September 24 – 2007

September 20 – 2007

And just like that, the Premiership loses its villain. Those of you in blue may say “hero”, but I believe, in time, you will come to see the Mourinho years as an exercise in profligacy, excess, and general silliness. In fact, one only need analyze the very words that sprang from that smug little man to see the error of his ways.

“Please don’t call me arrogant, but I’m European champion and I think I’m a special one.” -Upon arriving at Stamford Bridge in 2004.

That’s not arrogance – that’s what the American Psychiatric Association calls “Narcissistic Personality Disorder.” Mourinho always strove to make it known that he would be responsible for Chelsea’s successes, an attitude too clever by half when one considers the purse-strings he was holding.

“I would love an Aston Martin but if you ask me £1m for an Aston Martin, I tell you, you are crazy because they cost £250,000.” – On the increased valuation of players when Chelsea express an interest.

Jose’s right in that there has and will continue to be one price for Chelsea, and another for everyone else. Why? Because Aston Martins cost no more than $200,000 yet Jose would gladly pay $500,000 and only complain when the price rose to $2million. The man had no concept of value because he had no budget; he only had a vague sense that he was getting screwed whenever he couldn’t have what he wanted.

“A brilliant reaction. I hate it when players just walk off.”
Following Arjen Robben’s sharp exit down the tunnel after being substituted against Aston Villa.

Ahh yes, the time-honored tradition of cleverly restating a clear negative as a positive. All indications are that Chelsea players who don’t bask in the glory of first-team selection are ground up and fed to starters for breakfast. Robben, like so many Blues teetering on the edge of favor, charged off the pitch because he knew full well the harsh realities of man-management under Mourinho.

“Young players are a little bit like melons. Only when you open and taste the melon are you 100% sure that the melon is good.”
On developing Chelsea’s young stars.

Or, rather, on not developing Chelsea’s young stars. Mourinho’s whimsical quip is really a statement of philosophy: why develop talent when we can simply outspend everyone to acquire talent developed elsewhere? When the Roman empire ends and the money dries up, Chelsea will be left with a youth-development system from the dark ages.

“It’s like having a blanket that is too small for the bed. You pull the blanket up to keep your chest warm and your feet stick out. I cannot buy a bigger blanket because the supermarket is closed. But the blanket is made of cashmere!”
On the injury ‘crisis’ at Chelsea in February.

“The style of how we play is very important. But it is omelettes and eggs. No eggs – no omelettes! It depends on the quality of the eggs. In the supermarket you have class one, two or class three eggs and some are more expensive than others and some give you better omelettes. So when the class one eggs are in Waitrose and you cannot go there, you have a problem.”
What turned out to be his parting shot to Roman Abramovich.

Mourinho did not manage his way to silverware, he bought it. When injuries hit, as they do for every single club in the game, Mourinho used the moment to complain about his inability to spend, about the quality of his players, and about the overload of fixtures. He never seemed to warm to the idea that a manager should manage rather than acquire. Perhaps, though, he was right: my balls could have managed Chelsea ‘05 and ‘06 to titles.

“Wenger has a real problem with us and I think he is what you call in England a voyeur. He is someone who likes to watch other people. There are some guys who, when they are at home, have this big telescope to look into the homes of other people and see what is happening. Wenger must be one of them – and it is a sickness.”
Astonishing attack on Arsene Wenger.

And this is how I will remember him – a cruel little opportunist hiding behind a “poor” grasp of English, laying waste to anything that doesn’t immediately gratify his self-worth. Some are saying they’ll be sorry to see a character like Jose go; I, for one, will be glad to see the English game rid of him. I look forward to seeing what the Chelsea roster can do under the guidance of someone, anyone, who puts football before spending. In fact, I tip Chelsea for a Champions League title next year.

Of course, if Terry, Lampard, Drogba, Essien, and Cech transferred to Bolton, I’d tip them as well. They’re the real Special Ones.

September 19 – 2007

The release of FIFA’08 is around the corner and, like most years, I’m foregoing the excitement; for me, EA Sport’s FIFA series plateaued with FIFA’96. Since then, the graphics have gotten better (”I can see a Nike sign!”), and the attention to detail has increased (”Look! Sweaty shirts!”), but what was fundamentally a button-pushing exercise has remained so.

The trailer below, however, seems to hint at better things to come.

The enhanced realism of piloting a single player through a match surely represents an improvement over the conceit of controlling an entire squad. Positioning, understanding of role, and speed of play would be at a premium. Gone would be the days of the tried and true scoring format (into the midfield, swing it out wide, loop in a cross, smash it home) and with them my desire to strangle my brother with the controller cord. A whole team of individuals playing as individuals would be more like…well…soccer.

It’s easy to choose players you’d love to “be.” But who, I wonder, are the players I would avoid like a dodgy prawn sandwich?

• Andriy Schevchenko. Nothing causes thumb blisters like a player who has lost a step. No matter how hard you press that directional button, Andriy will be there a step late. And you could be forgiven for mistaking the slowly depleting “stamina bar” for a “career prospects bar.”
• Kieron Dyer. How fun could it be counting the seconds until your next injury? Which button do you push to wave on the physio? Can I punch virtual Lee Bowyer?
• Dimitar Berbatov. I’m surrounded by morons. Transfer me to ManUntd before Robbie Keane kicks another ball at my shins.
• Andy Van der Meyde. Playing video games, like talking about my feelings, is something I rarely do sober. Drunkenly playing a drunken player is one too many layers of drunkeness.
• Steve Finnan. Watch as I bore myself with my own consistency.

Really, though, how long until the “Be a Pro” mode leads to rampant CGI-FIFA porn?

September 17 – 2007

From Sky Sports comes news of an Albanian man who, angered by his national team’s loss to the Netherlands, set his fish delivery van on fire. Fair enough, but when firefighters arrived at the scene, they found their truck had been emptied of water by citizens desperate to escape Albania’s national water shortage. The delivery van burnt to the ground.

In my opinion, this confluence of events should result in an immediate state department travel advisory: “American citizens should be on the look out for bat-shit craziness when visiting Albania.” That Albanian citizens would drain a firetruck is one level of crazy – that they have citizens who would stake their livelihood on a result against the Dutch is quite another.

Here’s Mario Melchiot on the receiving end of that craziness, Ruud Van Nistelrooy dishing up some craziness of his own, and stunned Albanian fans thinking about setting fish delivery vans on fire:

Also, be sure not to let your day end before checking out Awful Announcing’s, positively unreal Rob Stone clip.

September 14 – 2007

Lukey went 5 for 5 last weekend, but his chalk-eating caused him to slip to a total return of negative $33.17 (based on $5 and $10 mythical wagers). I’m sure you may be tempted to jump ship, but know this: we’re talking about a man who escaped communist Czechoslovakia by stowing away on a livestock truck, disguised in a hollowed out sheep carcass. Lukey rode to freedom through five-hundred yards of shit smelling foulness I can’t even imagine, or maybe I just don’t want too. Five-Hundred yards… that’s the length of five football fields, just shy of half a mile.

Lukey’s picks, sans sheep carcass, are after the jump.

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September 14 – 2007

It’s taken weeks to get back on this train. Fulham’s loss to Newcastle United left a sour taste in my mouth and, truth be told, I considered wrapping up the project and giving Fulham the title outright. Oh well, I’ve made my bed – now it’s time to invite two more teams into it, make with the heavy petting, and choose a victorious lover. Note: Because teams make more than one appearance in this little tourney, I’ll only assess the two squads in so far as an obvious (for me) winner emerges.

The Case for West Ham: We meet again, my love; you look like hell. What’s that? You miss me? I miss you too…sometimes…like, when it rains…or when I’ve killed four tallboys of Speckled Hen…but mostly I’m enjoying the freedom of neutral Saturdays. What’s that? Of course we still have a chance. But let’s take this slow.

A look at the pros:

• New signee: Nole Solano. Silky smooth control and world class ball-striking just arrived in East London; break out the inflatable llamas!
• Kieron Dyer’s leg is broken. He’s a negative, the broken leg removed him, so the leg must be a positive. Simple math, people.
• I was always partial to the claret and blue, but this year’s Umbro spread takes the combo to new heights. Far and away the best Hammers’ jersey in years.

And some cons:

• Kieron Dyer. I hate that man, and can’t quite believe he and Bowyer will now have the chance to go a second round. Morons!
• Leading scorer? Matt Etherington. I’m assuming all his goals have been crosses that, instead of ending up in the bleachers, found their way into the net.
• Everyone is acting like the Tevez affair has been put to rest. Pardon me, but isn’t the guy on loan? This whole thing will be revisited in two years.
• Get a load of these guys.

The case for Manchester United: Do you root for the Yankees? Did you laugh inside when Old Yeller was put down? Do you have a soft-spot for big pharmaceutical companies? Do you secretly hope New Orleans doesn’t get rebuilt? Then you, my friend, could be a Manchester United fan.

The pros:

• Ummm…success? I admit – it would be nice to worry about how you’re going to carry the silverware home, rather than if you’ll still be in the league when you get there.
• Can 50 million supporters be wrong?
• For gorgeous football that actually leads to goals (I’m looking at you, Arsenal fans) look no further than Old Trafford.
• The guy with the McDonald’s bag.

Tough to beat McDonald’s-bag-guy. On to the cons:

• I’m a white, middle class American; do I really need more hegemony in my life?
• 8 points in 5 games.
• Nani looks like that small person Pedro Martinez carried around.
• Supporters were concerned the Glazers would restructure Manchester United finances to carry excess family debt. Who needs family debt when you can rack up $50million of red the old fashioned way?
• For all United’s evils, nothing compares to Gary Neville.

The Verdict:

Like all match-ups between West Ham and ManUntd, the Reds crush the Hammers in all objective aspects of footballing. Yet, as if by some greater power, West Ham finds a way to chink the armor of the unstoppable monolith. In my heart, the game-wnning goal is this one; Barthez’s arm in the air, and head up his ass. West Ham push into the second round, 1-0.

September 12 – 2007

The women’s world cup is off and running! Yesterday’s match between the US and North Korea was a fascinating battle with all the raw talent and athleticism you’d expect from a world class tourna…ah, who am I kidding? Like I give a shit.

And before you get your panties in a wad: I happen to think women’s sports are great. It’s US women’s soccer I can’t stand. Why? Because it may be one of the most poorly managed national sports program in the history of the world.

Women’s soccer was essentially invented by the United States. While other countries were busy oppressing their women-folk with conservative sexual mores, institutionalized sexism, or mandatory burka-wearing, our girls were burning their non-sportsbras to the tune of Title IX. The head-start was massive. US women could lay claim to being the most successful international side, male or female, of the ’80s and ’90s.

And not just that: during that time, the US produced two of the greatest soccer players ever to walk the Earth in Michelle Akers and Mia Hamm. I remember watching Hamm play when she was a senior at North Carolina visiting the University of Portland. Seated behind the goal, I watched her make a darting run towards the top of the penalty area; a Carolina player had beaten a defender on the flank and whipped in a poorly hit but pacy cross. The ball was going to bounce about 5 yards in front of Hamm, and I remember thinking “There’s no way she’ll be able to bring this down.” She didn’t – she kept running at full speed, went horizontal, and crushed a side-volley that eventually hit the post. “I can not do that,” I thought, “but I find it intriguing and, strangely, arousing.”

Though there was nothing arousing about Akers, she was perhaps better than Hamm. After playing in a pick-up game with her, I was struck by her speed of play, her comfort over the ball, and her ability to find easy ways out of difficult situations. She played like a man, and that’s not in any way meant to be a slight on her imposing frame; it’s merely a blatantly sexist remark that speaks truth to her ability.

That both players were members of the FIFA 100 list of the greatest players of all time can only be seen as justice. That the US has failed to produce players near their caliber speaks to the stagnation of women’s soccer in this country. Who’s to blame? Well you can start with the knob-jockeys who coached the full team for a combined thirteen years – Anson Dorrance and Tony DiCicco. The former is some guy who looks like he lost his way from a used car dealership and ended up in the technical area, while the latter is a women’s goalkeeping coach. No, really, he is. Those two were happy to send our Title IXsters out to beat ass on the housewives and lesbian castaways of Europe, but did they ever send any message to America’s girls other than “run really fast, and I’ll meat meet you on the podium.”

Then there’s Adidas and Nike, who were only too happy to package women’s soccer and force feed it to every suburban man, woman, and child. They’re corporations, so they can’t be blamed, but US Soccer must be considered co-conspirators in the exploitation. Women’s shoes got cuter, but did the players wearing them get any better?

Looking at the current roster, you’d have to say no. Kristine Lilly’s longevity is a credit to mankind, but a discredit to the talent pool of US women’s soccer. There’s a reason why Alexi Lalas doesn’t still play for the USMNT, and you’d hope there’d be a reason why Lilly wouldn’t as well. Similarly, is Shannon Boxx still, after close to a decade, the best player we can field at her position?

The rest of the planet, meanwhile, has caught up. The US retain a number one ranking, but (as yesterday showed) all it really takes to knock them off is a solid HGH regimen and fear of execution. Germany, a team that used to be so outclassed by the Americans it made you wish Hitler were alive to see it, now looks to have the Americans by the balls, er, right where they want them.

In the end, it’s good for women around the world, but US Soccer must ask themselves how we lost our edge so quickly. They really did drop the ball. Oops.

September 8 – 2007

The Czech Football Association have named the going rate for a Nazi salute: $4948. And since video evidence reveals Sparta Prague’s Pavel Horvath rattled off two rounds back-to-back…

…his total comes to $9896.

Prosecution of the fine was not taken lightly; the CFA employed the services of international extremism expert Miroslav Mares. A summary of his assessment was included in the final report.

“(Mares) ruled out intolerance and extremism, but it is highly probable that he (Horvath) performed a part of the Nazi salute. He probably thought that he would entertain the fans, who most probably include extremism followers, and that they will be calmer.”

Which makes perfect sense because, in my experience, nothing calms violent extremists like a Nazi salute. In fact, almost any situation can be made more pleasant with a well timed “Heil!”

Presumably, Horvath should be praised for his crowd-control technique, but fined for his failure to keep it out of view from cameras. After all, you can forgive a decent Czech for being nostalgic for those halcyon days of 1938.

September 6 – 2007

With Beckham’s perfectly sculpted ass riding the pine, and your inner thirteen-year-old-girl crying softly because of it, it’s time to revisit a popular theme here at Soccernista: what can be done that might actually convince me to attend an MLS match?

I want to go. Or rather, I want to want to go. Somehow, though, I’m not being pushed over the edge. Not even by Goldenballs himself. So it’s back to the drawing board to create a handful of unrealistic, surefire ideas to improve MLS. Ignore them at your peril, Don Garber:

Bring in the Barra Bravas
Paid supporters have brought Argentine football to its knees; MLS should be so lucky. Putting hardcore fan-groups on the payroll would improve stadium atmosphere and help to sell the league as spectacle. It wouldn’t take much: seats, beer, and a jersey could get the ball rolling. After that, budget allocations could be made to competing supporters’ groups based on attendance and quality of participation. Even if it were a break even proposition, the quality of the MLS experience would surely go up, as would interest in the league.

Combine MLS with the Mexican Primera
Lou Dobbs’s worst nightmare would be an outright blessing for soccer fans. 30 teams, no borders, and a new reason to go to the stadium week in and week out. The massive Mexican population residing in the US would be hooked, and so would Americans who don’t want to see their gardener’s team take home the inter-league title. Investment would go through the roof as advertisers rush to tap the growing purchasing power of Latinos. Seriously – I dare anyone to find a negative from MLS’s point of view.

Form a Champions League of the Americas
Same number of teams, same exact format. Scrap the Concacaf Champions Cup and the Superliga, then throw all your eggs into a bi-continental championship. The drama of such a tournament would be second only to the original, and would make the World Club Championship look like what it is: an afterthought.

Ditch the Salary Cap
Footie clubs are the new yachts. They have become the playthings of oligarchs and tycoons; why should that stop at our borders? Yes, the current kibutz-like system has protected the league from an NASL-esque implosion, but…what exactly are we protecting again? The Columbus Crew? The Kansas City Wizards? I’d risk the implosion if it means I could watch players who make more than I do.

Let the Church of Latter Day Saints Take Over Real Salt Lake
Imagine the excitement that would grip Rice-Eccles stadium as the preisthood holders take the field. Every game would be a revelation for the home team and a culture-clash for everyone else. At away games, players could alternately rouse the local population and fill the seats with converts. The stupid RSL crown could be replaced by something cool…like a beehive…or an ox. All white strip at home, and all white with white stripes away. It would be fucking awesome.

August 31 – 2007

Lukey the Czech went five for five last weekend, but the “juice” can be a cruel mistress; he now sits $27.45 in the hole. It’s uncharted territory for the Czech-man, and I can only imagine pilsner and cigar futures are on the rocks.

Fear not: he called me in the middle of the workday to report he was “playing Golden Tee and drinking a zipperita.” And in my experience, a relaxed Lukey is often a profitable Lukey. Plus he plainly wrote his dispatch while drunk on said zipperitas. Let’s see if it does the trick, after the jump. (more…)