Major League Soccer kicks off in just two days, and most of the preseason coverage has been glowing. The buzz revolves around how the league has grown and solidified, Toronto FC's phenomenal box-office coup, 'Rado's new stadium and Beckham's impending and possibly catalytic arrival.
And I was feeling pretty good about all this, until I saw this item on the excellent S. Goff's WaPo soccer blog:
The Marc Burch trade is now official....Burch, 22, will join the club on a developmental contract, which means he will earn either $12,900 or $17,700 this season.
If this league has really grown up, what is it doing paying adult men less than $13,000 a year for risky physical labor? I'm all for giving young kids a bottom-rung, low-budget chance, and that rate might be appropriate for a 16-year-old apprentice living with his parents. But for anyone past the age of 20, that kind of payment is definitely immoral and should be illegal. How is someone supposed to live in a major metropolitan area, let alone maintain the physical and mental condition necessary to play professional sport and "develop," on less than $50 a day?
What can be done? MLS supporters groups in every city should start with a Day of Solidarity with their club's developmental players, using banners and other signage to let the league know that fans will not tolerate this grossly inequitable situation forever. Or will they? I don't think fans have ever made a concerted effort to get players more money in the history of American sports. Certainly, NFL fans seem perfectly happy to let their beloved cartel treat players like disposable parts. Then again, I don't think there's been a "major" league in the modern era quite this cheap.
Thursday, April 05, 2007
Wednesday, April 04, 2007
ZIZOU TO TIMBERS???
This killjoy is trying to kill the rumors, but I'm trying to keep them alive. Not that they, you know, exist.
Monday, April 02, 2007
IT'S ANTHEMIC!!!
Eleven Devils has been on an undeclared hiatus of late, which is not in any way related to its parent company's alleged "regulatory issues" in the Cayman Islands. However, news broke today that demands some notice. In its on-going quest to provide a "world-class soccer experience" (but what about the New York Red Bulls?), Major League soccer announced that:
—As teams enter the field, led by the referees (FIFA style), a new MLS anthem will be played.
—A new MLS anthem and signature sound was recorded last month by a full orchestra in Prague, Czech Republic, under the direction of an American conductor. More details on this piece of music will be revealed on April 6 on MLSnet.com.
A new anthem? A signature sound? A full orchestra in Prague? Consider our collective gourd exploded!
—As teams enter the field, led by the referees (FIFA style), a new MLS anthem will be played.
—A new MLS anthem and signature sound was recorded last month by a full orchestra in Prague, Czech Republic, under the direction of an American conductor. More details on this piece of music will be revealed on April 6 on MLSnet.com.
A new anthem? A signature sound? A full orchestra in Prague? Consider our collective gourd exploded!
Friday, March 16, 2007
Emilio: Instant Legend?
I'll admit it: the MLS club I've followed most closely over the league's existence is DC United. For us neutrals in the middle of nowhere (or Montana, as the case may be), the early United sides were by far the most interesting MLS had to offer. And though I would not call myself a "supporter" of the Black and White and Red, I do look out for their results.
Seems like a promising season is in the offing for DC. For one thing, newfound Brazilian striker Emilio seems well on his way to becoming a club legend:
Seems like a promising season is in the offing for DC. For one thing, newfound Brazilian striker Emilio seems well on his way to becoming a club legend:
Thursday, March 15, 2007
The REAL Champions League
The so-called Mainstream Media seems determined to ignore this major story...but that's what us radical, cutting-edge bloggers are for! Tonight, Portland Futsal's action-packed Third Division comes down to an insane four-team, one-night knock-out jamboree! Early-evening semifinals will produce two championship contenders, who then do battle on the plastic pitch at 9 pm. My Albina Going FC Unicorns, the second seed outta Conference Argentina, take on Conference Brazil pennant-winners Deep Cheese (???) at 7:25. Could we possibly survive to the Final? Could we possibly survive playing two matches in one night? SEE YOU THERE, SAAAAAAAAAH-KER FANS!
The Plague Reborn
Please, someone get Lord Mawhinney of the Football League on the horn and beg him not to release the shoot-out virus from the lab. It took the heroic efforts of thousands of MLS fans to contain the virus during the '90s. It's okay to study the thing under controlled conditions, but you don't want it loose in the wild.
RADICAL ELEVEN DEVILS PROPOSAL: If the League really wants to make its games zestier, encourage scoring and generally amp things up, try this: instead of monkeying with how games are decided on the field, change the way the league tables are calculated. Instead of using points and goal difference as the most important factors, use 1) Matches won; 2) Goals scored; 3) Draws; 4) Goal difference.
This system would weight victories and tallies even more heavily than the traditional matrix, and make the dreaded 0-0 draw look pretty unattractive even to away teams. Thoughts?
RADICAL ELEVEN DEVILS PROPOSAL: If the League really wants to make its games zestier, encourage scoring and generally amp things up, try this: instead of monkeying with how games are decided on the field, change the way the league tables are calculated. Instead of using points and goal difference as the most important factors, use 1) Matches won; 2) Goals scored; 3) Draws; 4) Goal difference.
This system would weight victories and tallies even more heavily than the traditional matrix, and make the dreaded 0-0 draw look pretty unattractive even to away teams. Thoughts?
Tuesday, March 13, 2007
The Operational Deficit That Ate New York
Last spring, I found myself in New York City shortly after Red Bull's much-hyped takeover of the erstwhile (New York/New Jersey) MetroStars. New York, of course, is secretly one of the greatest soccer markets in the entire world—a city where you see Man United replica shirts sharing subway car space with strips from Dynamo Moscow, Inter Milan and the Colombian national team, a place where one passonate fan faction or another is rarely more than a street corner away. From the storied Cosmos to the 84-year-old Cosmopolitan Soccer League to the massive crowds that throng international matches at Giants Stadium, the Big Apple is rich with football lore.
So it was distressing, to say the least, to see a grand total of one (1) dude wearing the colors of the supposed hometown franchise, Red Bull New York. (Or New York Red Bulls?) After over a decade, three or four name changes, numerous attempts to wheel out foreign stars and more managerial regimes than the average banana republic, Major League Soccer's visible fanbase in the Capital of the World consisted of one fat guy in Little Italy.
Now, courtesy the excellent Ives Galarcep of the North Jersey Herald, comes news that RBNY frittered away $14 million last year alone, and appears to be sailing into the '07 campaign without a commercial rudder.
$14 million. That probably equals the seasonal budget of the entire United Soccer Leagues First Division, and could definitely fund the combined salaries of the Portland Timbers 20 times over or more. It may look like crumbs from some angles—if you're, say, Posh Beckham's personal wardrobe acquisitions director—but $14 million gone is a pretty damning indictment of a league that will never be able to claim a real mainstream breakthrough until it establishes a serious New York beach head.
Now let's take a theoretical (and idealistic) trip in the Time-Reverser to 1996, the first year of Major League Soccer. Let's imagine that instead of the closed, centrally controlled American-style set-up the league insisted on (otherwise it would never survive, remember?), it had adopted a more fluid franchising system. One based on promotion and relegation between several competitive tiers—one designed to encourage a little speculative investment, even direct competition for particular markets. By this time, we may well have seen a half-dozen New York-based clubs come and go. We almost certainly would have seen attempts to harness the raw vitality of the Outer Boroughs. The cursed ghost ship of the MetroStars/Red Bulls might have died an unlamented death, replaced by International NYC or Brooklyn Spartak or Empire FC of Queens—or all of the above. MLS might have succeeded in creating its own version of baseball's Gotham glory days, when three teams duelled for local affections.
Formula for disaster? Maybe. But can anyone convince me that the league would have done worse than it has?
So it was distressing, to say the least, to see a grand total of one (1) dude wearing the colors of the supposed hometown franchise, Red Bull New York. (Or New York Red Bulls?) After over a decade, three or four name changes, numerous attempts to wheel out foreign stars and more managerial regimes than the average banana republic, Major League Soccer's visible fanbase in the Capital of the World consisted of one fat guy in Little Italy.
Now, courtesy the excellent Ives Galarcep of the North Jersey Herald, comes news that RBNY frittered away $14 million last year alone, and appears to be sailing into the '07 campaign without a commercial rudder.
$14 million. That probably equals the seasonal budget of the entire United Soccer Leagues First Division, and could definitely fund the combined salaries of the Portland Timbers 20 times over or more. It may look like crumbs from some angles—if you're, say, Posh Beckham's personal wardrobe acquisitions director—but $14 million gone is a pretty damning indictment of a league that will never be able to claim a real mainstream breakthrough until it establishes a serious New York beach head.
Now let's take a theoretical (and idealistic) trip in the Time-Reverser to 1996, the first year of Major League Soccer. Let's imagine that instead of the closed, centrally controlled American-style set-up the league insisted on (otherwise it would never survive, remember?), it had adopted a more fluid franchising system. One based on promotion and relegation between several competitive tiers—one designed to encourage a little speculative investment, even direct competition for particular markets. By this time, we may well have seen a half-dozen New York-based clubs come and go. We almost certainly would have seen attempts to harness the raw vitality of the Outer Boroughs. The cursed ghost ship of the MetroStars/Red Bulls might have died an unlamented death, replaced by International NYC or Brooklyn Spartak or Empire FC of Queens—or all of the above. MLS might have succeeded in creating its own version of baseball's Gotham glory days, when three teams duelled for local affections.
Formula for disaster? Maybe. But can anyone convince me that the league would have done worse than it has?
Friday, March 09, 2007
Cooking with Gaz!
Here's a shocking development: Zenit St Petersburg is favored to lead the way in the Russian championship this season. Highly coincidentally, Zenit is run by Gazprom, which in turn is run by the Russian government. The government is run by Vladimir Putin, who is from the old imperial capital and, odds are, is a Zenit supporter if he supports anyone.
And to think American soccer fans complain about how MLS operates.
And to think American soccer fans complain about how MLS operates.
Tuesday, March 06, 2007
Red Destiny! (????) // Who Is In Thuram's Brain?
Okay, boyos, today is the day. A lead of, effectively, a goal and a half. Big-occasion home crowd. Barca in, if not a freefall, then something of a slough. If Liverpool can't produce celebration at Anfield today, it might be time to give the first XI (what am I saying? this is Rafa's team: call it the first XX) a few months off and let the reserves finish the season.
Eleven Devils will be reporting for duty at Kell's come 11.30. And though I love to watch Barcelona, I'll be pulling hard for the Merseysiders. We're just dating, you understand, Liverpool and I, but I've reached the point where I wouldn't mind if they made a move. Y'know?
***
My comrades at A Pretty Move already nailed this one, but it's superb: Lilian Thuram musing on Miles Davis and blasting Nicholas Sarkozy, the rat-faced tough-talker who hopes a steady diet of immigrant-bashing can hoist him into Elysee Palace. (Message to France from The Rest Of The World: You have a choice. You can make us look at Sarko for seven years, or you can give us Segolene, the Hot Socialist Mom. French people are supposed to be sexy. Make it fucking happen! Watching Jacques Chirac melt for 14 years was bad enough.)
Thuram's interview prompted me to review The Archives and check out his moment of zoned-out heroism against Croatia in the 1998 World Cup. Thuram says that he basically didn't know who he was or where he was when he knocked in the two goals that put France in the Final. Around here, we call that "The Jaguar Realm." Check it out:
Eleven Devils will be reporting for duty at Kell's come 11.30. And though I love to watch Barcelona, I'll be pulling hard for the Merseysiders. We're just dating, you understand, Liverpool and I, but I've reached the point where I wouldn't mind if they made a move. Y'know?
***
My comrades at A Pretty Move already nailed this one, but it's superb: Lilian Thuram musing on Miles Davis and blasting Nicholas Sarkozy, the rat-faced tough-talker who hopes a steady diet of immigrant-bashing can hoist him into Elysee Palace. (Message to France from The Rest Of The World: You have a choice. You can make us look at Sarko for seven years, or you can give us Segolene, the Hot Socialist Mom. French people are supposed to be sexy. Make it fucking happen! Watching Jacques Chirac melt for 14 years was bad enough.)
Thuram's interview prompted me to review The Archives and check out his moment of zoned-out heroism against Croatia in the 1998 World Cup. Thuram says that he basically didn't know who he was or where he was when he knocked in the two goals that put France in the Final. Around here, we call that "The Jaguar Realm." Check it out:
Saturday, March 03, 2007
Miracle in Brooklyn
Not the mighty New York borough, but the unassuming Southeast Portland neighborhood home to Portland Futsal, the Rose City's newborn industrial-chic indoor football venue—where the rattle of a chainlink fence, frigid meat-storage temperatures and the wheeze of passing TriMet buses let you know you're keeping it really real.
As those four readers who managed to slog through the tiresome account of PF's Third Division below will dimly recall, my Albina Going FC Unicorns faced a do-or-die match last Thursday night. Three points against the lowly Cheetahs, the winless anchor of our six-team group, would put us in a strong position to make the four-team Finals. Given our opponents' lousy record, we also dreamed of piling up an unassailable goal-difference advantage over the two other sides locked in a virtual deadheat for the second and last playoff berth.
Well. Turned out that Cheetahs were a bit more up for the occasion than we were—or maybe we'd successfully psyched ourselves out with a full week of email back-and-forth about league tie-break scenarios and just how many goals we should win by. We looked frightful—utterly gash, as they say—in the first half, staking Cheetahs to a huge lead. The half-time chatter was a little tense, let's say. The second half didn't look much better. But then...slowly...inexorably...the Unicorns began to climb. Wings sprouted from the mythical beasts' frothy shanks...and they began to soar. I mean, score.
6-6. Fifteen seconds to play. A draw does us very little good. Doug Hurley, the Bracknall Bomber, collects the futsal spheroid on the wing. Finds Peter Noordijk, the Flying Dutchman, in the area. First shot thwacks off Cheetahs' keeper into a thicket of flailing limbs...and then...at an achingly slow speed...the ball rolls into the net.
My first thought was that the referee would surely disallow this ugly mess for—something. It did not look good. But he pointed at the center spot, and Cheetahs barely had time to kick off before the buzzer. Our overcrowded six-man bench erupted at this most dramatic of all finishes to a Winter season in which we: A) Won three games by a single goal; B) lost two games by a single goal; C) won one match by two goals; D) lost one match by two goals; and E) recorded an anomalous 6-0 victory over the team that completely dominated the group.
So now we are bound for the one-day, four-team divisional Big Dance in two weeks. We will play the top team from "Conference Brazil," while "Conference Argentina" winners Sofa Kings (we were the only team to beat them, BTW) face C-Brazil's second-place squad. Could our under-fit, over-aged gang of (mostly) Anglo-American doughboys possibly survive not one but two matches in one night? Against opposition that might include a team with the prepossessing name "Samba Boys"? Let's not get ahead of ourselves. If we gathered anything from our near-death experience against Cheetahs, it's that you should take futsal one baby-step at a time.
As those four readers who managed to slog through the tiresome account of PF's Third Division below will dimly recall, my Albina Going FC Unicorns faced a do-or-die match last Thursday night. Three points against the lowly Cheetahs, the winless anchor of our six-team group, would put us in a strong position to make the four-team Finals. Given our opponents' lousy record, we also dreamed of piling up an unassailable goal-difference advantage over the two other sides locked in a virtual deadheat for the second and last playoff berth.
Well. Turned out that Cheetahs were a bit more up for the occasion than we were—or maybe we'd successfully psyched ourselves out with a full week of email back-and-forth about league tie-break scenarios and just how many goals we should win by. We looked frightful—utterly gash, as they say—in the first half, staking Cheetahs to a huge lead. The half-time chatter was a little tense, let's say. The second half didn't look much better. But then...slowly...inexorably...the Unicorns began to climb. Wings sprouted from the mythical beasts' frothy shanks...and they began to soar. I mean, score.
6-6. Fifteen seconds to play. A draw does us very little good. Doug Hurley, the Bracknall Bomber, collects the futsal spheroid on the wing. Finds Peter Noordijk, the Flying Dutchman, in the area. First shot thwacks off Cheetahs' keeper into a thicket of flailing limbs...and then...at an achingly slow speed...the ball rolls into the net.
My first thought was that the referee would surely disallow this ugly mess for—something. It did not look good. But he pointed at the center spot, and Cheetahs barely had time to kick off before the buzzer. Our overcrowded six-man bench erupted at this most dramatic of all finishes to a Winter season in which we: A) Won three games by a single goal; B) lost two games by a single goal; C) won one match by two goals; D) lost one match by two goals; and E) recorded an anomalous 6-0 victory over the team that completely dominated the group.
So now we are bound for the one-day, four-team divisional Big Dance in two weeks. We will play the top team from "Conference Brazil," while "Conference Argentina" winners Sofa Kings (we were the only team to beat them, BTW) face C-Brazil's second-place squad. Could our under-fit, over-aged gang of (mostly) Anglo-American doughboys possibly survive not one but two matches in one night? Against opposition that might include a team with the prepossessing name "Samba Boys"? Let's not get ahead of ourselves. If we gathered anything from our near-death experience against Cheetahs, it's that you should take futsal one baby-step at a time.
Thursday, March 01, 2007
TRIPLE FUTSAL MEGACLASH!
Tonight brings Winter Season's final matchday in Portland Futsal's Division Three. Four teams are fighting over the second and final playoff berth in Conference Argentina—a ticket to a madcap one-day tournament against the top teams in Conference Brazil, with bragging rights and promotion to the promised land of the Second Division at stake.
It's hard to imagine a more dramatic conclusion to an excellent, hard-fought season. Let's take a look at the table and tonight's key fixtures.
After seven of eight rounds:
1. SOFA KINGS :: 18 points // +23 goals
2. DUDES FC :: 12 points // +7 goals
3. ALBINA GOING FC :: 12 points // +6 goals
4. LEGION OF DOOM :: 12 points // +3 goals
5. URBANHONKING AC :: 9 points // +1 goal
6. CHEETAHS :: 0 points // -40 goals
As you see, Sports Fans, Sofa Kings are well clear of the pack and have booked their top seed in the Finals. Then comes a Mexican standoff at 12 points featuring my own Albina Going. UrbanHonking is outside looking in, but hasn't been mathematically eliminated. Cheetahs have their name on the Wooden Spoon, and are the only team completely out of contention.
That brings us to tonight's climactic fixture list:
19.25: ALBINA GOING V. CHEETAHS. My beloved Albina Going won two of three while I was "scouting" in Argentina, putting us in prime position to claim a playoff berth. Cheetahs haven't been able to make much of an impression this season, obviously, but they have given some of our closest rivals decent games. This is important because of goal differential—the league caps GD at a maximum +7 per match. Ideally we'd like to come out of tonight with 15 points and a +13 differential, but we're taking nothing for granted.
20.20: SOFA KINGS V. DUDES FC. Arguably the night's glamour match-up, a top-of-the-table reunion of the Round 7 pairing that saw the rampant Sofa Kings win 9-4. The big question comes down to motivation: the Kings have nothing to play for, while the Dudes, a feisty and competitive bunch, have their season on the line. Obviously, I'm hoping the Kings decide to forget the table and conduct an imperious demonstration of their power.
21.15: URBANHONKING AC V. LEGION OF DOOM. A weird one, and possibly irrelevant to the play-off scenario. UrbanHonking may well be eliminated before the match (if we win and/or Dudes win, UHAC is out). Legion needs to win and win big—how big, and whether they still remain in contention at all given the +7 GD maximum, depends on the outcome of the first two games.
So there it is. Drama, my friends. Tickets are free!
It's hard to imagine a more dramatic conclusion to an excellent, hard-fought season. Let's take a look at the table and tonight's key fixtures.
After seven of eight rounds:
1. SOFA KINGS :: 18 points // +23 goals
2. DUDES FC :: 12 points // +7 goals
3. ALBINA GOING FC :: 12 points // +6 goals
4. LEGION OF DOOM :: 12 points // +3 goals
5. URBANHONKING AC :: 9 points // +1 goal
6. CHEETAHS :: 0 points // -40 goals
As you see, Sports Fans, Sofa Kings are well clear of the pack and have booked their top seed in the Finals. Then comes a Mexican standoff at 12 points featuring my own Albina Going. UrbanHonking is outside looking in, but hasn't been mathematically eliminated. Cheetahs have their name on the Wooden Spoon, and are the only team completely out of contention.
That brings us to tonight's climactic fixture list:
19.25: ALBINA GOING V. CHEETAHS. My beloved Albina Going won two of three while I was "scouting" in Argentina, putting us in prime position to claim a playoff berth. Cheetahs haven't been able to make much of an impression this season, obviously, but they have given some of our closest rivals decent games. This is important because of goal differential—the league caps GD at a maximum +7 per match. Ideally we'd like to come out of tonight with 15 points and a +13 differential, but we're taking nothing for granted.
20.20: SOFA KINGS V. DUDES FC. Arguably the night's glamour match-up, a top-of-the-table reunion of the Round 7 pairing that saw the rampant Sofa Kings win 9-4. The big question comes down to motivation: the Kings have nothing to play for, while the Dudes, a feisty and competitive bunch, have their season on the line. Obviously, I'm hoping the Kings decide to forget the table and conduct an imperious demonstration of their power.
21.15: URBANHONKING AC V. LEGION OF DOOM. A weird one, and possibly irrelevant to the play-off scenario. UrbanHonking may well be eliminated before the match (if we win and/or Dudes win, UHAC is out). Legion needs to win and win big—how big, and whether they still remain in contention at all given the +7 GD maximum, depends on the outcome of the first two games.
So there it is. Drama, my friends. Tickets are free!
Tuesday, February 27, 2007
A Bloody Genius
A former coach in Israel shamelessly steals one of the greatest (and among the only) ideas ever proposed in the august salon known as Eleven Devils: that no points be awarded for 0-0 draws.
Apparently, the Israeli league is in the grip of a savage goal drought. Negative play abounds. So, would a tweak to the league-table system solve this problem? I think it might. However, I also have devised an EVEN MORE RADICAL solution...if anyone cares to hear it...um, hello?
Apparently, the Israeli league is in the grip of a savage goal drought. Negative play abounds. So, would a tweak to the league-table system solve this problem? I think it might. However, I also have devised an EVEN MORE RADICAL solution...if anyone cares to hear it...um, hello?
Palermo's Long Distance Delivery
If you haven't seen it, dig it. Boca Juniors' Martin Palermo connects from 52 meters:
Davai! Davai! Davai!
The awesome soccerblog constellation known as The Offside offers all kinds of specialized, enthusiast-driven coverage; winning the Eleven Devils/Komsomolets Order of the Achievements of the People's Economy today: the site's awesome Russian League blog. Molodets, tovarishi!
Sunday, February 25, 2007
I Don't Think I'll Ever Forgive Myself...
...for missing this Carling Cup final. And that's all I'm going to say about it.
Saturday, February 24, 2007
Buenos Aires' Barrabravas
The English-language media grabs hold of Argentina's hooligan crisis, the story that dominated the sporting press during Eleven Devils' two-week visit to Buenos Aires and environs. The catalyst of the current uproar occurred during the very match my wife and I attended—see the photos below—at CA River Plate's massive, historic El Monumental stadium.
Our visit to the huge bowl in northern BA took place under relatively sanitized conditions. A specialist tour group (a company known as Tangol, for your touristic convenience) picked us up at our hotel, toted us to the stadium in a rattletrap van and escorted us to our seats. Our group included three Americans, an Arsenal fan from London and a couple of Aussies, and we plunked down in the upper-middle-class "platea" seats alongside a large group of Japanese tourists. All the same, the experience was completely different from attending a sporting event in the United States. A miniature army of over 1,000 cops swarmed the stadium, enforcing various crowd-control tactics and taking their trained attack dogs for walkies. The seating arrangements were improvisational, the concrete terraces and wooden benches austere, the concorses cramped. Though we encountered absolutely no problems, the narrow gates and tunnels opening into the stadium bowl put me in mind of a number of highly unpleasant stories of crowd congestion, crushing and trampling.
Such was the scene in our comparatively pricey, comfortable and sedate section—the part of the stadium dominated by neutral foreigners, seven-year-olds and granddads. (The latter demographic provided a very solid does of entertainment in the form of profanity-laced invective and recriminations against River's lackluster play; I now know a number of fascinating phrases in the local "Castellano" dialect.) Up in the second-deck "popular" sections, masses of humanity packed against nasty-looking, barnyard-esque "safety barriers"—mosh-style cauldrons hemmed in by barbed wire and cop battalions. These are the tribal stomping grounds of the barrabravas: the quasi-official, semi-illegal supporters' mafias generally implicated in futbol argentino's violence problem.
These scrums were, of course, the engines driving the ceaseless chants, songs, tifo displays and mass pogos that made the otherwise atrocious match between River Plate and suburban, non-descript Lanus worth the price of admission. And that's where the violence issue—in Argentina and, it would seem, Italy and elsewhere—begins to be less a cut-and-dried public-order issue and more a Borgesian labyrinth of politics and money.
The clubs maintain off-the-books links with barrabravas outfits—that's just an open secret. Money, tickets and jobs flow through those channels. It's a serious question, then, the issue of factional control and influence, particularly in a place where money, tickets and jobs are not exactly easy to come by. The fighting that erupted at the River v. Lanus match didn't pit home fans against away fans; rival groups of River supporters squared off. How would that happen if nothing tangible were at stake?
The complicity of the clubs is outrageous on one hand, but understandable on the other. Frankly, the quality of league footbal in Argentina is...mixed. I watched one match in person and at least bits and pieces of a dozen more. I saw some beautiful stuff and a lot of really bad stuff; I saw Boca Juniors play absolutely symphonic soccer in a 4-0 demolition of Banfield and then bumble around like idiots in a Copa Libertadores match against Bolivar. River has some excellent players—Nelson Enrique Rivas, a majestic and cool-headed Colombian defender, dominated the Lanus match—but didn't seem like anything special. Beyond the Big Two, who suck up most of the bling and media oxygen, clubs live hand-to-mouth off their committed supporters. The barrabravas complete the spectacle of football; indeed, provide about 70 percent of the entertainment value of a live match. They're the reason tourists pay premium prices to be herded, penned and inconvenienced to the extent that a two-hour match becomes an eight-hour experience. They provide the sport's soul and are simultaneously killing the game.
Solutions? Tricky. If you over-sanitize the "product," you end up with American sports: the cultural equivalent of touring Broadway shows, all pricey style with no social substance. Argentina cannot financially support a Premiership-style house cleaning based on massive TV revenues and high ticket costs. Punishing clubs wholesale—with multi-match stadium bans, for example—gives all the power to the malfactors and makes thousands of innocents pay for others' misdeeds.
At a bare minimum, however, clubs should be forced to sever their links with criminal elements or face criminal prosecution. Stadiums should be upgraded so no fans have to endure Animal Farm-style conditions. In other news, I should be made king and given god-like powers; the poor should be fed and the naked clothed. In the meantime, maybe River Plate can reschedule its home games at PGE Park—after what they're going through, dealing with the Timbers Army's occasional dirty words would be a proverbial garden stroll.
Our visit to the huge bowl in northern BA took place under relatively sanitized conditions. A specialist tour group (a company known as Tangol, for your touristic convenience) picked us up at our hotel, toted us to the stadium in a rattletrap van and escorted us to our seats. Our group included three Americans, an Arsenal fan from London and a couple of Aussies, and we plunked down in the upper-middle-class "platea" seats alongside a large group of Japanese tourists. All the same, the experience was completely different from attending a sporting event in the United States. A miniature army of over 1,000 cops swarmed the stadium, enforcing various crowd-control tactics and taking their trained attack dogs for walkies. The seating arrangements were improvisational, the concrete terraces and wooden benches austere, the concorses cramped. Though we encountered absolutely no problems, the narrow gates and tunnels opening into the stadium bowl put me in mind of a number of highly unpleasant stories of crowd congestion, crushing and trampling.
Such was the scene in our comparatively pricey, comfortable and sedate section—the part of the stadium dominated by neutral foreigners, seven-year-olds and granddads. (The latter demographic provided a very solid does of entertainment in the form of profanity-laced invective and recriminations against River's lackluster play; I now know a number of fascinating phrases in the local "Castellano" dialect.) Up in the second-deck "popular" sections, masses of humanity packed against nasty-looking, barnyard-esque "safety barriers"—mosh-style cauldrons hemmed in by barbed wire and cop battalions. These are the tribal stomping grounds of the barrabravas: the quasi-official, semi-illegal supporters' mafias generally implicated in futbol argentino's violence problem.
These scrums were, of course, the engines driving the ceaseless chants, songs, tifo displays and mass pogos that made the otherwise atrocious match between River Plate and suburban, non-descript Lanus worth the price of admission. And that's where the violence issue—in Argentina and, it would seem, Italy and elsewhere—begins to be less a cut-and-dried public-order issue and more a Borgesian labyrinth of politics and money.
The clubs maintain off-the-books links with barrabravas outfits—that's just an open secret. Money, tickets and jobs flow through those channels. It's a serious question, then, the issue of factional control and influence, particularly in a place where money, tickets and jobs are not exactly easy to come by. The fighting that erupted at the River v. Lanus match didn't pit home fans against away fans; rival groups of River supporters squared off. How would that happen if nothing tangible were at stake?
The complicity of the clubs is outrageous on one hand, but understandable on the other. Frankly, the quality of league footbal in Argentina is...mixed. I watched one match in person and at least bits and pieces of a dozen more. I saw some beautiful stuff and a lot of really bad stuff; I saw Boca Juniors play absolutely symphonic soccer in a 4-0 demolition of Banfield and then bumble around like idiots in a Copa Libertadores match against Bolivar. River has some excellent players—Nelson Enrique Rivas, a majestic and cool-headed Colombian defender, dominated the Lanus match—but didn't seem like anything special. Beyond the Big Two, who suck up most of the bling and media oxygen, clubs live hand-to-mouth off their committed supporters. The barrabravas complete the spectacle of football; indeed, provide about 70 percent of the entertainment value of a live match. They're the reason tourists pay premium prices to be herded, penned and inconvenienced to the extent that a two-hour match becomes an eight-hour experience. They provide the sport's soul and are simultaneously killing the game.
Solutions? Tricky. If you over-sanitize the "product," you end up with American sports: the cultural equivalent of touring Broadway shows, all pricey style with no social substance. Argentina cannot financially support a Premiership-style house cleaning based on massive TV revenues and high ticket costs. Punishing clubs wholesale—with multi-match stadium bans, for example—gives all the power to the malfactors and makes thousands of innocents pay for others' misdeeds.
At a bare minimum, however, clubs should be forced to sever their links with criminal elements or face criminal prosecution. Stadiums should be upgraded so no fans have to endure Animal Farm-style conditions. In other news, I should be made king and given god-like powers; the poor should be fed and the naked clothed. In the meantime, maybe River Plate can reschedule its home games at PGE Park—after what they're going through, dealing with the Timbers Army's occasional dirty words would be a proverbial garden stroll.
Friday, February 23, 2007
An Afternoon at El Monumental
Suffering a Western Hemispheric version of jet lag and still trying to realign my mind to the Global North (I drove my Subaru to an organic-foods market, for starters), I lack the fortitude to spiel about all things futbol argentino that I want to weigh in on after two weeks in the land of Union y Libertad. So here—without even going into the fact that, unbeknownst to me and my fellow tourists, mob violence at this very game would get CA River Plate banned from their own ground—are some Live-Action Colour Photos [patent pending] from this month's River Plate v. Lanus match. It was Round One of the Torneo Clausura, the second half of Argentina's quirky split-season championship, and the River faithful were up for it...well, in any case, they put on a much better show on the terraces than their team did on the pitch.
El Monumental
Inside the ground: Note the entrance to the club's volleyball practice facility on the left. According to the matchday program, River Plate's volleyball team had just won a big game against archrivals-in-everything Boca Juniors.
The field view from the midfield "platea" seats—the relatively posh district for tourists, families, little kids and old men who've probably seen more football than I could in nine lifetimes.
The away-support section, one hour before kick-off. Note the prudent use of barbed wire.
A little pre-match hugger-mugger.
River Plate's hardcore support.
Lanus' supporters in full voice. Hey, your team's from the middle of fuck-all suburbia and you know, deep down, that you haven't got a prayer against the big boys. So just relax and enjoy it.
Nil-nil in stoppage time? At home? Against Lanus?
Well, Lanus managed to fuck up a golden chance to escape with a point, anyway. Here one of their fellas explains where it all went wrong.
El Monumental
Inside the ground: Note the entrance to the club's volleyball practice facility on the left. According to the matchday program, River Plate's volleyball team had just won a big game against archrivals-in-everything Boca Juniors.
The field view from the midfield "platea" seats—the relatively posh district for tourists, families, little kids and old men who've probably seen more football than I could in nine lifetimes.
The away-support section, one hour before kick-off. Note the prudent use of barbed wire.
A little pre-match hugger-mugger.
River Plate's hardcore support.
Lanus' supporters in full voice. Hey, your team's from the middle of fuck-all suburbia and you know, deep down, that you haven't got a prayer against the big boys. So just relax and enjoy it.
Nil-nil in stoppage time? At home? Against Lanus?
Well, Lanus managed to fuck up a golden chance to escape with a point, anyway. Here one of their fellas explains where it all went wrong.
Wednesday, February 14, 2007
Como se dice "Utterly gash?"
There has been much speculation over the years about whether MLS teams might ever enter the Copa Libertadores. Based on the CL group-stage action I´ve seen so far during my visit to Argentina, I´d say the tournament should beg MLS to enter its top sides. Last night saw a Uruguayan club annihilate an Argentinian representative in a stadium that was 75 percent empty. Tonight, Boca Juniors and Bolivar played what may have been the single worst football game I´ve ever seen, a 0-0 draw in rainy La Paz occasionally spruced up by comic relief. An in-form Houston or DC could do just fine.
Tuesday, February 13, 2007
El Futbol de Buenos Aires : Two Very Different Views
River Plate's "curva," El Monumental.
Futsal players in Parque Las Heras, Palermo, Buenos Aires.
Friday, February 09, 2007
Buenos dias de Buenos Aires
Eleven Devils reports live from the Argentinian capital this week, where Yer Correspondent and the wife are taking in the sights, watching hyperbolic Copa Libertadores broadcasts and eagerly awaiting Sunday´s match between River Plate and Lanus at El Monumental. (The very nice girl at our hotel apologized profusely for not getting us Boca Juniors tickets, but they´re playing away to Racing this weekend.)
Meanwhile, I´m anxiously awaiting the result from last night´s crucial Rivals Cup tie between my Albina Going FC Unicorns and UrbanHonking Athletic. And, of course, savoring the fact that my main man Jimmy Conrad was the hero of USA´s palate-cleansing 2-0 wipe out of the Ancient Enemy. Forza Conrad!
Meanwhile, I´m anxiously awaiting the result from last night´s crucial Rivals Cup tie between my Albina Going FC Unicorns and UrbanHonking Athletic. And, of course, savoring the fact that my main man Jimmy Conrad was the hero of USA´s palate-cleansing 2-0 wipe out of the Ancient Enemy. Forza Conrad!
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