soccernista.com 
God knows what Czech immigrants spend their Christmas bonuses on. Sausages? Probably. Pilsner? Definitely. Czech cornhusk nativity scenes featuring Baby Jesus swaddled in traditional Moravian textiles? Wouldn’t be surprised.
Lukey has been on a good run of late, and currently boasts a bankroll of $164.94 (based on $5 and $10 mythical wagers). His picks are after the jump.
God how this video nearly collapses under its own weirdness. The dense Irish accents, the sedated look on the kid’s face, the sequined drag-queen on the bicycle…
But damned if that kid doesn’t rescue the whole operation in the final seconds, albeit at the expense of Darren Fletcher.
While you were wearing sweaters with embroidered candy-canes and trying to kill the taste of egg-nog with Nicaraguan rum, the soccer world continued to churn out news at a dizzying rate. Here’s a quick round-up of some of the tidbits that went unmolested by Soccernista this past week:
Charlton hired Alan Pardew. No one can fault Charlton for bringing the Les Reed era to a quick end; he looked more like a senior partner at Smith-Barney than a footie manager. But the logic behind hiring Alan Pardew seems fundamentally flawed. “Hey, that guy plowed a talented West Ham side into a regulation battle. Think of what he can do for our less talented Charlton!” Enjoy the Coca-cola, Addicks.
You’ve probably heard, but: I was named Time’s Person of the Year. It’s right there. Read it and weep.
What’s that? You think the “you” is for you?
Not from where I’m standing. And it’s called Person of the Year, not People of the Year. So take your ambiguous pronoun application and shove it, because I’m popping bottles of Cris’ and calling all my former teachers. Would Time Magazine make a “chronically lazy misanthrope” their Person of the Year, Mrs. Mackowski? That’s what I thought. Now eat it.
So quickly has the accolade gone to the head, that a simple yet noteworthy change will be made at Soccernista.com: the ditching of the “royal we.” It was a bad habit that ran its course, and it’s done nothing but limit the individual honors and awards I should be getting. Thankfully, Time saw through that.
I will be back on the horse tomorrow, ready to take us into the New Year full force. Can’t wait.
Ever since the launch of the Manchester United Opus, we’ve been wondering: are there gifts that suck worse than a $6000 ode to evil?
David Beckham Instinct – $89.95
“Meant to mirror Beckham’s strong character, Instinct is a rich, balanced scent; it’s a formula for success on any playing field.” Unless, of course, that field is located in Germany or Spain.
It would be easy to get worked up about how we would never wear cologne named after another man, let alone one who can’t get a game. But that would be missing the point…because this cologne isn’t aimed at us. Again, from the promotional literature: “The smooth glass bottle feels firm in the hand.” Clearly, this is for the guys who don’t just want to smell like Beckham – they want to smell Beckham himself. Carry on.
Landon Donovan Action Figure – $15
Though the ebay seller calls this an action figure, we prefer “doll.” The Landon doll comes in a red, white, and blue sash-type-thingy that might be an American flag, but is probably just an American flag beach-towel. The fine print is difficult to make out, but we think we read: “Now with 90 minute, disappearing action!”
Yes, that’s a split-toe shoe. And yes, it is the worst thing we’ve ever seen.
Los Angeles Galaxy Adult Fantasy Camp – $995
Though we prefer to knock the league and appreciate the players, we’ll say this: MLS fantasy camps involve a fairly liberal definition of the word “fantasy.” Empty stadiums? Check. Paltry wages? Check. Complete anonymity even in your home city? Check. Thanks for the offer, but we like to balance our fantasy pain with a bit more fantasy pleasure.
When your new sister in-law utters the phrase, “I have a book for you to read,” you’ve every right to be nervous. Danielle Steele? The South Beach Diet? The Bible? Imagine our surprise when we were handed Franklin Foer’s very excellent How Soccer Explains the World; an unlikely theory of globalism.
Though Foer is known to most as the editor of The New Republic, we know him best as the brains behind our favorite World Cup blog of last summer, Goal Post. His work there was a perfect blend of fandom, soccer knowledge, and ethnic-humor-light, that we were more than willing to explore his clearly booze-fueled notion that soccer can explain such disparate phenomena as “The Jewish Question” and “Islam’s Hope.”
It took only 20 pages to prove Foer’s worth. In the opening chapter, he travels to the former Yugoslav Shitshow Republics to sort out the hooligan hornets’ nest that is Serbian football. The clubs, he tells us, are like most clubs forged out of Communist rule: they find sponsorship in ready-made institutions. Traditionally, Partizan Belgrade fans are affiliated with the army. And this is where the fun begins.
The army, in its possibly well meaning attempts to hold the former Yugoslavia together, developed a reputation as a suppressor of Croatian nationalism. Being a fan of a club like Dinamo Zagreb (and a hater of Partizan), then, became an expression of this nationalism. Put these two groups in the same stadium and you’re bound to get some ruckus. And, if….say… at the 1:23 mark…in the middle of a full scale riot…a ball randomly arrived at the foot of a guy running away from a charging mob…and he happened to casually flick it away with the outside of his foot while never breaking stride…well…that might provide some comic relief in an otherwise horrifying scene, no? Just saying.
Somehow, Foer’s book makes us feel less discomfort over scenes like the one above. These guys aren’t stomping each other over Champions League spots: they’re going at it because of deep seated ethno-political hatred. And we can sleep easier as a result.
Foer’s book gets an enthusiastic recommendation, especially as a gift idea for brother-in-laws. We love our new sister, and hope she keeps the pseudo-intellectual soccer swag coming.
You are no doubt aware of the following universal maxim: father-in-laws do not subscribe to Fox Soccer Channel. You can marry their daughters, jeopardize the future of those daughters with suspect career choices, and perform unspeakable acts on those same daughters behind closed doors. But God help you if you want to watch soccer in your father-in-law’s home, “Pussy.”
And so it was that we traveled to Boise, Idaho, with the knowledge we would miss our beloved Hammers play Manchester United. Normally, the situation would merit a feigned illness or a purposely missed flight. But considering how poor West Ham have been this year, we’ll admit: the considerable amount of complaining was a ruse. We had little desire to watch a claret-and-blue blood bath.
Then Nigel Reo-Coker scored. And though the next 15 minutes must have gone painfully slow for West Ham fans watching at home, we assure you this: they were yet slower when viewed on a Soccernet, in-game scoreline refreshed every 45 seconds via dial-up modem.
Ultimately, when that 1999 Compaq monitor arranged its pixels to read “FINAL,” in all its low-resolution glory, the world faded away into blissful oblivion. Suddenly it didn’t matter so much the only beer in the fridge was Keystone Light. Cocktail weenie boiled in Bullseye? Don’t mind if I do. And Dad, I think you’re right: Bill Clinton probably did sell nuclear secrets to the I-ranians.
Before Sunday, West Ham’s season could be summed up with the following bullets:
Add to this list Nigel Reo-Coker himself. Normally we love to be contrarian when it comes to public-opinion, but in this we must agree with the masses: the Hammers poor start has been mostly the fault of their captain. Last year’s Midfield General has been this year’s Corporal Klinger. Effete in mind, body, and spirit, Coker’s accrued respect from the past two seasons had all but disappeared before Sunday’s strike. And even in victory the captain seemed to shirk responsibility, dedicating the goal to the sacked Alan Pardew.
And what of Alan Pardew? We’ll not utter a word against the man that brought West Ham back to their rightful place in the Prem. We think of him like a father father-in-law. Our new daddy, though, is a man named Curbs, and oh does he makes the Keystone Light taste sweet.
Here’s to hoping Reo-Coker and Company get back to themselves…and that we won’t have to be trading the Keystone for Coca-cola after all.
Yesterday, both “Deadspin” and “With Leather” posted video of a robot hitting making limp-wristed contact with some machine-pitched fastballs. Clearly the bot needs some work.
Are soccer-bots any further along? Hard to say, but they can do the splits. Plus, unlike in the baseball clip, these robots seem to be in the care of Asians, which clearly bodes well for the future. Score one for soccer!
Hide the Pilsner and lock up your Bavarian daughters: Lukey the Czech is back to his winning ways. After turning in an 8-4 performance last week, Lukey finds his bankroll swelled to the tune of $158.72 (based on $5 and $10 mythical wagers). His latest run, though not approaching his World Cup greatness, is his best since those halcion days of July. See if he has more in the tank, after the jump.
We’re a bit late on this, but Steven Cohen made an apology earlier this week for his sketchy remarks regarding Liverpool FC, Heysel, and Hillsborough. At the opening of Fox Football Fone-In, Cohen stared into the camera and read the following prepared statement:
“…last week here on Fox Football Fone-in, in the heat of the moment, I made some very disparaging remarks about Liverpool Football Club and their supporters. I know that i’m a passionate Chelsea fan and it takes up almost all of my waking hours . I also know that when i’m wound up over comments against Chelsea, like many fans, I resort to insults that can be very hurtfull. As a broadcast professional I should know better and not let it get to this stage. I’ve apologized on my radio show World football Daily and i’ve also apologized to the management here at Fox football Channel. But most importantly I wish to apologize to all our viewers.”
We too resort to insults in our dealings with other people, and we don’t even have to be particularly “wound up” to do it. In fact, insults are pretty much our main mode of communication. But when we use them, we generally try and steer clear of false accusations of mass-death, and that’s really where Cohen went wrong. He’s an excitable little bugger and seems to lack the self-awareness one needs when engaged in public debate.
We will now resume our normal Fox Football Fone-In viewing habits…which is to say, not watch it at all.