. If you can't beat them on the field, just do your best to get them sent off!

"Frozen's" Secretly Depressing Ending

My girlfriend finally got me to take her to see Disney's "Frozen" last weekend. Since this is the internet, I'm willing to admit that it was actually pretty good. The little snowman in particular was cute. But this isn't about how "Frozen" works as a movie--for that, you can go read the dozens of glowing reviews penned elsewhere. This is about a problem I had with the ending.

The ending, for those of you haven't seen the movie, is a characteristically happy one with the bad guys getting their comeuppance and a happily ever after for our plucky heroines. The sisters realize they love each other, Ana is saved from certain death, Elsa learns to harness the power of her witchcraft, and the kingdom is saved. Hooray! Another delightfully saccharine Disney ending. Until you think about it more, specifically about what happens to this guy:

This guy is the Duke of Weaselton, and he is portrayed as an avaricious dick. He spends the duration of the movie trying to depose Elsa, so that he can exploit Ardanelle (the name of the kingdom that Elsa rules) for financial gain. He's sly and underhanded and has no respect for the power of love or magic or reindeer or anything else that you could make a Disney ride out of. And for his troubles, he is unceremoniously deported from the kingdom and told that the queen will be shutting down all trade with Weaselton. Yeah! Way to hit him where it hurts! What's the problem?

Well, earlier in the movie, he describes his kingdom to the queen as "your closest partner in trade." So Ardanelle has just ceased all trade with it's most lucrative market? I'm sure that won't cause an economic depression and an increase in unemployment. Even if Ardanelle can survive the loss of Weaseltonian goods and the tax revenue the trade brings in, the move demonstrates a remarkably dim grasp of a global economy and foreign policy. But hey, at least all of the merchants will have snowmen and ice rinks to amuse themselves with as they slowly go broke.

I guess this is what happens when you hand absolute power to a girl who grew up locked away in her bedroom. 

The 5 Stages of a Winter Storm In The South

1) The Forecast.

"Hey everybody, it's Chett McGornell here with the Channel 3 Forecast, brought to you by Bill Jenkinson's Ford Outlet, and it looks like we have some winter weather on the way! Our latest projections with the Doppler 3600 Hemi Radar is that we're in for 5 to 7 inches of snow tomorrow, starting around 10 AM and continuing throughout the day before tapering off sometime overnight. This looks like it could be a bad storm, folks, so stay safe and inside and off of those roads unless, of course, you bought a new Ford truck from the fine folks over at Bill Jenkinson's Ford Outlet, in which case you feel free to go out and show everybody that a real man doesn't need to stay inside like them hippies with their hybrids scooters. Bill Jenskinson's, your source for fine Ford products. And now over to Jimmy Stevens with sports."

2) The Panic

The grocery store looks like the Super Duper Mart from Fallout 3, complete with menacing thugs roaming the aisles, looking for either the last few cans of beans on the shelves or intruders to mug. There isn't a roll of toilet paper for sale anywhere in the state, and most of the newsprint has been requisitioned as well. But the main shortage is for booze. The ABC store (for state-run liquor store) is a war zone. Whiskey, gin, vodka, bloody mary mix--it doesn't even matter what's in the bottle, as long as you can get your hands on it and throw it in the shopping basket. The people that were stupid enough to go to the grocery store BEFORE going to the liquor store are reduced to buying the 2 oz. mini bottles by the dozen. Anything to ensure that you don't have to talk to your family sober while you're all snowed in together.

3) The Lull

The provisions have been secured and moved into the house. You've got everything you think you need--food, drinks, books, porn. You're ready. You're even a little bit excited--a day off of work/school and nothing to do but watch the snow come down and lay in bed. You've made a fort out of the couch cushions, two blankets, and a half roll of duct tape. You're ready to go. Snowmageddon can't touch you. You're ready.

4) The Disappointment

It's a quarter past noon, and still no snow to be seen. The snowplows are driving around in a forlorn manner, looking for something to pass the time. You're beginning to feel a little bit stupid for calling out today. Did the forecast maybe mean next week would be when the blizzard comes? That fucking Chett McGornall. Oh, wait, there's a flake. And another. Not that much though. It's not even sticking to the ground. Well, you can't go into work now anyways. Might as well crack a beer.

5) The Hangover

Goddamn, your head hurts. That's what happens when you run out of beer and spend an evening drinking gin and blue Powerade. Ugh, close those blinds already. Your fucking head! You squint out the window, momentarily ignoring the intense pain it causes your frontal cortex. There's a half-inch of white stuff on the grass, and the roads are completely clear. Traffic is flowing normally. Ugh. You head back to  your blanket fort, into the comforting darkness, and call out of work again. Your boss probably doesn't believe you when you tell him you're snowed in your driveway, but what the hell. This pain in your head isn't going away anytime soon. Hey, there's half a liter of gin left here. Do you have any more Powerade?

Richard Sherman DGAF (nor should he)

Richard Sherman isn't even close to giving a fuck. He's taking all the fucks in the universe and hoarding them, so that nobody else will ever have another fuck. He has a gigantic swimming pool of fucks stored in his mansion, where he will occasionally cannonball in and savor all of these fucks he has, and reflect on how he's not going to give any of them.

And why should he? Dude gets paid to play football. That's it. Nowhere in his contract does it stipulate that he has to play football "with class", whatever that means. He doesn't get paid extra if he plays football in a way that satisfies the old-timers on TV, who didn't do things like that in their day. And he's not going to get cut even if thousands of thin-skinned viewers with Twitter accounts nearly wet their hashtags over his postgame interviews.

Just because we get to watch the games on TV and tweet at Richard Sherman and see the talking heads on the networks get upset doesn't mean we get to criticize the way Richard Sherman goes about his business. The dude has had a hell of a season, made a hell of a play on Sunday, and now gets to go play in the Super Bowl. Just as the cherry on top, he's now one of the most talked about athletes in the country and a hero to those of us who can't stand the sanctimonious bullshit that so often accompanies sports. So keep on keeping on, Richard Sherman. Say what you want. And definitely don't start giving a fuck now.