Costa Rica

This is going to be a somewhat long-winded post. So if you want to duck out of it, now’s the time. No hard feelings. Promise.

***

Costa Rica has to be one of the hottest places on Earth. Or at least it was when I was there last week. You know how you go on vacation to a warmer destination, and you complain about the heat, but locals just roll their eyes because, you, yes you, are just another crazy tourist who has no idea what real heat is?

Yeah, that definitely wasn’t the case. It was hellfire HOT in Costa Rica. Hace calor seemed to be the catchphrase the entire time I was down there. Heck, I think I even saw some of the birds unzip their feathers. But that could’ve totally been a mirage.

The one thing about Costa Rica I enjoyed the most when I wasn’t sweating off eight pounds of water weight besides the beaches, the palm trees, and the barbed wire fences that line the streets of San Jose was, by far, the futbol.

Let me tell you something: Costa Ricans love their futbol. Love in the strongest sense possible. It cannot be overstated. I would even go so far as to say that they probably love it more than any American loves any sport here. They might even love it even more than their own mothers.

I introduce these ideas to provide the backdrop of my trip Estadio de Alejandro Morera Soto in Alajuela, which happens to house Liga Deportiva Alajulense, or simply Alajuelense, or LDA, or Los Rojinegros.

The first thing I noticed about the stadium was its location. It’s lodged square inside a busy neighborhood surrounded by sodas, bodegas, and small houses. It’s the kind of place you definitely cannot tailgate, much like the streets surrounding Fenway Park. But that’s not such a bad thing at all.

Nope, it’s a good thing. Now, I’ve been to all kinds of sporting events at all kinds of stadiums. Soccer, baseball, football, hockey, lacrosse, basketball, you name it, and I’ve probably seen it firsthand. Except for golf. Don’t get me started on golf.

But anyway, I always find that stadiums that are nicely ensconced within a neighborhood never fail to provide the best pre-game atmosphere. Maybe it’s because I’m not the tailgating-type. It very well could be. But, nothing beats the buzz that resides on a typically-quiet-except-for-today local street.

And that’s exactly how it was outside of the stadium. There was an energy that weaved through the surrounding streets. Something was taking place. An event. And people were excited, drunk, happy, elated, giddy, all of the above, etc.

That’s the thing: you don’t get that brand of buzz when you go to Gillette Stadium or RFK Stadium. That’s not to say that the festivities surrounding these venues is drab or dull. By no means. I think the Midnight Riders and Screaming Eagles regularly unleash a great deal of atmosphere around their parks. I do. Yet, I think there’s a difference between going to an event at a stadium and going to a stadium for an event.

As I strolled along Avenida 7, I saw a wide array of people. Vendors. Customers. Old men. Young men. Supporters. Supporters’ girlfriends. It’s probably close to 96 degrees outside, and it’s not even 11am. Only something they truly cared about – something they loved – could bring them all out en masse on a day like this.

The next thing that grabbed me is the police presence. A van full of cops, decked out in full riot gear, like the ones that crashed into Howard Payne’s home in Speed casually appear in the middle of the street. And no one seems notice or care. One by one, they begin in to quickly slip into the stadium.

Minutes before the match, I strolled over to the ticket gates. A lanky teenager patted me down for weapons. Next up: my slipsack bag. Although I had an arsenal of bottled beverages, snacks, and a umbrella stashed away, he gives me a nod and steps away. After all, silly American tourists like me don’t come here to shank supporters.

I sat square in front of the center circle, amid a throng of especially vocal supporters. When the Alajuelense’s late-morning opponent, Perez Zeledon, trekked off the pitch after its pre-match passing drills, they were ceremoniously showered by thousands of whistling home supporters.

As if I hadn’t already entered another dimension before the match began, the riot police showed up in gaggles along the touchline once the opening whistle screeched. They were ready. And soon, they would be needed.

Moments after the opening goal fifteen minutes through, the home and away threw down for an old fashioned stadium tussle. Arms were grabbed. Batons where whipped. Within seconds, order was restored….until the second goal was scored five minutes before halftime, when fists flew again, only this time, the police managed to taser and arrest a few hooligans. It was first time I’d ever seen anyone get tasered in real life. Insanity doesn’t even begin to describe it.

Aside from the SWAT team, the constant screams of “PUNTA!” toward the PZ players, and the unglamorous concrete stands, the most interesting aspect of a soccer match in Costa Rica is that each touch, pass, tackle, and run is simultaneously dissected by the crowd, and instantly graded with either applause, whistling, or swears. This continued on for the entire ninety. It still amazes me even now.

It was an education. An education that no college, high school, or preschool could’ve provided.

God, I love Costa Rica.

Stray thoughts

I’m going to talk about the Revs in a bit, but before I do, let me ask this:

Is there not a better time of the year than this?

Seriously, unless you live near the North Pole or that area off the Jersey Turnpike that smells like a Taco Bell bathroom, mid-April is a wonderful time. How can you not stop to smile? The buds on the trees are bright white. Mornings aren’t as frigid as they were a month ago. And it’s still early enough when every MLS club - even D.C. and Toronto* - still has a legitimate shot at making the playoffs.

(*Oh, Toronto. I’ll get to them in a minute.)

Spring is a yearly reminder of why it’s great to be alive. You’ve got the birds singing. Daylight extends past seven o’clock. Neighbors start firing up their grills. All the while, J.P. Dellacamera and John Harkes mutually affirm that soccer is, in fact, back. Yes, it’s like walking on sunshine. And doesn’t it feel good?

Anyway, about those goal-crazy Revs. If you had asked me back during the frosty days of February how many points they’d have after three matches, I’d probably venture a guess of, say, oh, one point. A single point. After all, the Revs defensive posture is almost always good for a draw. So yeah, one point. And this is precisely why I am not a professional day trader. Or a weatherman.

Let’s talk about Saturday night for a minute. The early parts of it had all the makings of a First Kick reprise. The defending was Snuggle soft. The midfield had all the cohesion of a riot. And no one, and I mean no one, could get the ball to a forward.

Fortunately for the Revs, matches are cut into halves. And for the second half, I could’ve sworn Steve Nicol sent out an entirely different set of players.

Who were these guys? And where has Sainey Nyassi's confidence been hiding? I’ve always said that Nyassi’s most formidable enemy on the pitch is himself. When he gets discouraged, he plays tentatively. Note: guys with pace should not slow down. He questions himself. He hesitates. And suddenly, guys like Schilawski, Edgarus Jankauskas, Shalrie Joseph (when he freelances), and Kheli Dube are wondering if they’ll ever see another ball before they retire.

But when Nyassi’s “on” button is pushed, he is a sight to behold. Look at video of the TFC match. Almost every single attack comes from the right. Nyassi’s side. Isn’t confidence a beautiful thing?

And, OMG, who knew Schilawski had a hat trick in him only three games in? I mean really, who knew? Do you think that Stevie Nicol ever thought to himself “well, we drafted this kid because he’s got a triple in him”? Two words: Heck. No. MLS defenders typically kick the crap out of young forwards, which makes the dazzling displays of guys like Fredy Montero and Schilawski that much more…well, dazzling. The antidote to tight marking is confidence. The confidence to take a guy on and then shatter him. And Schilawski’s hot-button word after the game? “Confidence.” I’m pretty sure he said it at least ten times.

Of course, playing against the Toronto backline would probably give a gerbil confidence going forward. For all the things Preki did at Chivas, you don’t fire someone who’s delivered the playoffs each year unless something is terribly wrong. From my humble abode here in New England, I can’t speak on it extensively, but the theory goes something along the lines of Preki being the antithesis of a “player’s manager.” In other words, his own players did not particularly care much for him.

I’m not saying that you have to be a loveable, huggable type of guy and have feasts in your honor to succeed in this league. But look at the last three MLS championship managers. Jason Kreis, who just hung his cleats like two weeks ago, is a player’s manager. Heck, he’s still practically a player himself. You could tell in L.A., Columbus, and now Seattle, Sigi Schmid’s players really play for him. There’s almost no trace of disunity between Sigi and his players. And then there’s Dominic Kinnear – is there a better example of a player’s manager?

Now, that’s not to say that Preki should change his personality and adopt this approach. Sometimes, being an affable manager gets you nowhere. It’s still very early, but does anyone think the player-friendly Curt Onalfo can steer DC out of its recent run of U-8 performances? Same goes for Frank Yallop, who’s San Jose squad is better than D.C., but that’s like saying Pat Sajak is funnier than Alex Trebek.

However, when your skipper quits the club in the middle of the week a.k.a THE MIDDLE OF THE WEEK before the second a.k.a SECOND match of the season, it leads many to believe that the manager has some serious flaws with his interpersonal skills. Now, Preki's no buster. You don't hold a job for three years without a having a clue. He obviously knows something about managing.

But is there a more crucial quality - charisma, if you will - when leading a team? Doesn’t it help not be reviled by your own charges? Again, I’m not saying every manager has to be likeable. But every manager should have the respect of his players. The hasty retirement of Jim Brennan only shows that Preki may soon have a mutiny on his hands, if he hasn’t already (see: New England-Toronto FC, circa 4/10/2010).

***

Speaking of managers, I have to give it up to Steve Nicol. The ol’ gaffer picked up his 100th career MLS victory over the weekend. Hey, not bad for a guy who once subbed for Walter Zenga (who, by the way, has much, much less than 100 MLS victories) on the backspin.

Say what you will about his teams’ inability to clinch the ultimate prize, but let me ask you this: Since he took the job permanently in 2002, how many clubs have gone to the MLS Cup finals four times? Answer: One.

For all of his club’s shortcomings (low spending, high-profile departures, no soccer-spec stadium), is there anyone else in the league who milks the most out of the players he’s given? Answer: Not likely.

Hitting the century mark for MLS victories isn’t a fluke or good fortune. Just ask Bob Bradley or Sigi Schmid.

Kenny do it

Around the 60th minute of tonight's DCU-Revs match, I was going to write a long(ish) post about how the Revs aren't built to score goals, but rather, to prevent goals. Yes - goal prevention. With a young, but talented, back four and no goal artist on the pitch, the Revs had no choice but to suffocate their opponent, then, if by chance, they squeezed in a goal here and there, maybe, just maybe, they'd reach the 40-point plateau on the final day of the season.

Then, Steve Nicol sent out Kenny Mansally. And the newly-numbered seven single-handedly turned my post into a mourned fantasy.

As you may have witnessed on CSNE, or on Direct Kick, or on the lower bowl of RFK Stadium, Chris Tierney, who may or may not be the same Chris Tierney who slow-footed it through Open Cup and late-match moments the last two seasons, carried the ball down the left, and spun a cross into the box, where Mansally met it, then put it to bed to give the Revs their first lead of the season.

And just as the Revs finished celebrating, Kenny quickly returned to the scene of the crime, and as Kenny Mansally is often wont to do when two defenders are near, he juked both, and uncorked a quail under the upper 90.

2-0 Revs. On the road. In DC. Without the following players:

Shalrie Joseph
Jeff Larentowicz
Taylor Twellman
Matt Reis
Wells Thompson
Steve Ralston
Khano Smith
Wells Thompson
Alberto Naveda
Luis Fangoso

I know: it's early. Twenty-eight games remain unplayed. Injuries will bite the Revs all season long because that's what injuries do best to every team, except for the Big Green. Players will get tired. Steve Nicol will make incredibly suspect substitutions. And so on.

But you can't help but be encouraged. Seth Sinovic is a smart, physical defender. Incoming veteran Cory Gibbs has anchored the backline nicely. Sainey Nyassi is becoming a complete player. And what is up with the new and improved for 2010 Tierney? Where has this guy been the last two seasons?

Last week, the Revs looked really green. And even after tonight's win, they still do. DC bought quality chances wholesale in the first twenty minutes. Had it not been for poor finishing and the left leg of Preston Burpo, it could've easily been 2-0 DC at the half. And who knows if, at that point, Nicol doesn't instead send out Khano rather than Kenny for Zack Schilawski. You can never tell with a Scouser sometimes.

Anywho, the plain and simple of it is that the Revs return home with three points in the pocket. Goal prevention? Maybe so. But it doesn't hurt to find a brace off the bench once in awhile.

A cruel April Fool's Day

Rhode Island really isn't known for much. You would think that such a small state would have a massive Napoleon complex. But we don't - unless you confuse us with Long Island. We like being small time. We drink coffee-flavored milk, eat quahogs, but not together. And when we find the time, we send a few of our best residents to various reality shows. Richard Hatch, you did us proud.

Right now, you've probably heard on CNN or MSNBC that we got a bit of rain. Not alot. Just enough to turn Warwick into a lake and surrounding streets into raging rapids. Our governor called it "the worst flooding the state has seen in 100-500 years." Lucky us.

And while that sucks more than the wet vacs we'll need to clean this mess up, I just found out some news that makes the week even worse. But before I get into that, the backstory.

As I've said many times, I didn't grow up surrounded by soccer. There was no major pro league when I was growing up, so the only soccer player I knew at the time was my best friend Nate. He played AYSO at Hull Street Park across the interstate, and had a tan team shirt that read "Nate" over his number - you guessed it - eight.

However, there are traces of soccer-related memories from my childhood. I remember Tatu, the insanely-talented indoor player who showed up on a couple of my "ESPN's Amazing Plays" videos that I always seemed to get at Christmas. I also remember watching Benfica matches on RTP with my VoVo and not understanding what the heck the announcers were saying. And of course, I remember USA '94.*

(*USA '94 afforded me the very first opportunity to watch soccer with an English-speaking announcer behind the mic. Benfica matches, obviously, were hard to follow. But once I was told what was happening in crystal-clear English - wait, they call games in English? - I got into it pretty quickly. In fact, I watched the 0-0 Brazil-Italy final in its entirety, and distinctly remember a few cars beeping by my window with shouts of "Viva BRAZIL!" echoing through my neighborhood and wondering where I could watch more.)

It's amazing what the human mind can recall. Events that were once inconsequential not only remain, but can be vividly recalled should they achieve greater consequence.

In saying that, I can tell you about the time I discovered the Rhode Island Stingrays. It was the summer before my freshman year of high school. Per the routine of a sports-obsessed adolescent, I woke up every morning and performed the following:

1. Retrieved the newspaper
2. Plucked the sports section out
3. Poured a bowl of cereal
4. Carried said sports section and cereal to the living room
5. Carefully placed the bowl and paper on the living room carpet,
6. Grabbed the remote, flipped the station to Sportscenter
7. Crawled down on my stomach, read the paper, ate my cereal, and listened to Keith Olberman and Dan Patrick talk about the O.J. Trial.

Listening and reading at the same time isn't hard. I read about the Red Sox. The Patriots. I always read the transactions section, of course. And once in awhile, the local sports short grabbed my attention.

PROVIDENCE, R.I. - Hoping to ride the heels of the most successful World Cup to date, professional soccer has returned to Rhode Island.

The Rhode Island Stringrays Football Club has announced that they will compete in this year's United Systems of Independent Soccer Leagues Pro Division. The club will play its home matches at a location to be determined.

The state previously hosted professional soccer back in 1977, when the Rhode Island Oceaneers of the American Soccer League called East Providence their home.*

(*Note: I created this short. I don't actually know how the Providence Journal reported it, but only that, if my memory hasn't completely failed me, it wasn't a majestic 750-word write-up. Two, I want to say that the club started off playing in my hometown - East Providence - but I've received conflicting reports on that. Three, I also want to say that the original name of the team was "the Rays", but again, I can't corroborate that, either. Four, I love the name of the league: United Systems of Independent Soccer Leagues. United, yet independent. American pro soccer, circa 1995: where oxymorons live.)

My initial interest piqued to the point that I asked some friends about it. Mind you, this was before I knew what an internet was. So word of mouth, local television, and the newspaper was how I learned about anything that happened outside the parameters of the wiffleball field in my backyard.

Sadly, nothing materialized, and the interest fell into abeyance for years.

But, it pulled a Santino Quaranta and came back in 2006. Spinning the clock ahead eleven years, I was driving up 95 North from a then-dry Warwick and glanced ahead of me at the light hovering above Pierce Field. It was June. It couldn't have been football. And it was definitely too early for Heritage Days.

My curiosity steered me two exits early and a brisk ride along Veterans Memorial Parkway before taking me left onto Mercer Street. I pulled my car into the parking lot. The large, lush field could be seen through my windshield. Should I get out and see what all the fuss is about? Then, I had one of those inner deliberations where you try to decide what to do even though it's clear you should just do it because the situation completely low-risk.*

(*When I was in college, I used to do this quite often at the Taco Bell drive-thru. I would literally repeat, out loud, with people in the car, "cheesy gordita crunch or big beef burrito?" until my I reached the speaker. Both were equal in taste, value, and caloric content. In hindsight, ordering one over the other would obviously not redirect my path in life. But my stubborn, 19-year-old mind would've argued that it did. Everything had consequence, including a side of nachos.)

Then, it began to pour. Decision made.

I went home, checked out the schedule, and returned a week later for my first taste of Rhode Island's lone pro soccer team.

"Hooked" is too mild a term. Spellbound? Maybe, I guess. But whatever I was, it began a love affair with the club.

A year later, I bought season tickets - the first and only time I’ve ever bought season tickets for any club.* And a year after that, I asked Manager of Operations Liz Balasco if I, as a writer, could do anything to help.

(*Rhode Island Stingrays eason tickets: $50. Hot dog: $1. Watching pro soccer in your hometown: Priceless.)

"Sure - do you want to be the media director?"

It's pretty obvious what my answer was. So, every match, I arrived an hour early, bantered with Chuck, our animated PA guy*, Liz and her daughter, Chelsea, and her cousin Liz in the pressbox. Then, I got to watch free soccer and then write about it. I know. I'm a total soccer dork.

(*One of my regrets: I never found out Chuck's last name. He was on a first name basis with everyone, so it's possible I simply forgot.)

Last year, same situation, but a different stadium. The club stationed itself at my alma mater - Rhode Island College - for the 2009 season. There were whispers that Pierce Field had become too expensive. Toward the end of the season, there were more disturbing whispers: the club was losing alot of money. It probably wouldn't survive next year. Yeah, right.

Well, my skepticism croaked this morning when I asked Liz about the upcoming season. The following reply, for all intents and purposes, obliterated my morning:

"There is no longer a Stingray team."

Liz went on to say that it was too expensive to run the club and the return (or lack thereof) wasn't enough. And I understood. They didn't draw much. There were times where the players literally outnumbered the fans. Coach Pereira sometimes granted kids free admission. And for a few games, the Stingrays had a makeshift supporters section composed entirely of sugar-riddled (I hope) pre-teens loudly cheering the club on.

From a business perspective, it makes perfect sense to close shop. Stadium rentals are expensive. So are the kits, food service, and travel accommodations. I suspect the gate receipts and sponsors barely covered basic expenses. If someone told me today they actually made a profit, I would've thought it was an April Fool's Joke.

I wrote earlier this year how hard it was to swallow the LA Sol folding. And it was. They were a great team.

But this one hurts alot more. It hurts for a host of reasons. The first being that they played a short bike ride away. Of course, it wasn't just that. They were a Rhode Island team, even if 90% of the state didn't even know they even existed. Good players came though. You've probably heard about few of them: Geoff Cameron, Danleigh Borman, and Nico Colaluca.

It's true: Rhode Island isn't known for much. We may be the smallest state in the union, but we have a rich soccer tradition. To me, the Stingrays were more than what you could see on the pitch. Way more.

Despite their won-loss records, the nearly-empty stadiums, and the financial losses incurred, they were the baton holders of that tradition. It was handed to them by the Oceaneers, who grabbed it from Punta Delgada, who grabbed it from the Pawtucket Rangers, who grabbed it from the Howard & Bullough, who grabbed it from J & P Coats.

You have to understand: the Stringrays were more than just another club in PDL. They were a part of a legacy.