I loved the "Lost" series finale. And by "loved", I mean "LOVED" (with 72-font bold, italic and underlined font). It wrapped up the series perfectly: you got the closure, but there was still lots of questions. Jacob's lair, anybody? Why didn't Desmond become the smoke monster after going into the cavern? What wast the meaning of that stupid cork in the cavern? A cork? Really?
Despite those questions, you felt better knowing that, for the most part, the larger mystery was explained.
**SPOILER ALERT**
They're all dead.
I was OK with this. It gave the interpersonal relationships between the host of characters more gravitas. It gave the Jack Shepherd-John Locke friendship incredible meaning. It moved me, as I'm sure it did many other viewers. Conversely, Jack and Sawyer didn't always see eye-to-eye. That's alright. They weren't meant to. I know that sounds obtuse, but it worked. For me, at least. But, I still have questions...
I have questions about this current Revolution squad, as well. It was great that Shalrie showed up in time to make Saturday's TFC match respectable (for the Revs, of course), despite the loss. I cannot overstate how much he means to the club. Alot of people talk about how much difference one player can make. Often, they're back by volumes of statistics, coaches' quotes, players' quotes, and yada yada yada. We get it. Player X means the world to Team Y.
Thankfully, you don't need statistics, quotes, or elaborate analyis to understand Shalrie's importance to the club. Just watch. Watch how the middle isn't absolutely overtaken at will. See how the attack has meaning. The passes have purpose. Guys know where they're supposed to go.
That's how a team that wants to win plays soccer. They're not disheveled. It isn't five guys making inexplicable runs or sending ambitious passes back to the other team. Shalrie Joseph brings with him organization. He brings cohesion. A plan. The ball's going here, you meet it there.
The Revs have gone 1-5-2 this season without Shalrie. It's not just the losses that stick out. It's the way the Revs simply allowed themselves to fail in these efforts. Yellow cards, red cards, red fish, blue fish. It was as if they were trying to discover new forms of losing. Four-nil to a mediocre Chivas USA was not their proudest moment. I suspect that Shalrie would not have allowed this on his watch.
Make no mistake. There are still questions. Who's going to score the goals when Zack Schilawski's on the bench? Will Marko Perovic's passes finally find more teammates than opponents? How long will Nicol employ the five-man midfield now that Shalrie's back?
These are all questions that have to be answered. Of course, they will be. Meanwhile, we already found the answer to one question: the Revolution are lost without their skipper.
Monday, May 24, 2010
Friday, May 21, 2010
O Campeoes in Foxboro
After Benfica's 4-0 annihilation of the Revolution during Wednesday's night friendly, I believe my mom summed it up best: "It was like a lion going against a cub." Moms. Aren't they the best?
Leading up to the match, there was a few criticisms floating around the Portuguese community about the players Benfica would bring. After all, Angel DiMaria and Oscar Cardozo were in their respective national team's camps getting ready for next month's World Cup. Others, like Aimar (who actually stayed back due to visa problems), Javier Saviola, Nuno Gomes, and Miguel Vitor, probably wouldn't show, either, so spoke the streets. It was going to be the reserves vs. the Revs.
A beautiful thing happened. No, I'm not talking about the club's late arrival to the stadium. That was just...so...Portuguese. It's what we do sometimes.
Rather, it was Filipe Menezes rocket shot in the 15th minute. Now, let me preface the following with this disclosure: I've never worn the Iron Man suit. But I have seen the movies - both of them - and I can just imagine Menezes, analyzing the geometry through the Iron Man mask, locking the spot of the goal, running up to the ball, and boom. Goal.
To me, that goal signaled that there was no doubt that Campeoes were in the house.
Knowing this, it was pretty much elementary how the rest of the match would unfold. The Revs, with three trialists on hand and their three best players watching from afar, could only do one thing: succumb. Kevin Alston v. Alan Kardec? Advantage, Benfica. Javier Saviola v. Cory Gibbs? Thanks for playing.
Now, I've said this before: Benfica is one of my teams. They are the same club my great grandparents, grandparents, my mother, not to mention various uncles, aunts, and cousins all supported. To me, Benfica and DeSousa-Rosa (my mother's side of the family) are almost synonymous.
But a funny thing happened after Cesar Peixoto's goal in the 32nd minute. While my voice strained after chanting "Campeoes" for a good half-hour, I almost completely forgot that the team getting slaughtered was the Revolution.* And I began to feel really sad.
(*It's a completely lame excuse, but I also think part of the reason was because the Revs trotted out in their road white kits, which they almost never wear at home, save for Open Cup and SuperLiga.)
Sad because this beleaguered club was really a crazy concoction of rookies, mixed with a few veterans here, a few trialists there, and to make it really unpredictable, a touch of Khano Smith. Sad because this club is only a shell of its former winning self this season. Sad because it drove home the point the Revs really aren't all that good this year.
Most importantly, though, I was sad because the Revolution are my team. I know journalists are supposed to remain neutral, but once you get know the players- guys like Alston, Cory Gibbs, Pat Phelan, and Preston Burpo - you cannot help but silently pull for them. They are class guys. And they were utterly humilated on their own pitch. They were heckled, their mistakes were cheered, and for one night, the overwhelming majority - I'd put the percentage of pro-Benfica fans at 90% - were rooting against them. It must have been tough.
Both clubs will move on, of course. The Revolution will march north across the border to face a revitilized Toronto, who will, no doubt, look to exact some revenge for last month's 1-4 massacre. Incidentally, Benfica travel the same route to face Panathinaikos on Sunday for the last leg of their brief, two-city North American tour.
In hindsight, I look back at Wednesday night's game for what it's worth. Yeah, maybe it was, like my mom said, a lion facing a cub. The fact of the matter was that two of my favorite clubs were on the same pitch together, and I was there with my family to watch it.
Leading up to the match, there was a few criticisms floating around the Portuguese community about the players Benfica would bring. After all, Angel DiMaria and Oscar Cardozo were in their respective national team's camps getting ready for next month's World Cup. Others, like Aimar (who actually stayed back due to visa problems), Javier Saviola, Nuno Gomes, and Miguel Vitor, probably wouldn't show, either, so spoke the streets. It was going to be the reserves vs. the Revs.
A beautiful thing happened. No, I'm not talking about the club's late arrival to the stadium. That was just...so...Portuguese. It's what we do sometimes.
Rather, it was Filipe Menezes rocket shot in the 15th minute. Now, let me preface the following with this disclosure: I've never worn the Iron Man suit. But I have seen the movies - both of them - and I can just imagine Menezes, analyzing the geometry through the Iron Man mask, locking the spot of the goal, running up to the ball, and boom. Goal.
To me, that goal signaled that there was no doubt that Campeoes were in the house.
Knowing this, it was pretty much elementary how the rest of the match would unfold. The Revs, with three trialists on hand and their three best players watching from afar, could only do one thing: succumb. Kevin Alston v. Alan Kardec? Advantage, Benfica. Javier Saviola v. Cory Gibbs? Thanks for playing.
Now, I've said this before: Benfica is one of my teams. They are the same club my great grandparents, grandparents, my mother, not to mention various uncles, aunts, and cousins all supported. To me, Benfica and DeSousa-Rosa (my mother's side of the family) are almost synonymous.
But a funny thing happened after Cesar Peixoto's goal in the 32nd minute. While my voice strained after chanting "Campeoes" for a good half-hour, I almost completely forgot that the team getting slaughtered was the Revolution.* And I began to feel really sad.
(*It's a completely lame excuse, but I also think part of the reason was because the Revs trotted out in their road white kits, which they almost never wear at home, save for Open Cup and SuperLiga.)
Sad because this beleaguered club was really a crazy concoction of rookies, mixed with a few veterans here, a few trialists there, and to make it really unpredictable, a touch of Khano Smith. Sad because this club is only a shell of its former winning self this season. Sad because it drove home the point the Revs really aren't all that good this year.
Most importantly, though, I was sad because the Revolution are my team. I know journalists are supposed to remain neutral, but once you get know the players- guys like Alston, Cory Gibbs, Pat Phelan, and Preston Burpo - you cannot help but silently pull for them. They are class guys. And they were utterly humilated on their own pitch. They were heckled, their mistakes were cheered, and for one night, the overwhelming majority - I'd put the percentage of pro-Benfica fans at 90% - were rooting against them. It must have been tough.
Both clubs will move on, of course. The Revolution will march north across the border to face a revitilized Toronto, who will, no doubt, look to exact some revenge for last month's 1-4 massacre. Incidentally, Benfica travel the same route to face Panathinaikos on Sunday for the last leg of their brief, two-city North American tour.
In hindsight, I look back at Wednesday night's game for what it's worth. Yeah, maybe it was, like my mom said, a lion facing a cub. The fact of the matter was that two of my favorite clubs were on the same pitch together, and I was there with my family to watch it.
Friday, May 14, 2010
Chuck D
I like Charlie Davies. I do. I mean, what's not to like? He's young. He's extremely talented. And he explodes to goal with reckless abandon. Case closed.
But I'm not going to lie: 23-year old Charlie Davies has a lot of growing up to do.
As you know, Charlie was involved in a serious auto accident last Fall, one which claimed the life of a young woman. Charlie barely escaped with his life. He suffered multiple injuries - injuries which would normally debiliate most people, athletes or otherwise, for the rest of their life. Nevertheless, he was determined to return to the pitch, and vowed he'd make himself healthy enough to play in the World Cup, which at the time, was less than a year away.
His journey back has been well-documented. He rehabbed at an astonishing rate. His muscles healed quickly. His bones fused back together, seemingly stronger than ever. It was remarkable.
He promised that he would play club soccer at Socheaux before the end of their season. And he nearly did, until the club's technical director ruled him out for the remainder of the season.
Of course, this was a considerable setback. It's nearly impossible to go into a World Cup nine months cold, which is exactly what Charlie faced knowing that his next club game wouldn't arrive until late-summer.
On Tuesday, Bob Bradley announced his preliminary 30-player World Cup roster earlier this week. To the amazement of many, our buddy Charlie was not on it.
Nevermind that it was the right decision. Regardless of whether he felt ready, the fact is that very few players can perform at the highest level there is - World Cup - without recent match time. Charlie Davies believed he was ready. But, despite what he may think, the world, not even the soccer world, revolves around what Charlie Davies believes.
When players are snubbed for tournament selection, many choose to take the high road. They give the old "I wish I was there, but that won't stop me from working hard"-type cliche. And that's that.
But Charlie had no interest in taking that road. Instead, he decided to bash his club, by wildly alluding that they prevented him from making the U.S. preliminary roster.
I'll say it again: I like Charlie. I really do. But I think that maybe, just maybe, he might be in need of a reality check.
The fact of the matter is that, whether he remembers this or not, Charlie Davies is lucky to even put himself in a position to earn a roster spot. His recovery is nothing short of miraculous. He should be happy that his body withstood the crush of cold metal that snapped his bones and ripped his tendons. He should remind himself that he is lucky to have survived - a luxury not afforded to everyone involved in the crash.
While Charlie's whining about having his Word Cup dream sabotaged, there are a set of parents who continue to grieve their daughter's death. Note to Charlie: your plight is far, far less serious than that of a parent who has to bury a child.
Instead of turning his frustration - which I can understand, after all the hard work he's put in - into anger, he should feel blessed. Blessed that he can walk. Blessed that he can make cuts on the pitch that few of us who haven't endured serious injury couldn't make. Blessed that he's on the verge of returning to his world-class form. Blessed to be alive.
Because, despite his immaturity, Charlie Davies has to be one of the luckiest people on the face of the planet.
But I'm not going to lie: 23-year old Charlie Davies has a lot of growing up to do.
As you know, Charlie was involved in a serious auto accident last Fall, one which claimed the life of a young woman. Charlie barely escaped with his life. He suffered multiple injuries - injuries which would normally debiliate most people, athletes or otherwise, for the rest of their life. Nevertheless, he was determined to return to the pitch, and vowed he'd make himself healthy enough to play in the World Cup, which at the time, was less than a year away.
His journey back has been well-documented. He rehabbed at an astonishing rate. His muscles healed quickly. His bones fused back together, seemingly stronger than ever. It was remarkable.
He promised that he would play club soccer at Socheaux before the end of their season. And he nearly did, until the club's technical director ruled him out for the remainder of the season.
Of course, this was a considerable setback. It's nearly impossible to go into a World Cup nine months cold, which is exactly what Charlie faced knowing that his next club game wouldn't arrive until late-summer.
On Tuesday, Bob Bradley announced his preliminary 30-player World Cup roster earlier this week. To the amazement of many, our buddy Charlie was not on it.
Nevermind that it was the right decision. Regardless of whether he felt ready, the fact is that very few players can perform at the highest level there is - World Cup - without recent match time. Charlie Davies believed he was ready. But, despite what he may think, the world, not even the soccer world, revolves around what Charlie Davies believes.
When players are snubbed for tournament selection, many choose to take the high road. They give the old "I wish I was there, but that won't stop me from working hard"-type cliche. And that's that.
But Charlie had no interest in taking that road. Instead, he decided to bash his club, by wildly alluding that they prevented him from making the U.S. preliminary roster.
I'll say it again: I like Charlie. I really do. But I think that maybe, just maybe, he might be in need of a reality check.
The fact of the matter is that, whether he remembers this or not, Charlie Davies is lucky to even put himself in a position to earn a roster spot. His recovery is nothing short of miraculous. He should be happy that his body withstood the crush of cold metal that snapped his bones and ripped his tendons. He should remind himself that he is lucky to have survived - a luxury not afforded to everyone involved in the crash.
While Charlie's whining about having his Word Cup dream sabotaged, there are a set of parents who continue to grieve their daughter's death. Note to Charlie: your plight is far, far less serious than that of a parent who has to bury a child.
Instead of turning his frustration - which I can understand, after all the hard work he's put in - into anger, he should feel blessed. Blessed that he can walk. Blessed that he can make cuts on the pitch that few of us who haven't endured serious injury couldn't make. Blessed that he's on the verge of returning to his world-class form. Blessed to be alive.
Because, despite his immaturity, Charlie Davies has to be one of the luckiest people on the face of the planet.
Thursday, May 13, 2010
Diary of a Losing Club 5/13
Shep Messing had a really interesting sentiment during last night's U.S. Open Cup boradcast. He mentioned late in the match, while the Revs were getting pummeled by the baby Red Bulls, that without Rally, Reis, Shalrie, and Taylor, the Revs heart had been ripped out.
I couldn't agree more. The Revs, as we currently know them, have no identity. Without the leadership that steered them to eigh straight postseason berths, these young Revs are searching , sometimes aimlessly, for who they really are.
As of this morning, the Revs are 2-5-1 in league play. Last night, they trotted out a back line that consisted of three midfielders and a rookie defender. Their midfield included their starting striker.* Their bench consisted of two midfielders and a newly-signed rookie keeper. It was painful.
(*I actually liked the idea of Dube in the middle rather than up top. I mean, it makes sense. He is the club's assist leader, while his finishing is incredibly suspect. Isn't that where good-passing, poor-shooting strikers go? To the middle?)
Okay, so maybe it wasn't as bad as those dumbfounding Quiznos commercials with the singing hamsters/guinea pigs. Those were awful. Just awful. Last night wasn't as bad. At least a handful of players looked like they wanted to play. Zak Boggs, who just came off a brilliant two-goal night last weekend, must've scratched his head when he found himself penciled in at right back. And he got burned by guys like Sinisa Ubiparipovic, who knew this kid was really a striker dressed as a defender. He stumbled. He looked outclassed, and he was. But the effort was there.
On the other end of the pitch, the other Zak - I mean, Zack - made run after run, and hardly ever saw the ball. And that's been a problem all season. Somebody needs to get him the ball. Look at his triple against Toronto. When you give Zack Schilawski decent service, he'll put alot of balls in the back of the net. Unfortunately, the service didn't make the trip to NY, either.
Hey, injuries happen. Last night's starting XI was a distaster-level example. But what's most troubling is the lack of fire by the fit. It was the silence between Marko Perovic and his teammates. It was Joseph Niouky looking like a one-man wrecking crew. That's not a compliment. It was Khano Smith looking like he'd rather be at seven other places rather than Red Bull Park last night. You can't help but worry about a player's profeciency when he comes in as a sub and loses interest before his first touch.
(*Another reason why I love Shep Messing: "Even those eight games (that Khano played for the Red Bulls last season) were too much." Mind you, the Red Bulls were HORRIBLE last year. And if eight games for an abysmal club was pushing it, then, well...I'll let you draw your own conclusions.)
You'd never see this kind of performance from the Revolution last year. Or in any of their playoff seasons. And as the first quarter of the season draws to a close, it's evident that the Revolution probably bit off a little more than they could chew when they let Steve Ralston walk out door over the winter.
I know: he hasn't even played a game this season although it looks like he'll return to action this weekend. But his presence on the bench and in the clubhouse for these first eight games would've been invaluable. History has shown us that a Steve Ralston team doesn't bow down the way the Revs have on multiple occasions this season. It just doesn't, because you can't get to four MLS Cups in six years by mailing it in.
Neither would Shalrie, who may be gone awhile. There's a reason why the Revolution midfield was probably one of the best, if not THE best, in the league during their Conference-winning days. A large part of it was Shalrie. After the likes of Clint Dempsey, Jose Cancela, and Joe Franchino left, Shalrie, alongside Jeff Larentowicz and Rally, were the straws that stirred the drink.
I understand that you can only keep a team intact for so many seasons. It only gets tougher when some of your better players set sail for Europe as Dempsey and Dorman did. It happens. Death, taxes, and player departures.
But the Revs failed to secure the players they could retain. They could've retained Rally. They could've brought back Avery John or Pat Noonan. Yeah, they're not the youngest or the most spry. Both are likely past their prime. But, that's not the point.
What they brought to the dinner table is knowing how to win, and the pride that comes with it. It's something that Larentowicz, an unknown supplementary draft pick, absorbed when he got here. It's that heart. And it's something that Boggs, Schilawski, and the rest of this young bunch are in dire need of.
I couldn't agree more. The Revs, as we currently know them, have no identity. Without the leadership that steered them to eigh straight postseason berths, these young Revs are searching , sometimes aimlessly, for who they really are.
As of this morning, the Revs are 2-5-1 in league play. Last night, they trotted out a back line that consisted of three midfielders and a rookie defender. Their midfield included their starting striker.* Their bench consisted of two midfielders and a newly-signed rookie keeper. It was painful.
(*I actually liked the idea of Dube in the middle rather than up top. I mean, it makes sense. He is the club's assist leader, while his finishing is incredibly suspect. Isn't that where good-passing, poor-shooting strikers go? To the middle?)
Okay, so maybe it wasn't as bad as those dumbfounding Quiznos commercials with the singing hamsters/guinea pigs. Those were awful. Just awful. Last night wasn't as bad. At least a handful of players looked like they wanted to play. Zak Boggs, who just came off a brilliant two-goal night last weekend, must've scratched his head when he found himself penciled in at right back. And he got burned by guys like Sinisa Ubiparipovic, who knew this kid was really a striker dressed as a defender. He stumbled. He looked outclassed, and he was. But the effort was there.
On the other end of the pitch, the other Zak - I mean, Zack - made run after run, and hardly ever saw the ball. And that's been a problem all season. Somebody needs to get him the ball. Look at his triple against Toronto. When you give Zack Schilawski decent service, he'll put alot of balls in the back of the net. Unfortunately, the service didn't make the trip to NY, either.
Hey, injuries happen. Last night's starting XI was a distaster-level example. But what's most troubling is the lack of fire by the fit. It was the silence between Marko Perovic and his teammates. It was Joseph Niouky looking like a one-man wrecking crew. That's not a compliment. It was Khano Smith looking like he'd rather be at seven other places rather than Red Bull Park last night. You can't help but worry about a player's profeciency when he comes in as a sub and loses interest before his first touch.
(*Another reason why I love Shep Messing: "Even those eight games (that Khano played for the Red Bulls last season) were too much." Mind you, the Red Bulls were HORRIBLE last year. And if eight games for an abysmal club was pushing it, then, well...I'll let you draw your own conclusions.)
You'd never see this kind of performance from the Revolution last year. Or in any of their playoff seasons. And as the first quarter of the season draws to a close, it's evident that the Revolution probably bit off a little more than they could chew when they let Steve Ralston walk out door over the winter.
I know: he hasn't even played a game this season although it looks like he'll return to action this weekend. But his presence on the bench and in the clubhouse for these first eight games would've been invaluable. History has shown us that a Steve Ralston team doesn't bow down the way the Revs have on multiple occasions this season. It just doesn't, because you can't get to four MLS Cups in six years by mailing it in.
Neither would Shalrie, who may be gone awhile. There's a reason why the Revolution midfield was probably one of the best, if not THE best, in the league during their Conference-winning days. A large part of it was Shalrie. After the likes of Clint Dempsey, Jose Cancela, and Joe Franchino left, Shalrie, alongside Jeff Larentowicz and Rally, were the straws that stirred the drink.
I understand that you can only keep a team intact for so many seasons. It only gets tougher when some of your better players set sail for Europe as Dempsey and Dorman did. It happens. Death, taxes, and player departures.
But the Revs failed to secure the players they could retain. They could've retained Rally. They could've brought back Avery John or Pat Noonan. Yeah, they're not the youngest or the most spry. Both are likely past their prime. But, that's not the point.
What they brought to the dinner table is knowing how to win, and the pride that comes with it. It's something that Larentowicz, an unknown supplementary draft pick, absorbed when he got here. It's that heart. And it's something that Boggs, Schilawski, and the rest of this young bunch are in dire need of.
Wednesday, May 12, 2010
Statues
Last week, the Bruins unveiled a bronze, life-sized statue (okay, it's 10% larger than life, but who's counting?) of Bobby Orr outside the TD Garden. The piece depicts Orr frozen in his iconic, mid-air leap.* You know: the one where he hovers timelessly over the ice after scoring a goal against the Philadelphia Flyers in the 1970 Stanley Cup finals and the TV announcer wildly shouts “BOBBY ORR!!!” and it gets all static-y after that.
(*As the son of sculptor, I can appreciate that it’s a magnificent work. It truly captures that moment, even though I wasn't even alive to witness it. But I can feel it.)
Orr’s statue seems to be the latest in a classy trend among sports franchises in honoring their pasts. Their traditions. Their glory. Their greatness. All of the above.
And that’s what a statue should come to mean. All of which makes the Eusebio statue that sits within the spacious confines of Gillette Stadium utterly ridiculous.
Now, I understand that we are talking about a legend. This is the same Eusebio who catapulted Portugal to its best World Cup finish at England ’66. The same Eusebio who many Portuguese consider Pele’s equal. But, it is also the same Eusebio who played exactly seven – 7 – games for the Boston Minutemen. And it is the same Eusebio who’s done absolutely nothing of record to merit a statue on this side of the Atlantic.
Let me say this: I don’t dispute Eusebio’s accomplishments. He was a virtual god when he played for Benfica back when a Portuguese club could win everything in sight. Seven hundred twenty seven career goals can elevate a player to those kind of heights. He deserves the accolades. The tribute dinners. The mike every two years when Portugal’s en route to Euro or the World Cup.
In short order, he deserves pretty much everything he’s received. And I won’t dispute that. But one thing that isn’t deserved is a statue at Gillette Stadium. Not until Billy Gonsalves gets one.
I’ll admit: I didn’t grow up with stories of Billy Gonsalves. I suspect very few kids did. How many of us grew up on the wonder years of the first (or second or third) American Soccer League? Of Clarkie Souza and the Fall River Marksmen? Heck, how many of us even heard of Joe Gaetjens before we could google him?
And I get it. I get it that soccer has never had the cache of baseball, football, or basketball. Even back when it was called association football, and it was wildly popular among the fledging immigrant classes in southern New England and New Jersey, soccer had a really tough time engraining itself in the American sports consciousness. Sure, the local dailies gave some inks to a few matches, which is a heck of a lot more than it seems to get in today’s papers. There may have been a feature or two on the U.S. Open Cup. But the constant in-fighting within the sport tragically killed any chances that soccer would grow beyond the neighborhood pitches.
Well, Billy Gonsalves thrived on those neighborhood pitches. He dazzled the crowds in Fall River, Pawtucket, Tiverton, New Bedford, or Providence, He terrorized the two-man backlines. He was a tall (6-2) center-mid who could unleash a deadly shot just as easily as he could put one through to a teammate. Despite his stature, it is believed he was not once carded or sent off for unsavory behavior.* The 339 words contained within his bio on the National Soccer Hall of Fame coldly betray the greatness of his playing career.
(*I’m not saying it’s impossible. It’s not. BUT it’s hard for me, personally, to believe that a 6-2 center-mid didn’t get hacked over and over and over by smaller opponents and never ONCE retaliated. I mean, even Steve Ralston, the epitome of a gentleman on the pitch, was carded a few times over his lengthy career. And who knows? Maybe Gonsalves carried a Ghandi-like demeanor. But not a single card - in 25 years? In the old ASL, where fights were almost as common as they are in hockey? I don’t know – I think I smell a new episode of “Mythbusters.”)
We’ll never comprehend the true greatness of Billy Gonsalves. Never. It’s because we don’t have those grainy, black-and-white images of Gonsalves weaving through the middle of the park. We can’t recite his stats by heart because his career goal totals are painfully incomplete. Little has been done to preserve magnificent accomplishments. But we do have something.
We have writers like Steve Holroy digging through archives and finding tidbits. News briefs that mention the way his peers often marveled at the way he could put a ball into the net, with either foot. He turned down massive amounts of money by staying in the States, even though European clubs were practically banging at his door every summer. He played for eight U.S. Open Cup Championship clubs, three ASL champions, and two Lewis Cup winners. He starred for the 1930 and 1934 World Cup teams. When the U.S. Soccer Hall of Fame announced its inaugural list of inductees in 1950, Billy Gonsalves was among them.
I understand the reasoning behind the Eusebio statue. He’s a legend among the thick Portuguese population that resides in southern New England. He is the Portuguese Pele. Unquestionably. And that statue is for them.
But, on the real, Eusebio has about as much to with New England soccer as Pele has to do with ice fishing. To assert that that one season – correction, one portion of a season –warrants a one’s bronzed likeness is an absolute farce.
Nevertheless, the Kraft family gave Eusebio his statue outside of their stadium in 2006. Hey, it’s their money, their land, and their resources. They can spend it (or stash it it, as they seem to do with the Revolution these days) in any manner to which they see fit. But in doing so, they brazenly overlooked one of the best American players of all-time.
(*As the son of sculptor, I can appreciate that it’s a magnificent work. It truly captures that moment, even though I wasn't even alive to witness it. But I can feel it.)
Orr’s statue seems to be the latest in a classy trend among sports franchises in honoring their pasts. Their traditions. Their glory. Their greatness. All of the above.
And that’s what a statue should come to mean. All of which makes the Eusebio statue that sits within the spacious confines of Gillette Stadium utterly ridiculous.
Now, I understand that we are talking about a legend. This is the same Eusebio who catapulted Portugal to its best World Cup finish at England ’66. The same Eusebio who many Portuguese consider Pele’s equal. But, it is also the same Eusebio who played exactly seven – 7 – games for the Boston Minutemen. And it is the same Eusebio who’s done absolutely nothing of record to merit a statue on this side of the Atlantic.
Let me say this: I don’t dispute Eusebio’s accomplishments. He was a virtual god when he played for Benfica back when a Portuguese club could win everything in sight. Seven hundred twenty seven career goals can elevate a player to those kind of heights. He deserves the accolades. The tribute dinners. The mike every two years when Portugal’s en route to Euro or the World Cup.
In short order, he deserves pretty much everything he’s received. And I won’t dispute that. But one thing that isn’t deserved is a statue at Gillette Stadium. Not until Billy Gonsalves gets one.
I’ll admit: I didn’t grow up with stories of Billy Gonsalves. I suspect very few kids did. How many of us grew up on the wonder years of the first (or second or third) American Soccer League? Of Clarkie Souza and the Fall River Marksmen? Heck, how many of us even heard of Joe Gaetjens before we could google him?
And I get it. I get it that soccer has never had the cache of baseball, football, or basketball. Even back when it was called association football, and it was wildly popular among the fledging immigrant classes in southern New England and New Jersey, soccer had a really tough time engraining itself in the American sports consciousness. Sure, the local dailies gave some inks to a few matches, which is a heck of a lot more than it seems to get in today’s papers. There may have been a feature or two on the U.S. Open Cup. But the constant in-fighting within the sport tragically killed any chances that soccer would grow beyond the neighborhood pitches.
Well, Billy Gonsalves thrived on those neighborhood pitches. He dazzled the crowds in Fall River, Pawtucket, Tiverton, New Bedford, or Providence, He terrorized the two-man backlines. He was a tall (6-2) center-mid who could unleash a deadly shot just as easily as he could put one through to a teammate. Despite his stature, it is believed he was not once carded or sent off for unsavory behavior.* The 339 words contained within his bio on the National Soccer Hall of Fame coldly betray the greatness of his playing career.
(*I’m not saying it’s impossible. It’s not. BUT it’s hard for me, personally, to believe that a 6-2 center-mid didn’t get hacked over and over and over by smaller opponents and never ONCE retaliated. I mean, even Steve Ralston, the epitome of a gentleman on the pitch, was carded a few times over his lengthy career. And who knows? Maybe Gonsalves carried a Ghandi-like demeanor. But not a single card - in 25 years? In the old ASL, where fights were almost as common as they are in hockey? I don’t know – I think I smell a new episode of “Mythbusters.”)
We’ll never comprehend the true greatness of Billy Gonsalves. Never. It’s because we don’t have those grainy, black-and-white images of Gonsalves weaving through the middle of the park. We can’t recite his stats by heart because his career goal totals are painfully incomplete. Little has been done to preserve magnificent accomplishments. But we do have something.
We have writers like Steve Holroy digging through archives and finding tidbits. News briefs that mention the way his peers often marveled at the way he could put a ball into the net, with either foot. He turned down massive amounts of money by staying in the States, even though European clubs were practically banging at his door every summer. He played for eight U.S. Open Cup Championship clubs, three ASL champions, and two Lewis Cup winners. He starred for the 1930 and 1934 World Cup teams. When the U.S. Soccer Hall of Fame announced its inaugural list of inductees in 1950, Billy Gonsalves was among them.
I understand the reasoning behind the Eusebio statue. He’s a legend among the thick Portuguese population that resides in southern New England. He is the Portuguese Pele. Unquestionably. And that statue is for them.
But, on the real, Eusebio has about as much to with New England soccer as Pele has to do with ice fishing. To assert that that one season – correction, one portion of a season –warrants a one’s bronzed likeness is an absolute farce.
Nevertheless, the Kraft family gave Eusebio his statue outside of their stadium in 2006. Hey, it’s their money, their land, and their resources. They can spend it (or stash it it, as they seem to do with the Revolution these days) in any manner to which they see fit. But in doing so, they brazenly overlooked one of the best American players of all-time.
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