Buenos Aires' Barrabravas

The English-language media grabs hold of Argentina's hooligan crisis, the story that dominated the sporting press during Eleven Devils' two-week visit to Buenos Aires and environs. The catalyst of the current uproar occurred during the very match my wife and I attended—see the photos below—at CA River Plate's massive, historic El Monumental stadium.

Our visit to the huge bowl in northern BA took place under relatively sanitized conditions. A specialist tour group (a company known as Tangol, for your touristic convenience) picked us up at our hotel, toted us to the stadium in a rattletrap van and escorted us to our seats. Our group included three Americans, an Arsenal fan from London and a couple of Aussies, and we plunked down in the upper-middle-class "platea" seats alongside a large group of Japanese tourists. All the same, the experience was completely different from attending a sporting event in the United States. A miniature army of over 1,000 cops swarmed the stadium, enforcing various crowd-control tactics and taking their trained attack dogs for walkies. The seating arrangements were improvisational, the concrete terraces and wooden benches austere, the concorses cramped. Though we encountered absolutely no problems, the narrow gates and tunnels opening into the stadium bowl put me in mind of a number of highly unpleasant stories of crowd congestion, crushing and trampling.

Such was the scene in our comparatively pricey, comfortable and sedate section—the part of the stadium dominated by neutral foreigners, seven-year-olds and granddads. (The latter demographic provided a very solid does of entertainment in the form of profanity-laced invective and recriminations against River's lackluster play; I now know a number of fascinating phrases in the local "Castellano" dialect.) Up in the second-deck "popular" sections, masses of humanity packed against nasty-looking, barnyard-esque "safety barriers"—mosh-style cauldrons hemmed in by barbed wire and cop battalions. These are the tribal stomping grounds of the barrabravas: the quasi-official, semi-illegal supporters' mafias generally implicated in futbol argentino's violence problem.

These scrums were, of course, the engines driving the ceaseless chants, songs, tifo displays and mass pogos that made the otherwise atrocious match between River Plate and suburban, non-descript Lanus worth the price of admission. And that's where the violence issue—in Argentina and, it would seem, Italy and elsewhere—begins to be less a cut-and-dried public-order issue and more a Borgesian labyrinth of politics and money.

The clubs maintain off-the-books links with barrabravas outfits—that's just an open secret. Money, tickets and jobs flow through those channels. It's a serious question, then, the issue of factional control and influence, particularly in a place where money, tickets and jobs are not exactly easy to come by. The fighting that erupted at the River v. Lanus match didn't pit home fans against away fans; rival groups of River supporters squared off. How would that happen if nothing tangible were at stake?

The complicity of the clubs is outrageous on one hand, but understandable on the other. Frankly, the quality of league footbal in Argentina is...mixed. I watched one match in person and at least bits and pieces of a dozen more. I saw some beautiful stuff and a lot of really bad stuff; I saw Boca Juniors play absolutely symphonic soccer in a 4-0 demolition of Banfield and then bumble around like idiots in a Copa Libertadores match against Bolivar. River has some excellent players—Nelson Enrique Rivas, a majestic and cool-headed Colombian defender, dominated the Lanus match—but didn't seem like anything special. Beyond the Big Two, who suck up most of the bling and media oxygen, clubs live hand-to-mouth off their committed supporters. The barrabravas complete the spectacle of football; indeed, provide about 70 percent of the entertainment value of a live match. They're the reason tourists pay premium prices to be herded, penned and inconvenienced to the extent that a two-hour match becomes an eight-hour experience. They provide the sport's soul and are simultaneously killing the game.

Solutions? Tricky. If you over-sanitize the "product," you end up with American sports: the cultural equivalent of touring Broadway shows, all pricey style with no social substance. Argentina cannot financially support a Premiership-style house cleaning based on massive TV revenues and high ticket costs. Punishing clubs wholesale—with multi-match stadium bans, for example—gives all the power to the malfactors and makes thousands of innocents pay for others' misdeeds.

At a bare minimum, however, clubs should be forced to sever their links with criminal elements or face criminal prosecution. Stadiums should be upgraded so no fans have to endure Animal Farm-style conditions. In other news, I should be made king and given god-like powers; the poor should be fed and the naked clothed. In the meantime, maybe River Plate can reschedule its home games at PGE Park—after what they're going through, dealing with the Timbers Army's occasional dirty words would be a proverbial garden stroll.

An Afternoon at El Monumental

Suffering a Western Hemispheric version of jet lag and still trying to realign my mind to the Global North (I drove my Subaru to an organic-foods market, for starters), I lack the fortitude to spiel about all things futbol argentino that I want to weigh in on after two weeks in the land of Union y Libertad. So here—without even going into the fact that, unbeknownst to me and my fellow tourists, mob violence at this very game would get CA River Plate banned from their own ground—are some Live-Action Colour Photos [patent pending] from this month's River Plate v. Lanus match. It was Round One of the Torneo Clausura, the second half of Argentina's quirky split-season championship, and the River faithful were up for it...well, in any case, they put on a much better show on the terraces than their team did on the pitch.


El Monumental


Inside the ground: Note the entrance to the club's volleyball practice facility on the left. According to the matchday program, River Plate's volleyball team had just won a big game against archrivals-in-everything Boca Juniors.


The field view from the midfield "platea" seats—the relatively posh district for tourists, families, little kids and old men who've probably seen more football than I could in nine lifetimes.


The away-support section, one hour before kick-off. Note the prudent use of barbed wire.


A little pre-match hugger-mugger.


River Plate's hardcore support.


Lanus' supporters in full voice. Hey, your team's from the middle of fuck-all suburbia and you know, deep down, that you haven't got a prayer against the big boys. So just relax and enjoy it.


Nil-nil in stoppage time? At home? Against Lanus?


Well, Lanus managed to fuck up a golden chance to escape with a point, anyway. Here one of their fellas explains where it all went wrong.

Como se dice "Utterly gash?"

There has been much speculation over the years about whether MLS teams might ever enter the Copa Libertadores. Based on the CL group-stage action I´ve seen so far during my visit to Argentina, I´d say the tournament should beg MLS to enter its top sides. Last night saw a Uruguayan club annihilate an Argentinian representative in a stadium that was 75 percent empty. Tonight, Boca Juniors and Bolivar played what may have been the single worst football game I´ve ever seen, a 0-0 draw in rainy La Paz occasionally spruced up by comic relief. An in-form Houston or DC could do just fine.

El Futbol de Buenos Aires : Two Very Different Views

River Plate's "curva," El Monumental.



Futsal players in Parque Las Heras, Palermo, Buenos Aires.

Buenos dias de Buenos Aires

Eleven Devils reports live from the Argentinian capital this week, where Yer Correspondent and the wife are taking in the sights, watching hyperbolic Copa Libertadores broadcasts and eagerly awaiting Sunday´s match between River Plate and Lanus at El Monumental. (The very nice girl at our hotel apologized profusely for not getting us Boca Juniors tickets, but they´re playing away to Racing this weekend.)

Meanwhile, I´m anxiously awaiting the result from last night´s crucial Rivals Cup tie between my Albina Going FC Unicorns and UrbanHonking Athletic. And, of course, savoring the fact that my main man Jimmy Conrad was the hero of USA´s palate-cleansing 2-0 wipe out of the Ancient Enemy. Forza Conrad!

A Crucial Top-of-the-Table Clash

Drama, drama, drama: my beloved Mighty Unicorns (more formally known as the Albina Going Football Club) sit second in Portland Futsal's Third Division, Conference Argentina. We're in a four-way jam at six points after three played, trailing Dudes FC by a single goal and leading Legion of Doom, likewise, by just one goal.

So tomorrow night's 20.20 fixture—Dudes FC v. Albina Going FC—looms large. Adding to the stakes, Dudes are also part of The Rivals Cup. The winning side will have either a slight advantage (in our case) or a massive advantage (if Dudes win) in the race to hoist the Golded Angel of Victory.

Friends, these are the games which make legends and shatter dreams. Join me in my prayers.

Skull Magnet

How does Marco Materazzi do it?

How's United Getting On?

No, not Man United, Newcastle United, DC United or any other marginally big United. With little shaking on the XIDevils front (aside from the interminable Portland Timbers hot-stove season, which has reached its annual "bitching about the shitty USL schedule" phase), it's time to check in on FC United of Manchester.

You may remember FC United: the DIY micro-club started by Manchester United supporters after American oligarch Malcolm Glazer bought the giants of Old Trafford. The Glazer deal, which saddled Man U with an enormous debt, was merely the last straw for a lot of old-school United supporters, who have watched their beloved side turn into a global commercial empire over the last two decades. Rising ticket prices, weird match times, a notoriously dead atmosphere at the ground—all inspired a group of Mancunians to take radical action. They formed their own team, jumped into the weird world of minor-division, regional football, and haven't looked back.

Last year, FC United flattened their rivals in the North West Counties Football League Division Two—which, if my calculations are correct, is ten levels down the pyramid from the Premiership. Duly promoted, the Red Rebels took off at a gallop in Division One this season. It was starting to look like FCUM (nice, huh?) would plow straight to the Football Conference (the lowest fully national division), or maybe even the League itself.

But you can't be a real club without some adversity, and FC have faced some harsh realities over the last two months. They were knocked out of the FA Vase, the national tournament for lower-division teams. Worse still, they've seen derby rivals Salford City overtake them atop the table. Can they get off the schneid and resume their cruise to glory? This week's fixture against Bacup Bourough (the club names in lower-division English football are fantastic) will go some ways towards providing the answer.

Meanwhile, check out two YouTube samples of what some of the FC United people like to call "punk football". First, a stunner from the center circle:



Then, a taste of the terrace atmosphere FCUM fans generate at the tiny stadiums where the club does its thing:

Now That's Entertainment!

Big, big weekend in the Big, Big Premierhood of Barclaycardistan. Liverpool, the Official Premierhood of Barclaycardistan Club of Eleven Devils, tonked those fractious Chelski blueboys with a couple quick goals. Arsenal provided the late dramatics of the season so far, as Henry zipped in his instantly famous winner at the "death," as they say. The Big Two, Dynamo Chelsea and Manchester Bay Buccanneers, suddenly look wobbly atop the world.

And yet you couldn't get more laughs for your hard-earned British Dinar (or...what's it called?) than Reading FC's zany 3-1 win over the mobile atrocity that is Sheffield United.

I have admitted that I am having an affair with Reading on the side, and this match give me every excuse. You have the first goalscorer brutally tackling his own team's fuzzy mascot in celebration. You have Steve "Headcracker" Hunt provoking two red cards and a goofy melee involving the coaching staffs AND THEN scoring a goal on a farcical imitation bicycle kick AND THEN celebrating by slide tackling the corner flag and nearly killing the linesman. You have at least 11 Sheffield United players who will think back on this game with mixed emotions when, in 20 years, they're drunkenly insisting to the crowd at their local that they did so play in the Premiership for a season.

It's all so jolly, I figured I had better steal some key footage off YouTube. Hands off MY content, though, you pirate scum. Everything here is copyrighted and I have some large, obscurely Slavic friends:

Fugees v. All Comers

Warren St. John has an an absolutely superb story in today's New York Times: the tale of a club composed of refugee kids in the Atlanta suburb of Clarkston. Some version of this story could probably be found in every major city in America, but its Southern locale gives it special resonance. The Fugees face everything from passive-aggressive harassment from pink-in-the-neck municipal officials to open racial taunting (and where is FIFA?). And yet from the sounds of it, they bring joy and invention to an otherwise mundane league of well-funded soccer-mom outfits.

I'm sure the team will be besieged with offers of help after this. The article's worth reading even if you're not philanthropically inclined.

Conrad Comes Alive

Okay, maybe the United States' national team is not the most formidable side in world football. But I defy you to find any other regular international as purely and totally sweet as Jimmy Conrad.

Is He High?

Well, is he?

Tennis Hooliganism Must Be Stopped

The diseased culture of thuggery surrounding this sport must be stamped out!

Triumph, Documented

Thanks to UrbanHonking's Mike Merrill, complete highlights of the Rivals Cup Inaugural Match are now available online. I particularly commend the opening seconds of the following clip, wherein I attempt to spew managerial cliches, to your attention:



Rivals Cup - Second Half on Vimeo

This Thursday night brings the first match of the Rivals Cup's on-going league format, as my trusty Unicorns face off against UrbanHonking Athletic yet again.

Enter the SuperLiga!

Okay, I guess they had to call it something. Major League Soccer and the Mexican First Division unveiled their long-awaited Champions League-style (or that's what they're calling it) joint competition today. In theory, at least, this eight-team tournament is intended to deterimine "the best club in North America." (I'm sure Costa Rican teams like Alajuelense and Saprissa are watching the mail for their 2008 invitations. And why isn't Joe Public included? WHY?)

Besides imposing a two-countries-plus-Toronto definition on "North America," the SuperLiga seems a few return legs short of a full tournament. To wit, the four teams in each of two preliminary groups will play each other only once, with no matches at all taking place in Mexico. (Even the all-Mexican fixtures will be played in US stadiums.) That's an implicit admission that fans in Mexico probably wouldn't exactly flatten the ticket booth to see, say, the Houston Dynamo. And it just doesn't strike me as particularly "Super." If you're going to launch a competition, launch it. So far, this venture has "exhibition season" written all over it.

Bang!

David Beckham signs for LA Galaxy, and for the first time in its history, Major League Soccer is genuine, top-of-the-fold (as we increasingly archaic journalists say) news. While the media pops its gourd over what Bexx brings to the table as a celebrity and glitz magnet, expect extreme teeth-gnashing in the American soccersphere: is splashing out $250M to an over-the-hill free-kick specialist worth it for a league built on the cheap? is Beckham more or less ridiculous and pitiable than Landon Donovan, his putative clubmate; what-oh-what does this say about The Game in America...?

The American soccer community (Anglophone division) is woefully dependent on English football culture as its model. (This blog is no exception). The British press loves nothing more than to excoriate Beckham (or anyone else who has tasted success but occasionally has an off week), so it's hardly surprising that a lot of fans over here don't really rate the man any more. His struggles at Real Madrid (which is, perceptive fans will note, Real Fucking Madrid) caused him to drop in just about everyone's estimation. So is this a coup or a fuck-up on a continental scale?

A few bottom-line truths from the Eleven Devils Expert Department:

—If you step back from the blather, hype and anti-hype, all D. Beckham has done in his career is: score (and create) tanker-loads of goals and win a bunch of trophies with the two biggest clubs in the world; play in three World Cups (the only Englishman to do so); and establish himself as one of the most famous practicioners of his art in the world. Only in England could someone with that CV end up a tabloid whipping-boy.

—If you don't think he's still capable of tearing MLS apart, you haven't watched the league.

—Provided he doesn't blow his ACL in his first season, he will be worth every penny to everyone involved. Adidas, MLS and the Galaxy will sell merchandise as fast as they can uncrate it. Venues across the league will sell out for his first few visits. If only one lookie-loo in 20 becomes an MLS season ticket holder, MLS will consider the investment wise.

—What do you bet that MLS Commissioner Don Garber received at least one call from a prospective expansion-club investor today?

—What do you bet MLS will schedule one of Beckham's first away games with the Galaxy in either Kansas City or Salt Lake, where the league is fighting uphill battles for publicly funded stadiums? (Sorry: stadia.)

Does hype have a lot to do with this signing? Yes. Does that make it a bad idea? Not necessarily.

La Victoria!

My futsal team begins its quest for Third Division (and Rivals Cup) glory on Thursday. And yes, we'll be keeping this beauty!

Good God

I mean, good God.

"When You Run Out on the Pitch, The Voices Stop"

Or so an Italian chap claims in this fascinating story about a competitive team composed of mentally ill people. The use of football as a treatment for depression and schizophreia seems quite promising. Though I must say it has never worked for me.

Case in point: Last night's Inaugural Match in the new Rivals Cup, a fierce contest between my own Albina Going FC and the robust UrbanHonking Athletic Club. As relayed below, the Albina Going fixtures office has been in protracted negotiations to arrange a friendly between the two sides for a long time. Now that both teams will feature in Portland Futsal's Third Division, it seemed natural to get this non-league match on the books. Leave it to the crafty geniuses at UrbanHonking to up the proverbial ante: team chairman Mike Merrill devised a new, unofficial cup competition to include our two sides and a third team. Last night's match, then, would determine the first cup-holders (a term that always gives me an obscure shiver, don't know about you).

After some multimedia trash-talk, both clubs were "well up for it," and turned out huge squads. We had a full five-man bench, while Athletic fielded nine and brought along a uniformed medic (!) and at least a half-dozen vocal supporters, most of whom toted signs calling for the destruction of The Mighty Unicorns. (They were nice enough, however, to make one nominally pro-Unicorns sign, which ended up in the hands of a very enthusiastic little girl. Whoever she is, she's now commander of the Unicorn Army.) With Portland Futsal owner Paul Lomanto manning the whistle, the match kicked off at about 7:25 and opened at breakneck pace.

You could see The Going's cup-tie jitters from the outset, as we repeatedly gave the ball away and conceded the first goal. However, we soon settled and managed to knock four past Athletic's portero. Unfortunately, we also gave away four, creating a Gordian knot of dramatic tension and a tied halftime scoreline.

In the second half, the Unicorns finally managed to shake off the bad voodoo of eight straight league losses: we scored five, conceded just once (despite some phenomenal pressure from UrbanHonking) and claimed the winged-angel trophy, which now sits securely on my own literal mantlepiece. Things got a bit heated at one point—but what can you expect when two proud clubs meet with hardware on the line?

During the post-match revels at the cozy (superheated, in fact) Brooklyn Park Pub, Lomanto mentioned the possibility of a Rivals Cup shrine on the walls of Portland Futsal itself. Stayed tuned for that one, football fans. In the meantime, it's likely that video highlights will appear on UrbanHonking very soon, so check 'em out. Well-played, Athletic.

* * *

NEWS UPDATE: You will all be shocked to learn that, in addition to installing a "democratic" government that can't even organize a proper hanging (even Montanans mastered that one early on), our canny plan to reinvent the Middle East starting in Baghdad has also screwed up Iraqi soccer. Not only will George Bush not have any city plazas in Baghdad named in his honor any time soon, but he'll also miss out on handing the Iraqi Cup to the winning club's captain. What's the point of an empire, then?

THE RIVALS CUP

Thoroughout the brief and stormy existence of my futsal side, Albina Going FC (aka "The Unicorns"), we've been shadowed by a dark presence: an outfit called UrbanHonking Athletic Club (apparently also known as "Pegasus"). In two seasons of futsal, the two sides have never mixed it up. Because, frankly, we've been playing in a higher division than them. But many were the challenges exchanged, the gauntlets chucked, etc. Now, after a Second Division existence well-stocked with moral victories, Albina Going joins UHAC in Portland Futsal's Third Division...but even more importantly, we join them in the Rivals Cup.

What is the Rivals Cup? What will be the tenor of this sinister-sounding competition? Check out this fine promotional video or the yo-mamas delivered here.

This Sunday night at 7 pm, these two already-storied sides meet at Portland Futsal in a much-anticipated non-league fixture: the Rivals Cup Inaugural Match. The winner of this one-off game will be first to hold the coveted trophy. Thereafter, league points in matches between The Going, Athletic and an unknown club called Dudes FC will determine who takes possession of this unprepossessing but prestigious piece of hardware.

This format promises to provide many a thrill for football fans as it parallels the official table of the Third Division's new "Conference Argentina." But should the Rivals Cup be contested for 100 years, no match will equal the drama, intensity and special-occasion zing of this first encounter. Sunday's match will even feature a celebrity referee, in the person of Portland Futsal owner Paul Lomanto. There are also rumors that a uniformed medic will be present...JUST IN CASE.

Can the Unicorns dust off their winning magic after eight consecutive league losses and relegation? Can Team Pegasus rise to the occasion against an opponent accustomed to facing the big boys? Will this be the most exciting Portland soccer event since Pele and the Cosmos won the Soccer Bowl at Civic Stadium? Or just since the last time the Minnesota Thunder played here? Would you like to join the Unicorn Army? FIND OUT SUNDAY!

'007: License to Thrill!

The tumultuous first calendar year of Eleven Devils' existence reached a quiet conclusion, as my nearest and dearest celebrated the traditional Hanging of the Dark Foreign Overlord. It's these kind of olde-time rituals that bind civilization together. I say it every year: it's going to be a Nicolae Ceauşescu Christmas!

The two Premiership teams who enjoy the coveted XID stamp of approval, Liverpool and Reading, marked the New Year with a combined nine unanswered goals. That is surely an omen: we will see a reinvigorated US national team; a surprise Liverpool domestic double; a gripping Liverpool/Barcelona Champions League tie that will go down in history; an unbeaten run for my Albina Going Unicorns in Portland Futsal Division Three; a US Open Cup for the Portland Timbers; a Scudetto for Palermo; peace on earth; goodwill towards men.

Meanwhile, all is more or less silent in Portland soccerland. Timbers signings are beginning to dribble in as our beloved local club begins its annual process of cobbling together a squad. Somehow they haven't announced any blockbusters, but I'm sure they just didn't want the news to get lost in the Hanging of the Dark Foreign Overlord shuffle. The Unicorns, fresh from a winless relegation from the Second Division, are geared up to win Portland Futsal's third tier. Yes! A pre-season friendly against Urban Honking Athletic is in the works, which makes us feel very professional.

Finally, a Guardian writer had the good sense to celebrate the Maxi Rodriguez wondergol, which was indeed one of the finest footballing moments of 2006. Dig:

A Festivus of Non-Nations

My old comrade Dan (aka "The Hassidic Harrier") chimed in this morning with the disappointing news that the Vatican City isn't likely to field a football team any time soon. So the collective childlike excitement we all felt at the prospect of seeing Ratzinger pacing the sidelines in a cloud of incense was for naught.

However, idle speculation over new and unfeasible national football teams is a fine holiday pastime; in fact, it can be highly educational. Who knew, for example, that there is a global federation of wanna-be national teams, featuring such heavyweights as Lapland, Northern Cyprus, Rijeka and the Romany? (And apparently, um, the Isle of Wight?) Or that notorious buccaneer "micronation" Sealand makes this worthy outfit's "provisional" members list? It seems the Laplanders are the "world champions" of this football demimonde...after beating Monaco 21-1.

Think of the awesome possibilities! Could we one day see a "full international" between Sealand and The United Shires of America? Or, here's a thought: I know some of my fellow Portland footballniks are into the whole bioregional separatist thing. When will we see Mighty Cascadia take to the pitch?

Barca Shoots Blanks // The God Squad

Watch this, then tell me if the Club World Cup is as meaningless as we are assured by a phalanx of Eurosnobic commentators every time it rolls around. Check out Ronaldhino's face after Internacional goes up 1-0 on a crackling counterattack. Check out Inter's wild celebration at the end. Hell, check out all the good-to-great-to-desperate football Barcelona played before—in classic cup-final fashion—going down to a club most of its supporters literally couldn't find on the map.

This tournament is, admittedly, sort of an orphan of the football calendar, and the successor to a trophy that Latin Americans always took way more seriously than Europeans did. (In one of the most pedantic sections of the otherwise brilliant Soccer in Sun and Shadow, Eduardo Galeano actually toted up the number of times Sudamericano clubs had won the Intercontinenal Cup.) But one of the coolest things about football is its (almost) perfectly logical global structure. Continental championships sit atop national leagues which sit atop lower divisions which sit atop regional and finally local leagues. It's fantastic (and I think that's why fans find closed-door schemes like MLS grating—they remove an integral element of the sport). It would seem to imply the need for a world championship of some sort. This is the one we've got. Well-played to Barcelona, congratulations to SC Internacional. Auckland City will kill 'em all next time.

***

As I piloted the Subaru home from the mob scene at the airport Post Office at midnight last night, the good old BBC World Service reported on the exciting possibility of a new entrant on the world football stage: Vatican City! For one, I cannot wait. In fact, I would like to see an Ecumenical World Cup. Think of the potential fixture list:

Vatican City v. Dalai Lama Select XI
Orthodox Patriarchate of Constantinople v. Global Islamic Caliphate
Saddleback Church v. The Episcopalians
Hinduism's Many Gods v. The Other Episcopalians...

Et cetera. In any case, in light of gay/Catholic/liberal/conservative/British/American journalist Andrew Sullivan's recent diagnosis of the Vatican's sub rosa cultural predilections, we can expect any XI fielded by the Holy See to sport some seriously fabu kits. Forza Ratzinger!

O Colorado!

Europeans don't seem to take the World Club Championship (or FIFA Club World Cup (tm), as it has been pretentiously rebranded) very seriously. I wonder why.

Barca? Buh-Bang!

So Liverpool lands Barca in the Champions League knock-outs, and everyone's acting like it's some big tragedy. Wait—isn't that why you want your club to nab a European spot? To duel the best and see the biggest clubs on your home turf? Or is that only okay in the final—until which time you hope for a steady diet of Lille, PSV and Porto?

Calendar's marked—this promises to be a fantastic tie. (Barcelona will win it, naturally.)

Can Team USA Discover the Americas?

The New York Sun may be one of the strangest newspapers in America, but soccer columnist Paul Gardner is worth reading for his sharp-elbowed, argumentative style. He sounds off today on the need to end the North Euro stranglehold on American soccer, dissing Sexy Jurgen in the process and boosting the (to my mind, weak) case of Jose Pekerman.

While I don't agree with Gardner's Pekermania (aaaaah....), you can't argue with the fact that US Soccer desperately needs to incorporate this country's Hispanic footballing scene(s) into its very essence. Not for the sake of PC ethno-pandering; not for marketing purposes. The Latin game is the future, in this hemisphere and beyond: just look at the proliferation of Latin-flavo(u)red training academies in the UK or the money-enabled annexation of South America's top-tier talent by the European leagues. On the grassroots level, you don't need a particularly vivid imagination to see that the stereotypical suburb-spendy club-high school-college soccer development axis is on the wane, or at least losing its monopoly. Even players from that hackneyed milieu are increasingly looking to early pro moves to Europe, where they're exposed to modern styles, tactics and talents that fuse Latin elements with traditional Euro grit.

So Gardner is right: whoever ends up managing Team USA through the 2010 cycle must be judged BOTH on results and his success in incorporating the various Hispanic futbol nations already very alive and well in this country into our national side. But let's take it further—when are we going to see players of East African and Eastern European extraction in the mix for national team spots? How will we make use of that ever-growing migration of Americans choosing to skip college and MLS for Europe? How will we, in short, leverage the incredible amount and variety of soccer played by Americans of all origins into a cohesive national team?

Judging by surnames alone, we have a demographically intriguing U-20 squad in the works. Let's hope it's the start of something.

But Will He Buy the Timbers?

It's not every day that we Portlanders awake to find Roman Abramovich gazing from the front page of our local paper. Seems he will soon add a substantial chunk of one of Oregon's larger companies to his portfolio. It will look great next to Michael Essien.

ADU OUT: Brilliant? Or Just Weird?

The biggest transfer (or as they say in this country, "trade") in Major League Soccer history just went down: Adu from DC United to Real Salt Lake, bundled with reserve (but seasoned) 'keeper Rimando, in exchange for a "major allocation" and various other parting gifts. ("Future considerations" is one of my favorite terms in sports-biz.)

Is this an ingenious Machiavellian move by United's Petr Nowak, or just another odd chapter in the dysfunctional relationship between sometime-wonderboy Adu and his hometown club? I don't know enough about the inscrutable player-acquisition rules in MLS, which in any case seem to consist of whatever Don Garber says they consist of on a given day, to know. But I would hazard a guess that this might be a more bizarre move on RSL's part than anything.

United will use the allocation slot (and suddenly untrodden vistas of salary-cap room) to snap up some young Latin American talent. The Royal Utahan Mounted Police will get a short-term blast of major-media publicity...which, hmm, just may or may not have been an incentive, given their politically fraught quest for a subsidized stadium on some blasted patch of Salt Lake exurbia. They'll get a bump to their gate, which is already quite respectable. And then—well, Man United may not buy Freddy come June, but someone will. Will RSL get a taste of the transfer fee, or does that all stay in New York? Or do potential EuroMillions fall into that "further considerations" category?

Sexy Jurgen, We Hardly Knew Ye

Let the speculation begin: did Klinsmann simply decide on a polite thanks-but-no-thanks so he can spend more quality fun'n'sun time at his California dacha; or did the United States Soccer Federation pull one of its characteristic almighty cock-ups? Either way, it seems my decision to buy tons of futures on crisp white button-ups was a poor one.

This is definitely the most disappointing domestic soccer news either since Ghana 2:1 USA or the naming of the Carolina Railhawks. What underqualified homegrown coach (y'know, someone who "knows the American system" or "understands the American player" or some such bullshit) or warmed-over Bora Milutinovich-alike will get the job now?

Egad!

Did it have to be Sunderland? Is there really a market for this sort of thing?

Sounds like these poor bastards are about to star in an intimate scene of another sort, protagonist Roy Keane. Makes you feel for them. Almost. New rule: only Premiership players are allowed to make decadent sex tapes. We don't want Gillingham getting into the act, do we?

LIVE BLOG!!! INEVITABLE DEGENERATION OF THE MATCH DEPARTMENT

This thing is falling apart, though Werder really should have put at least one away. On the upside, Torsten Frings got a yellow. Oooooh, and at 81, the Werder keeper slaughters Ludovic at the top of the area in a vain effort to inject some life into proceedings. Meanwhile, the bartender is handing out little tastes of Stella Artois to skeptical blue-collar patrons...it's all kicking off...

LIVE BLOG BREAKING NEWS SUBSECTION!!!

Fox is reporting that Sexy Jurgen (bowing to the inevitable) has signed to managed the White Buffalo...but Tommy Smyth just energetically "rubbished" the news. Which means it must be true! Let's have another round, and toast the 2010 World Cup!

LIVE BLOG!!!: BARCA V. WERDER!

Well, let's not get carried away with ourselves. But it is true that the Eleven Devils braintrust (me) has repaired to The Thirsty Lion, in the pulsating epicenter (?) of Portland, to watch Barcelona lay waste to a startlingly indifferent Werder Bremen. Thanks to a mid-day pint of Guinness, a hulking bowl of beef stew and the fact that sleazy Torsten Frings is going out of the Champions League, all is merry and bright.

At minute 44, Barcelona leads 2-0 and is waltzing all over the vast Nou Camp, with Werder's players acting in the role of obstacle cones. Barca should have at least four by my count, including a tricky little run by the Icelandic Samba Boy that ended with a knock to the woodwork.

There—the half-time whistle has just gone, as the British would say. If the poky wi-fi and my own sobriety permits, we could have another gripping update. I can say that the two Panamanian lads at the bar look very happy. Hasn't anyone explained the whole Catalan separatist thing?

And Then There's the West Ham Connection...

Beyond Arsenal's sketchy-but-intriguing possible link to the Litvinenko nuke-assassination case, there's the better-documented West Ham angle. Boris Berezovsky, a member of that fun-loving post-Soviet class generically known as "shady oligarchs," was allegedly/apparently/probably-in-the-eyes-of-all-but-his-libel-lawyers up to his neck in the Hammers' mysterious (and, in footballing terms, subsequently unsuccessful) deadline-day scoop of Mascherano and Tevez.

Berezovsky, exiled to Britain thanks to his falling out with the Putin, um, administration, also seems to have turned up on the list of possible rub-out targets discussed by Litvinenko and his "Italian contact" at the Chelsea [ACTUALLY, PICCADILLY...see the comments] sushi bar...

Paging John Le Carre—football threatens to make you obsolete, old son.

The Arsenal Stadium Mystery

Murderous, strange, twisted international intrigue doesn't come any hotter than the on-going saga of ex-KGB officer-turned-modern-dissident Alexander Litvinenko. Now, a story that already had it all—radioactive sushi, shadowy Italian terrorism "experts," possible rogue Russian agents, Vladimir Putin—gains the all-important football angle.

Arsenal denies MI-5 (or -6, or Scotland Yard, or whatever romance-laden arm of the British State is handling the affair) is snooping around Emirates looking for what they called "clews" in 19th Century detective novels. Which presumably means it's absolutely true. This is getting totally awesome.

Pure Comedy Gold

If you haven't had your life-giving laugh of the day, get thee to this unintentionally (?) hilarious Guardian Sport Blog post, the latest in an unofficial series of silly pieces about "The MLS" to appear in that otherwise excellent forum. I don't know what's more annoying: the fact that the Grauniad says any comment I leave on their blog comes from "Beaverton"; or the fact that their editors decide to hit the pub before sending through any piece on football in the States.

Of course, this is exactly the cue for Brits to start huffing about how "Yanks can't understand irony." Enjoy!

You Must Be Kidding

I know. It's blogospheric cheating. But it's just too good to resist.

Adu—Oh No He Did-uhnt!

It's a beautiful thing when adults come together with a minor child's best interests at heart. The grown-ups who run DC United are reportedly scrambling to warn sometime-wunderkind Freddy Adu off a move to Manchester United. There's ominous talk of six-four "goons" at Watford (presumably not a reference to Adu's future national team comrade Jay DeMerit, who stands only 5'11") and the threatening suggestion that ManUtd occasionally plays games in the rain...Zooks!

The United (our United) brass apparently urge a move to the Dutch league for their young apprentice. As it happens, this more or less accords with the official XIDevils fatwa on the subject—I can't think of a more potent recipe for disaster than an Adu move to one of England's Big Two. At Chelski or Man U, Frederico will sit on the bench; hell, he'll probably sit on the bench for the reserve team. He'll pout; he'll whinge; he'll get in a nightclub brawl with Craig Bellamy or some damn thing. The kid needs to go somewhere where he'll play in the First XI all the time (thus to accustom himself to those towering goons).

At the same time, you can almost hear the wails of anguish in the MLS financial department, where they've probably already built a $10M Old Trafford transfer into next year's budget for halftime entertainment at the MLS All-Star Game. They'll just have to ratchet down their expectations...a bushel of organic potatoes from Rapid Bucharest, anyone?

Eleven Devils...Wake! Arise!

Anyone who thinks blogging is the journaliterary world's softest option has never tried to care for and feed one a regular basis. XIDevils' teens of readers will no doubt fear that the soccer world's least-urgent blog has breathed its last. Never! I say, never!

But still...it's been pretty quiet on the football front in and around our heavily fortified headquarters. I blame Santa Claus. For the most part, my truck with footballing culture has been limited to a couple brave-but-failed efforts by my own Albina Going FC, which has all but reserved a spot in Portland Futsal's Third Division after the New Year. I can heartily recommend the ultra-awesome Jake Arnott's novel "He Kills Coppers," which begins with the 1966 World Cup and takes its title from a bad-old-days hooligan terrace chant.

But what else? I've done a woeful job following Liverpool, a woeful job keeping this tiny little flame on the soccerblogosphere's far frontier burning. Stay tuned, faithful dozens—I will do better.

Dire Does Dallas

It never fails. Everytime I con a non-football-obsessed pal into watching a match, the match turns out to suck. I should have known better than to invite an Outsider over for an MLS Cup Final involving the New England Revolution—that kind of event bears a big, red ACOLYTES ONLY stamp, the sort of grim proclivity to be indulged furtively, on the sly. Endure it; get it over with; get back to braying about "the Beautiful Game" and "the rise of American soccer" and Adu's prospective Man U transfer...

Alas, no. I talked my comrade Taylor into skipping most of his beloved Seattle Seahawks' crucial divisional clash with the Saint Louis Rams in favor of Sunday's New England/Houston Final. He's an open-minded lad—follows the World Cup, that sort of thing—but he is prone to grumbling about "every game ending zero-zero." Well, I said—no guarantees, but this match features some of the hottest offensive firepower in MLS. Goals should be flying in!

Talk about the triumph of blind hope over bitter experience. I respect the Revolution, but Steve Nicol has developed a side whose ability to suck every last ounce of joy out of a match is exceeded only by its propensity to choke in league Finals. Sadly, the Revs didn't disappoint, serving up a virtual historic re-enactment of their two brain-killing 0-1 AET losses to the Galaxy.

Meanwhile, the best things one could say about the Houston Dynamo (or "the Houston Dynamos," as the ever-reliable Grauniad styled them) were: 1) Their support travelled in force; 2) They coped with New England's smothering play; and 3) Their victory shattered a historical barrier. As they cavorted around after winning the shoot-out, Taylor remarked, "At last. For the first time in American sports, a team wearing flourescent orange has won a championship."

The thought of how excellent a tango between Houston and DC United (or "The Bottlers," as they are traditionally known) could have been haunted the whole affair. But, okay—that was that, and the gone-in-60-seconds exchange of goals in extra time was pretty cool. My young apprentice did, at one point, note that "it would sweet if the Timbers were in MLS," which I took to be an overall endorsement of the pursuit.

ESCAPE TO VICTORY!

Oh, not on the futsal pitch. My beloved Unicorns of Albina Going FC took a good old-fashioned country beatdown at the hands of Juventus on Tuesday night. Apparently life in Portland Futsal's completely revamped Second Division is going to be a wild ride—the match before ours just about devolved into a full-scale handbags-at-ten-paces ruck, and then Juve used us for target practice.

Luckily, the result I cared about even more went the right way.

Eleven Devils don't do much politickin'—except to slag off Chelsea, and even that's mostly just to get Dr. Gogol to leave a comment—nor do we (and by that, I mean "I") try to sculpt a particular demographic niche. And I guess on some level I'm supposed to be journalistically apolitical, though that ethic is looking a bit obsolete. Lacking any other venue to say so, I'm compelled to note that Election '06 was something like my own private World Cup victory. The national results pleased my pinko heart, naturally, and judging by the outright jubiliation I encountered in the streets of Portland yesterday, I was not alone. But more to the point, my people—my tribe, my Sacred Homeland—came through.

The Montana Democrats! At various times in the recent past I've suspected that my immediate blood relations might be the last survivors of the breed. But no. I got significant portions of my *national* electoral news from the websites of the Billings Gazette and my hometown Missoulian on Tuesday night—heady times indeed. And every time I see Senator Jon Tester's goofy mug, I'm at the verge of both laughter and tears. My brother is busily hatching opportunistic schemes to market "Schweitzer/Obama '08" T-shirts. It's morning in America!

Okay, enough of that. Back to bipartisanship: making fun of Manchester United.

*

After the League Cup loss to a team called—one of those delicious "only in England" thangs—The Shrimpers, Alex Ferguson is understandably eager to strengthen his youth and reserve teams. So it looks like Green Card wunderkind F. Adu is heading for Old Trafford...or maybe not...or maybe so. As nearly as I can read the Google News tea-leaves, the rumor is trending true, though whether United's motives are entirely pure is—and you will be shocked to hear this—in question.

Will he/won't he? Well, young master Frederico both deserves and needs a Euro move at his earliest opp.; what's he going to do with another year in MLS—wait anxiously for DC United to bottle it in the playoffs yet again? Despite skepticism in many quarters, I believe Adu is a legit talent. And of all the clubs he might decamp to, I can think of only one (just guess) that would constitute a dumber move than United. I can see the value of a spell in England, where Adu will be murdered by the press, brutalized by defenders, mocked by supporters, lorded over by some Dickensian manager and forced to up his pace considerably. I can't see any sense in him riding the bench for one of the Superclubs at this stage. The kid needs a full-tilt football education, and that's only going to come with someone's first team.

Hey, speaking of Southend...

*

From XIDevils' bustling Department of Omissions: Check out the excellent, Portland-based multinational multiblog, The Offside, descendant of the popular WorldCupBlog. Thank me later!

A Burnt Offering on the Altar of the Unicorn

After a langourous two-week off-season, Albina Going FC returns to action at Portland Futsal tonight. Our opponent in the much-overhauled Second Division? Mighty Juventus. If they bear any resemblance to the "Juventus" side that we played last season, the Unicorns better sharpen their their horns and placate the football gods with whatever dark sacrifice They demand.

Why is Football the Greatest Sport?

Because of stuff like this.

Rudd Hits Brace for United, Giggs Draws Caution in Tense Red/Blue Derby Clash!

A late winner for the visitors; seven players booked with one sent off for the home side; the Blue half of Manchester left mulling over a lost opportunity to put one over on their Red rivals—sounds like it was a true classic.

The Final Countdown

The MLS Conference Finals are in the books. Some now quaff the sweet, sweet elixir of well-deserved triumph; others are left to sup on bile and bitterness. So much for DC United, and the sassy, stylish football they were playing when I saw them stand Real Madrid to a draw this summer. Nowak's men were a composed, inventive and ruthless side back then, but they came apart like a Soviet satellite in the season's final months. Even though they picked the league into tiny little crumbs for most of this campaign, not even the most diehard single-table, no-playoffs purists could convince me United deserve to be champions.

Houston, on the other hand, seems to be gelling at just the right moment, authoritatively stamping its mark on these playoffs while everyone else is just white-knuckling through. All credit, though, to the New England Revolution—a gritty bunch, strangers even to the extremely limited glamour the more fashionable MLS clubs attain, that just about always manages to will itself into the championship mix.

Deuce Dempsey didn't make the Revs' squad for the Conference Final, but something tells me the Nagadotches ruffneck will use every trick of homeopathy, positive thinking and Ibuprofen at his disposal to get on the field in Dallas. With New England's Dempsey (undoubtedly) and Joseph (possibly) and Houston's Dwayne De Rosario (maybe) playing their last MLS game, the Cup Final ought to be pretty hot stuff.

Paradox Alert

Can't stand Chelsea. Can't get enough John Terry.

Zach's Wide World of Football

"It's a narrow, cloistered existence that I'm not proud of."

So sayeth Bill Parcells, itinerant NFL genius, in the latest of Michael Lewis' excellent articles on gridiron for the New York Times magazines. The Tuna was talking about his own (as Lewis makes plain, dreary, obsessional and unpleasant) life as a 24-hour pointy-ball nutcase. But he could just as well have been talking about XIDevils' weekend, sardine-packed with that other form of football. Who needs reality—which is becoming more and more overrated all the time—when you have soccer?

***

Saturday morning, desperately hungover after a night mis-spent in the company of a couple hundred drunken Russians (another story; nay, another blog entirely), I crawled over to my futsal teammate Liverpool Mike's lair to watch the Reds' tilt with Aston Villa. Okay—now *this* was the side I signed on to with every ounce of fairweather, dilettantish enthusiasm in my corpuscles at season's dawn. Liverpool zipped the ball through midfield with lusty confidence, and a couple of the three tallies conjured by Li'l Stevie's gang in a bury-the-needle first half glowed with that world-class lustre.

Peter Crouch, the Elongated Man, continues to conjure tricks both amazing and improbable with his biologically unfortunate body; Alonso and Hyppia and the whole bunch bore little resemblance to the side that's stumbled through about half its games so far this season. Not a moment too soon, either, as it will already take a minor collapse on the part of the Big Two for Liverpool to punch its way into the championship tussle. Still, if they can play football this fluid and lovely and committed—the tackles were flying around in ways that had the old-school Brit commentators reminiscing fondly and stereotypically about when they themselves used to break legs at Nottingham Forest ("Twice Champions of Europe"[tm]) back in the early '70s—against one of the Premiership's tougher sides-on-the-rise, it can only portend good things.

***

Shortly after the final whistle blew on the DVR'ed Liverpool match, we passed on Watford (call us crazy) and dialled up the Milan derby. Zooks! I've already waxed on this nervy, plot-laden haymaker exchange and the strange, definition-eluding magnetism of Serie A in a comment here. Suffice it to say that my Life Goals list now prominently features "get wasted at a strip club with Marco Materazzi." No worries—I know a good lawyer.

***

Sunday morning proved a lot less stirring, because the XIDevils editorial staff itself was in action at Beaverton's Soccerplex. I put in a pretty disheveled, out-of-it and ineffective performance for The Muckrakers, the all-journalists indoor team I've played with off-and-on for the last few months. It was one of those games one plays with a head wrapped in invisible gauze and a stomach increasingly determined to issue a refund on one's eggs and toast. Hey, man—that's why they call it The Beautiful Game! Ugh. I hold myself individually responsible for only a few of the flurry of goals our opponents knocked in.

***

I would have liked to see DC United's decisive second-leg playoff against the New York Red Bulls, if only because anytime 20,000-plus show up at RFK, it actually looks, sounds and feels like a proper football match. But, alas, there's more to life than soccer. Or at least I am obligated to pretend that's the case.

***

Only football could make me drive to Beaverton not once but twice in one day. The frigid hour of 8 pm last night found me on the austere Soviet-style concrete terraces at the Tualatin Hills Recreation Center (ah—a legendary ground!), soaking in the Oregon Premier Soccer League match between Westside Metros and FC Portland. As the faux-Eastern European goon in those new credit-card commercials bellows, it was VERY, VERY, VERY REWARDING. The local leagues are tough for even the most insane inmate of the Portland Soccer Asylum to follow—their websites are crap, the schedules are odd and the games are stashed in the most remote corners of the metro area. If you can make it out for an OPSL match, though, do. This night saw stalwart Portland Timbers defender Scot Thompson—a player linked to both Premiership and Championship clubs in recent seasons—in action for Westside. What other sport can you see top-notch pros play for free against local bhoys on a Sunday night? And freeze yourself to death in the bargain?

From the Propaganda Ministry

My benevolent sometimes-bosses at the Associated Press indulged my on-going agit-prop efforts on behalf of the game: a quick/dirty Cliff's Notes to the MLS playoffs. I see only a couple of glaringly obvious mistakes. A caption identifies the great DwaDeRo as a "San Jose" player (not my bad). And the longish passage on the New York/DC United rivalry calls the match-up the "closest thing MLS has to a Euro-style 'derby'." Uh huh—Galaxy and Chivas USA fans would be surprised to learn that. (Definitely my bad.)

Still, check it out if you want.

C'mon Hare on the Hill! C'mon Luccombe Garage! C'mon Cotham Old Boys!

Amazing, the footballing riches one discovers with a few idle Wikipedia clicks. This week's League Cup action in England—in which a few minnows managed upsets, and mighty Crewe Alexandra pushed Manchester United into extra time—led me to seek out an exhaustive inventory of England's football Pyramid. Naturally, I scrolled to the very bottom, there to find...

The Bristol Downs League. The absolute lowest echelons of competitive football in England, with its lower divisions having the bottom-most tiers of the Pyramid all to themselves. The Downs League apparently plays all its matches at a local recrational ground, and is home to a collection of incredibly suh-weet sounding clubs. Sneyd Park! Retainers FC! Bristol Dynamos! Cliftons St Vincents! Sporting Greyhound, which may just possibly be the greatest football club name ever...

The best thing about this obviously totally awesome league is that the Bristol BBC site (click that link up there) devotes extensive coverage to its weekend fixtures. Colo(u)r pictures, full team profiles, hilarious and touching player blogs—in short, the kind of respect and bandwidth that we mere gentlemen-sportsmen rarely receive but so, oh so richly deserve. Were the Moscow stock market to crash; were Interpol to arrest half the chairmen in the Premiership; were the Italians to discover that every single Serie A match in the last 50 years was fixed—football would be in good hands with this bunch. They know what the game is really all about.

Now, wait 'til my teammates on Albina Going FC hear the details of my exciting Bristol relocation plan. I always did like Portishead.

Down the Valley

In the course of some semi-random, work-related (I swear to Almighty God, aka Pele, or Diego Maradona if you're trying to wind up an Englishman) research, I stumbled on this opinionated blog on soccer in Corvallis, Oregon. Some fairly interesting tidbits can be gleaned amongst all the bitching about Oregon State's soccer program, particularly the entry about the 30-year-old Willamette Valley Soccer League. Who knew?

Siberian Oil v Unicef All-Boys // It's a Unicorns Universe! // Who Will Fix MLS? (Hint: Me)

Yes, there was "work" to be done. And yes, Liverpool played a very good bottle of French wine in the Champions League. But Chelsea v. Barcelona? That's a cultural event of global significance (sort of like if the 1965 Beatles and 1967 Rolling Stones could play a show together—scientists, can I get a wot-wot?). So no doubt as to where the entire XIDevils editorial staff was bound at 11.30 PST today: bar-side!

I met two-thirds of A Pretty Move along the rail at the Thirsty Lion in the heart of Portland's historic Skidmore Fountain district, conveniently located near a couple puking tramps. It felt good to be back in the glare of huge, flat-screen TVs and in the company of mid-day drinkers again, so long after the World Cup.

Our hearts were with Barcelona—well, duh—and we were joined by a polite lone Chelsea fan, a suited-up young stockbroker-type with a shiny tie who could probably buy and sell me and my soccer-blog empire. (I swear I am not making that up. Apt, eh?) Sadly, the Londoners decoded the Catalans with ease. From the first minutes, when Barca was forced to play chase like a pack of toy dogs, to the last, ditto, Chelsea was better as a side and man-for-man. Ronaldhino has officially been solved—he was the definition of useless today: bobbing, weaving, shucking and jiving to zero avail against The Cannibal's dead-simple but ruthlessly effective jabs. Messi seemed a little out of his depth on the other side, though he did provide the rare glimmer of a chance.

Deprived of wings, Barca had to try to pummel through the center, where they invariably met a wall of pricey Russian-grain-fed beef. Chelsea didn't have much nuance; the Special One devised a clever plan consisting of A) tackle the ball away and B) run like hell at the goal. After Drogba incinerated the Barca net at 47', they didn't need any fancy tricks. The Blues contentedly watched Barca bollix up one increasingly misbegotten attempt at beautiful-game silkiness after another, though just for sport they occasionally gave Shevchenko a run forward so he could fall down, stand up and make that face at the referee.

1-0. A deflating experience all 'round, like a four-game Yankees sweep in the series. The group-stage format gives Barca a chance to right the ship, but they just didn't have much today at all.

***

Albina Going FC, on the other hand, transformed into the very picture of free-flowing, gun-slinging Total Futsal last night, putting 16—this is not a typographical error—past some pretty quality opposition in our Second Division match. Weirdly enough, the bulk of our scoring came after I stopped playing the field and went in goal. (?) I did okay back there, though I did suffer the indignity of deflecting a corner kick into my own net.

But that's all the proverbial sub-pontine water. After an extremely rocky start, the Unicorns have now won two "on the trot" (as they say, hee hee). If we win our last game of the season (and, basically, if every other team figures out a way to lose) we could go as high as third in the nine-team league. Forza Albina! Allez les Unicorns!

***

The Major League Soccer play-offs are upon us. And if you don't exactly feel the earthquake of excitement (sorry for the Proustian pang of regret there, San Jose fans), you are not alone. The American top tier's championship format—eight teams, home-and-away first legs and then knock-out play—manages the neat trick of making both the regular season and post season seem irrelevant. As this perceptive and fair-minded article points out, no one really likes it. And yet the notion of settling the title with some kind of tournament seems here to stay.

And in all fairness, the play-offs have produced the only truly memorable moments in MLS, ever. DC United's golden-goal victory in the first-ever Final, played in an apocalyptic downpour outside Boston, remains my favorite league game. San Jose's fluid demolition of Chicago in a six-goal clash a few years back was pretty sweet, too. (Last year's Final, a dire 1-0 AET win by the LA Galaxy, provides a counter-example of what you risk when you stake a whole season on a single game.) So what to do?

As usual, Eleven Devils has the solution. Eight teams make the playoffs—whether through regional conferences or a single table, doesn't matter. Those eight teams are seeded into two groups based on their regular season performance. This year, using two conferences, the groups would be:

EAST
#1 DC
#2 New England
#3 Chicago
#4 New York

WEST
#1 FC Dallas
#2 Houston
#3 Chivas USA
#4 Colorado

Every team plays every other team in its group in a three-round series. Three points for a win, a point for a draw, just like always. The top-seeded team in each group plays *every* game at home; #2 plays two home games and away vs. #1; #3 hosts only its game against #4; the poor bottom seed must play every game away. Then, you can either have a one-game semi between the top two, or send the top-of-group sides directly to a Final. Either way, you put a huge premium on regular-season performance, yet maintain the excitement of the play-offs.

Don Garber, you fucking owe me, son.

It's a Man's Life

In what sounds like one of the more bizarre games in history—well, scratch that, considering the competition, but a very, very odd game nonetheless—Chelsea saw not one, but two goalkeepers taken to the casaulty ward with nasty head injuries during its away date with mighty Reading. Ultra-stud defender John Terry finished the match between the sticks.

This being the fabulous 21st Century, YouTube already has all the grisly footage: this clip shows Terry taking over the gloves and the improvised MASH unit treating the Blues' fallen second-choice portero. Aiyiyi.

Bring Us The Outlaw Giorgio Chinaglia—Dead or Alive!

Can one person both score a championship-winning goal at Portland's Civic Stadium AND be an international fugitive, all in the same lifetime? Apparently, the answer is yes.

The Unicorns Ride High & Proud Across the Golden Plain

Big week in football. England lost. Scotland won, then lost. Wales and Ireland are just about to dissolve into nameless atoms. In fact, Northern Ireland—yes, we are all experiencing the same strange reality—is by far the healthiest of the five British Isles teams in Euro 2008 qualifying. (Why doesn't the Isle of Man have a team? I saw that the Channel Islands might be stepping up soon, and Gibraltar just got provisional UEFA status, so where is the Isle of Man? Some think it's unfair for the United Kingdom to be represented by four—or five or six or however many—national sides. But on present evidence, I'd say they need all the help they can get.)

But we all know that the really big news—THE REALLY, REALLY, REALLY BIG NEWS—is this: Albina Going FC won a game. For the first time ever. In a gripping Second Division encounter at Portland Futsal, my Mighty Unicorns held on for a white-knuckle victory over Real Sur. In a game "rich with incident," as they say, highlights included yet another half-court missle from Jan (The Croydon German) and my concession of four (4) goals in a single half as 'keeper. By my calculations, that's a goal every six minutes or so; you can't accuse me of failing to do my part to make football more attractive to American fans.

My chief fear right now is that the four Going players who could technically play for England might all be called up. (Of course, I'd be willing to consider the manager's post...) At the moment, however, we're content to bask in victory's tawny glow.

Soccer Bowl '77!

LIVE FROM HISTORIC CIVIC STADIUM IN PORTLAND, OREGON, IT'S SOCCER BOWL '77. COSMOS V. SOUNDERS!!!

Lost on Earth

Eleven Devils would probably cease to exist if it weren't for Du Nord (see the blogroll), a fanatically all-encompassing, near-daily aggregator of American soccer news. I don't know how (or when) he does it, but The Wolf's compendium of all the football news that fits is an invaluable resource.

Today, for example, Du Nord tabs two pieces that between them say a lot about both the potential of American soccer and the baffling oversights and shortcomings that seem to hold it back. In a recent interview, former US National Team coach/newly minted New York Red Bulls capo Bruce Arena scoffed at the notion that there are any significant veins of hidden talent out in the vast, tangled, often-unexplored universe of the American game. Specifically, he belittled a reporter's suggestion that there might be unscouted pro-calibre talent lurking in urban ethnic leagues, for example. (Arena has also been heard to say that he thinks MLS was actually *better* back in the '90s, when he managed DC United; is he on something?) Apparently, the all-seeing eye of Major League Soccer's scouting apparatus and the US national team development program are sufficient to identify all the quality players in the United States.

Meanwhile, US Soccer insists it is determined to win over Latinos and tap those communities' talent resources. Well, okay. By my count, our World Cup squad included a total of *one* Mexican-American player, Carlos Bocanegra. The remainder of the side's extremely limited "Latin flavor" came courtesy of Reyna and Mastroeni, both of Argentinian extraction.

Today, via Du Nord, two very interesting articles. First, always-excellent Sports Illustrated soccer specialist Grant Wahl raids the journalistic gold mine that is Watford FC defender Jay DeMerit. Here's a guy who graduates from college and gets completely dissed by MLS and the United Soccer Leagues. He's never been called up for the national team at any level. He ends up playing for free for the Chicago Fire reserve team, then literally tending bar. He goes over to Europe on his own dime, paints houses for spare change and plays in London pub leagues.

Now where is he? The friggin' Premiership. He's already scored one legendary goal and is acquitting himself nicely in Watford's long-shot bid to survive in the top flight; it would seem that if the Hornets get relegated, DeMerit will swiftly move to a bigger club. He's *still* never been capped by the USA—in fact, it's starting to seem like we better get on that, before Denmark beats us to it.

So, wait a minute. We're supposed to believe that, even though MLS proved utterly oblivious to a white middle-class dude playing NCAA Division I soccer IN A CITY WITH A MAJOR LEAGUE SOCCER FRANCHISE, it has every ethnic league in the country wired? DeMerit may be the most high-profile Yank to back-pack his way into a European contract, but there are many other guys trying the same thing. It beats waiting around for an obviously anemic system to catch up to you.

Meanwhile, Soccer America weighs in with a brief look at a few Mexican-American players currently with MFL first-division clubs. None of these guys is exactly ripping it up south of the border, and it does seem like a couple have been involved with US Soccer developmental programs. But if they're good enough to play down there, why aren't any of them in our national team picture? Any time a 17-year-old scores in MLS, he's immediately hailed as a World Cup prospect. These kids—all of whom are Americans—seem like they're slipping through the net.

Okay, end of rant. Hey—what else are blogs for? Time to limber up for Albina Going's crucial futsal clash with Real Sur, 9 pm tonight. SEE YOU THERE, SOCCER FANS!

The Feast of the Goats

Say what you will about the millimeter-deep tradition, crazy competitive format and overall lack of identity in Major League Soccer—at least it's not predictable. I'm reasonably certain I could name the next 10 Premiership winners, in order, plus runners-up, with at least 50 percent accuracy (pending future transactions on the Moscow stock exchange, professional assassinations, etc.). Meanwhile, nobody has any idea who will boss the show in MLS next year, or even next week.

The "defending champion" Los Angeles Galaxy? Out—done before the league's brutally short play-off tournament even begins. Cross-corridor rival Chivas USA? Just over a year ago, Los Goats Yanquis looked like a bad marketing ploy in search of a team (and a hairdresser), but they're in the playoffs this time 'round. Formerly untouchable DC United? They are, shall we say, now decidedly touchable. Cup-winning Chicago? Just got nuked 4-1 by wretched Columbus. At home.

So who will wear American soccer's tin'n'plastic crown? We just can't wait, can we, to find out!?!

Fixture Congestion

Well, I ask you—could YOUR team hold Juventus to just nine goals, meanwhile knocking in a nice little collection of your own? For that was indeed the challenge faced by Albina Going FC in a Tuesday-night match at Portland Futsal. Strangely, I didn't recognize any of the Juve players; the squad that turned up consisted of six Hispanic guys. No Buffon among them. But in any case, they pasted us properly. Among the few consolations: I actually scored a goal! For the first time in like years! Despite my consistent habit of running forward when I'd be of more use in the back or, truth be told, on the bench!

Just 24 hours after going up against Juventus, the Mighty Unicorns faced yet another match, this time against a team with the delightful name Gardeners. We couldn't really tell if they were really gardeners, but I'm guessing not. The lads were up against it—as striker Jimmy "The Stag" so aptly put it, it was just like the old days, when we had to play in the League, in Europe and in the FA Cup, all in one week! We managed to add another defeat to the trophy case, but one of our new boys, the Croydon German, scored a wicked Xabi Alonso-style bomb from deep inside our own half.

Oy.

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Is it true? Will the United States Soccer Federation actually hire Jose "Truth in Naming" Pekerman to guide our national side, as rumors suggest with increasing persistence? The man comprehensively out-coached by chain-smoking playboy Ricardo La Volpe in the World Cup Round of 16? The man who singlehandedly steered a fine Argentina to elimination with his basalt-headed substitutions against Sexy Jurgen's men?

Say it ain't so! However, this being the USSF, it probably is so. We'll hire Pekerman; Mexico will hire Sexy Jurgen; two weeks after Pekerman's unveiling, word will leak that he only got the job after Sven turned us down. Don't book that South African vacation just yet, eh?

Galeano! Liverpool Sucks! Trophies! My Alma Mater! And Futsal!

That's right! Your humble correspondent can come up with no fixed theme for a post, so it's time for....AN ELEVEN DEVILS RANDOM ROUND-UP! (tm)

ITEM: A writerly acquaintance in New York City, one Dan Kaufmann, belatedly forked over a piece sure to delight my sokkahblagging pals at A Pretty Move: an interview with Uruguayan writer Eduardo Galeano. Galeano is a sort of Chomskyian figure in Latin American verbiage, but for my money, his limpid and passionate prose is at its best when he turns it to The Beautiful Game. If you don't own his slim but inexhaustable 'Soccer in Sun and Shadow,' consider it a mandatory purchase and a long-term bargain. Nearly a decade after I acquired my copy, I still pick it up a few times a year.

ITEM: "Utterly gash." That's how the Guardian's minute-by-minute summarizer described Galatasaray as the Turkish side surrendered a couple early goals to Liverpool during last week's Champions League encounter. And what a horrid, disgusting and splendid description it is—for Liverpool's own form. A 2-0 loss to Bolton Wanderers confirmed what I've feared since watching the Reds meander around on opening day against dreadful Sheffield United: I cursed Liverpool by choosing them as my Premier League club. Well, too bad for them, and too bad for me, because we all know you can't undo that sort of thing. I let myself pull for multiple teams in the Italian and Spanish leagues, but that's just "not on" where the Premiership's concerned. So LFC and I are stuck with each other, and now that Community Shield they bagged back in August may be their last trophy. Ever.

ITEM: But, on the other hand, how 'bout them Reading Royals? The club once known as the Biscuitmen nailed down three crucial away points, beating West Ham 1-0 on a second-minute goal. The assist came courtesy America's own Bobby Convey, while yanqui netminder Marcus Hahnemann helped preserve the win. Meanwhile, West Ham deployed USA defender Johnathan Spector. Imagine that—three Americans play in a Premiership match and hardly anyone even notices. Once, that sort of thing would have been the ultimate Man Bites Dog, Pigs Fly story.

ITEM: While the Euro leagues are still just unpacking their medicine shows for the year, we're handing out trophies and getting ready to shut down for winter here in North America. Chicago Fire claimed the US Open Cup. DC United, a truly fantastic team that's been in a relative slump lately after an unbeatable first two-thirds of the campaign, clinched the MLS Supporters' Shield, awarded for the league's best regular season record, last night. (Why isn't it called the Supporters' Cup? Oh.) And the Vancouver Whitecaps won the United Soccer Leagues First Division, the 12-team circuit that includes our beloved (but, yes, utterly gash) Portland Timbers. The 'Caps—which, though they are the Timbers' second-most-hated rival, are one of the best-run clubs in the oft-dodgy First Division—grabbed the hardware with an emphatic 3-0 away win over Rochester.

ITEM: In that *other* form of football we all know and love—the one where you get to use your hands all the time—my Mighty Montana Grizzlies invaded PGE Park and beat Portland State last night. Huzzah! Now I don't have to pay attention to that sport again until December.

ITEM: The USL just announced a new affiliation with something called the Super-F League, which seems to be trying to become the primary national futsal competition. While the SFL looks more like a sanctioning body than an actual league right now, I guess this deal could portend some kind of off-season existence for the Timbers. With First Division franchises in Vancouver, Seattle and, thanks to expansion, San Francisco all sitting idle through the winter, wouldn't it make sense for those clubs to field futsal squads for some kind of short-format league? Each city could host one two-day round-robin tournament for all four clubs in, say, December and January, with a point system determining the overall champ at the end. Gavin Wilkinson, can ya holla back?

Fire Make History! Well, Not Quite.

The Chicago Fire Football Club has a weird affinity for the US Open Cup, the 93-year-old knock-out tournament open to all Fed-affiliated teams in the country. In nine years, the Windy City side has snaked the Lamar Hunt Cup four times. One *might* think that would make Chicago the winningest team in the tournament's history. In fact, they must win one more just to tie an august troika of five-time champions: Maccabi Los Angeles, Fall River F.C. of Massachusetts, and Bethlehem Steel F.C. of Pennsylvania.

Maccabi Los Angeles! Bethlehem Steel! The romance-laden history of the Cup just underscores how sad its current afterthought status is. Something—something!—should be done to enhance this championship's profile and status.

Another note: the LA Galaxy's (no Maccabi, this lot) lone goal in the 3-1 Chicago victory came courtesy former Portland Timber Alan Gordon. Between Gordon and the short-lived (but glorious) World Cup heroism of Trinidad's Brent Sancho, it's been a big year for Timbers alumni. Now—if only we could get a decent team together NOW.

Please Rebuild Peter Crouch to Human Specifications!

Ah, but the oddly constructed Liverpool striker hit a good 'un yesterday, pushing the generally indifferent Reds past schizoid Galatasaray. The Turkish club may have lost, but still has one of the greatest names in football.

Football—that's right. It's out there. It's been a big week in the game personally, locally, nationally and internationally, but Yrs Trly has been up to his pretentious-third-person eyeballs in other matters. So let's make do with a quick kick-about, eh?

—After three indoor games in the space of eight days, my 31-year-old body feels like it's on the verge of self-vaporization. The Muckrakers, the all-journalists team I play for in what must be the 29th division at Beaverton's relatively plush SoccerPlex, haven't quite, er, found their form yet. To wit, we finally scored our first goal in a looooooooong time last weekend, and then got positively greedy by forcing an own-goal. Of course, we let in—I don't know—seven or something. Almost needless to say, I played keeper during the second half.

Across town at brand-new Portland Futsal, Albina Going FC managed its first-ever "result" in a bombastic 10-10 draw with ADP II. Yeah, yeah—we had a couple players in "on one-day loan" from Real Sur, but it was an unprecedented performance for three reasons. 1) No one puked. 2) No one was sent off. 3) We didn't lose. In fact, we almost won, surrendering the equalizer with just seconds remaining. Almost needless to say, I was playing keeper. The Mighty Unicorns will revel in that newly minted self-confidence next week, when our Tuesday night fixture pits us against some team callled "Juventus." Ouch. Surely that's a bit draconian even for repeated match-fixing?

—Chris Agnello, instantly unpopular coach/GM of the Portland Timbers, went buh-bye this week. His replacement, former New Zealand international (oh! words that strike fear into the heart of footballers everywhere!) Gavin Wilkinson, has been with our beloved local side since its refoundation in 2001, first as a player, now as a coach (except when we're short numbers, in which case he becomes a player again). I'm tentatively calling this a fantastic move: Agnello endeared himself to no one, presided over an awful season and offered no visible plan for improvement. Wilkinson, on the other hand, is a fiery field warrior and winning personality who might both grow into his role and push the club into a better future.

—The Chicago Fire, one of three MLS sides I've personally laid eyes on this season (charitably including New York Red Bulls), won the US Open Cup last night. Portland boy Nate Jaqua tallied for the victors. Three cheers for Miss O'Leary United and Section 8, the Timbers Army's unofficial sister supporters association. Too bad one of the coolest, most historic and most distinctive events in American sports can muster a crowd of just 8,000.

—Across the lake, the Brit press is in a patronizing twitter over rumo(u)rs that Freddie Adu will join fellow yanquis Bobby Convey and Marcus Hahnemann at Reading FC. I don't quite believe it, but it did prompt me to look up Reading's history on Wikipedia—perhaps the most jaw-droppingly relentless chronicle of mediocrity in world sport. Founded: 1871. Played in the top flight: Never, until this year. All the same, the Royals are the most charming story of the Premiership this year, and young Convey is afire. It *might* be good for Adu to start his Euro career at a small, over-achieving club where he could make an immediate impression; frankly, I'd rather see him in Spain than in England, but that doesn't seem to be in the cards. Premiership! Premiership! Premiership! Yeah, yeah....

Red Roses For That Vase?

While only native-born Mancunians and confirmed front-running bandwagoneers have any excuse for backing Manchester United, you'd have to be an inhuman monster not to give some love to FC United of Manchester. The Red Rebels, launched last year by disgruntled Man Utd supporters turned off (and priced out) by the Premiership's loadsamoney culture, are one of the coolest stories in world football.

After dominating their tenth-division league in their first year, FC United are rolling over the next tier up, with 11 wins on the trot. As reported in the Guardian's on-going coverage of the club, the Rebels are taking their first stab at a national competition. The FA Vase is a knock-out tournament reserved for smaller clubs on England's football pyramid; its history is an extravaganza of awesome gentleman-amateur eccentricity, dotted with gorgeously goofball-sounding clubs like Tiptree United, Forest Green Rovers and Berkhamsted Town.

Meanwhile, how fantastic is it that the *two* teams atop the North West Counties League are supporter-owned? FC United's "blue" counterpart, Maine Road FC—founded decades ago by Manchester City fans—stands second on the table. Viva grassroots football...now if only we had summathat over here.

The Vortex

ITEM: Last week's New Yorker profile of Bill Clinton, written by genius reporter/editor David Remnick, opens at the World Cup Final. Zidane's headbutt. Bill Clinton. David Remnick. IT ALL COMES BACK TO FOOTBALL!

ITEM: Which team earned probably the first red card in the short history of Portland Futsal? That would be my side, Albina Going FC, which concluded an inglorious 8-2 drubbing with just four men on the court after a certain...unpleasantness. The only consolation in this embarrassing situation: we knocked in a short-handed goal! And no less than six of our rivals' tallies came from a single player, a hot-footed teenager who—annoyingly—made a point of counting off his total haul after every goal. Kid was undeniably good, though. We we were undeniably...something. Despite the set-backs, this is a fun place to play, though adapting to futsal may be an evolutionary challenge just beyond Homo sapiens dundasi's capabilities.

ITEM: Great news, Timbers fans! The team may suck, but its financials are in good shape! So claimed the hybrid baseball/soccer franchise's front office in an Oregonian piece today. Let's just say the club's true health is a matter of some dispute among those who follow it most closely.

ITEM: Can someone explain to me how the New York Red Bulls are going to spend $200 million on a 25,000-seat stadium? Oh, sorry—I forgot. It's in New Jersey. Bribes to pay, y'know.

Those Were the Days

As Portland Timbers fans contemplate the ruins of the 2006 season—as well as the shattered remains of the relationship between the club's Front Office and most avid fans and new coach Chris Agnello's reputation as a team-builder—they can cast their minds back to better days. Like the time Alan Gordon ripped a goal about 25 seconds into his pro career. Axemen aficionados will recall that Gordon, an Oregon State phenom, briefly reappeared in Timberland this year, only to be snatched back to MLS by new Galaxy boss Frank Yallop before he could alter Portland's beeline to the shoals.

The league's website weighs in with a friendly little story about the good things that have happened for this promising young player since. The piece doesn't address *why* Gordon's Portland loan lasted about 10 minutes. But I know there are those in the local soccer conspiracy who have their theories.

The End is Nigh

You've got to be fucking kidding me.

The West Ham Job

"Money has a wonderful habit of flowing where it feels comfortable."
—Patarkatsishvili, modern sage

I love an intrigue-laden cosmopolitan thriller as much as anyone and more than most, and I must say this beats the most feverish imaginings of John le Carre or Alan Furst. A pair of young Argentine superstars; a certain ambitious East End "firm"; enough shadowy Russian "entrepreneurs" to field a five-a-side squad or, alternatively, loot the natural-resources base of a mid-sized Central Asian state; one of whom has a UK passport in a false name derived from a film loosely based on his life (!); a delightfully cynical Georgian operative; an Iranian political exile with two distinctly different birthdays (!!)....it is enough to make one's head spin.

The question that lingers over the murky dealings at West Ham—which seem designed either to deliver the entire club into the hands of some opaque transnational cartel or flip Tevez and Mascherano like they were Soho condomiums, or (preferably, I'm sure) both—goes like this: Are we seeing the zenith of Syriana-style neo-film noir dealings at the top level of international club football, or merely the end of the beginning? Football has always been populated my mountebanks and chancers, but the mounting involvement of characters like Roman Abramovich over the last few years built to this exceedingly baroque moment. Will the game's authorities, who are not exactly known for compunction in such matters, be forced to intervene? Or will we, the almost-innocent and largely powerless supporters of the game, simply have to watch in awe as a hyper-feral form of globalization sweeps all semblance of sense away?

Regurgitation United!

A busy and exciting day in international football—so what better focus for a blog post than the debut of my new futsal team, Albina Going FC?

The Going (named in honor of North Portland, the former freestanding City of Albina, and a cool little street therein; attempted homage: Accrington Stanley FC) stepped out on the new, cushy plastic pitch at the fantastic, just-opened indoor venue Portland Futsal last night for its first-ever match against Open Division opponents Real Sur. Suffice it to say we lacked a full squad—we started the match with the minimum five players, none of whom had ever played a minute of futsal. Real, on the other hand, called upon a four-man bench and some big, husky, fast dudes who sort of looked like they knew what they were doing. However, futsal seems to be an even funnier old game than the full-sided version, its teeny-tiny pitch, lightning speed and frequent quick reversals of fortune lending an air of entertaining uncertainty to just about every second.

As a measure of our roster desperation, I started in goal, and managed to surrender four. However, AGFC's four fielders seemed to adapt quickly to this unfamiliar, internationally recognized indoor variant, and we got three back. And then Big Nick, one of our goalscorers, decorously stepped out into the alley behind Portland Futsal's warehouse digs to vomit. We were off to the proverbial flyer.

Reinforced by the half-time arrival of Young Adrian, our token sub-thirtysomething, and the gracious volunteer service of Portland Futsal owner Paul Lomanto in goal, the Going seemed poised to make a real match of it in the second half. Unfortunately, I was now in the field. One Real goal glanced into the net off my arse; I was solely responsible for another resulting from a bumbling give-away in our defensive half. Between the triad I gave up as 'keeper and those two defensive beauts, I was individually responsible for the difference in the 7-3 final score. Ad astra! A pretty move, indeed.

Next week's match against Casa Futsal II (what—a reserve team? we'll moider 'em!) should see the Albina boys approaching our full fearsome strength. So watch yerself, futsallers—we may spray half-digested food at you at any time.

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Meanwhile, in other news: The NYT weighs in with a typically opinionated and dyspeptic interview with erstwhile US Nats coach Bruce Arena. Now installed at New York Red Bulls, aka the crappiest franchise in Major League Soccer, Arena repeatedly unloads on former boss (and "longtime friend") Sunil Gulati, Prez of the US Soccer Federation. Interesting that Arena, who led the White Buffalo to its entirely underwhelming performance in Germany, believes the real problems with soccer in America reside above his pay grade. Who knows—maybe he's right!

Barca Scores Crunchy Brownie Points

It's so damn cliche for lefty, right-on American soccer fans to clasp Barcelona to their breasts...but, honestly, when they pull shit like this, can you help it?

The Beautiful Century

From the Solipsism & Laziness Department: This is Eleven Devils' 100th post. My four faithful readers will have noted that the blog has slowed to a crawl in recent weeks, and I'd have to say that its future is a bit uncertain at this point. So I thought I'd post a few inward-gazing thoughts for now, and let things take whatever new shape they may going forward.

The blog started at the beginning of America's strange summer-time soccer high season. (The first real post, as archive enthusiasts will see, concerned the Barca-Arsenal European Championship match.) As a huge soccer nerd and supposed professional writer, I knew that I would A) Spend a disgraceful amount of time watching football during working hours and B) Completely fail to persuade anyone to pay me to write about it. So, a blog, intended primarily to track ("cover" would be too lofty a word) the World Cup and the Portland Timbers' concurrent USL First Division campaign. If I managed the odd musing on the global, national and local state of football culture—which, apart from the weird majesty of the game itself, is what I'm really interested in—so much the better.

I flatter myself that it's gone fairly well. The blog has a few readers and a few commenters, which is about what I expected and hoped for. But the World Cup is long gone, and the Timbers' season has reached a bitter and unsatisfying end. (Venture over to the Timbers Army website for a portrait of a small club locked in what seems to be a permanent existential crisis.) So, while there is certainly much to write about in the world of football—from the forthcoming MLS championship to the glamourous Premiership to the twisted opera of Serie A—Eleven Devils' primary raisons d'etre have expired. I expect to continue to post here, because I love writing about football and only intermittently find other venues for doing so. Maybe I'll get back on the near-daily (or even multi-daily) posting schedule achieved during the World Cup. Maybe not.

For now, I find it useful to think about the Portland Timbers' home match against the Montreal Impact last Thursday—a 0-1 loss as it happened, but a great reminder of what football is really good for. Oh, the play on the pitch (and the disgraceful plastic pitch itself) was mostly a disaster. But the scenes in the stands and concourses were a delight. The Timbers Army, though perhaps a little thin with exhaustion after a frustrating and fruitless season, was in huge voice. A pair of bag-pipers and a fantastic horn player provided a haphazard but stirring soundtrack. Our team may have been a shambles for most of the season, but the Timbers fans united for two hours of free-spirited, creative, untamed, unprogrammed, non-marketing-oriented fun and life. If you've been to many sporting events in the USA recently, you know how rare that is. If you've been to a Portland Timbers match—or hung out with Chicago's Section 8 or DC's Barra Brava or any of the other little nests of dissenters who make up the vast, complex and growing American Football Nation, a force that could yet redefine this country's culture for the better—you know how valuable it can be.

Again, this ain't no sign off—just a reflection. Thanks to all who read.