The Doener Kebab Cup

I rate that one a solid 8/10. Rattling crossbars. Bloody heads. A meaty geopolitical backstory. Sweaty coaches: Joachim "Es ist nicht ein Fashionmullet!" Loew, guiding the Mannschaft home, if you know what I mean; and that Turkish fella. That Turkish fella! Can we get him in MLS like yesterday, please? A blown penalty call, which I forgave the referee for immediately because the victim was Phillip Lahm (and because I would totally "switch" for that referee). Another one of Turkey's October surprises, undone by same.

Yes, this game pretty much had it all, or at least that's what I was able to discern amid the frequent interruptions in service, caused by lightning strikes attracted to the titanium android carapace concealed beneath Michael Ballack's "human skin." I started out a mildly pro-German neutral (you could call it the "Hungary 1939" model), but whore that I am I soon switched to backing the Turks. For one thing, they played by far the better football. For another, so many of my fellow Americans down at Kells were backing Germany that I got annoyed. How boring and Europhile. It was also a joy to see Jens Lehmann, a rude and ungentlemanly character who is (he said in a self-righteous tone of voice) just not a good team player, so comprehensively befuddled. In the first half, Turkey were composed when they needed to be and brassy when they wanted to be.

But they forgot one iron rule of international football: to beat Germany, it's not enough to outplay them. You have to jam a wooden stake into the Thing's heart and cut off the head—otherwise, the Thing keeps lumbering at you, jumping up at sky-balls like a dog playing Frisbee. And indeed, even after Turkey stung back with the late equalizer, Lahm—who bugged me throughout but ended up playing an intriguing anti-heroic role that I must respect—converted his chance with the lethal, coldblooded mindlessness of a warrior insect. Spain and Russia, you're on notice: plan to score 20.

Use World Cup As Bludgeon to Force SA's Hand in Zimbabwe?

Hmm. I honestly can't say if this makes sense or not.

Margaritaville United

Here's what a day of baby-sitting will do to a man: I just spent 17 good minutes of my life watching highlights (?) of CONCACAF World Cup qualifying matches, including Jamaica's 7-0 win over Bahamas and Guatemala's 6-0 win over Saint Lucia. I'm all for the minnows having their God-given World Cup chance, but doesn't it seem sort of cruel and unusual? Is this football, or target practice? (Strangely enough, the 2-2 draw between Honduras and, of all places, Puerto Rico, looked like it might have actually contained some decent play.)

ITEM: Guatemala did a kind of cool goal celebration, in which half the team ran to the touchline, sat down and imitated a rowing crew. Significance unknown. But how gauche is it to whip out elaborate post-goal festivities when you're beating Saint Lucia?

ITEM: I now know where I'm going if my whole life ever collapses: Saint Lucia, to either coach or play for the national team.

ITEM: CONCACAF sucks. I think the USA and Mexico should pull a "double Australia", secede and join up with the LatAms. Let Canada and Carlos Ruiz (who scored four against S. Lucia) have their fun.

Arshavin's Cross

That was just a brilliant game. As many have noted, Holland had the air of a successful, confident young man who suddenly runs into his more successful, more confident Doppelganger on the street: they didn't quite know what to do. And in retrospect, maybe the Dutch had it too easy in the so-called Group of Death, feasting on an Italy that obviously sent out the wrong XI, a France in steep decline and an all-too-Romanian Romania. But let's not take anything away from Russia, a team transformed in the last two games by the reappearance of this...this...this...this Arshavin kid. He looks like a 12-year-old who decided to go as the Fifth Beatle for Halloween, but the way he plays makes it seem like the last five or ten years of ball-flicking Brazilian mononyms and Portugese step-over artists never happened. Could the best player in the world be a wicked fast, clever, attack-specialist Slav? Not saying, just asking.

Anyway, hyperbole aside, that second Russian goal keeps playing in my head. You've seen it a million times: a player rushes down to the endline like he has something Important in mind...and then the ball spins out of bounds, or dribbles to the keeper, or flies off into row Z on the other side of the park. But when was the last time you saw a player pull the rock back, loop a parabola all the way over the goal, and hit the exact six-square-inch spot at the far post occupied by the lashing ankle of a teammate who started his run 30 yards out? Good night, Irene. Man.

The Third Rome

I admit it: I wrote Russia off after Spain poleaxed them in the first group game. I forgot who Guus Hiddink is, and I'm afraid I just didn't know much about Arshavin. I stand corrected.

Clash of Civilizations

A Dutch-American friend writes:

What was once an ideological empire tempering the market fundamentalist tendencies of the West has itself become the very caricature of capitalist excess. It is a national morality tale, like 1920s America. Today's Russia is the Great Gatsby writ large.

And that only highlights what a great duel could await us in today's Holland v. Russia, um, fixture. It's not quite Good Against Evil, Cold War-style, but the political science of the thing intrigues. Everyone's favorite sexy, 420-friendly, progressive little social democracy—a country that enjoys an entire export industry in groovy architects—against the sinister Bear, the ever-murky petro-imperialist kleptocratic appointive monarchy skulking on the edge of Europe in a knock-off Adidas track suit. These aren't just two football teams, they're two bloody sides of the Janus-faced Western World! Should be good times.

I would love to come off all right-thinking and say that 100 percent of my being is behind Holland—easily the most cohesive and attractive national team in years, bar a few moments of brilliance from Argentina here and there—but my Russophile tendencies mean that I, like Raskolnikov on one of his more perplexing days, suffer from a divided consciousness. Certainly, the Netherlands should be rewarded for its rockin'-good football and for not having creepazoid ex-KGB men in charge. On the other hand, to see the Orangje undone by the Empire, under the crafty tutelage of a mercenary Dutch coach, would make for one hell of a plot twist. Davai, Rossiya! Hup Holland!

The Departed

Usually, a bittersweet feeling sets in at the end of the group phase of a major tournament. Friends old and new must take their leave, and all of a sudden half the storylines in the soap opera disappear. In the World Cup, there's always some spunky underdog—a Trinibagonian or two—to mourn. Teams that may have played some tasty football—yer Cote d'Ivoires and so on—fail to survive. There's almost always a big part of me that feels like the really fun part of the affair ends when the multiculti two-games-a-day fete gives way to the zero-sum knockouts.

This time, not so much. Portugal, eliminated today by Michael Ballack's noggin (have I mentioned how impressive that thing is?), is the first side I've been at all sorry to see go. France? What a non-entity they turned out to be. I guess, based on WC2002 and this go-round, that The Feeling skips a tournament for them. Who else was there again? The Czechs? Eh. Romania? The thinking man's Austria. Switzerland? I actually spent one night there once, and barely remember it; I feel the same about the team. Somehow, even though this tight 16-nation format probably ensures a stronger field overall than the bloated, continental-affirmative-action-diluted World Cup, Euro 2008's also-rans are a pretty tepid lot.

On the other hand, who would have expected a match-up between Turkey and Croatia, a pair of outsider teams that looked in serious decline a couple years ago, to look so promising? Or that Russia, of all intercontinental empires, would suddenly look like the crew to give Holland a challenge? Or that the Dutch, kind of a cynical and brutal outfit two years back, would get all soulful and total-football-nostalgic? It's been a great championship so far—just a very unbalanced one.

Beer Hall Putsch

Made a brief stop at the Thirsty Lion, just in time to see Ballack pop his header past Ricardo, with just enough time before I fled back to work (it will make you free, you know) to engage the guy sitting next to me in a vigorous debate over whether the bludgeon-skulled German striker fouled his defender. He seemed to think Ballack's two-handed launch constituted a definite foul. I held that while that may, in fact, have been true, it was the sort of tactical contact that happens all the time, and if you're looking for that call in a major championship, you are probably beaten anyway. Certainly, defenders get away with much worse all the time.

Idol Speculation

If, as Spangly Princess suggests and his form with both Barcelona and France seems to confirm, Thierry Henry is as past it as a reality show about talentless (but slut-riffic) starlets living among the commoners...does that mean we can crank the Thierry-Henry-to-MLS rumor mill as high as she'll go? We already saw an Henry boomlet when Seattle got the MLS nod (as a result of a malign cosmic conspiracy) and let drop some press-bait re: a plan to stuff the Frenchman's pockets with Cascadian-American dollars. I would say New York, shorn of its most promising star by the Altidore transfer and looking pretty creaky in the Designated Player department, would make the most commercially logical destination. Then again, maybe Superclub LA will find a way to bend the rules (imagine) to turn their lockerroom into a real Premiership 2000 reunion. It would be awesome—just like an Oasis tour.

Diving, Schmiving

I long ago stopped caring about soccer-bashing American sportswriters—or, anyway, I decided to try to stop caring, in preference to my former habit of allowing the 17,492nd version of the "soccer: sport of pederastic Trotskyites" opinion piece drive me into insane, fist-gnawing rage. Now I just shake my head with rueful amusement and put the writer in question on my long list of people never to read again. ('Round our place, we call this the Hitchens List.)

But here's a phenom I see more and more: the former-skeptic-turned-reluctant-half-convert, trying to make sense of matters futbol, in ways that may irritate those of us well-versed in Trotskyite pederasty but can also be of interest. Case in point for the day comes from Salon's King Kaufmann. I was sad to write King off a few years ago, because he's got one of the great by-lines in modern sports journalism and because Salon's readership, composed entirely of latte-sipping Volvo-driving Barack-loving bobo nerds like myself, enjoys 1:1 overlap with the Anglophone-Yank (Yanglo?) soccer demographic. I'm glad to see the King get with the programme (please note Trotskyite spelling; le program is also acceptable), even if he hasn't quite swallowed that delicious final gram of Drogba-flavored Kool-Aid yet.

One thing that continues to puzzle me, though, is why My Fellow Americans have such a fixation about diving. Yes, it's a disgrace to the game and all that, but aren't the big-time American sports full of cheaters and whiners, too? It seems like every NFL player breaks some rule on every play, and baseball is now a well-known chemistry experiment. As far as I can tell, the NBA consists almost entirely of Kobe and Shaq trying to game the refs, while the refs nervously check their Blackberries at every time out for their latest instructions from various Sicilian fraternal organizations. So what's the big deal with some skinny Italian boys rolling around like little bunnies in the meadow? I think it's kind of cute—but then again, a soccer fan would, right?

Make Mine Orangje Crush

As I survey the shattered particles of the so-called Group of Death, scattered like so many discarded Legos at the feet of Marco Van Basten, I have to wonder. Like everyone else, I have developed an enormous man-crush on this Holland team, which so casually dispatched its group opponents and, into the bargain, seems intent on playing football about as lovely as can be played under the modern conditions of production. This Dutch team has so much to recommend it—their goals are better, they zing one in every half an hour so no one gets bored, their passing is prettier, their shirts are tighter, even their names are longer—it's churlish to raise any objections at this point.

Still...isn't it always the way? You look at a four-team group and think, gor'blimey, guv'nor! This will be insane! Then three of the four sides turn out to play like MLS teams that stumbled on a cache of your better performance-enhancing drugs. The dubious send-off of Abidal aside, this French team was completely gormless: these Frenchies appear to have confused their repertoire of amusing Gallic facial expressions for a strategy. I do admire the kamikaze spirit of the Italian team, and I can practically hear Gianluigi Buffon describing his recipe for human liver with fava beans and a nice Chianti, but if these guys manage to win a trophy again, it's time for a full-scale Calciopoli investigation. The Romanians did the near-impossible by stumbling into the last day with a chance of advancing on a measly two points, and now we see how they got that way.

So the question is, when does someone step up and make Holland work for it? Is there a team in this tournament that can force the Dutch out of exhibition-season mode, test their not-entirely-convincing defense, make Dirk Kuyt's face even redder?

WTF?

Why, when pretty much everyone reviles penalty shootouts as a means of deciding knockout games, would anyone want to install the bloody things in group games? Has the world gone INSANE?

Choose Your Own Adventure

If you're Marco van Basten, with first place in the group locked down and a bench full of players who haven't seen the field yet, do you:

—let the reserves have a highly alliterative run-out against Romania?
—stick with the same basic XI to make sure no rust sets in before the knock-outs?
—shave your head again?

Group of WHAT'S UP NOW, B____?

So, after two demolition jobs performed on the effective co-world champions, is it safe to say that Marco van Basten is cooking up genius in the Dutch ranks? That was a fantastic performance, abetted by France's inability to finish, Ribery's penchant for trying to dribble through good tackles and a goalkeeper who will be in the male modeling trade by this time next week. This is how you handle all that Group of Death hype: destroy all you survey with swagger and confidence.

The Way-Back Machine

Ah. Courtesy the Guardian, a clip from one of the first real football matches I ever watched:

Five Stars Above the American Crest

I must say, as fanatically executed conceits go, it's hard to top a full-scale recreation of Euro 2008 from an alternate reality in which England made the tournament. It's a dangerous concept: it very nearly tempted me to compose a detailed Wikipedia entry from the universe in which the United States, rather than Brazil, develops a singularly gorgeous national style of football to match its obsession with the game, and goes on to win five World Cups. Fortunately, I caught myself, and will content myself with an elaborate private fantasy about the Portland Timbers' ascent from obscurity, up the intricate and legendary American football pyramid, into the Global Champions League.

Panic at the Disco

I'm not watching Poland/Austria, either, but I did take the time to make a happy discovery: Brazilian-born pseudo-Pole (BTW, if half of Eastern Europe can hand out passports to Brazilian mercenaries, why can't Team USA?) Roger has one of the most amazing photos in the history of Wikipedia. Please regard.

The Costs of Triage

During every major tournament, I find myself deciding to skip a few days, deciding in advance that they're expendable because the match-ups don't look all too enthralling. Thus, no football-watching for me today—a decision I'm coming to regret as I read various MBM recaps of the action. Sounds like the Swiss and the Turks are engaged in a heroic battle with the elements as we metaphorically speak.

Comedy is Dead

I believe I went on record with the idea that last night's US Open Cup fixture between the Portland Timbers and Hollywood United, an amateur team owned by a bunch of LA celebs which has featured Ziggy Marley and Vinnie Jones in its line-ups in the past (at the same time?), would be "funny" or something like that. I retract this sentiment at this time. H-United pulled a classic Cup giant-killing last night, winning 3-2 and allowing the Timbers to concentrate on the league for the remainder of the season.

The horrifying details are here. Let's see: the Timbers manage to score two goals for just the fourth time this season, but their World Cup veteran forward misses a penalty. A former Timber scores two pens for Dancing With the Stars United, and then they win it in stoppage time. It's a funny old game, etc. etc.

You-Ros for Heroes

I know it's sort of the done thing these days to come off all jaded about international football—surely, the club scene is where it's at these days, man! Where you can have an owner who's a wealthy fugitive arms dealer of vague post-Soviet origin, an egomaniac French coach who considers himself a genius and doesn't care who knows it, three indentured Ivoirian teenagers at every position, six Brazilian sex fiends as attacking substitutions on the bench and that huge-headed German striker everyone bid for last summer, all for the entertainment of your fat-bastard fans who have Latin phrases they don't understand tattooed to their forearms but either can no longer afford to go to the stadium or are under police ban from doing so...obviously, these are the conditions under which state-of-the-art football is played these days. By comparison, the international game is quaint.

Still, after the last couple of days, Euro 2008 looks pretty good, doesn't it? We've got crumbling champions (Greece, Italy), fading dynasties (France), a bunch of goals, those bright orange Holland shirts, David Villa and Cesc Fabregas' identical hair, and even a classic strike produced in the Sweden v. Greece game, of all occasions. Of course, it will probably all go to hell in the knock-out rounds, but there should be a few more days of decent entertainment in the thing.

The Cup

Courtesy Du Nord, the grid for tonight's first round in the US Open Cup. I think the quirky majesty of this out-of-the-way, neglected competition speaks for itself. The Pancyprian Freedoms? Bradenton Academics? Clearwater Galactics? Beautiful.

Carolina Railhawks v Brooklyn Knights
Real Maryland Monarchs v NY Pancyprian Freedoms
Richmond Kickers v Fredricksburg Gunners
Western Mass Pioneers v Boston Olympiakos
Minnesota Thunder v St Louis Lions
Michigan Bucks v Cleveland City Stars
AAC Eagles v Pittsburgh Riverhounds
Rochester Rhinos v RWB Adria
Austin Aztex v Atlanta Silverbacks
Miami FC Blues v Bradenton Academics
Charlottle Eagles v Clearwater Galactics
Charleston Battery v ASC New Stars
Crystal Palace Baltimore v Los Angeles Legends
Harrisburg City Islanders v Yakima Reds
Arizona Sahuaros v Seattle Sounders
Portland Timbers v Hollywood United

Spanish Bombz

Bazzzzzzoooooomba! Much as I figured Spain would treat us to at least one bubbly game of champagne wishes and caviar dreams, I did not anticipate that Russia would be the patsy. (I had Greece fingered for the drop—and, well, they should enjoy Sweden while they can.) The Russians were more enterprising than the 4:1 scoreline suggested, and Spain shakier on defense, but there's no real arguing with the way Villa and accomplices played. They're like a host of flying artificially intelligent knives around the penalty area. Or something similar.

Let's Go: Uruguay

While some big tournament goes on in Europe, there is football elsewhere in the world. I sat down this afternoon to check the offerings of GolTV's funny little On Demand highlights service, which during the Big Time season packages goals from Spain and the Bundesliga with some incongruous odds'n'ends, by which I mean the Colombian league. Right now, the editors find themselves obliged to cobble together 18-minute reels with only the Uruguayan and Ecuadorian leagues to draw from, it seems. Must be the life.

Not to say those competitions don't have their points of interest. I have an official Strange Fascination with the Uruguayan league, based in part on a brief visit to that lovely country (and a look at one of the tiny, tiny stadiums used by average provincial teams) and in part because it seems, well, kinda weird. To start with, there's a club called Liverpool which is not actually Liverpool (they wear blue[!]), and a club called River Plate that is not actually River Plate but which has a pretty interesting history of its own. The UruLiga doesn't amount to much in this all-singing-all-dancing era of football globalization—Europe steals all the players worth stealing, and then Argentina takes the rest. That is, if you evaluate it on the standard of a national league. In reality, I bet this is the best city league in the world: by my count, 14 of the 16 current teams are from Montevideo. That means, according to my sophisticated demographic analysis, that there is one first-division football club for every 95,000 or so Montevideans—that's got to be some kind of major-metro record, right? Greater Londoners will have to make do with just one Premier League side per 1.5 million residents next season, while 2.5 million Romans have to share one major team, plus Lazio. In Montevideo, the loyalties must shift block by block.

Football, Like Rust, Never Sleeps

One day, two games, two bankrupt performances by the most recent World Cup finalists. Time marcheth on, I guesseth. Accounts of France's outing against Romania suggest a team that, for all its creative players, seemed bereft of ideas. Certainly, in the action I saw just now, the poor Italians didn't have the beginnings of a clue; the Dutch, meanwhile, looked like they were trying to think of new, fun ways to smack the ball into the net. Two years ago, France thrived on quality and on the carved-icon powers of a few of its eminences, both grises and otherwise, while Italy prospered by being just a little more clever than anyone else. Based on today, both approaches may have expired.

Le Dejeuner des Chiens

Zut alors! Zounds like zey Francais haff dez-grazed zemzelvz.

Fancy Dans Redeemed?

I considered Portugal something of a disgrace in the '06 World Cup, with their diving and whining and repeated ugly wins. (In fairness, they did have to play England, which always guarantees an agonizing time will be had by all.) But based on today's evidence, the Portugese look like they're here (by which I mean, there) to play some real football. Stay tuned.

Yes, Dad

MLS fans face the prospect of having the car keys taken away the night of Prom.

Fistful of Euros

Five things I'm looking forward to in Euro 2008:

SAMIR NASRI: The kid bobs and weaves and Zizous all over YouTube. I want to see him and Ribery make some musique together. If nothing else, they can feed Henry a bunch of chances that he'll convert in inverse proportion to the importance of the match in which they occur.

THE ITALIANS: Two summers ago, they snuck out of Berlin with the trophy concealed in the boot of their car, using fake passports. If that was Ocean's 11, will this be Ocean's 12—many of the same perpetrators on hand, all the same jokes, all the ham acting, same outcome? Also, I really like it when Luca Toni runs around like an eight-year-old on crystal meth.

THE GREEKS: Not really. Oh, okay—it was sort of charming to see such a rank underdog bag a major trophy, even if they won it f'ugly. The Greek victory in '04, and all the grudging complaints about it, pointed to international football's Legitimacy Paradox: any time a nation outside the usual-suspects club finds some success, it seems to undermine rather than validate the integrity of international competition. When SoKo and Turkey made the World Cup semis in '02, many commentators, rather than hailing the upstarts, used their rise as evidence of the dubiousness of the whole tournament. Then Brazil and Germany restored the proper order of the universe to palpable relief. Likewise, I sense a widespread, if not completely explicit, feeling that Euro 2004 didn't really count, because the Greeks won it. This leaves me sort of wanting to see them pull a repeat—but I'm sure I'll get over that the first time I watch them play.

THE RUSSIANS: What, exactly, did Zenit Sankt Peter's win in the UEFA Cup portend for this long-fallen power? A lot of Zenit men figure in the Russian squad, which, not unlike Italy, draws heavily on the domestic league. The group looks moderate-to-difficult, so we'll learn pretty fast what this somewhat mysterious gang is made of.

THREE WILDLY ENTERTAINING SPANISH PERFORMANCES, FOLLOWED BY THE INEVITABLE QUARTERFINAL EXIT. That all goes without saying.

The Italian Job

Glad to see that the Special One hasn't dialed back his ambition.

A Small Miracle, As Delicate and Unique as a Snowflake, Has Occurred

Time teaches us all some pretty stern lessons—our bodies decline, our children start using slang we don't know, the New York Yankees continue to exist—but reserves one of its stoutest batches of whoop-ass to serve when American soccer fans come by for tea. After about a century in the global and domestic sporting wilderness, Yanqui futbol lovers tend to exhibit forms of post-traumatic stress syndrome: we're touchy, paranoid and tend to willfully take the losing side of every argument. We stick up for our half-bad domestic leagues and keep insisting that the national side could win it all someday. We bore our "normal" friends with lectures about stuff they don't care about; meanwhile, fans in "real" football countries consider us a pretty good laugh. So when something good actually happens, we tend to retreat to our darkened private altars and sacrifice a couple perfectly good chickens, no matter how small the event. (Hell, we still get sorta psyched when one of Our Boys signs for Derby County.)

Look out, poultry: a minor but real miracle just went down in Chicagoland. A new American soccer franchise picked a name, and it doesn't suck. The city's new women's team, under the able direction of demi-legend Peter Wilt, will be called the Chicago Red Stars, a name that both honors Chicago's awesome municipal flag and makes light allusion to football tradition in the form of Red Star Belgrade, et al. Again, it doesn't suck.

Understand that team-namin' time traditionally provides an opportunity for fans to gnash our teeth and eye the nearest high window. The corporate-marketing geniuses who get North American soccer in their clutches have given the world the likes of Real Salt Lake, the Kansas City Wiz, the Montreal Manic, the Jacksonville Tea Men, the Caribous of Colorado (!)...and as for the tawdry wilds of the indoor game, let's not even go there, except to say that "Arizona Sandsharks" marks a highlight of the art.

In their own still-formative league, the Red Stars' name easily outdistances the "Washington Freedom" (the notional mass-noun name: so '90s) and the "Boston Breakers" (also the name of a USFL franchise, which is either really cool or a really, really bad idea). What scares me, and should scare us all, is that five WPS teams haven't even picked names yet. Look out for the Los Angeles Sizzle, the New York/New Jersey Greater Metropolitan Areas and the Philadelphia Liberty Belles.

"Hello, My Name Is ________"

Looks like Jozy Altidore is off to Villareal. This is an excellent move for all concerned—MLS bags a record transfer fee, Altidore goes to a club interested in his development in a league suited to his skills.

And most importantly, on his first day, Altidore can punch Giuseppe Rossi on behalf of America. GO AMERICA! GO JOZY!

The Spangly Princess Interview, Director's Cut

Over at Du Nord, the Eleven Devils guest slot features an interview with Rome-based football blogger Vanda Wilcox, whose Spangly Princess, with its unique mix of Italian football coverage, historical insight and, whaddyacallit, personal whimsy, is one of the more fascinating football sites on this Internet of ours. I snipped a few Qs out of the DN interview—we journalists need to feel like we're using our "special skills"—so here, for you complete-freaks, is the whole thing:

—How and why did you start Spangly Princess, and how has it evolved?

I started my blog back in 2005 when I was still a doctoral student and living in the UK. It started off pretty randomly as something to occupy my mind during my part-time job which involved long late-night shifts in a university library, and I was trying to avoid studying... you know how it goes. I didn't even really choose a name, I just stuck with what I'd been using online since about 2000 on various message boards. I think this might be kind of offputting to people, especially now that I mostly blog about football, but it's too late to change it now.

—I have not done a comprehensive study, so I can't say for certain, but I would wager that Spangly Princess is the only football-ish blog that also contains long posts about World War I battles, philosophy and various retail obsessions. How would you define the thing? What makes you think, Aha! I should write about this on SP?

Is this a polite way of saying, why is your site so random? In general I try not to define it too much, because I don't really know how. I write about what's on my mind, which sounds terrifically banal, but basically if there's something which has got me excited, confused, depressed, infuriated, giggling or thoughtful, then it means I'll enjoy writing about it. And hopefully if I enjoy writing it, someone will enjoy reading it. Since I built up a readership – or rather, since a couple of people beyond my own family and friends started dropping by – I have developed a fairly good idea of what people would like to see on my site. That means that when there's any major news in Italian football, and especially in the world of fandom and the ultras, people (well, a few of them) expect me to have a comment on the situation. The same applies to the general trends in Italian politics, and especially Roman politics. And sometimes I buy a great new pair of shoes, and I just have to share. In the past I have more than once considered separating off the football stuff from the other bits, but people always tell me not to.

—When did you move to Rome? Can you tell us a little about how your love for AS Roma developed?

My family is part Italian and I grew up coming here every summer for a month or two, and speaking Italian at home part of the time. But I never made it to Rome specifically until 2002 when I came over here for a research trip. By profession I'm an historian and my main interest is Italian military history (y'all can insert as many jokes as you like right here) and specifically World War I. So I came to Rome to use the army archives here. I'm all alone in the city, not knowing anyone, and there's only so many hours in a day you can sit turning through dusty lists of military orders and piles of old newspaper. So I bought myself a ticket to go and see AS Roma. I've loved football since I was about 16, and my English side are Arsenal. Roma was meant to be a fling, a holiday romance, a bit on the side that my red-and-white boyfriend back home was never going to hear about. What goes on on holiday stays on holiday, right? Only, it didn't work that way. I fell in love, and badly. Don't ask me why, the heart has its own reasons. And I'd be lying if I said that the team weren't a factor in wanting to live here. I started coming over for months at a time (always during the football season, natch) and when I finished my doctorate, I got myself a research fellowship and moved straight over. That was February 2006; I can't see myself heading back to the UK any time soon.

—The Curva Sud. Discuss.

Ha. Seeing as in three years of blogging about it I feel like I've only touched elliptically on its manifold appeal and unpleasant undercurrents, I'm not sure what to say here. The Sud is one of the major reasons I fell for Roma in the first place: that first game, I had a seat in the Nord at the opposite end. I sat down, looked up, and saw in front of me something which I had never seen, or dreamed of, in any English ground I'd gone to (Highbury, obviously, but also Goodison Park, Stamford Bridge, or others besides). It's amazing and slightly scary and makes you feel alive like nothing else.

—So, at the risk of inviting a book-length answer, just what IS it about Italian football? Why is it so...uh, weird? And if that's not clear, maybe that is because I can never quite articulate the particular and essential strangeness that seems to make the Italian game so different from football in, say, Germany or France. Can you help?

Ah yes, this I can do. The answer is very simple, which is to say profoundly complicated. The answer is: Italy. Italian politics, society, culture and daily life are all that bit more…. weird than France, Germany, England, Scotland, Spain. Perhaps weird is the wrong word, but the difference you rightly identify in football is present in most areas. Passion, chaos, cynicism, love, despair, corruption, gambling, beauty, sophistication, violence, avarice, power, elegance, cruelty, delight. Just, y'know, everyday run of the mill things.

—Here's a question strictly from the perspective of American fans. We, who have long lived in a form of distant football exile, like some lost Old Testament tribe, often think we know a lot about the history of big clubs abroad, or perhaps I should say, we often form our random allegiances based on a few shreds of information. Like, no one really likes Real Madrid, because they're the "fascist" team, but everyone loves FC Barcelona, because they're...uh, cool, or something. Ditto Lazio/Roma, to an extent. So, how much of that is for real, how much is a simplification, how much is just irrelevant to the daily understanding of actual fans of these clubs?

This is a really great question and one that's hard to answer. But I can 'fess up slightly that when I first wanted to go to a game here, I chose Roma not Lazio because "everyone knows Lazio are fascists". So it operates here in Europe too, to some extent, it's not only a US phenomenon. I guess that many of these stereotypes have a basis in truth, but they are still just stereotypes at heart. The Barca/Real story can be read as a PR war which Barca have won in a pretty major way. But I've read that they took money from the Franco regime as well. The experiences of living under fascism for a long time are complex, and they don't generally reduce down to a simple good/bad dichotomy I'm afraid. Given that in mainland Europe, many if not most clubs' fans have an overall political alignment, at some level you can make a choice based on this stuff, sure. But it's never as neat as the simplified versions make out, and while not precisely irrelevant to the daily understanding of actual fans, as you put it, is kind of marginal for the majority. Because at least in the mythology of how these things work, you don't choose your team, it chooses you. It's your local side, your dad's team (or increasingly nowadays your mum's team) or because you wanted to be Marco Van Basten when you were 6, or because your best mate in the playground supported them. If the team of your city happens to have a strong element which is neo-fascist (as Roma sadly does) or perhaps supports Stalin (see Livorno) you just have to grin and bear it. I occasionally read a US site about my team and I find it very weird seeing what is important for these Roma fans, and how they perceive the club and their own support, compared to how it looks from inside the Curva Sud. But I wouldn't presume to judge other people's support for their side, however it is based or expressed. These guys who get up to watch games at 4 in the morning on TV… I'm not going to say "you're not a real fan, you've never even been to Italy." You can judge the level of knowledge someone has, but not how they feel. At heart being a fan is an emotional bond, and we can never know how someone feels on the inside.

—How do you think your various other interests—philosophy, politics, war, etc.—inform your understanding of and writing about football?

Oh, completely and utterly. At least in Italy, you can't follow football without following politics too. I find that there's nothing that can't be explained by an analogy to the First World War. This is one of those great universal truths, no?

—How do readers react to the different subjects you blog about? Do people seem to get the same joy out of a post about philosophy as they do from one about Totti?

Judging by the comments I get, most readers enjoy the fact there's a variety of stuff. I am blessed with some very intelligent and perceptive readers, many of whom will come up with far better ideas in the comments than I do in my posts. Sometimes I put up a match report and no-one has anything to say, then I'll ask people to help choose me a dress and they're all falling over themselves. When I post something historical, that tends to derive directly from my archival research. That means it's brand new material which has never been written about anywhere else, online or in print, and people seem to enjoy that.

—How has the football blogosphere affected your life as a football fan? I mean to say, has the fact that there are now innumerable people writing about football from innumerable perspectives changed the way you look at the game?

Yes, for sure. Good writing should challenge and inform as well as entertain, and I have both learned a lot and been challenged in my assumptions by many good football blogs. I write for Pitch Invasion [pitchinvasion.net] which has an excellent selection of writing from around the world, including material from writers in Poland, Argentina, India and Egypt: this is amazing and something that was never possible before blogging. Then to name two very different but excellent blogs off the top of my head, sites like 200percent [200percent.blogspot.com] or The Run of Play [www.runofplay.com] offer inspiration and insight into whole new realms of fandom, and new ways of thinking about the game.

—Let's say there is no Internet. Would you be writing about football anyway?

Tricky. I guess not in any regular and systematic fashion, I'd be writing a it at home for my own purposes, because I love writing, but that's all. In the last year, at the insistence of my boyfriend who's a journalist, I have actually submitted some pieces for publication in real life actual solid paper magazines! Which I would never have dreamt of doing myself, and which was only possible thanks to the Internet. Weird, huh. I still find it pretty mental that someone on the far side of the globe might actually be interested in what I have to say about anything, never mind regularly want to read me drivelling on about Francesco Totti and the boys.

ELEVEN DEVILS ON TOUR!

Your Humble Correspondent takes this (very) modest show on the road tomorrow, with a one-day "guest blogger" stint at the great DU NORD. Lord Bruce, master of Du Nord, is slumming in England, and I am extremely flattered to join the cast of distinguished soccer writers, thinkers and drinkers invited to run the place in his absence. Today's star, Andrea Canales, aptly dubs Du Nord "hallowed ground." I shall try not to profane it.

Among other attractions, Eleven Devils' trip across the blogosphere will feature:

—EXCLUSIVE BLOGGER INTERVIEWS!

—SHAMELESS SELF-PROMOTION!

—THE SAME HALF-INFORMED RAMBLINGS OUR READERS HAVE COME TO EXPECT!

That, however, gives only the sketchiest idea of what this dread visitation will be like. For a better idea:

Mourinho Italia

So everyone's favorite manager/performance artist goes to Inter Milan, a club that's successful as could be on the domestic level. This move therefore invokes the Avram Grant Principle, in which a manager at a major club is considered a failure if that club fails to win the Champions League. The question, though, is not whether Jose can handle the pressure—it's whether the pressure can handle Jose. More importantly, will Mourinho's signature bizarre media statements scan as bizarre in Italian, or will the Romance-Language-to-Romance-Language transition go more smoothly?

Love For Sale

Well, well—what is there, really, to be said about England's little jaunt to Trinidad? We are deep in FIFA kabuki here, and I especially like the part about the FA's anxiety that its World Cup bid not be seen as "for sale." They're delighted to participate in the 100th anniversary of Trinidadian football—man, who wouldn't be? A chance to chum around over rum cocktails with the estimable Jack Warner is not to be missed. My question is, can someone dig up a plausible commemoration in the Pacific Northwest, so we can con England into playing here? Sadly, we missed the 30th anniversary of Soccer Bowl '77, but there must be something else. Chugger Adair's birthday?

UPDATE: Looks like everything is going very well.

A Cheap Holiday In Other People's Misery

The attentive Eleven Devils reader (and I know you're out there, lurking amid the Interporn) will note a dearth of comment on the Portland Timbers Football Club of late. That's because I, uh, haven't actually been to a match yet this year. This makes my second consecutive year of atrocious attendance, but, uh...well, I was there at the beginning! For real! Back in the day when the Timbers Army consisted of a couple guys with buckets and a few local ska enthusiasts! There are photos that prove it! Seriously! Rose City 'til I die, if I had the wings of an eagle, etc., etc.....

In my absence, it seems the Timbers have an intriguing, if typically muddled, campaign going in the exalted United Soccer Leagues First Division. (A real league: look it up!) They won a bunch of matches to start, made an earnest run at the world record for consecutive draws, and now can't seem to buy a goal. The big away match against ever-hated Equipe L'Impact de Montreal takes place tonight before Stade Saputo's crowd of rabid Quebecois nationalists and the vast continental television audience of Fox Soccer Channel. We have a way of winning at Montreal—or, at least, it has happened—and three points would put us in a very peachy slot in the table. So, on balance, things are looking up, especially compared to a couple of the trainwreck seasons we've endured in living memory.

But that is emphatically not what I'm excited about. No. The most exciting thing to happen to the Club, probably ever, comes in the form of the US Open Cup, the venerable (one of the oldest Cup comps in the world, in fact) knock-out tournament that is, like the name says, open to clubs from all levels of competitive soccer. A star-crossed tournament at best for the Timbers in past years, this time the Cup yields a fantastic, totally hilarious first-round fixture. On 10 June, the Timbers will host—yes, that's right!—HOLLYWOOD UNITED, the world's most glamourous pub team. They say football makes people happy, and it must be true: ever since I heard about this pairing, I've been on the edge of uncontrolled mirth.

Hollywood United, see, was founded by a dude from the Sex Pistols, a couple guys from The Cult and one of the guys from Def Leppard who had all his limbs. Ziggy Marley—Ziggy Marley—has played for one of its several sides, as have a revolving cast of Commonwealth-inflected showbiz also-rans (I guess "B-List United" didn't have quite the right ring...) and retired pros. Unfortunately, it doesn't look like Ziggy, Robbie Williams or Vinnie Jones (!) are in the current first-team squad. Still, the prospect of taking on a club run by a bunch of puffy ex-rock stars is delicious. You just can't make this stuff up.

Now, all we have to do is beat them. No problem. Right?

Dead-Blogging England v. USA

Gaaaaah. I took my leave from this sad occasion at half-time, after making precious few observations, due in part to the fact that precious little occurred, and in part to the fact that I know sweet FA about football and am only pretending. But, anyway:

—We have a silly team. DaMarcus Beasley is a silly player. Steve Cherundolo—silly player. And note how both also have silly names. Eddie Johnson may be a "grown-ass man," but he still gets caught in possession just about every time he touches the ball. Silly. In their inability to do a thing with the ball when it comes to their feet, in their fecklessness in the last 40 yards of the field, in their woeful inability to defend a set-piece against a second-rate European opponent, the Americans personified silliness. We will still beat Mexico four times out of five, however.

—Those new USA kits actually look kind of cool.

—I like friendlies, because they only ask 45 minutes of your time. Unlike the three-hour Sturm und Drang of your average Big Final, with its inevitable extra time and penalty hoo-hah, a friendly little friendly offers less than an hour of actual entertainment before the mass substitutions turn the match into an episode of Whose Line Is It, Anyway? "John Smith (who?) receives his first international cap (and his last) here in the 81st minute..." Et cetera. Instead of ruining your whole day with alcohol, adrenalin and disappointment, the friendly gives you the perfect excuse to linger over one (1) pint for a bit, curse the day Carlos Bocanegra (see? silly name) was born, then head back to work. Perfect!

—The atmosphere (or restful lack thereof) at my downtown Portland soccer bar filled me with nostalgia, in fact. About two dozen people held dozy court over mid-day beers and lunch, muttering peaceably at the rare outbreak of action on the big screens. This was vintage Soccerball USA, a refreshing change from the rampacked scene at the same joint during the Champions League Final: the coupla hundred Johnny-Come-Lately fans in their brand-new Manchester United PLC and Chelsea Football Club garb, whooping, hollering and groaning with histrionic abandon. I mean, I love to see that stuff, since it plays right in to the dearest long-held fantasy of the American soccer fan, i.e., that History Is Turning Our Way. But frankly, it can be a bit much, and can engender a predictable longing for the old days, when finding a soccer match on television in this country was sort of like tracking down a covert gay sex club. (Or so I imagine, y'know. Poetic license.) Used to be, every match drew this kind of polite and tiny crowd. And PS, I was totally hip to Bleach before Nevermind came out.

—I see, from the Guardian's jaded MBM coverage, that England now lead 2-0. Good for them—excellent warm-up for Euro....HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA! Sorry, couldn't resist. We'll be lucky to get past Bermuda. Later.

That Sinking Feeling

I sit here wondering why I am gripped with an indistinct but real feeling of impending doom...and then I remember: Oh yes, the USA plays England today. In 20 minutes, in fact. That's got to be it.

Prediction: England 3 : 1 USA. Brace from Rooney. Feel free to call your bookies now.

The Philosophy of a Loser

Ah, the comforting equilibrium of the Premier League: Manchester United are champions, Arsenal are the pretty team that should have won it but botched the job, Liverpool sort of suck but stumbled to a lucrative half-successful season in any case. And at Chelsea, a veritable high-school drama class has broken out. Welcome, Hull City! You'll have fun.

"I feel toward my love for Chelsea rather as Dr. Frankenstein must have felt toward his monster when he saw it terrorizing the countryside."

Please read this rather extraordinary Champions League Final MBM.

The Amazing World of Football

What other sport features matches between crunchy-left darlings Tibet and right-wing Italian separatist nuttos "Padania"? That would be none.

Mutually Assured Destruction

Now that I am done vomiting, allow me to share some reflections on today's Champions League final:

—Both as a spectacle and as a sawker match, this was a freehanded mixture of the ridiculous and the entertaining. Hey, guys, how should we decide the (ostensibly) finest football competition on Earth? Why not have the players slide around on a disintegrating real/fake turf imported from Slovakia for 120 minutes, then play tiddlywinks at 1:30 am for the Cup? Da, tovarish!

—Then again, this is Big Time Football circa 2008: total Bizarroworld absurdity is integral to the package.

—Still, goofy as this whole match was, I did find plenty to enjoy. Ferdinand's near-decapitation of Joe Cole was a nice moment, and the whole Ballad of Carlos Tevez took on a kind of strange anti-heroic grandeur, especially in extra time as he flailed about, looking ever uglier. John Terry's denial of Ryan Giggs in the goal mouth provided the drama of a Fistful of Dollars/guns blazing on Main Street variety, with the respective participants' fate in the penalty shootout serving as the wistful coda. Yes, I had a beer. Just one.

—I caught only the back half of this match (also known as The Part With No Goals, In Which Chelsea Hit the Woodwork Twice, Proving That God Thinks This Kind of Thing Is Funny) at Kells, here in scenic downtown Portland. For extra you-are-there English verisimilitude, there were a bunch of bald, middle-aged white "blokes" bellowing about who was and was not a "cunt," and a drunken tramp who appeared to be rooting for both sides.

—Didier Drogba needs to learn how to put his weight behind that swing.

—Roman Abramovich needs to stick a crowbar in his wallet and buy a bloody tie. Does he think he's OJ on the first day of trial?

—This marks two years (just about) and exactly 300 posts of Eleven Devils. Thanks to all 10 of you for reading. At some point next week, it seems I will be "guest blogging" on the far better, more useful and popular blog Du Nord. Details to follow.

In Other News...

As the Big United prepares for today's clash in Moscow, the Other United, rebel breakaway punk football exemplar FC United of Manchester, is celebrating its third promotion in a row. I can't wait for this Cup derby somewhere down the line.

Dynamo Chelski v. Manchester Bay Buccaneers: PREDICTION

So we come to the end—the Eurodelic SuperSeason concludes with the Financial League Championship Final (And Illegal Heavy Arms Bazaar) in Moscow tomorrow. This exciting occasion actually marks Eleven Devils' second anniversary (not like we're solipsistic or anything), and provides yet another opportunity to figure out (temporarily, until the next time they play each other...in about two months) who REALLY rules the jungle: Manchester United or Chelsea. As Roman Abramovich and various members of the Glazer clan receive "special massages" in the luxury suites, their hirelings will do a one-match reprise of their 38-match race for the Premier League crown for the edification of many, many intoxicated Englishmen and the rest of the world.

So what will happen? And who will care? Here at Eleven Devils, the Editorial We finally had a good long sit down and decided to support...Chelsea. A painful decision in many ways, but ultimately an easy one because, y'know, fuck Manchester United. That's about the best we can do. At least a few Chelsea fans have suffered in living memory, and blue is a lovely colo(u)r, and they've got John Terry and Petr Cech's clever hat. So lezzzzzzz gooooooh you Blues!

Outcome prediction: Chelsea 1 : 0 Manchester United. Didier Drogba goal on some unspeakably ugly and forgettable piece of business in about the 75th minute, either followed or preceded by the inevitable Wayne Rooney red card. Fun! We'll see yas.

Every Good Boy Deserves F_____

Congratulations to Zenit Saint Petersburg for bagging the UEFA Cup and all, but...I'm sorry, what brings that competition into more disrepute? The fact that Manchester City qualified for next year's edition by finishing sixth in the Premier League's "fair play" table? Or the fact that Fulham, a club that would be looking forward to next year's big clash with Ipswich Town if not for divine intervention, almost qualified by the same metric? Shouldn't there be a separate competition for "fair play" standouts—maybe one where both teams sit down for a nice cup of tea at midfield?

Rangers v. Manchester

Ah, Rangers. Let's just admit that we would have been surprised if all had been sweetness and light, eh?

New Boots & Contracts

The Eleven Devils Stamp of Approval descends with terrifying speed and force on this Richard Williams column, in which he compares the meaty, beaty, big and bouncy Premiership bonus boys to the less lovely side of '70s rock in its most decadent phase. Pushing the metaphor, Williams sees a parallel between the scruffier, more egalitarian (and, sounds like, more fun) world of the Championship and the pub-rock insurgency that led directly to punk.

This jibes with some preoccupations and reactionary opinions long held 'round here, to wit: while the Premiership can be dandy entertainment, it's also symptomatic of the Soviet-style gigantism and mindless power-worship that have taken over all of sports. One sees this everywhere—from the capitulation of the entire American sports scene to the NFL juggernaut (and its college junior league) to the glammed-up parody cricket of the Indian Premier League, the alleged Invisible Hand is used as an excuse for crushing the small, the quirky, the independent and the non-mainstream. Meanwhile, fans are renovated into consumers, their traditional sense of ownership replaced by a passive role. Buy, buy, buy, kids—until the owners find a more lucrative market, at which point, one way or another, you're gone.

We Are the Champions!

Actually, my Albina Going FC Unicorns are having a bit of a rough go of it in Portland Futsal's increasingly tough Third Division; we took our second one-goal defeat to league leaders Brooklyn Park Pub this week, and face two matches in two days to finish our season, with our prospects for climbing above fourth place (out of five) looking sketchy at best.

However, all is not gloom. Two of our players, in fact, should be sucking down the bubbly today, because they are co-owners of the newly minted FA Trophy champions, Ebbsfleet United. I'm sure Sam and Jimmy are having a fine time on their private islands today. Moguls.

The People's Car

Surely there is a wry historical joke hiding in the news that DC United, the club whose fierce Eagle Rampant badge has prompted some uncharitable comparisons to the aesthetics of various unsavory 20th Century political movements, just signed Volkswagen as its shirt sponsor. I am too tired to make it, however.

Today's Apocalyptic Forecast

The Columbus Crew is (are?) the best team in Major League Soccer. Lines for well-provisioned bunkers form to the left.

Mundo Albiceleste!

After visiting Argentina last year, the XIDevils Editorial Committee maintains a Strange Interest in all things Albiceleste, from tiny cups of really good coffee to riding noble steeds across the pampas. Delightful, then, that a commenter on the previous post (a guy from, of all places, Malayasia) runs this blog devoted to all Argentine players everywhere. God bless the Blaaaaghosphere.

Zenit's Zenith

So as I survey the possible wreckage of the Champions League final, which I fear will be a dire occasion enlivened only by the different comic facial expressions Drogba and Ronaldo use while wagging their fingers at the referee, I've been thinking how awesome it will be next year when the superb fantasy-football line-up of Bayern Munich gets its act together and rips through the CL. And then, of course, Bayern goes to Russia and gets completely sashlik'ed by Zenit St. Petersburg, like so:

zenit_bayermunich
Uploaded by thefootie

All of which leads me to both revise my predictions for next year's Champions League and reflect that the competition would be REALLY awesome if clubs like Zenit could make it to the final stages.

Five Things to Root For in the Champions League Final

—An earthquake.

—UEFA has the foresight to hire a panel of Chinese and Romanian judges to decide the diving competition between Didier Drogba and Cristiano Ronaldo.

—Petr Cech takes the field in a full suit of Medieval armor.

—Roman Abramovich starts a money-throwing fight with the entire Glazer family and buries them alive in Euros.

—The inevitable Wayne Rooney red card.

Beyond that, I can think of nothing else. Signed—

—Bitter as a rural Pennsylvanian:

XIDEVILS.

Pinker than Palermo's Home Strip

At last, a real idea for affecting progressive social change within football. Enough of the milquetoast official "Let's Kick INSERT REACTIONARY TENDENCY Out of Football" campaigns. Time for real action. The Grauniad's Steven Wells—always worth a lookie—hits on the brilliant idea of just assuming all pro 'ballers "have it in for each other," if you see what I'm saying. This move, if undertaken by a working majority of fans, would simultaneously eliminate homophobia within the game and set up all kinds of hilarious scenarios involving pricey designer man-bags and spa treatments. Was I the only one who noticed that, during last week's Barcelona v. Man Utd match, only the players' aestheticians seemed to on their game? I have never seen a finer collection of sculptured eyebrows.

Strangely, Guardian readers do not appear to be reacting favo(u)rably to S. Wells' insight, to judge by the comment box.

P.S.: Wells quotes an ex-Juve paper-pusher to this effect: "There are no gays in football ... a homosexual cannot do the job of a footballer." Interesting. I would like to introduce this gentleman to the goalkeeper for my Albina Going Unicorns. Dangerous Dave could bury the man just inside the penalty area without hesitation—on a clean play, mind you—before offering him a ten-percent discount on his next hair dye.

Shock of the New

I am stunned, stunned, STUNNED. I mean, color me a deep shade of stunned: Sir Alex Ferguson is whining. Paint me in your deepest, darkest variety of amazed.

Lipstick on the Pig

"In practice this was all about the gently absorbing spectacle of two fine teams struggling to find their distinct and separate rhythms. And for the fact that, true to form, the game refused to conform to type. How refreshing to be reminded that at this rarefied level football can still be awkward, tense, even at times rather unsatisfying."

—Barney Ronay, in the Guardian, re: Barcelona v. Manchester United

A more charitable interpretation would be hard to find.

The World's Premier Club Competition!

For real? Leave aside the fact that three out of the final four teams in the "European" Champions League hail from the same country, giving the semi-finals the feel of your regularly scheduled Carling Cup plus a Very Special Guest who will appear to lecture the audience about UNICEF. It's more disappointing that four out of four are playing like sides battling to escape relegation from the Belgian First Division. As the grim display mounted by Barcelona and Manchester Bay Buccaneers wound down this afternoon, I found myself wishing John Arne Riise could run on to the pitch to add some zest to the proceedings.

Now we face the worst of all possible worlds: Chelsea and Manchester United hoofing it all the way to Moscow to play the finale. At least Roman Abramovich can host a sweet kegger at his dacha.

A FANTASTIC DIVING HEADER!

I have heard it argued that the romance, surprise and whimsy have been driven out of elite football by, y'know, the Corporations. Not if John Arne Riise has anything to say about it! The rocketing redhead's last-gasp own goal yesterday was remarkable for a number of reasons, particularly in that it was the sort of chance that professional strikers often fail to convert. On a philosophical level, it proved that life (or at least the Champions League) is fundamentally absurd and absent of coherent meaning, an arena of Nothing in which caprice rules. (If, for example, Avram Grant goes from washing socks or whatever he was doing before Mourinho was offed to managing the Champions of Europe, he will have this unthinkable and random occurrence to thank.) And even I, a diehard Liverpool fan for about 18 months or something, had to admit that it was sort of hilarious. You just don't see grown men doing that very often.

The Commish Speaks!

Someone needs to tell MLSCzar Don Garber that a blog, like the one he just started is supposed to be a forum in which you sorta let loose, think on the fly, say what you mean, experiment a little. Not another opportunity to say the same thing you've been saying for 10 years in the PR-department-approved corporatospeak you always use. C'mon, Commish—where are those drunk party photos?

Falcon Crest Athletic

Courtesy the estimable blog Pitch Invasion, a report that the prospective owner of a small English club wants to change its name to "Harchester United", to match the fictional club in the soap opera Footballers' Wives.

I think this is a great idea. It worked wonders for FC Dallas.

Sliverpool

As this report makes clear, the on-going ownership meltdown at Liverpool keeps fluctuating between tragedy and farce. It seems likely that someone, probably some sort of transnational oligarch with billions of what they call quid at his/her disposal, will have to bail the Reds out of their disastrous bondage to a pair of American idiots. In the meantime, said idiots seem hell-bent on reducing the club to splinters.

As Comrade Lenin once asked, What is to be done? As long as football clubs are set up as private entities (or, worse, traded on the stock markets, which value nothing but growth and, as America's major newspaper companies have discovered in recent years, deliver swift and vicious punishment when said growth doesn't meet their expectations), fans will see their beloved teams bought, sold and asset-stripped. Manchester United is now as much a debt sinkhole as a football club. Chelsea could collapse tomorrow if Roman Abramovich suffers a heart attack or one of the misadventures mysteriously common to successful post-Soviet entrepreneurs. The Premiership's weaker sisters are vulnerable to fire-sale emergencies and hostile takeovers. Meanwhile, the league's run-away success makes it likely that other competitions around Europe and the world will try to match the English model of massive private investment.

Not to come across all Black Bloc or anything, but I think the only solution is some form of collective ownership: substantive control exercised by fans. Barcelona and other Spanish clubs operate that way, as do the members of the Bundesliga, one of the best-run and most populist major sports leagues in the world. A plan for a fan takeover of Liverpool already surfaced in response to the year's troubles. It may not be going anywhere, but it speaks to the larger truth. It's time for fans of the game everywhere to get stuck in and demand a real say.

Perfect Mediocrity

The kind of gem only the great Du Nord can deliver: in its not very long and not nearly sufficiently sordid history, FC Dallas (ex-THE BURN) has (or as the English would insist, have) won 162 matches, lost 162 matches and drawn 47. By some small coincidence I always feel a small piece of my soul turn black and die when I accidentally watch FC Dallas.

It Is Good to be the King

In the midst of everything else happening in the MegaHuge World of Football—Liverpool's simultaneous boardroom meltdown and plucky voyage to the English Champions League semifinals, Bayern Munich's stellar season with its new fantasy-league line-up, the march to Euro 08 and, of course, the New England Revolution's new teenage stars from Gambia (who knew?)—let's not ignore the big week in the life of Silvio Berlusconi. Of course, there's the small matter of possibly regaining Italy's premiership (that's the political kind). While the prospect of taking command of a major European nation would be enough for most men, Berlusconi also seems poised to make a big human-resources move: it looks like Ronaldhino will leave the employ of the Barcelona Collective to join Uncle Sil's Milan francheeeez-eh. The beautiful bucktoothed Brazilian is done drawing his paycheck from FCB's mass membership; instead, he'll get his circa $12M a year from the pockets of one Big Cheese. Insert Eduardo Galeano essay here.

REDS CRUSH ARSENAL AS NEW ERA OF GLORY DAWNS!

Just had to say it.

SOUNDERS! SOUNDERS! SOUNDERS!

We interrupt our standard non-service to note that the new MLS franchise holders in Seattle chose to retain the city's glorious soccer tradition and call their new team "the Sounders." This means they rejected such previously mooted (is that a word?) possibilities as "Seattle Republic" and "Seattle Alliance," both of which sounded like the names of left-wing newspapers or gay bathhouses. ("Seattle Cooperative Commonwealth," "Seattle Monetary Union" and "Seattle Non-Aligned Movement" did not make the finalists' field.) The move comes after a reported onslaught of pressure from those well-known traditionalists, the fans of the currently extant Seattle Sounders—man, those 25 people must have stayed up nights setting up anonymous Hotmail accounts.

Meanwhile, down in Portland we look forward to our future archrivalry with the Yakima Reds.

Boing Boing

The opening weekend of Major League Soccer action, the traditional highlight of the American sporting calendar for over 100 years, saw plenty of goals. Even some very good goals. But how many came on second chances off 'keeper deflections? I counted at least a half-dozen in the highlight reel I YouTubed, including the first couple in the New England v. Houston revenge match, played before the legendary blue tarps of Foxboro Stadium:

Shaka, Brah!

We have a new arrival in the soccerblogosphere: Shaka Hislop.

Let's Drink to...FC ST. PAULI

Yes, Eleven Devils has gone sadly silent over the last few months, largely due to Your Humble Correspondent's preoccupation with the complicated heist of a French gold shipment he's become involved with as a "bag man", and with writing a "book," which is like a blog that never changes and has no videos. These two pursuits—heist-planning and book-writing—both really cut into a man's football consumption. So in absence of any real "content," as the professionals say, let's just raise a pre-San Patricio glass to one of many reasons that football RULES, the mighty fans of FC St. Pauli:

Mindless-Yet-Obscurely-Sinister Comment of the Day

"We're in the happiness business. Sport is a form of personal entertainment."

--Miami Dolphins exec Joe Bailey

Liverpool: Good For Something!

If Liverpool insist on being quite so useless, I'm glad they can at least provide a foil for overachieving minnows, thus striking a metaphysical blow for football democracy and Freedom Everywhere. Havant & Waterlooville once figured to be the high/low point of the Reds' FA Cup experience, but now Barnsley has lived the dream in full. Congratulations to the, uh, Barnstormers or whatever they are. Now, on to Tuesday, when I hope to drink a glass of Italian prosecco and toast the conclusion of the Rafa Benitez era.

RED REVOLUTION! (?)

Just last night, I was thinking: how could Liverpool's season get any worse? Oh, yes—there's the scheduled elimination from the Champions League at the hands of Inter. I've already written that one into the profit/loss statement, as I'm sure many others have as well. The Reds currently sit seventh in the Premiership, with Blackburn, Pompey and West Ham—three sides that specialize in grinding out exactly the results they need—in tight attack formation just behind. Then come Spurs, showing many signs of revitalization. Could Liverpool finish...11th? 12th? It's quite possible that the bottom of the trough isn't in view yet, while the backside of Rafa Benitez could well be.

But enough of that. How could the season get better? A run of victories would be nice, but let's be serious. Let's look, instead, at this: a financial uprising by the Kop! It seems some Liverpool fans aren't just content to own the scarf and the life-sized S. Gerrard wallhanging. They want 100,000 people (!) to kick in 5,000 quid apiece (!!! : $10,000 : !!!) to buy out the dipshit American owners, meanwhile warding off any and all Saudi sheiks and shadowy Kazakh biznessmeni who might come prowling around. The model, of course, is FC Barcelona, every aspiring pinko's second favorite club.

It's an inspiring vision. Does it have a hope in hell?

New Nou

Fancy football clubs get fancy architects: here's Norman Foster's semi-cool, semi-ridiculous remake of Barcelona's Camp Nou ground. I mean, I like it...but doesn't it have a faint whiff of Renaissance Faire about it? Maybe it's the pinata-like color scheme.

Surely Someone Else...

...finds this as funny as I do?

Where does Sir Alex think he gets the money to buy the Carlos Tevezes of the world?

Allez, Eux Autres, Allez!

There are many good reasons to love the Portland band Eux Autres. Their name, and many of their lyrics, are in French (and in the case of the name, colloquial Quebecois French, at that)—certain to annoy rightwingers, Francophobia bandwagonistes, Marco Materazzi and other odious elements. Last Yuletide, they released one of the best Christmas anthems ever, “Another Christmas at Home,” which captures the punch- (and otherwise-) drunken atmosphere of whirlwind holiday visit to the Old Hometown, and features a tavern that sells champagne on draught. Guitarist Nick “Nicolhino” Larimer is both a Liverpool fan and a member of the Albina Going FC Unicorns—does football street cred get any more street, or any more credible?

But for fans of this game we call Beautiful, perhaps the best reason to bandy about Eux Autres’ difficult-to-pronounce name is that the duo almost certainly enjoys the distinction of being America’s smartest soccer band. (The fact that the competition in this category is arguably limited—given that oy-lite ska-pop nerds the Bouncing Souls constitute the rest of the field—should not be held against them.) Football contributes a rich and earthy hue to Eux Autres’ lyrical palette, a source for melancholic allusion and emotional allegory born of the game’s split personality—for fans, both a medium for fantasy and a cause of crushing heartbreak; for players, a means to fabulous wealth and a soul-draining job. (Suffice it to say that the vision of football propounded in Eux Autres songs is more Britannic than Brazilian; their first album included a song called “Partick Nil”. Yes, that’s a reference to Glasgow’s mighty Partick Thistle Football Club, currently doing business in the Scottish First Division…though they have the odd moment of glory to reflect upon.)



Their new album, Cold City, opens with a song called “The Deadball Era”: a weird Surrealist collage of 1970s English football hard yakka and spikes-up 1920s baseball. In its punchy lilt, the song turns phrases like “transfer market,” “cup ties,” and “no domestic fixtures and a doping scandal” into unlikely but catchy pop filigree. The subject seems to be a team (of some sort) drifting from early promise into seasonal disaster. (To the point where, perhaps inspired by Liverpool, Europe is all they’ve got.) The gaffer orders a winter break in Rio to clear the boys’ heads, to no avail—the Spaniards have their number, and the non-stop grind of life at the top reduces them to desperation. (“I’m always coming home, unless I’m leaving home.”) In the end, they must fall back on cold-blooded cynicism—the ultimate fate of every team as it faces the question of survival. “Mercy is for the unfit.” You can almost hear Roy Keane bellow it in the Sunderland dressing room.



In “Collision Theory,” pyramid football provides a handy metaphor for life’s calamities: “We’re never surviving this fall / It’s lower division for all.” Pop music’s job is to articulate and dramatize the most commonplace (e.g., basically mundane) emotions and experiences. In this case, Eux Autres say that we’ve all been there, and we’ll all be there again—even the lordly among us:



What next? A rock opera about the New York Cosmos? A spoken-word interpretation of the Serie A match-fixing scandal? A storming, two-minute-fifty-nine-second rave-up about the White Horse final in the 1923 FA Cup? Perhaps the game’s burgeoning Stateside popularity (and enduring alterna-culture, anti-jock cachet) will put Eux Autres on the leading edge of an indie-calcio subgenre that sweeps Hipster America. Picture the beauty: mustaches grown in irony; Manchester City shirts worn in deadly earnest.

Christmas Merengue

Like all good American soccer pinkos, I harbor a knee-jerk dislike for Real Madrid, due to presumed crimes-against-humanity-by-association that took place before I was born. And like all good American soccer pinkos, I love FC Barcelona because they stand for Freedom and World Socialism or something like that, plus those shirts can get you laid. But I gotta say, the Madridistas play some abso-fab football, do they not? This latest iteration of one of world sport's greatest rivalries looks like a minor classic:

Christmas Stuffing

Congratulations to UrbanHonking Athletic, who served stuffed Unicorn for a holiday feast last night and claimed the Rivals Cup for the third time in a row.

Meanwhile, what's the over/under on how many goals Inter will score on Liverpool in their Champions League tie?

It's All On the Line TONIGHT! TONIGHT! TONIGHT!

We could talk about the stirring win by Arsenal's pre-teen XI in the Carling Cup. Or we could talk about how Liverpool is finally "finding its own level"—somewhere north of Sunderland and south of Manchester City. Or maybe the riveting news out of MLS regarding changes to senior-international designation rules...and they wonder why the league hasn't captured Joe Average's imagination.

But instead, let's talk about a huge match with trophy implications in not one but two competitions! Tonight, at the tranquil hour of 10 pm, the Albina-Going FC "Unicorns" take on UrbanHonking Athletic Club in the seventh round of Portland Futsal's Winter I season. This battle will decide the coveted Rivals Cup, with the winner taking home the Golden Angel of Victory after both sides beat Dudes FC earlier this season. Meanwhile, while my beloved Unicorns have stormed to an unbeaten record so far this season, we haven't quite wrapped up the Third Division Conference Argentina crown. A win, a draw or a narrow loss puts us into the divisional final after New Year's.

How often do you get to do the Double all in one night? No wonder our fans are excited:

Paging Guy Ritchie

Of course, the strange wave of burglaries perpetrated against Liverpool players' trophy homes while they're off playing games is NO LAUGHING MATTER. But isn't there something just a little comic, in that Lock, Stock and Two Smoking Barrels way, about the whole affair? You just know that the Scouser thugs (Everton fans?) who came up with the scheme think of themselves as criminal geniuses of Howard Marks calibre, while the police investigators are doing their best combination of Sherlock Holmes and Keystone Kops. Most recently, Stevie Gerrard's manor got hit while he was taking down O. Marseille. After-action reports yielded this gem for the annals of criminal justice:

"Yesterday an officer stood guard outside while his colleagues carried out forensic examinations which were focused on muddy footprints left by the gang."

'Struth, Jonesie—look! Cor'blimey, it's a clew!

As Blatantly Self-Promotional As a Giorgio Chinaglia Press Conference

Somehow, the Royal We managed to take a break from the incessant blog posting (that's a lie) and non-stop wassailing (that's true) to

1) Appear on last night's edition of the Shuttlecoque Sporting Hour. Listen here: http://sportinghour.blogspot.com. Not sure it's a performance that can be "recommended" in good conscience to neutral parties, but I do describe the strange dream I had yesterday morning in which I was mysteriously transposed with Stephen Gerrard and led Liverpool in a match against Tottenham Hotspur...a match played not at White Hart Lane, but in a vast concrete plaza at the foot of towering London apartment blocks.

2) Write a book review for The San Francisco Chronicle, the official newspaper of Sam Spade.

Old Nostalgics FC

Like many futbolistas Yanquis, the Eleven Devils Editorial Commissar makes regular visits to the invaluable blog Du Nord, a wide-ranging compendium of soccer news updated just about every day by some Irish Viking maniac in Minnesota. Du Nord is a great example of why my fellow "professional" journalists just need to shut the fuck up about blogs: Bruce does something no mainstream media outlet in this country does, and does it really well.

Today's DN post sent me tripping down le Rue de la Memoire in a big way, with three separate items that harked back to the days in the early and mid-'90s when I started following this sport we all call calcio in earnest:

—Carlos Llamosa, longtime defender for the US national team and various MLS clubs, is finally retiring. You may recall what a great, and oh-so-American-soccer, story Carlos was when he broke into the Show: a dude from Colombia, who was working security at the World Trade Center the first time it got bombed, comes out of nowhere (specifically the A-League), becomes a staple of the great early DC United teams, turns Americano and plays in the World Cup. Not to say that these kinds of made-for-Hollywood sagas are impossible now—see a certain Watford defender, who scrubbed his way up from college in Chicago to Non-League to the Premiership and national team—but it does remind me how provisional and seat-of-the-pants the whole MLS enterprise was back in the day.

—Meanwhile, it looks like the Rochester Ragin' Rhinos—the darlings of the American lower divisions a decade ago, the team that was certain to make the jump to MLS as soon as the top flight got its act together—are on the rocks in a major way. The Rhinos talked the good people of Rochester into helping them out with a stadium, and now may gift those same fine citizens with a ballpark of their very own if the club can't get out of debt. One could call it a cautionary tale, if one were of that ilk.

—Finally, DN compiles its usual updates on the American players plying their trade all over Europe these days. Just 10 years ago, any single American player getting a European deal was tantamount to a rain of toads. Now no one even notices—still waiting for The New Yorker to run an update on its Freddy Adu profile of a few years ago, the one that basically said the kid was worthless.

Two Notes From the Road

After spending a solid week in Montana, the Eleven Devils Notebook is just a little empty. Aside from watching Chelsea go nuts in the Champions League—THE WORLD'S PREMIER CLUB COMPETITION, or so we're told—football-related activities were at a minimum. Two little moments, though, livened things up:

—On a walk through my parents' woodsy neighborhood outside Missoula (I believe the experts would call it the "urban/wildlands interface"), I encountered an older gent wearing a Liverpool FC jacket. "Is that a Liverpool coat?" I asked. "Yeah," he said, "it's a great club." You'll never walk alone, indeed.

—On the drive back to Portland, somewhere between scenic St. Regis, Mont. and the Idaho border, I coaxed the Subaru past a semi-truck with a bright-orange cab. Stenciled on the side of the cab was the crest of Deportivo Cali, the great Colombian club. Who was the driver? Does he console himself on endless Interstates with thoughts of Depor's eight national titles? (Okay, I Wikipedia'ed that.) Does he seek out fleabag motels with Fox Soccer Channel? Does he trash-talk America fans over his CB?

Nil-Nil! Nil-Nil! Nil-Nil!

I will spare you the details, but I find myself with nothing better to do than watch the Monday Night Helmetball fixture between the Miami Football Dolphins and FC Steelers of Pittsburgh. And at the moment of this writing, it is one of the best helmetball games I have ever watched. Why? Because the score is 0-0, of course: deep into the third quarter, both teams appear incapable of scoring so much as a failure goal. The Steelers' kicker just missed a failure-goal attempt in the most pathetic fashion. Given the sheer suckitude of the Football Dolphins, it is entirely possible that this could end in a scoreless tie, in which case it would rise from mere regular-season-match-up-between-one-mediocre-team-and-one-horrible-team to legendary status.

C'mon Nil-Nil! C'mon Nil-Nil!

UPDATE: Did Ben Roethlisberger seriously just point up at Jesus after "leading" his team to a 3-0 win? Trust me, son—if there's one game the Almighty had no part of, it was this one.

And with that, I hearby issue an apology to the faithful reader(s) of Eleven Devils and promise not to mention helmetball for at least one calendar year.

The MLS Cup Final in 20,000 Words or Less

Any day that starts with a televised football match at 9 am is a good day, but in past years I have tuned in to Major League Soccer's championship decider with the knowledge that it would probably be a downer. One could call it the Denver Broncos Effect, in honor of those years-gone Super Bowls when the Broncos would barely show up: when a league stakes a whole season on a single game, the vagaries of sport pretty much guarantee that the game will disappoint at least sometimes. I used to make a practice of inviting a non-soccer-nerd pal over to watch the Final ("hey, it's the championship game—it'll be fun!"), but I learned my lesson after last year's 120-minute torture session at the hands of the Houston Dynamo and New England Revolution.

With those two teams matched up again yesterday, my expectations are low. I even went out of my way to dis the stolid but successful Revs in an earlier post. I now must issue a formal apology to all concerned, because Don't-Call-It-Soccerbowl '07 turned out to be pretty damn good.

Not fantastic, not a classic, not great, but pretty damn good. Both teams went for the jugular, and New England—thanks to the pacy Khano Smith and the immortal Steve Ralston (did I just type that?)—showed plenty of attacking gusto. But what I really liked was the game's hardboiled, fundamentally American nature. Everyone got stuck in; tackles were flying; Smith gave Craig Weibel a modified Glasgow handshake right in front of the ref. Pat Onstad's blind save on the flying header in injury time was a straight shot of voltage; to fake a Ray Hudson comment, the whole contest had more end-to-end action than a San Fernando Valley feature film.

It's also interesting, ain't it, that for all the talk over the years about how MLS needed more Latin flair or European know-how, the two teams that came out on top this season are just about pure Norte Americano products—a bunch of guys from Canada, the Caribbean and Los Estados Unidos who work hard, tackle with venom and, yes, can pull off the odd moment of magic.

The Shuttlecoque Has Landed

The gentlemen of the Shuttlecoque Sporting Hour, Portland's finest (only? I wouldn't know) sports-talk radio show, kindly invited me on the air last night. The resulting hilarity—we discuss a lot of helmetball, but also talk a (very) little MLS Cup and there's an exciting moment when they ask me to make up my own football code—can be heard via SuperWeb here:

http://sportinghour.blogspot.com/

Major League Skinflint

The MLS Cup Final—always a highlight of the global soccer calendar—is tomorrow, and so league commissar Don Garber is making the media rounds. In this interview with Jack Bell of the New York Times, Garber addresses a bunch of different issues. He is at his most charmingly ruthless on the subject of player salaries; while a handful of MLS players make big money, most are paid more like entry-level corporate drones, and many could almost certainly earn more tending bar somewhere. I consider it a scandal—it's practically immoral to ask grown men to risk their physical health and forestall other career prospects for $24,000 a year. (While, meanwhile, hyping your league as the next big thing in American sports...naturally.)

Given a chance to address this fundamental inequity, Garber has this to say:

"M.L.S. could be profitable today if spent less money on players."

That might be true, but then again if it spent any less on players than it already does, it would find itself on roughly the same level as my own Albina-Going Unicorns, pride of Portland Futsal's Third Division. (We are available, by the way, Commissioner.)

Then, Garbster adds:

"Our current CBA expires at the end of the ‘09 season. You will see us saying less and less about finances."

Well, that's nice. Gotta love transparency.

Housekeeping

ITEM: The lads at Shuttlecoque Sporting Hour write to say that their programme can actually be heard on Sunday evenings, not Saturday as advised below.

ITEM: How TOTALLY EXCITING will it be to see the New England Revolution in yet another MLS Cup Final? They always bring what the Brazilians call "jogo bonito," do they not?

ITEM: My smarter and more talented younger brother is "blogging" (is that what the kids call it?) here.

ITEM: What shall we call the new Seattle MLS team? Entitlement FC?

The Bog of Blog

Two hundred and fifty posts into its glorious existence, Eleven Devils has lately found itself in the Great Mire of Blogdom, sluggishly mucking through thick brambles of real life and non-football-oriented drudgery and seldom updating its eager public. But that can change! Let's go, XIDEVILS FOOTBALL MISCELLANY!!!:

—Your Humble Correspondent finds himself on the deep DL after a misguided clash over a 50/50 ball in Portland Futsal Division Three action. I took on a hulking member of the Rubber Burning Hotrods, and though the play was clean, I came away feeling like I might need to be hauled out 'hind the old barn and shaaaawt. After a week and a half of limping around, I'm still not good to go. So it was with bittersweet emotions that I watched from the sidelines as the Mighty Mighty Unicorns of Albina-Going Football Club handed out one of the best beat-downs ever to Third Div new boys Chico's Bail Bonds. (I don't know what's up with the stupid team names, but can we knock it off, please? Go pretentiously faux-English or pseudo-Latino or go home with your amateur branding!) Insiders tipped CBB as an early title favorite in the new Winter Season after they beat UrbanHonking Athletic by the maximum seven goals in round one. I'm proud to say that my boys gave them a comprehensive seven-goal hiding of their own to reflect upon. I'm sure the fact that I was not playing is mere coincidence.

—Speaking of branding, Albina-Going FC debuted its deliriously attractive new kit this season. The sky-blue number comes adorned with the club badge, which depicts a stylized unicorn superimposed over Portland's iconic Steel Bridge. Are we nerds? Hell yes. But v., v., v. sexy nerds.

—We direct your attention to a fine new(ish) radio programme called the Shuttlecoque Sporting Hour. Its hosts, a pair of erudite young men, attempt to redress the global psychic imbalance created by all the shite sports-talk radio out there by discussing le Sport with a grain of intelligence. The most recent show cited Eduardo Galeano, which earns it our Stamp of Approval. Portlanders with exceptionally strong radio receivers can listen live at 2100 tonight on 1450 AM, the frequency of KPSU, which broadcasts using equipment left over from the French Resistance. Others can download at sportinghour.blogspot.com. Have fun with it.

—Yeah, Seattle to MLS. It becomes official today. You know what? Fuck those guys anyway.

—I was heartbroken to see that Maidenhead United lost in FA Cup First Round action today. I love Maidenhead United.

The Ray Hudson Quote of the Week

Regarding a Ronaldhino free-kick goal:

"ESOTERIC! That's all I can say. There is more flair in this team than in a '70s high school reunion."

Of course, no one has the first clue WTF that means, but I insist that we all start using "Esoteric!" as an exclamatory adjective. It can be the new "awesome."

Strangeways Here We Come

This is odd: Lanus, the anonymous-seeming and thoroughly crappy suburban team I watched play (and lose to) Buenos Aires giants River Plate just eight months ago, is now in first place in the Primera Division. Just four rounds remain in the current championship, and it looks like a death-defying (as any experience with Argentinian football tends to be) race between the purple-clad lads and ever-fashionable Boca.

Four Posts & Two Lengths of Tape

I will admit to never giving mighty mighty Queen's Park Rangers a thought (except to appreciate the oh-so-English radness of the club's name), but this little rundown of the insanity that hangs around Loftus Road definitely inspires a flicker of interest. Sounds like they might be in League One next year—and hey, I don't have a League One club yet.

Rites of Autumn

Some say Major League Soccer lacks tradition. You can't blame that on DC United, however; the club is doing its level best to make blowing great seasons with playoff flame-outs against Chicago an annual ritual.

Robinho: Mythical Hero

Robinho, probably the most elegant player I have ever seen in the flesh—when he has the ball, it's like he's riding a bloody magic carpet to dreamland, nimble as a prancing squirrel on a telephone wire, as Ray Hudson might say—just keeps getting better. From the Press:

"...Robinho, Ronaldinho and other players attended a party that went on for hours and was complete with alcohol, sex and furtive escapes by footballers as they left the nightclub.

Moreover, O Globo said that at one point Robinho - who had been seen dancing with a voluptuous blonde - asked a security guard 'for 40 condoms,' adding that the Real Madrid player left the disco at 5 am.

The 23-year-old Robinho's involvement in similar activities has been documented in the past. In January, Spanish media accused him of turning up to a Real Madrid training session drunk - an allegation that was not denied by the club."

If there are any "kids" reading this, please: Don't try whatever Robinho thought he was going to try unless you've consulted a physician.

Canzano v. Garber

MLS Commisar Don Garber zipped through the City of Roses this week, studying our potential as an expansion city under the enormous hyper-powered magnifying glass he carries with him everywhere he goes. In the course of his travels, he took some time to talk to Oregonian sports columnist John Canzano on his popular sports-talk radio show. You can listen to the resulting awkwardness here.

Sports-talk is not a friendly environment for soccer—I think we all know this. To each their own, etc. I'm proud of "the soccer group" (see two sentences below) for building a sport without the support of the sports media mafia, which deep down just wants to protect its little piece of turf from incursions by subjects it doesn't collectively know much about.

Canzano and his charming cohost treated Garber with a notable lack of country hospitality, repeatedly and insistently referring to his product as "minor league." At one point, "the soccer group" (guess that's us) was referred as "hippie, granola, liberal..." (Ha. There are some skinheads these guys should really meet.) I would like to say that it amazes me that paid-up journalists still spout this stuff in 2007, but then again I work in the business.

On the other hand, there is another issue in play. Major League Soccer and the Timbers ownership group are talking about a possible $20-million, publicly financed retrofit of PGE Park to make it Beckham-worthy. To the extent that Canzano treated that idea with healthy skepticism, I salute him.

Public stadium financing is almost always a ripoff, amounting to a subsidy of some of the least needy people in America. Now, PGE Park is actually city-owned, which might move it into a slightly different category than the outright hand-outs most sports franchises seek; I'm not convinced of that, at least not yet. I would love to see MLS here, but not at any price. Garber and Timbers owner Merritt Paulson should be made to answer some tough questions—maybe even Canzano-esque questions—before they get a dime of tax money.