Independence Day

We — the authors of this site — are off today celebrating the 4th of July. We hope you are too. Before you go out to your cookouts, your fireworks, your what-have-yous, if you’re already on the computer, stay for a minute and read these three items. There are many appropriate readings for this day, and I implore you to add suggestions in the comments, but I’m the one who’s putting this up, and these are mine.

July 4, 1776 (RTWT):

When in the Course of human events, it becomes necessary for one people to dissolve the political bands which have connected them with another, and to assume among the powers of the earth, the separate and equal station to which the Laws of Nature and of Nature’s God entitle them, a decent respect to the opinions of mankind requires that they should declare the causes which impel them to the separation. We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable Rights, that among these are Life, Liberty and the pursuit of Happiness.–That to secure these rights, Governments are instituted among Men, deriving their just powers from the consent of the governed, –That whenever any Form of Government becomes destructive of these ends, it is the Right of the People to alter or to abolish it, and to institute new Government, laying its foundation on such principles and organizing its powers in such form, as to them shall seem most likely to effect their Safety and Happiness. Prudence, indeed, will dictate that Governments long established should not be changed for light and transient causes; and accordingly all experience hath shewn, that mankind are more disposed to suffer, while evils are sufferable, than to right themselves by abolishing the forms to which they are accustomed. But when a long train of abuses and usurpations, pursuing invariably the same Object evinces a design to reduce them under absolute Despotism, it is their right, it is their duty, to throw off such Government, and to provide new Guards for their future security.–Such has been the patient sufferance of these Colonies; and such is now the necessity which constrains them to alter their former Systems of Government.

July 4, 1852 (RTWT)

Citizens, your fathers made good that resolution. They succeeded; and to-day you reap the fruits of their success. The freedom gained is yours; and you, therefore, may properly celebrate this anniversary. The 4th of July is the first great fact in your nation’s history—the very ring-bolt in the chain of your yet undeveloped destiny.Pride and patriotism, not less than gratitude, prompt you to celebrate and to hold it in perpetual remembrance. I have said that the Declaration of Independence is the ring-bolt to the chain of your nation’s destiny; so, indeed, I regard it. The principles contained in that instrument are saving principles. Stand by those principles, be true to them on all occasions, in all places, against all foes, and at whatever cost.From the round top of your ship of state, dark and threatening clouds may be seen. Heavy billows, like mountains in the distance, disclose to the leeward huge forms of flinty rocks! That bolt drawn, that chain broken, and all is lost. Cling to this day—cling to it, and to its principles, with the grasp of a storm-tossed mariner to a spar at midnight.

And a poem, Carl Sandburg’s “I Am The People, The Mob” in honor of LB:

I AM the people–the mob–the crowd–the mass.
Do you know that all the great work of the world is
done through me?
I am the workingman, the inventor, the maker of the
world’s food and clothes.
I am the audience that witnesses history. The Napoleons
come from me and the Lincolns. They die. And
then I send forth more Napoleons and Lincolns.
I am the seed ground. I am a prairie that will stand
for much plowing. Terrible storms pass over me.
I forget. The best of me is sucked out and wasted.
I forget. Everything but Death comes to me and
makes me work and give up what I have. And I
forget.
Sometimes I growl, shake myself and spatter a few red
drops for history to remember. Then–I forget.
When I, the People, learn to remember, when I, the
People, use the lessons of yesterday and no longer
forget who robbed me last year, who played me for
a fool–then there will be no speaker in all the world
say the name: The People, with any fleck of a
sneer in his voice or any far-off smile of derision.
The mob–the crowd–the mass–will arrive then.

And, here’s a video of a dog with a Roman Candle:

Happy Fourth!

John 14:27

I park the car behind the house, on the grass on the far side of the driveway. I come in through the back door. I’m expected. The back door leads directly to the kitchen, and nothing’s cooking. It’s only 11:15, so nothing would be.

No one greets me. The long walk from the door through the kitchen takes years. I remember last week. I remember how frail she looked, how much frailer than the week before, and the week before that, and the month before that. My foot hits the threshold of the living room. It touches carpet. My shoes are so loud, they’ve been crashing into the linoleum, but she knew I was here the moment I pulled into the driveway. Her bed looks out onto the street, and she saw my car.

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Things I Drink And So Should You: Ft. Snow and the French 75

I am not a winter person. I’m not. I hate it. Worse: I ‘m one of those people who constantly reminds everyone around them that I hate winter and think it’s awful. If you are among the thousands of people I have accosted with my rantings against, of all things (really, of all things), weather, I apologize. I will do it again, and soon, but I am sorry for having done it. It is regrettable.

I hate winter for so many reasons: all of the reasons. It’s dark all the time. It’s cold. It’s damned treacherous on occasion. We’ve had three blizzards up here this winter and it’s only the middle of January. The snow. Oh God, how I hate snow. It combines two of my least favorite things: cold and wet. You might think it’s pretty, and, really, it’s not bad to look at. But snow is like that girl at the bar, the ridiculously attractive girl with the glasses, who comes in and orders the same thing you’re drinking and puts great music on the jukebox. She’s great. But she’s going to be a ton of work and you’re going to get tired of her within weeks if not days. Fuck her. And fuck snow.

I’m on my third snow day of the year today. It’s actually the third of the last two weeks. Most of my co-workers, and no doubt all of the kids, were pretty ecstatic at this development. Snow days mean — when they cancel school the day before, as they did yesterday — sleeping in, and drinking heavily beforehand. Snow days also offer a quiet respite from the drudgery and din of work, screaming and arguing and running around replaced by lazily sipping at coffee while curled up on the couch engrossed in a good book. And snow days also mean a run on bread and milk and eggs at every grocery store. A local news blog called Universal Hub ushers in storms by whipping out their French Toast Alert system, a mix between your local television station’s StormCenter or whatever and Homeland Security’s color-coded Threat Level System. When the flakes start falling and families are going to be snowbound, it’s time for French Toast.

I’m not like most people, so I don’t do French toast. There’s no booze in it, so I don’t particularly look forward to it, though I suppose you could put a little rum in the batter, which might not be too bad. Also, I’m a bacon guy (but who isn’t? Unless you’re a bacon lady, obvs.). That said, I do feel like I need to have some kind of snow day tradition, so I thought about it for a while. A hot toddy just seemed too obvious. The Blue Blazer and all that stuff, though fun to watch and easy to drink (who doesn’t love on-fire scotch? You don’t? Fuck you.), is just a little too gimmicky. Hot buttered Rum is a bit to fey for me; also, would mean drinking butter and rum. Irish coffee is coffee. So, I kept thinking until I came up with the perfect drink, even though it’s not a winter drink at all. I figured that since I love the whole French Toast Alert thing, because it seems so ridiculous to me, that I should include either French or Toast in it. There are no drinks with toast in them, and thank God for that. So, I went with French.

And I chose the French 75, which is not generally my kind of drink, even though it combines two of my favorite boozes: gin and champagne. It’s the Reese’s Peanut Butter Cup of drinking (“You got gin in my champagne!” “You got champagne in my gin!”), only even tastier and a hundred times classier. Whoever did this is a genius, because, let’s face it, you’re not having one. You’re just not, so don’t even go into it thinking like that. You’ll only disappoint yourself as you go through the entire champagne bottle, which, again, you will. You will also have a raging hangover, but you will have earned it and not regret the small animal on the treadmill in your brain. The French 75 hangover is one you cherish, one you do not look back on ruefully, but with tender memories.

Also, use good gin and crappy champagne. Not Andre crappy, because you want to enjoy it, but don’t break out the Dom Perignon either. A good 20 or 30 dollar bottle will get the job done just fine. I use Hendrick’s gin and Veuve Cliquot, because, well, because that’s the gin I drink and the champagne I drink, and once I find something I like, I tend to stick with it until someone introduces me to something better (this might explain why I persisted in watching The Office until someone alerted me to the presence of Parks and Rec, and then I was all, great my fake-documentary style sitcom needs are taken care of!). Anyway, the important thing is that you have gin and champagne and you put them into a glass. And then you drink it.

The French 75 is alarmingly simple. Because it’s classy though, it prefers to be called elegant rather than simple. All you need, as I’ve mentioned several times, because it bear repeating on account of awesomeness, is gin and champagne. Gin, champagne and lemon, really. Gin, champagne, lemon and a flute glass. And a little bit of sugar. It’s really elegant. Get your shaker out and pour half a glass of champagne in there, adding a spoonful of sugar, a couple shots of gin and some lemon juice. BUT! Do not use one of those garbage plastic lemons for your lemon juice! Please! On so many levels, that is a terrible thing to do, not just in this drink, but ever. Seriously: don’t use the fucking plastic lemon. Use a real lemon. It’s not difficult. You cut the fucking thing in half and squeeze it. End of story. But, like, really. Don’t use the plastic lemon. Also, you need a real lemon because you are going to cut a long thin strip of the peel, coil it and let it hang over the rim of the glass (ELEGANCE!).

So, slowly stir the gin, champagne, sugar and lemon juice. Pour it into the flute. Add your lemon peel. It’s now a French 75 and you can drink it. It’s ready. Enjoy it. You will. Look out the window at the freshly fallen snow. Sip. Pick up a good book because there’s nothing on TV in the middle of the afternoon. Sip. Gaze longingly from the glass to the window. Sigh. Sip. Put off shoveling a little longer. Finish the drink and make another one. You know how to do it now. You just did it. It’s easy. And elegant. You’re now having the most elegant snow day ever. You’re welcome.

Cheers.

Things I Drink and So Should You, The Return: Ft. the Toronto

Pop and I have been friends since before the internet, or since before a lot of people knew the internet existed. We were friends when the Patriots were a joke, when Britney Spears was not, when Bill Clinton was President, when the years started with a 1. We were young and naive, sitting in small classrooms discussing political and social issues with an eye on changing the world, on being the force behind the change.

Pop and I both turned 30 this year. Age got to me first, around mid-year, and then to Pop just as the year ended. December is always a time for reflection, a chance to look at what’s gone by, to assess and critique, to congratulate or regret. At the close of this year, I am especially predisposed to such cataloging. At 30, there is no turning back, no grasping weakly at a youth slipped through the fingers of someone too careless to hold on tighter (that someone is everyone). From here, there is only looking back on it, head turned wistfully back at what’s gone before, what fun (or dread) there was in those times, while feet march slowly on into adulthood.

I’ve spent the better part of three months with my head turned backward. Maybe if I’m honest with myself, it’s been this whole year. I’ve been telling stories of the great times I’ve had, and of the horrible things I’ve done. I’ve gone over old photo albums and looked through yellowed copies of pieces I’ve written. I’ve laughed at how much I am not the person who had those times, did those things, sat for those photos or wrote those pieces. And I’ve laughed at how much I am that person, how much I will always be that person, and how much all the things that person did constitute who I am now. And then I’ve sighed, and started my cataloging all over again, no longer laughing at it, because it’s not something to laugh at on second thought.

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Sunday! Sunday! Sunday!

I have very little to say, and even fewer excuses to make. So, instead, I propose a gift and we’ll pretend all of this never happened:

You’re welcome, and I hope it’s still available, because that’s genius. Starts a little slow, but from about 2:30 on, it’s straight fire.

Mea Copa: Over the Line, Mark It Zero!

This weekend might have been the end of the American soccer boom that many pundits and fans had predicted would result from a deep Yank run combined with a serious push by ESPN/ABC to market the matches. The ratings are up tremendously over 2006, which was played in essentially the same time-zone, over the same month. It is possible that Americans are growing to love soccer, but I doubt it. I had a conversation with a friend, who is a once-every-four-years viewer:

Captain: You must be happy now that 2/3 of the World Cup audience in America has turned off their TV and stopped going to the bar.

Me: Well, other than the fact that they lost, perhaps. And I said that I appreciated new fans, I just want them to stay or care for the next four years. … But, then, maybe soccer = swimming.

Captain: Fact.

Which, bummer city. Both that folks aren’t as likely to watch now that the US is out, and that the US is out. But, this weekend was so frustrating for me because I saw how frustrating it was to casual/new fans of the game. Even though I’m used to it by now, the mistakes, blown calls and egregious errors of the officials drove my friends crazy all weekend. In watching England-Germany, as play continued despite the fact that Frank Lampard’s audacious chip cleared the goal line by two yards, a friend asked, “Aren’t they going to stop and change that?” “No. No replay.” “Like baseball then?” “Yup.” “Isn’t this game too fast for that?” “Yup.” “That’s stupid.” The English would have leveled the score had Lampard’s goal counted, which would have changed the complexion of the game and not forced the English to open up their defense and charge forward quite so much, leading to the Germans’ two successive goals. No denying England were shit, nor that Germany were the better team, but the officials ended the mystery long before the players did, and that’s a problem.

Welcome to my world.

Hours later, Carlos Tevez scored in a position so offside that someone with the vaguest understanding of the rule ought to have been shouting in protest. The linesman (guy with the pretty flag on the sideline) caught a glimpse of the replay on the stadium’s Jumbotron and seemed like he wanted to change the call, but the rules explicitly bar that. Indeed, in order to ease tension amongst fans and players, controversial replays aren’t usually even allowed to be shown inside the stadium.

And it’s at this point that I have to bring out the Big Lebowski: “This is a league game. It determines who enters the next round robin. Has the whole world gone crazy?! Am I the only one around here who gives a shit about the rules?!” Continue reading »

Mea Copa: US v Ghana

With this morning’s methodical victory over Good Korea, Uruguay become the Cup’s first Quarterfinalist, and the US’ potential opponent should the Yanks get past Ghana’s Black Stars this afternoon (but more on that later). First we need to take a look at how the teams that got this far did so, and how some teams ended up watching this morning’s action from home. This tournament has been anything but pain-by-numbers, with upsets and intrigue galore. Having a group stage like the one just concluded — outside the first go-round where teams were still adjusting to each other, the ball and the altitude, producing some dire viewing — can only help casual fans embrace what the rest of the world thinks is the best sporting event in the world.

France and Italy are home. My wife and her father are fuming; he won’t even talk about it yet. Meanwhile, the US are through and our media can’t stop talking about it. Topsy-turvy world we live in right now. France completely imploded in about the most French way possible: bickering with one another to the point of refusing to pass to certain team-mates, going on strike for a day and looking disorganized and unpleasant on the field of play. Italy were simply, as I warned, old. They looked every bit of it as Lippi refused to play his young and enterprising players, preferring most of the team that lifted the trophy for years ago. The new manager will have an embarrassment of riches to play with in four years, with bit players from this squad ready to take the reins from the last gaspers.

Also, I was wrong, so so so wrong, about so much that I’m tempted to gloss over everything, but I won’t. Argentina were as rampant as I expected, but Maradona looks more capable as a coach than I’d ever thought possible. All the African teams I tipped to get out and make some noise quietly faded into the mountains, rarely even appearing likely to get a point, let alone win a match. About the only things I was right about were that I hate Tim Cahill and that Chile are a fun team to watch. After taking tomorrow off, I’m going to try to preview all the matches this week, looking back at the appropriate groups, where I missed and where I hit on something.

But today is about one game (because there’s only one left, but still). The US, the Mighty Yanks, Uncle Sam’s Army, The US MiNT, will take to the field today after winning their group for the first time since the inaugural World Cup in 1930 (held in and won by Uruguay, who, again, potentially our next opponent). They did so playing against 12 men in the matches against Serbia and Algeria (counting the referees) in which two perfectly good goals were disallowed. Much has been said about the Serbia match, and the atrocity that was Edu’s non-goal. But that controversy greatly overshadowed the fight and verve the Yanks came out with in the second half of that match and the energy they sustained not just through the burst that led to Donovan’s goal, but for the full 45. Seeing a national team come together like that is rare. These guys don’t train together often, they don’t even play in the same leagues, let alone teams, throughout the professional calendar. And, the team that came out for the second half against Serbia, in the positions they were playing, was not an 11 I’d ever seen at the same time. But they gelled, stayed in formation, played their game. Papa Bradley has turned most supporters to his side, after years of doubting, questioning and, on many occasions in my house, screaming at his tactics; his boy has helped him on that count by making the leap. Michael Bradley especially has impressed a ton of onlookers, probably earning himself a few million Euros or Pounds in the process.

But all of that is prelude to this morning, a short preamble to a hopefully long and glorious manuscript — perhaps, if the team can carry on at the level its operated at thus far, even a manifesto. It is yet to be written, and it starts this afternoon, against two Princes, two Mensahs and 19 other Black Stars from the only African nation remaining in the tournament. They are not the same team that the US lost to in 2006, 2-1, if only because they are missing their best player, and one of the world’s best, in Michael Essien. His absence has been obvious in Ghana’s inability to score from open play. They’ve got two goals, both penalties, in the tournament. The US has double that, and ought to have treble their goals (yes, I’m continuing to bitch about officiating). They’re not without threats, but they’ve been content thus far to sit back, absorb the attack and catch their opponent on the counter. That may or may not continue today. I could see this game being far more open than the previous three.

Is that an advantage to the US? I have no idea. The back four is still something of a mess, and I can’t say I didn’t cringe when I saw Bornstein in for the Algeria match. Why bring Clarence Goodson as cover for Onyewu if you’re just going to slide Bocanegra in the middle and then put Bornstein on his wrong foot on the outside? Again though, results matter and that team did give one. Michael Bradley and Kevin-Prince Boateng (former Spur) will be THE battle today, more so than Altidore v. 2 Mensahs (John and Jonathan) and our centerbacks v. Assamoah Gyan. Whichever of those players throws his weight around, moves box-to-box and manages to keep the ref’s card in his chest pocket, will go a long way to helping their team through to Uruguay. Bradley and Boateng are both young guys who rely on strength and motor (the American term is probably “gritty” or some such), though Boateng has a big box of tricks that he’ll pull out possibly to his detriment. That said, they’re both huge hot heads known to getting a bit of the red mist in their eyes followed by a red card. Keeping their head in the game might matter even more than keeping their feet on the ball.

If the US come out like they have the last three halves of play, I think they walk away with more to play for. If they come out as they did against England, letting in something easy, playing out of shape and outside themselves, it will be tough to hang on. Ghana aren’t going to come out guns blazing, I doubt, but if handed a gift-wrapped opportunity, they’ll take it and shut up shop, putting 10 men behind the ball and daring the US to break it down (which, to be honest, is not the US’s strong suit by a mile). The one huge mismatch (which isn’t really a matchup, what with both players at the opposite ends of the surface) is in goal. The US, as I’ve said time and again, have one of the best keepers in South Africa. Tim Howard has saved the bacon of his shoddy defense and helped the US put up points in every match thus far. If it comes to penalties after 120 minutes, I’d put my money on his gloves rather than Ghanaian keeper Kingson.

I’m done with patriotic bluster and jingoistic rationale. If you’re with us, be with us today, and if you’re not, we’ll be waiting when you finally hop aboard. This team has the ability to be something special, to become a team that we tell our kids about, to become a team that other nations tell their kids about. This group of kids, raised on the 1994 World Cup, giving our national team an identity in the international game. Watch the beginning of something this afternoon. Watch it for Dempsey, bleeding from the mouth. Watch it for Tim Howard, screaming and striding about. Watch it for Donovan, the prodigal son of US Soccer who epitomizes so much of its good and bad that to separate the two from one another is almost impossible. Watch it for Michael and Bob Bradley, father and son. Watch it for Bocanegra and Cherundolo, and all the old soldiers out for one last parade. Watch it because this is the beginning of something today, that could just as easily be the end.

This Is the Life I Chose or Rather the Life That Chose Me

As this posts, I’ll be at graduation.

I’ll be there with them. I’ll applaud and I’ll cheer. It’ll be one of the moments that makes the year worthwhile.

One of my favorite kids will leave school, be on his own. I’ll feel almost good about it and I’ll wish him well. In some ways, I’ll be glad he’s finally rid of school, rid of feeling like a kid, rid of childish bullshit he’s had to put up with for the last few years.

But mostly, I’ll be scared to death.

One of my kids, a a kid of 15, a kid in 8th grade, was shot three times this weekend. Luckily, he was shot in the leg. Luckily, he’ll live. Luckily, I might see him again, talk to him again, yell at him again, piss him off again, play ball with him again. I say that like I’d be the lucky one.

Just today, before we got word, I stood in a hallway talking with a co-worker about the way these kids don’t know what success is. These kids see failure all around them and they’re so terrified of it that they don’t even try. Where folks like us — and I mean pretty much every person reading a blog like this at noon on a Wednesday — see ourselves as failures in various ways, we also know that we’re successes. We had to work hard and risk failure to get here. But some folks exist in places that are so bogged down by failure, that to even try seems a waste of time.

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Mea Copa: Group H, Where H stands for Holy Crap

Here’s how most of my FIFA 2010 games start:

Me: I’m really not that good. I don’t play very much. Pick any team you want.

(Opponent sitting next to me on the couch flips through teams)

Me: No. You can’t pick Spain. Spain is banned.

Spain is the most recent Euro Champions. They have several of the most dominant players at their position in the world. Their midfield is likely the greatest to ever show up at a World Cup (this is patently untrue, but for preview’s sake I’m going with it), so much so that they’re leaving Arsenal’s captain on the bench to start, and Arsenal are one of the most midfield reliant and savvy teams in the world. Francesc Fabregas, the Joy of Cesc himself, the maestro of the Library at Highbury (I mock because I hate ARSEnal), can’t even squeeze his way into the team. Instead, Spain is left with just Xavi Hernandez, Andres Iniesta, Xabi Alonso and David Silva. You may not know these names right now, but you’ll know them by the time the group stage is over. With Mata, Busquets and Navas, along with Fabregas, waiting in the wings, the second string midfield would be among the most highly rated in this iteration of the World Cup.

In the back, the riches continue. Iker Casillas is a fantastic keeper, and were he not the clear cut number one, the choice between Victor Valdes and Pepe Reina would be a difficult one, but one most managers would relish. Casillas has been the Spanish keeper for almost a decade, is only 29 (a year younger than me!) and shows no signs of slowing down. If you’re looking for their weakness, this is not it.

In defense, Spain brings — sigh, again — some of the world’s best. Albiol, Pique, Marchena, Puyol, Ramos, Capdevila, Arbeloa. Just pick any four, throw them back there and rely on them to contain, stop and distribute. With Ramos and Capdevila bombing up the sides and pitching in the attack, Spain can essentially have 8 offensive players at any given moment because Alonso, Busquets, et al are fabulous at filling in the center as the central defenders fan out to hold the space voided by the rampaging fullbacks (more! when Spain inevitably enters the knockouts!). This is a versatile backline comfortable in both defensive standoffs and come-and-get-it attacking situations. They can either stay back or get back.

The lone potential (and this is a huge, like, weeeeeellllllll maaaaaaybe, like you heard before prom) for downfall, is the strikeforce. It’s loaded with talent like Fernando Torres and David Villa, who have 130 matches and 60 goals between them — that is very good if you didn’t know. Pedro Rodriguez and Fernando Llorente are coming into their own and are also great situational subs who can move around and play anywhere in the final third. Spain will probably only use one at a time, preferring an extra attacking midfielder as that’s their true strength, but even here they’re forced to leave off someone who would easily be a top player on another country’s squad.

The rest of Group H, and predictions in FMK style, after the jump … Continue reading »

Mea Copa: Group G, Where G Stands for God-Awful Predictions

Sorry this is so late. Work and not-work (read as soccer and drinking) got way in the way. Group G starts tomorrow at 10, with Cote d’Ivoire and Portugal. Today is two parts: recap of the weekend (and my crap predictions) followed by, obvs., Group G. Enjoy and, as always, mea copa.

The easiest way out of this is to say “that’s why they play the games.” And, it’s true. If these things ever went exactly true to form, they’d stop playing them. March Madness doesn’t see four #1 seeds advance to the Final Four; the Super Bowl rarely sees the best teams from each conference; the World Series almost never matches up the two highest win-totals against one another. Upsets featuring Cinderellas — and the faceplants from the favored teams that upsets require — make playoffs and tournaments exciting. If it were rote, we’d stop watching.

Still, by noon on Friday, I realized this tournament would not go as I had planned it. The South Africans played a fantastic game against Mexico. France and Uruguay looked as if they’d rather be just about anywhere else so long as it didn’t involve soccer. Perhaps it was the nerviness of playing on the tournament’s first day. Maybe it was simply that I’d under-estimated South Africa and over-played Mexico’s resurgence since firing Sven. Whatever. That was a miss.

Greece playing unwatchable soccer, however? Right. On. Good glorious Jesus in heaven, if your Father were just, no one would ever have to watch Greece play again. Good Korea absolutely hammered them, and looked a legit side in the process. Since, however, we don’t know the depths of Greece’s awfulness as we’ve nothing to compare it, I’m willing to stick with Nigeria nicking them for second. Argentina came out firing, making Maradona look positively genius if a bit like a used car salesman. But Nigeria were anything but inept, especially with their keeper apparently the only one who has a clue about stopping the new ball in use for the tournament (about which, more in a minute).

Speaking of shitty keepers — again! prescience from me! — Robert Green elicited the following two texts to my phone:

Grumpy Bear – Is this not England’s usual keeper?

AEL – Good thing Green doesn’t live in South America or he’d be shot for that.

Can’t say I disagree with those assessments. It was absolutely shocking. Absolutely fucking dire. And made worse by the fact that Tim Howard (TIMMAY!) had no trouble ensuring the ball hit him square in the chest in a great effort. Also, in me being right news: our central defense was continually caught out*, pairing anyone with Altidore while pinning Dempsey and Donovan back with defensive duty led to fewer chances than we could have had, and Rico Clark was hands-down responsible for the England goal even if it was Onyewu caught watching. I don’t expect any changes in that, though I’d like not to be right in this case. Also in group C, those other teams are dreadful and if the US doesn’t go out with 7 points, it should be a huge disappointment. The Algerian keeper almost saved — almost! — Green from the worst moment of the weekend.

And those 7 points will be huge, because if they pick them all up, the US can sneak into the driver’s seat as group winner. And that would be a worthwhile prize because either Germany is considerably better than I imagined them to be or Australia are fucking trash (also, remember that Tim Cahill is the devil and even if that red card was remarkably soft — about which, more later, again! — he deserved it for being an unsavory person of ill-repute). The Germans put on a master-class of attacking soccer and I hope that some of you watched it. The angles and channels were very obvious, and could have helped a relative newcomer understand the way the game works. Serbia proved to be a fairly adept defensive team, absorbing wave after wave of Ghanaian attack. Germany’s almost surely through, Serbia are on their last thread already because of their loss to their main competition for second place. Ghana need some finishing to go with their possession.

(Groups E-H when they’ve finished playing; Group G below) Continue reading »

Things I Drink And So Should You

It is begun. The World Cup opened this morning with a 1-1 draw between hosts South Africa and fellow high altitude dweller Mexico. The altitude at some of the sites is something I meant to touch on but always forgot. There are some stadia on the coasts, which, obviously, are at or near sea level. But in the central area of the country, it’s mountainous, way up, the air drained of oxygen. Even the fittest team are going to have trouble keeping up their energy for 120 minutes plus penalties. That might bode well for teams that sit back and counter, but there’s also a lot of energy to be expended in the tight marking and swift changes of direction necessary for that style to work. Teams that regularly play at altitude or have trained there for a while will be better off. For the US? Well, they play in Denver and Mexico City pretty often and have been in South Africa for a week, already putting 90 minutes of play under their belts (and oxygen tents) last Saturday.

Tomorrow afternoon, I’ll be sitting at a bar with friends as the match of the weekend kicks off. Nothing against Argentina/Nigeria, but come on. We’re all Yanks here (I assume) and to rally round the flag just once won’t kill us. So I’m going to eschew my usual Guinness (too hot anyway) or gin and tonic, because those are, for better or worse, drinks from across the pond. And though I generally disdain folks who choose it when there are other options, tomorrow there will be only one for me: Sam Adams — Brewer-Patriot.

Say what you will about the former microbrew turned behemoth, that’s kind of what the US does best. Start small and bulldoze the fuck out of everyone in their path. Take on the big boys at their own game, and then, when that doesn’t work, change the rules so you can win. For years, breweries assumed that Americans only wanted lagers, pilsners, light, airy beers that go down quickly. The big companies made a mint on providing us with just that. Cruise the beer cooler at your local liquor store and the count of “American lagers” will be in the dozens even today.

Sam Adams didn’t start the microbrew revolution, but it is probably the micros’ biggest success story. People around the country can find Sam Adams (in any of a dozen varieties) in their beer cooler or their local watering hole. Asking for a Sam Adams doesn’t mark you as effete or un-American (anymore). It’s just a part of life now. My father, who swore that Bud would forever be his only beer, will now, at a fancy meal, order a Sam seasonal. Hell, despite all its flaws as a craft brewer (when you’re brewing at the volume they do, it’s hardly craft anymore), Sam Adams made it okay to drink summer beer in the summer and winter beer in the winter. It introduced the idea that lager could be darker than Country Time lemonade and that a pilsner could have more taste than a warm cup of rice.

Celebrate the ever-changing landscape of the US by hoisting a Sam Adams tomorrow. Congratulate Jim Koch and those hearty souls who saw the deficiency in the market and exploited it. Do it for Uncle Sam, apple pie and baseball soccer. And though you may not prefer Sam Adams to the craft brewer of your choice, don’t forget that without Sam Adams, Fat Tire, Dogfish 90, Red Racer, Dead Guy and all those other over-hopped works of genius wouldn’t be available at your liquor store or flowing from your bar’s tap.

Drink one to Uncle Sam. Raise your glass high. Sing and scream your throat out. And on Sunday morning, let’s hope we can say with Adams as he did on 19 April 1775: “What a glorious morning this is!”

Cheers.

“The battle, sir, is not to the strong alone; it is to the vigilant, the active, the brave.”

It’s like bringin a knife to a gunfight, pen to a test
Your chest in the line of fire witcha thin-ass vest
You bringin them Boyz II Men, HOW them boys gon’ win? – Jay-Z, The Takeover

When I moved to Boston, I lived in East Somerville. It’s a working class neighborhood full of Brazilians and Portuguese, and in any other soccer story, any other match preview, I might write about the sounds and sights of East Somerville in June 2006. But this is a story about tomorrow’s match, the first US match of this World Cup, against England. So it’s not about that, nor about them. This is a story about Somerville.

In 1775, it wasn’t Somerville, but Charlestown. Somerville didn’t exist yet. It is a town built on a series of hills, slopes rising to view Boston abeam. Two and a quarter centuries later, I could still see perfectly into town from my porch or bedroom window. I could read the signals on the Old Hancock Building and see the floods bask Fenway Park. The first American flag ever flown brushed the wind at Prospect Hill, at a small fort that still remains.

I knew my neighborhood as East Somerville, but at the bottom of the hill there was an old-folks’ home called Cobble Hill. Back when the whole area was called that, when it was still Charlestown, when the first stars and stripes waved a half-mile up the road, instead of my building, their stood an emplacement of cannon, trained at the city, manned by colonial troops under the watchful eye of a man named George Washington. Those cannon fired at Boston. They chased the redcoats from the city. They chased them all the way to Yorktown. There are signs in New England that read “George Washington slept here.” I slept in a place that could have a sign reading: “George Washington fired here.”

Pretend the boat is a cannon and the river is the Charles.

When those cannon went off, chasing Gage and his men out of town, Somerville didn’t have an identity. It didn’t exist. It was a neighborhood in a town that itself is now a neighborhood in Boston. Of course, the nation which it helped bring about didn’t exist, itself being a colony of the greatest empire the world has ever seen. And just as the US has claimed an identity in the intervening years, so has Somerville. It doesn’t have the best reputation, but it is not without its merits, just like the country it helped birth. It’s a bit grimy, a bit seedy, a bit contrarian. At its best, it welcomes immigrants, gives them a place to start anew, and where longtime residents welcome them and embrace them. It loves its children, comes together when things go wrong and fosters a sense of belonging amongst all who live there. At its worst, it thinks too highly of itself, looks backward rather than forward, doesn’t see the stick in its own eye. Like I just said, it’s America.

At the hands of Italian De Rossi's Iron Elbow

And the US team is theirs. For a long time, the US (can we get this team a name already? Uncle Sam’s Army is a great name, but it’s for the supporters, not the guys who actually step on the field) didn’t have an identity. They scrapped and struggled. They sweat and bled. They were rash in the tackle and heavy in the boot. In 1950, they even beat the same hated English they face tomorrow. In 1994, the US hosted the tournament and advanced to knockouts. In 1998, they were one of the worst teams to make it. In 2002, with little attention focused on them, they made it to the quarters. In 2006, with hopes high despite a tough group, they crashed out in spectacular fashion.

They have come to success in the last four years. They are the lions of CONCACAF now, surpassing Mexico as the region’s dominant power. They are the only team to defeat Spain in the last three years and nearly knocked off Brazil in the same tournament last year. For years, Americans were known in Europe to provide steady if unspectacular keepers and nothing else. This year, Clint Dempsey played a large part in EPL club Fulham’s run to the Europa League final. Landon Donovan helped lead Everton’s resurgence in the same league, being sung off and begged to stay by the Toffee faithful.

Jose Francisco Torres chose to play for the US rather than Mexico, not because he couldn’t fit in El Tri’s squad, but because he wanted to win. Jozy Altidore is a child of Haitian immigrants. Jonathan Spector is from a wealthy suburb of Chicago. Dempsey is from East Texas; Donovan from San Bernardino County, groomed at an academy in Bradenton, Florida. This team is American. Every American story can be found in these 23 players.

They — We — have found our identity. It is not the samba of Brazil, though we have a player born in Brazil. It is not the long-ball, hard-tackling of Scotland, though we have a player born in Scotland. It is an identity as American as possible: Take what you have, see what it can do, and run it out like that. To quote disgraced American Donald Rumsfeld, “You go to war with the army you have, not the army you want.” We know what we have. We know what we want. This is a team used to taking the former and scraping like hell for the latter. The American Dream is becoming more and more a myth with every passing year, but on a field in Rustenberg, South Africa tomorrow afternoon, it might look something like a possibility. God knows in Somerville, the Brazilians, the Portuguese, the Italians, the Salvadorans, the Irish, the Haitians, the just-about-everyone, will be watching, and hoping, that this most American of crews — of stars, of workhorses, of weak links and specialists; of young, of old, of injured and untested; of scared, of proud, of determined and dedicated — can put a few past the occupying bastards that got chased out back before their home had a name.

Continue reading »

One of Us! One of Us!

So, for those of you who have been reading the group previews on the World Cup, I thought I’d set up a prediction challenge on Yahoo! First prize is a post for you to write on the topic of your choosing, or for one of us to write a post on a topic of your choosing.

Anyway, here are the relevant details:

Group ID: 26433

Password: thedudeabides

The system lets you edit your group stage picks until 5 minutes before kickoff of that particular match, so you only need to pick tomorrow’s matches now(ish). Sorry that you have to have a Yahoo! ID to play, but I don’t like to traffic in ESPN’s behemoth unless absolutely necessary.

Also, no Group G post today, as I was injured at work and can hardly think. US-England preview tomorrow afternoon, with drinks. Groups G and H, which have the tournament’s two favorites and don’t kick off for a while,will come next week. Happy Pickin’s.

Mea Copa: Group F, Where F Stands For Exactly What You Think It Does

Just as yesterday I wrote about teams that find supporters due to reasons outside of nationality, success or other rational sources, so there are teams that foment anger and rage outside their in-game performance. There are folks who will not root for Argentina, Germany, North Korea, the US, and many other countries because of their political or military histories. There are some folks who won’t root for them because of individuals on the team: Cristiano Ronaldo on Portugal is probably the current poster boy for this effect, and personally, it’s Australia and Tim Cahill. There are folks who hold a grudge against a nation who had ousted their own in a previous tournament, perhaps unfairly, and who refuse to let the slight go: English fans who won’t root for Argentina thanks to Maradona’s Hand of God; the Aussies who feel aggrieved by Italy’s phantom PK in 06; the Irish who plot against the hatred French in response to Henry’s handball pushing Les Bleus into the tournament at their expense. And then there are just the red-mist inducing teams that come from a place deep in one’s soul.

For me, that team is Italy. Oh, Azzurri how I yearn to even tolerate your players.  How much easier my family life would be if I didn’t have to bite my tongue every time I laid eyes on Fabio Cannavaro, if I didn’t have to choke down my own bile every time Genaro Gattuso (on whom my wife has had a persistent four-year crush) miss-times a tackle and plows into an actually talented player, if I didn’t have to dig my fingernails into my thigh every time an announcer praises their discipline and their cohesion.

Oh, I’ve tried to like them. It worked for about 12 minutes in Euro 2008. In the weeks leading up to my wedding, I needed to like Italy, as my about-to-be-in-laws were swarming the area while the group stages wound down. A victorious Italy would mean a triumphant family and joyous wedding. An Italy already bounced could mean a sour affair, and if they found out that I’d been willing them to be bounced, surely I’d never live to see my wedding night. I couldn’t hack it, couldn’t stomach it, couldn’t even pretend to put a smile on my face … until they crashed out and I could laugh riotously at their demise.

After the jump, Group F: Four Teams I don’t want to root for. Continue reading »

Mea Copa: Group E, Where E Stands for Every Team a Looker

There are certain teams in every sport that engage even the most casual observer. Whether through their energy, their story, their uniforms, their players (see: hotness thereof, often), they pull in the folks who just happen to be in the room. Think about the Cinderellas every year in March Madness. Think about the Rockies run to the World Series a couple years ago. Think about any team that met legitimate tragedy during their play and persevered, even triumphed, to reach an improbable height. Consider a team that has sat at the precipice of success for years, poised to grab the brass ring, but always failing (I’m thinking of the Bulls in the late ’80s, but there are many teams across all sports that fit this description). Think about casual fans gravitating toward teams with Tom Brady or Derek Jeter or Tony Romo. Now put all those together.

Ladies and gentlemen, I present you with Group E favorites: the Dutch. And, were that not enough, each of the other three teams also bring fantastic stories and out-sized hopes to South Africa with them. But we’ll start with the Dutch, perhaps the best footballing* nation never to win a World Cup.

After the jump: Group E, featuring the most compelling teams in the tournament, who you’ll pin your hopes to when the US goes out. Continue reading »

Mea Copa: Group D, Where D Stands for Death

I came late to soccer. I never played it, aside from whacking a ball around in friends’ yards, until I got to college, where it was more an excuse to get out and enjoy the fall than it was anything like an athletic pursuit. But because I didn’t grow up with it, I tend to analogize things for myself using the prism of baseball, which is the sport I did grow up with, and which still holds a place deep in me. Players and teams in soccer become baseball teams: Real Madrid is the Yankees. Barcelona is the Cardinals. Pele is Babe Ruth. Cristiano Ronaldo is Alex Rodriguez. Jose Mourinho is Ozzie Guillen. Even styles can be translated across the sport. Playing route 1-style, hoof it up soccer is the province of the big, beefy guys, like a line up full of guys swinging for the fences; catennacio, in which even the forwards have serious defensive responsibility, is a baseball team where everyone is a great fielder and change the game by turning impossible double plays; concentrating on fleet wingers and overlapping fullbacks bombing up the sidelines and playing crosses into the middle  is like nothing so much as those mid-80s Cardinals teams, who ran the bases like crazy but had power in the middle. It goes on.

I am beginning to see soccer on its own, a decade into my fandom, rather than always having to gain an understanding by switching to baseball. Following a sport like that is like going to babelfish and entering a phrase, translating it into a foreign language, and then translating it back. Sometimes you can still get the meaning, but more often than not, “it’ complete absurdity of s”.* Soccer can stand not as something I grasp only at moments or after having it explained, but as something I can predict. I can feel when a decent chance is coming, can yell at the screen when a player doesn’t recognize to run into the channel or play a diagonal pass into space. I’m not exactly Alf Ramsey, or even Eric Wynalda, when it comes to discussing the finer points, but I’m enjoying getting there.

After the jump: Group D

Continue reading »

Mea Copa – Group C: Days Late, Dollars Short

One of the simultaneously great and awful things about being a soccer fan in the US is that the games are on early Saturday morning. Matches from England and Germany have replaced Captain Nintendo and Saved by the Bell in my life. I wake up, make coffee and settle down in front of the TV to watch a game taking place in a different country, featuring players from all over the world (though rarely the US). I’ll sit there from 745 until — on some glorious Saturdays — 4 or 5, taking in not only matches from England and Germany, but Spain and Italy as well. Breakfast, lunch and a mid-afternoon snack are all eaten while men bound about a field, chasing after a ball. Most American sports fans talk about Sundays, with the three football games available to them being heaven. I generally watch two before my wife gets out of bed.

Of course, one can only have so many TV stations, so occasionally the match I’d like to watch isn’t available from the comfort of my home, or the match is of such import that it demands to be watched with fellow travelers. On these occasions, the dreaded morning bar run must be made. You might think that would be a glorious thing, to wake up early, go to a pub, have a giant Irish or Scottish breakfast and simply begin pouring pints down the throat. And it is. But care must be taken to avoid the all-day-drunk, the drunk that sits around no longer being enjoyable, but like a bad guest who refuses to leave and thus, does not allow any work to get done (aside: I am that guest.) And that doesn’t even take into account the fact that a weekend can be ruined by 930AM if your team manages to lose that early match, and not even the failures of all the teams surrounding it manage to lose, because then all you can think about is the wasted opportunity. God damn, I hate that. Which causes me to drink more, of course.

Even with the pounds of food in the belly, there’s something about having the first pint at 9 or 10 AM that signals the body that this day is going to be a long one. Preparations are made that allow the body to process what it assumes will be an all-day drinking spree, but sadly spreads out the alcohol over a period of something approaching 8 hours. Even something as light as a Stella Artois, which should only be drunk before noon, such is its uselessness as an actual alcoholic beverage, can find you dealing with a bit of haze until you notice the setting sun.

All this is why I don’t bother anymore. Oh, I still go to the games at a bar. I still order the huge breakfasts. I still shout and scream in rapture and despair. I still drink. I just don’t bother stopping those days. Those days are not for work. They are for enjoying the company of fellow fans, wearing out vocal cords, having arguments and making friends. There will be time for work tomorrow. Today is about the game.

Below the fold: Group C Continue reading »

Mea Copa – Group B

Yesterday, I wrote about the incomprehensible moments of success amidst the drudgery of failure that make up a game of soccer (or baseball, it’s very difficult for me to separate the two games, which is its own incomprehensible moment). And, indeed, those moments make for transcendent moments, when strangers will leap from their chairs and embrace a stranger, simply because they happen to also be standing.

Mea Copa

I have been told that some folks (which can only mean, like, 3 people I don’t live with) miss my postings. I have been remiss — blame poor educational services in US urban areas — and plan to make this up with more than quick hit videos. Therefore, beginning this very moment, and continuing every workday (various deities permitting) through next week, you’ll get a short post on one of the groups in the upcoming World Cup.*

I’ll try to talk about every team, but I’ll admit, I don’t know much about half these squads. If they don’t have a bunch of guys who play in England, Spain, Germany or (guh) Italy, I’m not going to have much to say. There are some dire outfits coming to South Africa and your teevee, and that’s both their uniforms (herein: kits) and their teams (herein: squads). Consider this my mea copa: because punning is the tits.

Some will win. Some will lose. I will get hilariously drunk through the knockout rounds because my summer vacation is perfectly (and unintentionally) co-ordinated with the schedule.

Today: Why the World Cup kicks ass/Group A Continue reading »

The Saddest Awesome Thing In Ever

I apologize for being out of pocket for the better part of a month, and as penance, I bring you the following:

Because those are real bears playing hockey, and when it’s not sad, it’s awesome.