On Thursday, the Revolution announced full bowl at seating Gillette Stadium in 2011. On Friday, they followed up with the signing of two largely anonymous internationals.*
(*This post isn't intended to come across as negative or jaded, you know, aside from the title of this post. I apologize if it does.)
To address the quality in the attacking third, the Revs didn't bring in Ronaldinho. No, they didn't bring in Luis Figo, either. Alex de Souza? Not this time. Boys and girls, the Revolution present to you, for your spectating pleasure, forward Ilija Stolica and midfielder Roberto Linck.*
(*Cue the crickets.)
As you've probably learned by now, the idea of signing to general unknowns to address an obvious deficiency has become standard policy of the Revolution front office. It's a non-gamble, really. Sign a guy (or guys) no one knows for small money, and if he fails, well, the expectations weren't exactly in the stratosphere to begin with.
Lowered expectations aside, I attempted to find out more about Stolica and Linck, so I asked a few colleagues of mine about Stolica. I didn't get very many answers. So, that left me with no choice but to do some google scouting on the Serbian international.
According to his website, Stolica is a bonafide center forward who scored at a decent clip this season (seven goals in 12 matches) with FC Budocnost. It's good to know he can score. But, then again, we thought Edgaras Jankauskus could do the same when he was signed last summer, and all he's done thus far is collect alot of injuries. That, and undertaking alot of stretching exercises in between stoppages in play.
After playing college ball at Irvine Valley College, Linck moved on to indoor soccer (!) with the Chicago Storm in the XSL, where he wowed the crowds in the Windy City with three goals in five games last season.* He then parlayed that experience to a contract with CSM Râmnicu Vâlcea. In six outdoor matches, he scored one goal. But wait. He is Brazilian.
(*Three goals in five games ain't bad...in the outdoor game. But three goals in five indoor games? What, Kyle Teixiera or any of his former Massachusetts Twisters teammates weren't available?)
Midseason acquisitions are supposed to provide answers. But seriously, did these signings actually leave us with more question marks? Why are the Revs signing anyone older than 30? Why are they signing forwards when there's a clear need for midfield depth? Should the signing of an indoor player really excite us? Do these signings effectively phase out Zack Schilawski, who happens to be their leading scorer at the moment?
Given the Revolution's recent success rate with midseason signings*, is it worth holding our breaths that, yes, these guys are the missing link (pun definitely intended) the Revs need to crash the playoffs again? Are these the guys - guys seemingly unwanted by their former, semi-anonymous clubs - that will make the difference down the stretch?
(*Since 2006, the Revs have brought in the likes of Jose Manuel Abundis, Gabriel Badilla, and the aforementioned Jankauskas. Talk about a set of season-changing moves.)
Time will tell. In the interim, it appears that the Revolution have once again refused to sign a legit international star, and once again elected to go down the well-beaten path of the low-profile signing. Which begs the question: why did they open up the seating at Gillette again?
Saturday, July 31, 2010
Friday, July 30, 2010
Waiving Michael Videira
There was alot of excitement around here when the Revolution drafted Michael Videira in the second round of the 2008 MLS SuperDraft. It wasn't just that the Hermann Trophy finalist also happened to hail from the neighborhood.* Nor was it the fact that he was a Portuguese-American playing in a region rich with people of Portuguese descent.
(*If my memory hasn't completely betrayed me, I believe Buzz Carrick had Videira rated as the best available midfielder in that year's draft. He fell to the 18th pick, where the Revs took him. It was a classic study in signability, only instead of money, as it is in the MLB Amateur Draft, it's international offers that scare clubs away. Well, that and money, of course. I suspect alot of debt-ridden collegians would take more or comparible money here than go abroad to earn less.)
It was more than all of that. It was the fact that he was being compared to another high-round Revolution draft pick. I mean, Buzz Carrick, the SuperDraft guru himself, was gushing with praise when he published this pre-draft assessment of the All-American midfielder:
"Videira is about as sure a thing as you'll find in this year's midfield pool. The Blue Devil is a big, active player with good feet and range. He battled an injury much of this year but was still third-team All-American. A three-time Hermann Trophy semifinalist and three-time All-ACC selection, Videira has a remarkable college resume. His career tally of 15 goals and 32 assists shows his game-changing ability."
"Game-changing ability." Wow. Sounds alot like another high-round midfielder taken by the Revs a few years previous. And the Revs were quick to boast of their selection, who happened to be "a three-time semifinalist for the Missouri Athletic Club’s Hermann Trophy (2005, 2006, 2007) and a National Soccer Coaches Association of America (NSCAA) third-team All-American in both 2006 and 2007. In 80 career games with the Blue Devils, Videira scored 17 goals and added 15 assists. As a senior in 2007, he played in 16 games, scoring three goals and two assists while battling a leg injury. He is also a former member of the U.S. Under-18 and Under-20 National Teams."
Needless to say, alot of people, myself included, were pretty excited about this homegrown hero, this player that would surely replace the large void left by Clint Dempsey's departure a year previous. All he had to do was sign on the dotted line.
In a storybook world, Videira would have done just that and signed with MLS shortly after the draft. He would have trained with the Revs weeks later, played with Taylor, Rally, Shalrie, Parky, Jaybird, and the rest of the remaining Revolution players from their impressive 2002-2007 run. He was going to be the guy to whom the torch as passed to. He was supposed to make us forget about Deuce.
It didn't happen that way, of course. He opted to test the international waters, hoping to secure a spot on a European side, specifically, in Portugal, of which he already had a passport for. It didn't go quite as well as he may have expected. He never found a Portuguese club to sign with. Instead, bounced around until he landed in Scotland. When he got there, he got hurt, and never really got his shot to prove his abilities abroad.
A year later, he returned to Revolutionland, this time ready to prove himself before his home crowd. And he did. Kind of. He had a few good showings in Open Cup and SuperLiga. He played a really good game in his first MLS start on May 3rd against Houston, which is saying alot considering that was probably one of the most boring games I've ever endured. But aside from that, his career here was pretty undistinguished.
Not that he ever really got a great chance to show himself. For all the talent and skills the press releases, scouting reports, and coaches' quotes brimmed with, one thing always seemed to trip up the former Blue Devil. Injuries. And boy, did he battle them often.
First, it was the string of games he missed during his senior season at Duke. When he tried to latch on at Hamilton Academical in Scotland the following year, he suffered another series of setbacks before he was released that winter.
He stayed relatively healthy last season, but was slotted as a withdrawn forward, an obvious attempt to get him minutes, albeit in an unfamiliar role. Needless to say, there weren't many wows. Then, the injury bug bit again when he suffered a leg injury earlier this season. And from there, it just became a lost season for the former can't miss prospect.
Look, I understand it's hard to gauge a player's skill at the MLS level if he's always hurt. I'm not going to debate that. It's absolutely true. What I will rail against, however, is the lack of minutes that players like Videira, who are obviously gifted, afforded to them when they're healthy.
You know what would have helped? You know where I'm going with this. Yep. The Reserve League, which probably would have molded the midfielder into, at very least, a quality starter. And even in absence of it, a short term loan couldn't have hurt. There is precedent for it. In 2008, the Revs sent Brad Knighton to the Portland Timbers back for some seasoning, and it certainly seemed to help his development. Conversely, when there aren't venues for younger players to ply their trade, talent wastes away, which is what happened to Videira.
On his Revolution bio, Videira was proclaimed as "one of the top-rated prospects to come out of Massachusetts in many years." That may have been true. Unfortunately, what every prospect needs is minutes - minutes which were never offered to the Milford, MA midfielder who arrived as the Hope of the Revolution not too long ago.
(*If my memory hasn't completely betrayed me, I believe Buzz Carrick had Videira rated as the best available midfielder in that year's draft. He fell to the 18th pick, where the Revs took him. It was a classic study in signability, only instead of money, as it is in the MLB Amateur Draft, it's international offers that scare clubs away. Well, that and money, of course. I suspect alot of debt-ridden collegians would take more or comparible money here than go abroad to earn less.)
It was more than all of that. It was the fact that he was being compared to another high-round Revolution draft pick. I mean, Buzz Carrick, the SuperDraft guru himself, was gushing with praise when he published this pre-draft assessment of the All-American midfielder:
"Videira is about as sure a thing as you'll find in this year's midfield pool. The Blue Devil is a big, active player with good feet and range. He battled an injury much of this year but was still third-team All-American. A three-time Hermann Trophy semifinalist and three-time All-ACC selection, Videira has a remarkable college resume. His career tally of 15 goals and 32 assists shows his game-changing ability."
"Game-changing ability." Wow. Sounds alot like another high-round midfielder taken by the Revs a few years previous. And the Revs were quick to boast of their selection, who happened to be "a three-time semifinalist for the Missouri Athletic Club’s Hermann Trophy (2005, 2006, 2007) and a National Soccer Coaches Association of America (NSCAA) third-team All-American in both 2006 and 2007. In 80 career games with the Blue Devils, Videira scored 17 goals and added 15 assists. As a senior in 2007, he played in 16 games, scoring three goals and two assists while battling a leg injury. He is also a former member of the U.S. Under-18 and Under-20 National Teams."
Needless to say, alot of people, myself included, were pretty excited about this homegrown hero, this player that would surely replace the large void left by Clint Dempsey's departure a year previous. All he had to do was sign on the dotted line.
In a storybook world, Videira would have done just that and signed with MLS shortly after the draft. He would have trained with the Revs weeks later, played with Taylor, Rally, Shalrie, Parky, Jaybird, and the rest of the remaining Revolution players from their impressive 2002-2007 run. He was going to be the guy to whom the torch as passed to. He was supposed to make us forget about Deuce.
It didn't happen that way, of course. He opted to test the international waters, hoping to secure a spot on a European side, specifically, in Portugal, of which he already had a passport for. It didn't go quite as well as he may have expected. He never found a Portuguese club to sign with. Instead, bounced around until he landed in Scotland. When he got there, he got hurt, and never really got his shot to prove his abilities abroad.
A year later, he returned to Revolutionland, this time ready to prove himself before his home crowd. And he did. Kind of. He had a few good showings in Open Cup and SuperLiga. He played a really good game in his first MLS start on May 3rd against Houston, which is saying alot considering that was probably one of the most boring games I've ever endured. But aside from that, his career here was pretty undistinguished.
Not that he ever really got a great chance to show himself. For all the talent and skills the press releases, scouting reports, and coaches' quotes brimmed with, one thing always seemed to trip up the former Blue Devil. Injuries. And boy, did he battle them often.
First, it was the string of games he missed during his senior season at Duke. When he tried to latch on at Hamilton Academical in Scotland the following year, he suffered another series of setbacks before he was released that winter.
He stayed relatively healthy last season, but was slotted as a withdrawn forward, an obvious attempt to get him minutes, albeit in an unfamiliar role. Needless to say, there weren't many wows. Then, the injury bug bit again when he suffered a leg injury earlier this season. And from there, it just became a lost season for the former can't miss prospect.
Look, I understand it's hard to gauge a player's skill at the MLS level if he's always hurt. I'm not going to debate that. It's absolutely true. What I will rail against, however, is the lack of minutes that players like Videira, who are obviously gifted, afforded to them when they're healthy.
You know what would have helped? You know where I'm going with this. Yep. The Reserve League, which probably would have molded the midfielder into, at very least, a quality starter. And even in absence of it, a short term loan couldn't have hurt. There is precedent for it. In 2008, the Revs sent Brad Knighton to the Portland Timbers back for some seasoning, and it certainly seemed to help his development. Conversely, when there aren't venues for younger players to ply their trade, talent wastes away, which is what happened to Videira.
On his Revolution bio, Videira was proclaimed as "one of the top-rated prospects to come out of Massachusetts in many years." That may have been true. Unfortunately, what every prospect needs is minutes - minutes which were never offered to the Milford, MA midfielder who arrived as the Hope of the Revolution not too long ago.
Thursday, July 29, 2010
Hijinx in H-Town
(AP Photo/Mike Thomas)Not long ago, former Cowboys wide receiver Terrell Owens told the media in advance of a Patriots-Cowboys showdown - which, coincidentally took place a few miles north of Reliant Stadium - to "get the popcorn ready." The same advice could have been given prior to last night's highly-anticipated hoedown. Yeah, that's right. I called it a hoedown.
And while Federico Macheda's brace within twenty minutes pretty much punctured any hopes of an MLS victory over Man U, I think that last night's match gave the fans exactly what they wanted: a high octane, open throttle match that saw a total of seven shots split the sticks.
Although the gaggle of goals made for great television and left us clamoring more (on the MLS side, of course), I did have a couple of minor beefs with the presentation. That's not to say that it wasn't, for the most part, a well-produced event. It was. Mostly.
My main beef is with the television production. ESPN spoiled us this summer with great views and angles for the World Cup.The production was absolutely stunning. I, personally, cannot recall a sporting event as acutely produced as South Africa '10. Single out any of the 64 matches, and then compare it to the broadcasts on ten years ago. It's almost like watching an entirely different game.
Last night, however, reminded us that MLS and ESPN still haven't quite figured out how to put out a slickly-produced match. At least not on a consistent basis, which was painfully evident when the Red Devils arrived in H-Town.
Allow me to start by asking the following: How may times did a player taking the throw-in get obscured by the ESPN's Bottomline scrawl? How many times did the player with possession fall off the screen? And what the heck was with that awkward angle - shot from the touchline about five yards before the flag - on the majority of the corners? What was that?
I get that the game was played in an NFL stadium and all, but this wasn't the Texans vs. Chiefs. This wasn't the NFL on FOX. Joe Buck and Troy Aikman weren't calling the game.* So why did it feel like they should have been?
(*No disrespect to John Harkes, but I really think that Kyle Martino, who has absolutely shined as a color commentator this year, should have been given the mike alongside J.P. Dellacamera last night. The former Galaxy midfielder has quickly morphed into the best color commentor in MLS, without question.)
I'm not going to lie and say that I have all of the answers because I don't. I do not know how much say MLS has in its ESPN broadcasts. I don't know if Don Garber himself pays attention to these things. I don't know if the production crews between ESPN's NFL and MLS games are interchangeable. However, as a regular viewer of MLS, I can say this: the league is whiffing badly on these high-profile opportunities to draw in the casual viewer.
Listen, I'm not going to tell people how to do their jobs. I barely get mine accomplished as it is. But, in my mind, the objective of every sports cast should give the viewer something to remember.
And what we always remember is the dramatic. We remember the camera closing in on the pile of navy and white players before Maurice Edu emerged to thump in what should have been the game-winning goal against Slovenia. We remember the widening angle immediately after Landon put through the winner against Algeria, and seeing the crowd's reaction. Memorable moments, no doubt, but they don't become indelible images unless the camera fully captures it.
And while Federico Macheda's brace within twenty minutes pretty much punctured any hopes of an MLS victory over Man U, I think that last night's match gave the fans exactly what they wanted: a high octane, open throttle match that saw a total of seven shots split the sticks.
Although the gaggle of goals made for great television and left us clamoring more (on the MLS side, of course), I did have a couple of minor beefs with the presentation. That's not to say that it wasn't, for the most part, a well-produced event. It was. Mostly.
My main beef is with the television production. ESPN spoiled us this summer with great views and angles for the World Cup.The production was absolutely stunning. I, personally, cannot recall a sporting event as acutely produced as South Africa '10. Single out any of the 64 matches, and then compare it to the broadcasts on ten years ago. It's almost like watching an entirely different game.
Last night, however, reminded us that MLS and ESPN still haven't quite figured out how to put out a slickly-produced match. At least not on a consistent basis, which was painfully evident when the Red Devils arrived in H-Town.
Allow me to start by asking the following: How may times did a player taking the throw-in get obscured by the ESPN's Bottomline scrawl? How many times did the player with possession fall off the screen? And what the heck was with that awkward angle - shot from the touchline about five yards before the flag - on the majority of the corners? What was that?
I get that the game was played in an NFL stadium and all, but this wasn't the Texans vs. Chiefs. This wasn't the NFL on FOX. Joe Buck and Troy Aikman weren't calling the game.* So why did it feel like they should have been?
(*No disrespect to John Harkes, but I really think that Kyle Martino, who has absolutely shined as a color commentator this year, should have been given the mike alongside J.P. Dellacamera last night. The former Galaxy midfielder has quickly morphed into the best color commentor in MLS, without question.)
I'm not going to lie and say that I have all of the answers because I don't. I do not know how much say MLS has in its ESPN broadcasts. I don't know if Don Garber himself pays attention to these things. I don't know if the production crews between ESPN's NFL and MLS games are interchangeable. However, as a regular viewer of MLS, I can say this: the league is whiffing badly on these high-profile opportunities to draw in the casual viewer.
Listen, I'm not going to tell people how to do their jobs. I barely get mine accomplished as it is. But, in my mind, the objective of every sports cast should give the viewer something to remember.
And what we always remember is the dramatic. We remember the camera closing in on the pile of navy and white players before Maurice Edu emerged to thump in what should have been the game-winning goal against Slovenia. We remember the widening angle immediately after Landon put through the winner against Algeria, and seeing the crowd's reaction. Memorable moments, no doubt, but they don't become indelible images unless the camera fully captures it.
Thanks to impeccably-produced presentations, we can recall dozens of images from World Cups past. Yet, how many moments of MLS glory are ingrained in our collective minds?
Wednesday, July 28, 2010
The MLS All-Star Game
(Photo: Jed Jacobsohn/Getty Images North America)I realize it may be a bit of a guilty pleasure, but I love All-Star Games. I really do. Except for the Pro Bowl. I dislike it for the sheer fact that they call it a "bowl" and not a "game." Well that, and the fact that nearly every first-ballot Pro Bowler seems to not really care about it. If they don't care, why should I, right?
In any event, this isn't about the Pro Bowl. Or the Professional Bowlers Association. No, it's about the MLS All-Star Game, and it's about how much this little exhibition's grown on me over the years.
The first MLS midsummer classic I witnessed was the 2006 edition when the MLSers took on Chelsea at the spiffy new Toyota Park. Maybe it was the the way MLS's vibrant red kits contrasted with Chelsea's glowing blues. Then again, maybe it was the back and forth of a well-played game. Maybe it was both. In hindsight, it one of the first instances that I knew, absolutely knew, that this love affair with soccer was just completely undeniable, and totally not worth fighting against.
Anywho, to see the home side really battle the Blues, and for Eddie Robinson to sweep away that Frank Lampard ball millimeters from the line and for Dwayne DeRosario to blast that ball by Carlo Cudicini with twenty minutes to go totally took me back to my childhood. It reminded me of watching the MLB All-Star games as kid. It took me back to the first MLB All-Star games I watched in my parents' living room on the old 22" Zenith.* It was brilliant, magical, and completely amazing. If that makes me pathetic, then circle me Heidi Montag.
In any event, this isn't about the Pro Bowl. Or the Professional Bowlers Association. No, it's about the MLS All-Star Game, and it's about how much this little exhibition's grown on me over the years.
The first MLS midsummer classic I witnessed was the 2006 edition when the MLSers took on Chelsea at the spiffy new Toyota Park. Maybe it was the the way MLS's vibrant red kits contrasted with Chelsea's glowing blues. Then again, maybe it was the back and forth of a well-played game. Maybe it was both. In hindsight, it one of the first instances that I knew, absolutely knew, that this love affair with soccer was just completely undeniable, and totally not worth fighting against.
Anywho, to see the home side really battle the Blues, and for Eddie Robinson to sweep away that Frank Lampard ball millimeters from the line and for Dwayne DeRosario to blast that ball by Carlo Cudicini with twenty minutes to go totally took me back to my childhood. It reminded me of watching the MLB All-Star games as kid. It took me back to the first MLB All-Star games I watched in my parents' living room on the old 22" Zenith.* It was brilliant, magical, and completely amazing. If that makes me pathetic, then circle me Heidi Montag.
(*The first one I remember - vaguely - was the '88 All-Star game which, sadly, I had to google to figure out where it was held. I thought it was Oakland. Nope. It was Cincy. Oakland was '87. I remember Wade Boggs played in it. And that's just about all.
The first one I vividly remember was the '92 game at Jack Murphy Stadium because Tom Glavine got rocked in the first inning, giving up four runs, and there was a tornado warning in Providence County that night. Crazy night all around. I was 11.)
Ever since then, MLS All-Star games have always afforded me to the wonderful opportunity every summer to indulge in that feeling; the feeling of being 11 again. And it's more than just the idea of gathering up the best of the best to face foreign competition.
That 2006 game brought a powerhouse. You couldn't ask for a better Best XI match. The following year, it was Celtic, and we were granted another exciting match. I still remember Juan Toja with what appeared to be a dead animal affixed to his head scoring that second goal moments before the half. I have no idea why remember that one more than Juan Pablo Angel's. I think it was the mullet. Yeah, it was definitely the mullet.
As far as exhibition games go, you really can't do much better than an MLS All-Star match. Even in 2008, when the less impressive West Ham showed up, the goalfest that ensued was pure entertainment, and the crowd at BMO Field was obviously pleased.
And who could forget last year's 1-1 classic that went to PKs against Everton? I mean, seriously, what have we done to deserve this kind of theater? I can't remember a better, start-to-finish All-Star game ever. Not even the 2008 MLB All-Star Game - which, by far, has been the most exciting in recent memory - could top it. And who'da thunk that Tim Howard, the former MetroStar made good, would win MVP? If you didn't like that game, then you must not like soccer, Mom, or apple pie.
Looking back those previous matches, you could totally build up on tonight's classic without mention of Manchester United. Yeah, they're a pretty decent team. Alex Ferguson? He's a pretty good manager. I've heard they've won a few trophies across the pond. But even without all the glitz and glamour that surrounds them, this would still promise to be another blockbuster. You have to think that even if they brought in Preston North End or Plymouth Argyle, somehow, it would still make for a heck of a match.
That's why I love the MLS All-Star game. Sure, it's great that the league's best get showcased and honored and get to wear those cool AT&T jerseys on national television and all. And they deserve it. Most of all, though, it's a two-hour thrillride that shines the spotlight on some of the best soccer you'll see all year long. Quite frankly, what more could you ask for?*
(*Besides bikini-clad Chivas Girls and a Lady GaGa halftime show. That GaGa performance would be awesome, though. All she'd need is a bedazzled Donovan jersey, an oversized pair of sunglasses, and a seven-second delay. Make it so, Don Garber.)
Ever since then, MLS All-Star games have always afforded me to the wonderful opportunity every summer to indulge in that feeling; the feeling of being 11 again. And it's more than just the idea of gathering up the best of the best to face foreign competition.
That 2006 game brought a powerhouse. You couldn't ask for a better Best XI match. The following year, it was Celtic, and we were granted another exciting match. I still remember Juan Toja with what appeared to be a dead animal affixed to his head scoring that second goal moments before the half. I have no idea why remember that one more than Juan Pablo Angel's. I think it was the mullet. Yeah, it was definitely the mullet.
As far as exhibition games go, you really can't do much better than an MLS All-Star match. Even in 2008, when the less impressive West Ham showed up, the goalfest that ensued was pure entertainment, and the crowd at BMO Field was obviously pleased.
And who could forget last year's 1-1 classic that went to PKs against Everton? I mean, seriously, what have we done to deserve this kind of theater? I can't remember a better, start-to-finish All-Star game ever. Not even the 2008 MLB All-Star Game - which, by far, has been the most exciting in recent memory - could top it. And who'da thunk that Tim Howard, the former MetroStar made good, would win MVP? If you didn't like that game, then you must not like soccer, Mom, or apple pie.
Looking back those previous matches, you could totally build up on tonight's classic without mention of Manchester United. Yeah, they're a pretty decent team. Alex Ferguson? He's a pretty good manager. I've heard they've won a few trophies across the pond. But even without all the glitz and glamour that surrounds them, this would still promise to be another blockbuster. You have to think that even if they brought in Preston North End or Plymouth Argyle, somehow, it would still make for a heck of a match.
That's why I love the MLS All-Star game. Sure, it's great that the league's best get showcased and honored and get to wear those cool AT&T jerseys on national television and all. And they deserve it. Most of all, though, it's a two-hour thrillride that shines the spotlight on some of the best soccer you'll see all year long. Quite frankly, what more could you ask for?*
(*Besides bikini-clad Chivas Girls and a Lady GaGa halftime show. That GaGa performance would be awesome, though. All she'd need is a bedazzled Donovan jersey, an oversized pair of sunglasses, and a seven-second delay. Make it so, Don Garber.)
Tuesday, July 27, 2010
Wicked Awesome
I apologize for the tardiness of this post. Timeliness has never been my forte.
Far be it for me to resort to excuses, but my laptop was recently infected with a nasty virus that has prevented me from posting regularly/semi-regularly. So, until it's fixed/cured, it may be a few days in between posts.
***
I spent the first ten minutes prior to this post thinking of the right word(s) to best sum up the Fenway Football Challenge a couple of days ago. And honestly? I still don't think the post title does the experience any justice.
Originally, this post was going to be a running blog of the time between 5pm Wednesday through 12:30am Thursday, complete with pictures, captions, and a few corny jokes for good measure. Alas, the USB cord for my digital camera slipped into a coma - I'm not ready to declare it dead just yet - and thus, I can only post my thoughts for now. Once the cord comes back to life or is heartlessly replaced with a newer model, I will be sure to post the photographic evidence.
As referenced in my previous post, I took in the game with my father, who, as I've noted on a few occasions, is not the world's biggest soccer fan.* Nevertheless, my dad entered the game with an open mind, as well as his old school Detroit Tigers hat for good measure.
(*Yet, at least. I'm still giving him time, though.)
We arrived about ten minutes prior to the opening whistle because, well, arriving late is part of being an O'Connell. That, and scheduling family get-togethers two days in advance of the date. We can't help it; we're like that.
Once we arrived at our seats - which, in typical Fenway fashion, had an obstructed view thanks to the Pesky Pole - I stopped and stared at the field. And I'm not going to lie: it was quite bizarre to see a baseball field I watch on TV nearly every night between April and October to sport goalposts and soccer players on it. It was like being on a different planet and, quite possibly, a different dimension. It was a little jarring, actually.
But once the opening whistle was blown, I reclaimed my bearings. I suspect that my dad must have also experienced the same set of thoughts when he suddenly blurted, "Brian, they're playing SOCCER here!" I'm pretty sure my dad couldn't believe it, either.
Once our eyes finally began to believe, a decent game started to play itself out. The first half featured a few good touches, a handful of good runs, but nothing overly spectacular. Some (including the row of soccer virgins behind us) thought it was boring. And maybe it was, to the casual observer. In hindsight, I believe the first half was simply the perfect opportunity for the soccerheads in the crowd to fully grasp the concept., because the second half became an end-to-end offensive onslaught.
The soccer gods were clearly with my dad and I, as remaining 45 minutes featured Sporting attacking the Celtic goal planted in front of us. And attack they did. With Liedson leading the charge, the Portuguese set up shop right in front of our eyes. With each attack, the tenision grew. After Celtic stole the first goal from a penalty, Sporting relentlessly pursued the equalizer. They found it in the 81st minute.
With the score level entering the 90th minute, it was announced that if it remained tied, PKs would be rolled out to declare a winner. Aiiieee.
Despite this obvious bastardization of the game, which took place at the goal right next to us in right field, I succumbed to excitement. The PKs were thrilling, even if they were completely manufactured. When Liedson punted his over the bar, and Paul McGowan clinched it, it was pandemonium. Good pandemonium. The kind of pandemonium that will likely remain with me for a lifetime.
It was everything I expected it to be, and then some. It was the experience of a lifetime. Heck, we hadn't even landed on the moon the last time soccer was played at the Fens. Hopefully, it won't be another 40 odd years before football returns to Fenway.
Far be it for me to resort to excuses, but my laptop was recently infected with a nasty virus that has prevented me from posting regularly/semi-regularly. So, until it's fixed/cured, it may be a few days in between posts.
***
I spent the first ten minutes prior to this post thinking of the right word(s) to best sum up the Fenway Football Challenge a couple of days ago. And honestly? I still don't think the post title does the experience any justice.
Originally, this post was going to be a running blog of the time between 5pm Wednesday through 12:30am Thursday, complete with pictures, captions, and a few corny jokes for good measure. Alas, the USB cord for my digital camera slipped into a coma - I'm not ready to declare it dead just yet - and thus, I can only post my thoughts for now. Once the cord comes back to life or is heartlessly replaced with a newer model, I will be sure to post the photographic evidence.
As referenced in my previous post, I took in the game with my father, who, as I've noted on a few occasions, is not the world's biggest soccer fan.* Nevertheless, my dad entered the game with an open mind, as well as his old school Detroit Tigers hat for good measure.
(*Yet, at least. I'm still giving him time, though.)
We arrived about ten minutes prior to the opening whistle because, well, arriving late is part of being an O'Connell. That, and scheduling family get-togethers two days in advance of the date. We can't help it; we're like that.
Once we arrived at our seats - which, in typical Fenway fashion, had an obstructed view thanks to the Pesky Pole - I stopped and stared at the field. And I'm not going to lie: it was quite bizarre to see a baseball field I watch on TV nearly every night between April and October to sport goalposts and soccer players on it. It was like being on a different planet and, quite possibly, a different dimension. It was a little jarring, actually.
But once the opening whistle was blown, I reclaimed my bearings. I suspect that my dad must have also experienced the same set of thoughts when he suddenly blurted, "Brian, they're playing SOCCER here!" I'm pretty sure my dad couldn't believe it, either.
Once our eyes finally began to believe, a decent game started to play itself out. The first half featured a few good touches, a handful of good runs, but nothing overly spectacular. Some (including the row of soccer virgins behind us) thought it was boring. And maybe it was, to the casual observer. In hindsight, I believe the first half was simply the perfect opportunity for the soccerheads in the crowd to fully grasp the concept., because the second half became an end-to-end offensive onslaught.
The soccer gods were clearly with my dad and I, as remaining 45 minutes featured Sporting attacking the Celtic goal planted in front of us. And attack they did. With Liedson leading the charge, the Portuguese set up shop right in front of our eyes. With each attack, the tenision grew. After Celtic stole the first goal from a penalty, Sporting relentlessly pursued the equalizer. They found it in the 81st minute.
With the score level entering the 90th minute, it was announced that if it remained tied, PKs would be rolled out to declare a winner. Aiiieee.
Despite this obvious bastardization of the game, which took place at the goal right next to us in right field, I succumbed to excitement. The PKs were thrilling, even if they were completely manufactured. When Liedson punted his over the bar, and Paul McGowan clinched it, it was pandemonium. Good pandemonium. The kind of pandemonium that will likely remain with me for a lifetime.
It was everything I expected it to be, and then some. It was the experience of a lifetime. Heck, we hadn't even landed on the moon the last time soccer was played at the Fens. Hopefully, it won't be another 40 odd years before football returns to Fenway.
Wednesday, July 21, 2010
Football at the Fens
(Photo: Jim Davis)My first memory of Fenway Park goes back to 1989. More specifically, my eighth birthday, which happened to fall on June 21st of that year.
Apparently, my dad, perhaps noting my burgeoning enthusiasm for baseball and the Boston Red Sox, bought a series of tickets for us - us, being my dad, my uncle Mike, my cousin Mike, my brother, my bffi at the time and me - to partake in what was simply known as the Boston Red Sox vs. the Texas Rangers, 7:05pm.
That game was quite an experience. It afforded me the first opportunity to not only witness firsthand my favorite baseball team in the entire universe, but also the chance to display one of those homemade signs that often attract the attention of the nearest TV cameraman.*
(*The sign - which was actually my dad's idea - was a large, white cardboard canvas that read "Hey Wade, hit one for me! It's my birthday!" And wouldn't you know it? Wade Boggs, the Chicken Man himself, must have had the vision of a hawk to read that sign from my centerfield perch because he delivered a base hit in his third at bat that very evening.)
It was a magical night all-around. The guys in my section all wished me a happy birthday, my dad bought me an endless supply of hot dogs and soda, and on the way home in the family station wagon, I slipped into dreamland, with the knowledge that this was probably the best day of my life.
***
Twenty-one years later, my dad and I are going back up to Fenway. Although we've made a few trips up to America's Most Beloved Ballpark since I turned eight, tonight's journey will bring us up I-93 for a different reason. Instead of the Sox and Rangers, it'll be Celtic and Sporting. And, of course, instead of baseball, it'll be soccer.
Now, there's obviously something beyond cool about soccer at a field as legendary as Fenway. There really isn't a word to describe what will take place. Astonishing? Amazing? Breathtaking? Beast? I'll go with all of the above. I mean, the last time a ball was kicked around Fenway - besides the time that Manny Ramirez was kicking a baseball around left field vs. the Dodgers a few years ago - was back in the late-60s, which, as you may now, was years before my time.
It's not only the novelty of soccer. Nor is it merely the idea of having two storied clubs - Celtic and Sporting* - gracing the temporarily-sodded pitch in front of the Green Monster. Although that very image just gave me goosebumps, tonight means much more than the concept of soccer in a baseball field.
Apparently, my dad, perhaps noting my burgeoning enthusiasm for baseball and the Boston Red Sox, bought a series of tickets for us - us, being my dad, my uncle Mike, my cousin Mike, my brother, my bffi at the time and me - to partake in what was simply known as the Boston Red Sox vs. the Texas Rangers, 7:05pm.
That game was quite an experience. It afforded me the first opportunity to not only witness firsthand my favorite baseball team in the entire universe, but also the chance to display one of those homemade signs that often attract the attention of the nearest TV cameraman.*
(*The sign - which was actually my dad's idea - was a large, white cardboard canvas that read "Hey Wade, hit one for me! It's my birthday!" And wouldn't you know it? Wade Boggs, the Chicken Man himself, must have had the vision of a hawk to read that sign from my centerfield perch because he delivered a base hit in his third at bat that very evening.)
It was a magical night all-around. The guys in my section all wished me a happy birthday, my dad bought me an endless supply of hot dogs and soda, and on the way home in the family station wagon, I slipped into dreamland, with the knowledge that this was probably the best day of my life.
***
Twenty-one years later, my dad and I are going back up to Fenway. Although we've made a few trips up to America's Most Beloved Ballpark since I turned eight, tonight's journey will bring us up I-93 for a different reason. Instead of the Sox and Rangers, it'll be Celtic and Sporting. And, of course, instead of baseball, it'll be soccer.
Now, there's obviously something beyond cool about soccer at a field as legendary as Fenway. There really isn't a word to describe what will take place. Astonishing? Amazing? Breathtaking? Beast? I'll go with all of the above. I mean, the last time a ball was kicked around Fenway - besides the time that Manny Ramirez was kicking a baseball around left field vs. the Dodgers a few years ago - was back in the late-60s, which, as you may now, was years before my time.
It's not only the novelty of soccer. Nor is it merely the idea of having two storied clubs - Celtic and Sporting* - gracing the temporarily-sodded pitch in front of the Green Monster. Although that very image just gave me goosebumps, tonight means much more than the concept of soccer in a baseball field.
(*I know that Celtic is actually a Scottish club, but with a name like Celtic, you're bound to attract a few Irish fans as well. Boston, as you may know, has its more than its fair share of Irishmen and Irishwomen. You probably also know that Sporting is a pretty good Portuguese club that has a decent amount of supporters in from the many Portuguese communities based in sourthern New England. You may or may not also know that I'm half-Portuguese, and half-Irish. Am I conflicted? Not at all. I see it as win/win situation, unless, of course, they draw.)
What really takes the cake for tonight is that the match will be the first one my dad's ever attended. I'm not going to lie; he isn't the biggest soccerhead on Brightridge Ave. By no means. But, whether it's the Revs, the US MNT, the World Cup, or the College Cup, my father almost always joins me to watch whoever's kicking around the soccer ball on the small screen.
Tonight is more than just a game. It'll be more than watching two insanely successful clubs run up and down what's usually the infield and right field grass. And yeah, it'll be cool to watch the black and white ball hover below the huge, iconic light towers that illuminate Kenmoore Square. But it's more than just these wonderful images that has me stoked.
Tonight will feature something that the both of us have never witnessed, but will easily remember for the rest of our lives. Tonight is more than just soccer in a baseball stadium. Rather, it's the unique opportunity for a son to take his father to the same place his father first took him over 21 years ago.
Tonight is a small thank you to my dad, who has always nurtured my interest in sports, even the ones he still doesn't quite get.
Friday, July 16, 2010
Taylor T. and Tony C.
(Photo: Patrick Fraser )An interesting thought came to me while listening to Taylor Twellman during last night's SuperLiga broadcast. No, it wasn't whether Jay Heaps, who typically handles the color duties for the Revolution broadcasts, was plotting a return to the playing field. It wasn't that, I promise.
Rather, it was something else. Something entirely different. It deals with premature endings to talented careers. Brilliance cut short. You see, it occured to me that Taylor's career has taken an eerily similar path to that of another Beantown legend.
Many Red Sox fans, young, old and in between, know about the tale of Tony Conigliaro, or "Tony C." as he was better known in and around the Hub. He was a young, supremely talented outfielder from nearby Swampscott, Massachusetts. The quintessential local kid who dreamed of playing for the hometown Sox. After thirteen teams tried to court him, his dream came true when he signed with Boston out of high school. Less than two years later, at age 19, he made his Major League debut.
It didn't take long for the Boston faithful to realize that a star was in the making. He hit 24 home runs that first year - the most by a teenaged player in MLB history. The following year, he led the league with 32 dingers, and by that point, Tony C. was becoming the most popular Sox player since Ted Williams.
By the time he was 22, he had already smacked 100 home runs , becoming the youngest American League player to do so. Life was good, real good for Tony C. As a ballplayer, his ceiling rose higher than the heavens. He appeared destined for greatness.
And so it went, until August 16, 1967. On a hot, sweltering New England night, with his team in the midst of an improbable pennant race, Tony C. stepped into the right-sided batter's box at Fenway Park. The Sox were playing the California Angels. Jack Hamilton was on the mound for the Halos.
Those in attendance say that a second after Hamilton's delivery, they could hear the sound of the ball exploding into Tony C's left eye socket. Teammate Rico Petrocelli said it resembled "the sound of a tomato...hitting the ground." The slugger lost consciousness on impact and fell to the ground. It would take over a year before he'd set foot inside the batter's box again.
In 1970, he came back, and posted decent numbers. Thirty-six home runs and 116 ribbies, strong enough evidence to earn Comeback Player of the Year. It was his best year as a major leaguer. But, it was an all-too-brief renaissance.
Sadly, Tony C. would never be the same. He joined the Angels in 1971 and became a part-time player out on the West Coast. He retired after the season. Four years later, he attempted a comeback with the Sox in 1975. But with his eyesight betraying him, he was forced to retire, once and for all, at age 30.
After his playing career, Tony C. took a broadcast job in San Francisco. Like his playing career, it was cut short after suffering a heart attack and stroke in 1982. After eight years of deteriorating health, Tony C. passed away in 1990.
***
Revolution fans will tell you that they knew from the start that the kid taken second overall in the 2002 SuperDraft was going to be special. And it didn't take long for him to prove it.
Taylor racked up a league-leading 23 goals that first year in Foxboro, at the tender age of 22. He was a runner up for league MVP, and became the first scoring champion in Revolution history.
There would be more moments of brilliance. He cracked 15 goals in an injury-shorted 2003 season. He won the MVP in 2005. He scored goals for the national team, and nearly earned a nod from Bruce Arena for Germany '06. The following year, he put together 16 goals. Taylor Twellman could not be stopped.
Then, on August 30, 2008, Taylor's career came crashing down to earth. Halfway through the first frame against David Beckham and the L.A. Galaxy, Khano Smith sent arching pass ahead. Taylor chased it down and as he approached the ball. So did Galaxy keeper Steve Cronin, who charged ahead to collect it. A fraction of a second later, Taylor bravely put his head on the ball. A fraction of a second after that, Cronin's fists met Taylor's forehead flush.
It was a rare moment where opposite reactions converge. You see, the ball bounced through for the goal. The crowd, of course, erupted. But seconds later, they saw their hero, the poacher, lying on the field and covering his eyes, writhing pain. And they quickly hushed to see if Taylor would get up and dust himself off.
He did, of couse, because Taylor is a tough, stubborn-minded individual. Nevermind that his lacerated forehead required stitches. Forget that he had sustained his fifth documented concussion. Taylor Twellman was going to continue on.
And so he did. He finished the game, and played in three more league games afterward, all the while battling post-concussion symptoms. But once the playoffs arrived, it was time to shut it down. His damaged brain needed rest.
He came back for a brief spell in 2009, scored a pair of goals, and was shelved for the season. A second comeback was attempted this season, but was cancelled before he could even train fully with the club. With time to kill and the World Cup on the American sports radar, Taylor became an in-studio analyst for a local sportcast.
At age 30, Taylor Twellman must wonder whether his career has reached its conclusion. He must look back at that fateful night two Augusts ago and ask how differently his career, nevermind his life, would have transpired had he arrived at that Khano Smith ball a split-second earlier, or later.
Maybe he could have dodged out of the way. Or maybe Cronin could have stopped his approach and retreated back to his line. There are endless variations of how that moment could have played out differently, and I suspect that Taylor's examined each of them.
One thing Taylor probably doesn't question is whether he should have chased that ball. He did. He had to. He ran to that ball as fast as his legs could propel him because that's what Taylor Twellman has always done. For him, it's always been full-tilt, full-time.*
(*I know the phrase is more famously attributed to former Patriots linebacker Tedy Bruschi, but anyone who's watched Taylor over the years absolutely knows that the same could be said of Taylor.)
Whether he returns to the pitch next year, or decides to hang up his boots for good, one thing is abundantly clear: we're left wondering the same thing about Taylor that we wondered about Tony C. We witnessed greatness cut short, and as a result, we will always wonder what could have been.
Thursday, July 15, 2010
Summer Reading: The Boys from Little Mexico
Starting with this post, I'm going to be offering semi-regular reviews on a series of soccer books I've been reading lately. What can I say? I love reading. I love soccer. I love to read about soccer.
Anyway, we start off with "The Boys from Little Mexico," by first-time author Steve Wilson.
Anyway, we start off with "The Boys from Little Mexico," by first-time author Steve Wilson.
Now, when I first heard about this book, I immediately drew comparisons to "A Home on the Field" and "Outcasts United," both of which 1) deal with how soccer brings ethnic communities together, 2) provide the basis for a feel-good, made-for-premium cable miniseries, and 3), are exceptional reads.
However, within the first five pages of the book, I knew this one was different.
From the start, it was clear that this was a character-driven story, which is often hard to come by in sports literati. The storylines of the genre often focus so much on the action that the characters fall into obscurity by the end of the story. This book, however, puts its characters to work, and Steve Wilson's sharp, intelligent writing brings them to life.
The action is centered at Woodburn High School, a suburban school in Oregon, where Coach Mike Flannigan oversees the school's boy's soccer team, the predominantly-Mexican "Bulldogs" (or "Los Perros"). Flannigan, a former Bulldog player himself, is sort of the local boy returns to his roots-type person. As coach, he has successfully guided his charges to the playoffs every year of his tenure, but year after year, they fall short of the state championship.
But this story isn't about winning the coveted state championship. Instead of a re-hash of the season, the team's struggles, and how the team has to deal with the cutting ethnic remarks made by some of their opponents - important events, to be sure, but not major themes - we get vibrant pictures of Coach Flannigan, Omar Mendoza, a proactive parent, as well as Carlos and Octavio, a pair of players who apsire to attend college to better their lives.
But this story isn't about winning the coveted state championship. Instead of a re-hash of the season, the team's struggles, and how the team has to deal with the cutting ethnic remarks made by some of their opponents - important events, to be sure, but not major themes - we get vibrant pictures of Coach Flannigan, Omar Mendoza, a proactive parent, as well as Carlos and Octavio, a pair of players who apsire to attend college to better their lives.
Through their interaction, we learn about Flannigan's past as an adopted child, Mendoza's trials as a former high school dropout who becomes the surrogate father to nearly half the team. We discover that Carlos has bounced between foster homes for much of his adolescent life, and learn of Octavio's determination to find a better life for himself after crossing the U.S.-Mexico illegally.
This isn't your typical story about a team overcoming the towering hurdles. It isn't a tale about underdogs. It isn't about winning. It isn't about all of the tired sports cliches that we're bombarded with on a regular basis.
Rather, it's an introspective tale about very real people whose lives happen to bisect on the soccer field. It's about how they learn from each other. It's about reconciling one's past. It's about personal demons. It's about how some stories don't have neat and tidy endings. Some stories simply leave you with the characters as they are: unfinished works.
Steve Wilson's brilliant, evocative storytelling not only allows the reader into the personal lives of these characters, but also widens the lense of the world they live in. These characters are not perfect. They are only human. And it's that humanity that Wilson so wonderfully weaves into his writing that sets this book apart from its peers.
Steve Wilson's brilliant, evocative storytelling not only allows the reader into the personal lives of these characters, but also widens the lense of the world they live in. These characters are not perfect. They are only human. And it's that humanity that Wilson so wonderfully weaves into his writing that sets this book apart from its peers.
Wednesday, July 14, 2010
SuperLiga and I are not biffies
When the idea of SuperLiga first crossed my radar, my first reaction was this:
"Will my editor cover my expenses?"
I mean, there isn't exactly a hidden goldmine in sports journalism, nevermind soccer writing. Money is sometimes hard to collect, which makes it even harder to keep. So naturally, one of my concerns was whether or not I'd have to take a loss to cover it.*
(*Don't get me wrong - I LOVE writing about soccer. Love it. To me, there are few things more satisfying than pounding the keyboard and just tearing through a seriers of thoughts, all pertaining to soccer. It's my drug of choice. Purely addictive. Unfortunately, the fine people at Bank of America, Sprint Wireless, and Nelnet could care less about my passion/addiction. They just want their money. So, whenever I can put together two dimes on this soccer writing gig, well, it just enables me to do more. It's a vicious cycle.)
Since those skeptical days, the extra-MLS tournament has actually grown to become one of my favorite soccer tournaments in the world (in addition to the U.S. Open Cup, which is, by far, my favorite, as well as the FA Cup). The idea of MLS and Mexican sides mixing it up is a stroke of sheer brilliance.
Forget that the Pachucas and Santos Lagunas of the Mexican contingent are often blamed for treating these ties as pre-season warmups. Maybe there is a hint of truth to it. I personally don't view it that way. Granted, I only have the Revolution-fused SuperLiga fare to go by, but their SuperLiga matches have always seemed to be a bit edgier than the standard league fare.
Two years ago, Atlante came to the Razor for the semifinal. There was a brief, but concentrated history between the two. Earlier that year, the Revs flew down to Mexico to play a series of preseason matches with some of the local sides. Atlante was one of them. And Atlante proceeded to play the game as if they were the Dutch of two days ago. Kicking, elbowing, punching and other Mortal Kombat kinda moves. It was like the ball became an afterthought.
The Revs, for their part, had the collective memory of an elephant. They remembered that little kickabout well. Oh, they did. Now it was time for the Atlante streetfighters to come to their domain.
It started off with a steady simmer. Amaechi Igwe was carded just before the half-hour. Then, it boiled over, like a pot of spaghetti with too much water, it's foaming over the ledges, and the hot liquid sizzles onto the even hotter stove, TSSSSS!!!
Here's how it went down after the half, as documented by the following misconduct summary for the final 45 minutes:
NE – Sainey Nyassi (caution) 52
ATN – Giancarlo Maldonado (caution) 53
ATN – Gerardo Espinoza (caution) 56
ATN – Fernando Navarro (caution) 71
ATN – Alan Zamora (caution) 84
ATN – Luis Gabriel Rey (ejection) 85
NE – Chris Albright (caution) 85
ATN – Federico Vilar (caution) 85
NE – Adam Cristman (caution) 90
ATN – Alan Zamora (second caution/ejection) 91+
ATN – Javier Munoz Mustafa (caution) 95+
NE – Jay Heaps (ejection) 95+
ATN – Federico Vilar (ejection) 95+
My favorite of this list is Jay Heaps' ejection. With only seconds to spare, Jaybird mouthed off to black-kitted keeper Federico Vilar. And from there, the usually-friendly, sythentic pitch of Gillette Stadium became 21 Jump Street. It was, in one word, awesome.
Last year, one of the best matches I've ever watched was the opening match featuring Revolution vs. Santos Laguna. It was rainy and windy. You know, the usual kind of weather reserved exclusively for my birthday.
The Revs scored four goals- FOUR GOALS* - on a fast pitch against a set of players that looked ready to shank Shalrie Joseph after the final whistle. The second half was almost entirely bossed by the Revolution B-team. Santos Laguna was not pleased. Pat Phelan got a shiner. It was another gritty, well-played/well-fought match that exhibited an extraordinarily high entertainment quotient.
(*If you can believe it, one of the goalscorers happened to be Kheli Dube. Yes, the same Kheli Dube who has come-oh-so-close and oh-so-far on many occasion this season. Interestingly, he was originally credited with the goal that Sainey Nyassi scored in the 74th against L.A. over the weekend. And you know why I think that happened? Yep...those darn MLS numbers, of which the "1's" and "7's" are almost indistinguishable. What number does Dube wear? 11. Nyassi's numeral? 17. Case closed. I think.)
Some view SuperLiga as just another moneymaker for the suits downcity. Maybe it is. OK, it probably is. But it can't be denied that this tournament has provided some exciting soccer.
***
Now, I say all that to say this: SuperLiga does almost everything right by me. It gives good games, allows playing time for the reserves, tests MLS players against foreign competition, cures the common cold, etc. In short, it does everything. Everything, but respect my schedule.
Like many soccer writers, the Revolution beat isn't a full-time job. Maybe someday it will. But for now, it isn't, as the logo of a moderately-successful legal firm appears at the upper left of my bi-monthly paychecks.
And while it does, the 8pm weekday match times prevent me from making the 20-mile trek to One Patriot Place, ascend to the press box, watch the game, fire off a quick report, descend to field level for Stevie Nicol's presser, slide over to the locker room, collect quotes, teleport (yes, teleport) back upstairs to crank out a 700-word report, re-read it a half dozen times for errors, exhale a few explitives, eat a jumbo sized oatmeal raisin cookie, add a word, drop a word, spellcheck "Schilawski", and then, and only then, find my way out of the door with another 20-miles ahead of me before I can retire to my bed for the night. All of this has to be accomplished before 12am, the unofficial slumber hour for the man of the 7:30-5:30 workday. Level of difficulty: 9 out of 10.
So, until the soccer writing becomes a full-time moneymaker, the 8pm SuperLiga start time and I are not friends. Not even Facebook friends. In fact, when the "SuperLiga start time" shows up on my newsfeed, I move the cursor as far aways as possible from the "Like" button. It's that bad.
Anyway, what I'm trying to get at is this: I like SuperLiga. I like it alot. It's just the late weekday start times that I'm not biffies with.
"Will my editor cover my expenses?"
I mean, there isn't exactly a hidden goldmine in sports journalism, nevermind soccer writing. Money is sometimes hard to collect, which makes it even harder to keep. So naturally, one of my concerns was whether or not I'd have to take a loss to cover it.*
(*Don't get me wrong - I LOVE writing about soccer. Love it. To me, there are few things more satisfying than pounding the keyboard and just tearing through a seriers of thoughts, all pertaining to soccer. It's my drug of choice. Purely addictive. Unfortunately, the fine people at Bank of America, Sprint Wireless, and Nelnet could care less about my passion/addiction. They just want their money. So, whenever I can put together two dimes on this soccer writing gig, well, it just enables me to do more. It's a vicious cycle.)
Since those skeptical days, the extra-MLS tournament has actually grown to become one of my favorite soccer tournaments in the world (in addition to the U.S. Open Cup, which is, by far, my favorite, as well as the FA Cup). The idea of MLS and Mexican sides mixing it up is a stroke of sheer brilliance.
Forget that the Pachucas and Santos Lagunas of the Mexican contingent are often blamed for treating these ties as pre-season warmups. Maybe there is a hint of truth to it. I personally don't view it that way. Granted, I only have the Revolution-fused SuperLiga fare to go by, but their SuperLiga matches have always seemed to be a bit edgier than the standard league fare.
Two years ago, Atlante came to the Razor for the semifinal. There was a brief, but concentrated history between the two. Earlier that year, the Revs flew down to Mexico to play a series of preseason matches with some of the local sides. Atlante was one of them. And Atlante proceeded to play the game as if they were the Dutch of two days ago. Kicking, elbowing, punching and other Mortal Kombat kinda moves. It was like the ball became an afterthought.
The Revs, for their part, had the collective memory of an elephant. They remembered that little kickabout well. Oh, they did. Now it was time for the Atlante streetfighters to come to their domain.
It started off with a steady simmer. Amaechi Igwe was carded just before the half-hour. Then, it boiled over, like a pot of spaghetti with too much water, it's foaming over the ledges, and the hot liquid sizzles onto the even hotter stove, TSSSSS!!!
Here's how it went down after the half, as documented by the following misconduct summary for the final 45 minutes:
NE – Sainey Nyassi (caution) 52
ATN – Giancarlo Maldonado (caution) 53
ATN – Gerardo Espinoza (caution) 56
ATN – Fernando Navarro (caution) 71
ATN – Alan Zamora (caution) 84
ATN – Luis Gabriel Rey (ejection) 85
NE – Chris Albright (caution) 85
ATN – Federico Vilar (caution) 85
NE – Adam Cristman (caution) 90
ATN – Alan Zamora (second caution/ejection) 91+
ATN – Javier Munoz Mustafa (caution) 95+
NE – Jay Heaps (ejection) 95+
ATN – Federico Vilar (ejection) 95+
My favorite of this list is Jay Heaps' ejection. With only seconds to spare, Jaybird mouthed off to black-kitted keeper Federico Vilar. And from there, the usually-friendly, sythentic pitch of Gillette Stadium became 21 Jump Street. It was, in one word, awesome.
Last year, one of the best matches I've ever watched was the opening match featuring Revolution vs. Santos Laguna. It was rainy and windy. You know, the usual kind of weather reserved exclusively for my birthday.
The Revs scored four goals- FOUR GOALS* - on a fast pitch against a set of players that looked ready to shank Shalrie Joseph after the final whistle. The second half was almost entirely bossed by the Revolution B-team. Santos Laguna was not pleased. Pat Phelan got a shiner. It was another gritty, well-played/well-fought match that exhibited an extraordinarily high entertainment quotient.
(*If you can believe it, one of the goalscorers happened to be Kheli Dube. Yes, the same Kheli Dube who has come-oh-so-close and oh-so-far on many occasion this season. Interestingly, he was originally credited with the goal that Sainey Nyassi scored in the 74th against L.A. over the weekend. And you know why I think that happened? Yep...those darn MLS numbers, of which the "1's" and "7's" are almost indistinguishable. What number does Dube wear? 11. Nyassi's numeral? 17. Case closed. I think.)
Some view SuperLiga as just another moneymaker for the suits downcity. Maybe it is. OK, it probably is. But it can't be denied that this tournament has provided some exciting soccer.
***
Now, I say all that to say this: SuperLiga does almost everything right by me. It gives good games, allows playing time for the reserves, tests MLS players against foreign competition, cures the common cold, etc. In short, it does everything. Everything, but respect my schedule.
Like many soccer writers, the Revolution beat isn't a full-time job. Maybe someday it will. But for now, it isn't, as the logo of a moderately-successful legal firm appears at the upper left of my bi-monthly paychecks.
And while it does, the 8pm weekday match times prevent me from making the 20-mile trek to One Patriot Place, ascend to the press box, watch the game, fire off a quick report, descend to field level for Stevie Nicol's presser, slide over to the locker room, collect quotes, teleport (yes, teleport) back upstairs to crank out a 700-word report, re-read it a half dozen times for errors, exhale a few explitives, eat a jumbo sized oatmeal raisin cookie, add a word, drop a word, spellcheck "Schilawski", and then, and only then, find my way out of the door with another 20-miles ahead of me before I can retire to my bed for the night. All of this has to be accomplished before 12am, the unofficial slumber hour for the man of the 7:30-5:30 workday. Level of difficulty: 9 out of 10.
So, until the soccer writing becomes a full-time moneymaker, the 8pm SuperLiga start time and I are not friends. Not even Facebook friends. In fact, when the "SuperLiga start time" shows up on my newsfeed, I move the cursor as far aways as possible from the "Like" button. It's that bad.
Anyway, what I'm trying to get at is this: I like SuperLiga. I like it alot. It's just the late weekday start times that I'm not biffies with.
Sunday, July 11, 2010
World Cup Day 30: The Finale
The final day of a World Cup always seem to bring a certain sadness. We all know that it's more than the pageantry, the pre-match concerts, the hour-long studio show, and the dramatically-narrated, U2-soundtracked commercials.
It's the natural buildup: the qualifying, the tie-breakers, the managerial shuffling, the debate surrounding the final rosters, the locale, and, most importantly, the promise that this time around, it could be our year. Once it all comes to an end, we're left with a certain void that only a tournament as grand as the World Cup could only fill.
As expected, the final day of the 2010 World Cup was a difficult one to witness. After all, it's easy to get attached to the idea of nightly panel discussions, the slick production by ESPN, the match replays, Ruud Gullit's unbridled homerism*, and Landon Donovan leading off the 11pm SportsCenter. For me, it's the stuff of dreams, however twisted those dreams may be.
(*At first, I would've put my money on Steve McManaman as the bigger homer. But once the English were bounced, the smart money clearly went to Gullit. He clinched it, of course, with that sleek orange tie for the Final.)
Knowing that all of the above was nearing its conclusion, there was, of course, the simple matter of the World Cup Final before us.
The Final. The decider of who's the best in the world. The time-tested way to determine the top of the class. The undisputed arbiter of world football champion.
Now, it's almost impossible for any final to ever live up to its own hype. This time around, it was especially difficult after yesterday's midsummer blockbuster between Germany and Uruguay.
But this isn't about third place matches. This is about the final.
In one corner, we had the Dutch, who became the very first side to qualify for the tournament after dominating the qualifying stages. They were graceful, yet edgy. In the opposite corner was Spain, the European Champions, the methodical, yet understated bunch that somehow managed to get to the final by scoring only two more goals than Wesley Sneijder.
Both thirsted for their first Jules Rimet Trophy. It promised to be a final for the ages. What it became was something different. Far, far different.
First of all, I agree with Gullit's assessment: it was a bad final to watch. No disrespect to the Spaniards, but it was a mind-numbing affair, full of missed chances, anti-climaxes, and dull football. More disturbingly, it was a two-hour argument for why so many still hate this game.
Netherlands-Spain was a disjointed, underwhelming performance that simply betrayed the idea that these were the two best teams in the world. Spain, for all of its accolades and praise, plays some of the most sleep-inducing football I have ever almost nodded off to. I mean that. Is it mandatory that each buildup require a minimum of seventy passes?
Spain may have been the better team today, but they sacrificed style for results. When did it become cool to win games 1-0? If this is the future of football - a passapalooza that culminates in a solitary goal - it looks like the game is quickly approaching a nuclear winter.
And where do we begin with the Dutch? I have never seen a team as talented as them turtle up in such a high profile match. Their semifinal against Uruguay was a classic Dutch performance - good passing, sensational finishing, and the obligatory shoddy defending. Maybe I was naive to think they'd continue down that route. They must have read the papers and internets, because they quickly confirmed who the better side was by playing like a bunch of thugs. Someday, Nigel de Jong will have to answer for his transgressions.*
(*I don't doubt de Jong's skill as a central midfielder - and I'm not just saying that - but why does he resort to the streetfighting stuff? Does he lack confidence in his abilities? Someone give that guy a role model. Or a hug.)
Going beyond the performances, referee Howard Webb lost control of the match early and liberally awarded cards, which made two hours feel like the final two minutes of a one-possession basketball game. It was tantamount to watching a full season of The Hills and having to endure the commercials. I fear there's a circle in Hell full of football fans that will have to endure this match on endless replay for eternity.
After it was all said and done, the World Cup proved the same thing it has for the past forty years: boring football reigns supreme. Total football, for all its grace and glory, was trumped by cold, bottomline tactics in the 70's and nearly every Cup winner since has won using mechanical, soulless football. And it will probably continue that way until an overachiever like Uruguay, who played with creativity, passion, and flair, somehow luck their way to the top.
They say that one match changes everything. This tournament changed nothing.
Farewell, South Africa.
It's the natural buildup: the qualifying, the tie-breakers, the managerial shuffling, the debate surrounding the final rosters, the locale, and, most importantly, the promise that this time around, it could be our year. Once it all comes to an end, we're left with a certain void that only a tournament as grand as the World Cup could only fill.
As expected, the final day of the 2010 World Cup was a difficult one to witness. After all, it's easy to get attached to the idea of nightly panel discussions, the slick production by ESPN, the match replays, Ruud Gullit's unbridled homerism*, and Landon Donovan leading off the 11pm SportsCenter. For me, it's the stuff of dreams, however twisted those dreams may be.
(*At first, I would've put my money on Steve McManaman as the bigger homer. But once the English were bounced, the smart money clearly went to Gullit. He clinched it, of course, with that sleek orange tie for the Final.)
Knowing that all of the above was nearing its conclusion, there was, of course, the simple matter of the World Cup Final before us.
The Final. The decider of who's the best in the world. The time-tested way to determine the top of the class. The undisputed arbiter of world football champion.
Now, it's almost impossible for any final to ever live up to its own hype. This time around, it was especially difficult after yesterday's midsummer blockbuster between Germany and Uruguay.
But this isn't about third place matches. This is about the final.
In one corner, we had the Dutch, who became the very first side to qualify for the tournament after dominating the qualifying stages. They were graceful, yet edgy. In the opposite corner was Spain, the European Champions, the methodical, yet understated bunch that somehow managed to get to the final by scoring only two more goals than Wesley Sneijder.
Both thirsted for their first Jules Rimet Trophy. It promised to be a final for the ages. What it became was something different. Far, far different.
First of all, I agree with Gullit's assessment: it was a bad final to watch. No disrespect to the Spaniards, but it was a mind-numbing affair, full of missed chances, anti-climaxes, and dull football. More disturbingly, it was a two-hour argument for why so many still hate this game.
Netherlands-Spain was a disjointed, underwhelming performance that simply betrayed the idea that these were the two best teams in the world. Spain, for all of its accolades and praise, plays some of the most sleep-inducing football I have ever almost nodded off to. I mean that. Is it mandatory that each buildup require a minimum of seventy passes?
Spain may have been the better team today, but they sacrificed style for results. When did it become cool to win games 1-0? If this is the future of football - a passapalooza that culminates in a solitary goal - it looks like the game is quickly approaching a nuclear winter.
And where do we begin with the Dutch? I have never seen a team as talented as them turtle up in such a high profile match. Their semifinal against Uruguay was a classic Dutch performance - good passing, sensational finishing, and the obligatory shoddy defending. Maybe I was naive to think they'd continue down that route. They must have read the papers and internets, because they quickly confirmed who the better side was by playing like a bunch of thugs. Someday, Nigel de Jong will have to answer for his transgressions.*
(*I don't doubt de Jong's skill as a central midfielder - and I'm not just saying that - but why does he resort to the streetfighting stuff? Does he lack confidence in his abilities? Someone give that guy a role model. Or a hug.)
Going beyond the performances, referee Howard Webb lost control of the match early and liberally awarded cards, which made two hours feel like the final two minutes of a one-possession basketball game. It was tantamount to watching a full season of The Hills and having to endure the commercials. I fear there's a circle in Hell full of football fans that will have to endure this match on endless replay for eternity.
After it was all said and done, the World Cup proved the same thing it has for the past forty years: boring football reigns supreme. Total football, for all its grace and glory, was trumped by cold, bottomline tactics in the 70's and nearly every Cup winner since has won using mechanical, soulless football. And it will probably continue that way until an overachiever like Uruguay, who played with creativity, passion, and flair, somehow luck their way to the top.
They say that one match changes everything. This tournament changed nothing.
Farewell, South Africa.
Friday, July 09, 2010
Defending Mike Burns
Back in 2005, when Mike Burns entered the Revolution front office with the new, shiny "Director of Soccer"* title, things in Revolutionland were alot rosier
(*Am I the only one who doesn't love that title? "Director of Soccer." Imagine how cool it would be to go to a party or an event, shaking hands and mingling with a bunch of people you don't know, and having them ask you what you do. "Well, I'll have you know that I'm the Director of Soccer." The clincher, of course, is then handing out a business card with "Director of Soccer" on it. It's the kind of title that business cards were made for. )
The Revs had just come off a pretty good season. A season of quality performances. A season that came within a missed PK of sending the local lads to their second MLS Cup appearance. You may remember some of the players from that squad- Taylor Twellman, Pat Noonan, Matt Reis, Pepe Cancela, Steve Ralston, Jay Heaps, Shalrie Joseph, and some brash, shaggy-haired kid from Furman named Clint Dempsey.
The team was probably one the best squads ever assembled by the Revolution braintrust.* They had youth, talent, and experience and it meshed extraordinarily well. They had a keen manager. And Mike Burns, a native New Englander, a former USMNT player who'd seen two World Cups, collected 75 caps, and a pioneer in bringing pro soccer back to the region, must have smiled often and asked himself how the heck had he become so lucky.
(*Many will argue that the 2005 was the best Revolution squad they'd ever seen. What's there to argue? They were the best, bar none. But the 2004 team wasn't exactly a pushover, by any means.)
Those were, of course, the halcyon days of Revolution lore. It was before the advent of designated player allocations, which undeniably, altered the landscape of pro soccer in the U.S. Supporters, along with the media, were no longer content with a field full of college kids and international busts. The DPA changed the way teams built their rosters. And everyone wanted one on their team.
L.A., naturally jumped on board by signing the biggest name available: David Beckham. Chicago, FC Dallas, Kansas City, FC Dallas, and New York soon followed suit. Within two years, nearly every MLS team had a DPA of their own.
Meanwhile, the Revolution, with Burns being promoted to VP of Player Personnel*, managed to avoid the temptation of buying into a multi-million dollar proposition. The line went that the team would look into one if he was good fit, not only for the club, but for the fanbase. Getting a DP for the sake of having one was an idea that Burns often publicly, and rightly, shunned.
(*I never understood this, but if Mike Burns is the VP of Player Personnel, then who is the President? Is there a President of Player Personnel. I always see VP, but never President of Player Personnel. If someone could educate me here, I'm all ears. I mean, eyes, since this is a blog.)
That mantra - DP for the sake of having a DP - was first relayed back on Media Day in 2007, and again in 2008, 2009, and 2010. Today, Mike Burns is essentially saying the same exact thing he's said for the past three years, without skipping a beat.
In the wake of the latest reiteration - during an online Q & A on the Revolution Blog - Revolution supporters, both young and old, lit into him like an alien in Halo.
How dare he say the same things he's been saying for years.
How could he simply issue corporate speak to the fans who have heard it ad nausem?
Does he think we're stupid?
Bull-SPIT!
Didn't he respect them - "them" being season ticket holders, supporters, die-hards, (i.e. people who have obviously invested considerable time and money to the club) - enough to give it to them straight?
Mike Burns does respect the fanbase, moreso than his answers probably give. There's no doubt in my mind that Mike Burns wishes he could tell it like it is. The first thing he would probably say is, "Look, I would love to bring in Ronaldinho, Ronaldo, or Alex de Souza, but my hands are really tied, guys. I wish I could, but it's not like I've been handed a blank check to sign these guys."
I think this because in my experience with him, Mike Burns is straightforward guy who, after having a conversation with him, is one of the least evasive executives you will run into. He is blunt, informative, and straight to the point. He is smart and insightful, and fails to regurgitate the PR jargon you often read. Most of all, he's a guy who knows his soccer, of which the same cannot be said for the gentlemen he reports to.
All of which leads me to believe that Mike is simply doing the best he can. He knows the fans are frustrated as hell. He is, too. This is his team, after all. I'm sure he takes no pride in telling his friends that he oversees a losing side.
He's taking alot of heat. Some of it, of course, is perfectly justified. His job is to provide Stevie Nicol with quality players. And maybe it's just me, but when I think of quality players, I have to say that Joseph Niouky and Emmanuel Osei haven't cracked my Top 10 Quality Revolution Players.
When it comes to signing high-profile players, swinging trades, and creating buzz, the criticism is unwarranted, and wholly unfair.
We all know Mike Burns doesn't sign the checks. That's Bob Kraft's duty. And as owner/operator, he's the one that gets the final say in who laces up the boots for the boys in navy blue.
From what's been relayed to me by fairly reliable sources, Burns and Stevie Nicol have indeed talked to a few internationals you may have heard of. Now, neither has dropped names because, well, that's not Kraft Sports policy. Especially since the unnecessarily secretive Bill Belichick arrived a decade ago.
According to these sources, they have talked to Pauleta. They have talked with Robbie Fowler. Heck, they even talked to Joao Pinto. But they weren't given the greenlight to sign these players. Guess who's in charge of that greenlight? There are precious few things in life I can guarantee, and one such thing I can guarantee is that Mike Burns ain't the one giving the order.
Whether you like, love or despise him with every fiber of your being, you have to appreciate that Mike has the guts to answer some very pointed questions. When was the last time Bob Kraft took questions from Revs supporters? How about Sunil Gulati? Jonathan Kraft comments on the team about once every blue moon. Seriously. I think he schedules his appearances on the Mikey Adams Show based upon the lunar calendar. The real decision makers stay in the shadows, while Mike and Brian Bilello get publicly skewered on a regular basis.
To his credit, he hasn't resigned, even though most of us wouldn't have the let the door hit us on the way out. He wants to fix this. He wants to bring the Revs back to the MLS Cup. He wants a picture of the Anschutz/Whatever-It's-Called-This-Year Trophy at the top of the revolutionsoccer.net homepage. He wants to deliver a championship for his hometown, much like his counterpart on Yawkey Way first did six years ago.
You know, Mike Burns once had a dream job. A job that alot of soccerheads around here would've killed for not too long ago. Now, he has one of the most thankless jobs this side of 95. And he's doing something alot of us wouldn't do: he's sticking with it.
(*Am I the only one who doesn't love that title? "Director of Soccer." Imagine how cool it would be to go to a party or an event, shaking hands and mingling with a bunch of people you don't know, and having them ask you what you do. "Well, I'll have you know that I'm the Director of Soccer." The clincher, of course, is then handing out a business card with "Director of Soccer" on it. It's the kind of title that business cards were made for. )
The Revs had just come off a pretty good season. A season of quality performances. A season that came within a missed PK of sending the local lads to their second MLS Cup appearance. You may remember some of the players from that squad- Taylor Twellman, Pat Noonan, Matt Reis, Pepe Cancela, Steve Ralston, Jay Heaps, Shalrie Joseph, and some brash, shaggy-haired kid from Furman named Clint Dempsey.
The team was probably one the best squads ever assembled by the Revolution braintrust.* They had youth, talent, and experience and it meshed extraordinarily well. They had a keen manager. And Mike Burns, a native New Englander, a former USMNT player who'd seen two World Cups, collected 75 caps, and a pioneer in bringing pro soccer back to the region, must have smiled often and asked himself how the heck had he become so lucky.
(*Many will argue that the 2005 was the best Revolution squad they'd ever seen. What's there to argue? They were the best, bar none. But the 2004 team wasn't exactly a pushover, by any means.)
Those were, of course, the halcyon days of Revolution lore. It was before the advent of designated player allocations, which undeniably, altered the landscape of pro soccer in the U.S. Supporters, along with the media, were no longer content with a field full of college kids and international busts. The DPA changed the way teams built their rosters. And everyone wanted one on their team.
L.A., naturally jumped on board by signing the biggest name available: David Beckham. Chicago, FC Dallas, Kansas City, FC Dallas, and New York soon followed suit. Within two years, nearly every MLS team had a DPA of their own.
Meanwhile, the Revolution, with Burns being promoted to VP of Player Personnel*, managed to avoid the temptation of buying into a multi-million dollar proposition. The line went that the team would look into one if he was good fit, not only for the club, but for the fanbase. Getting a DP for the sake of having one was an idea that Burns often publicly, and rightly, shunned.
(*I never understood this, but if Mike Burns is the VP of Player Personnel, then who is the President? Is there a President of Player Personnel. I always see VP, but never President of Player Personnel. If someone could educate me here, I'm all ears. I mean, eyes, since this is a blog.)
That mantra - DP for the sake of having a DP - was first relayed back on Media Day in 2007, and again in 2008, 2009, and 2010. Today, Mike Burns is essentially saying the same exact thing he's said for the past three years, without skipping a beat.
In the wake of the latest reiteration - during an online Q & A on the Revolution Blog - Revolution supporters, both young and old, lit into him like an alien in Halo.
How dare he say the same things he's been saying for years.
How could he simply issue corporate speak to the fans who have heard it ad nausem?
Does he think we're stupid?
Bull-SPIT!
Didn't he respect them - "them" being season ticket holders, supporters, die-hards, (i.e. people who have obviously invested considerable time and money to the club) - enough to give it to them straight?
Mike Burns does respect the fanbase, moreso than his answers probably give. There's no doubt in my mind that Mike Burns wishes he could tell it like it is. The first thing he would probably say is, "Look, I would love to bring in Ronaldinho, Ronaldo, or Alex de Souza, but my hands are really tied, guys. I wish I could, but it's not like I've been handed a blank check to sign these guys."
I think this because in my experience with him, Mike Burns is straightforward guy who, after having a conversation with him, is one of the least evasive executives you will run into. He is blunt, informative, and straight to the point. He is smart and insightful, and fails to regurgitate the PR jargon you often read. Most of all, he's a guy who knows his soccer, of which the same cannot be said for the gentlemen he reports to.
All of which leads me to believe that Mike is simply doing the best he can. He knows the fans are frustrated as hell. He is, too. This is his team, after all. I'm sure he takes no pride in telling his friends that he oversees a losing side.
He's taking alot of heat. Some of it, of course, is perfectly justified. His job is to provide Stevie Nicol with quality players. And maybe it's just me, but when I think of quality players, I have to say that Joseph Niouky and Emmanuel Osei haven't cracked my Top 10 Quality Revolution Players.
When it comes to signing high-profile players, swinging trades, and creating buzz, the criticism is unwarranted, and wholly unfair.
We all know Mike Burns doesn't sign the checks. That's Bob Kraft's duty. And as owner/operator, he's the one that gets the final say in who laces up the boots for the boys in navy blue.
From what's been relayed to me by fairly reliable sources, Burns and Stevie Nicol have indeed talked to a few internationals you may have heard of. Now, neither has dropped names because, well, that's not Kraft Sports policy. Especially since the unnecessarily secretive Bill Belichick arrived a decade ago.
According to these sources, they have talked to Pauleta. They have talked with Robbie Fowler. Heck, they even talked to Joao Pinto. But they weren't given the greenlight to sign these players. Guess who's in charge of that greenlight? There are precious few things in life I can guarantee, and one such thing I can guarantee is that Mike Burns ain't the one giving the order.
Whether you like, love or despise him with every fiber of your being, you have to appreciate that Mike has the guts to answer some very pointed questions. When was the last time Bob Kraft took questions from Revs supporters? How about Sunil Gulati? Jonathan Kraft comments on the team about once every blue moon. Seriously. I think he schedules his appearances on the Mikey Adams Show based upon the lunar calendar. The real decision makers stay in the shadows, while Mike and Brian Bilello get publicly skewered on a regular basis.
To his credit, he hasn't resigned, even though most of us wouldn't have the let the door hit us on the way out. He wants to fix this. He wants to bring the Revs back to the MLS Cup. He wants a picture of the Anschutz/Whatever-It's-Called-This-Year Trophy at the top of the revolutionsoccer.net homepage. He wants to deliver a championship for his hometown, much like his counterpart on Yawkey Way first did six years ago.
You know, Mike Burns once had a dream job. A job that alot of soccerheads around here would've killed for not too long ago. Now, he has one of the most thankless jobs this side of 95. And he's doing something alot of us wouldn't do: he's sticking with it.
Tuesday, July 06, 2010
Diary of a Losing Club, 7/6
Saturday night's nailbiting 5-0 loss to Real Salt Lake may have been a blessing in disguise. And I say that with all seriousness. For reals.
The humiliation of the Revolution at the hands of the defending champs should be the wakeup call that finally jolts the front office after hitting the snooze button for months on end.
The 3,981 unique weaknesses the club had apparently hidden from the front office through the first 13 matches leading up to the RSL massacre were neatly wrapped up and showcased in a single league match. Even my girlfriend, who is fairly new to soccer, noticed about half of them. In the first ten minutes.
I suspect, by now, that the folks in the Revolution front office are fully aware of the club's numerous needs. Mike Burns knows. Steve Nicol knows. Brian Billelo knows. Slyde probably knows as well.
There are probably a few reasons - good reasons - why they haven't addressed these deficiencies before. Good players are hard to find. We're in a bad economy. Injuries. Unreliable wi-fi. Bad advice from inside contacts.* All very valid excuses as to why the club boasts not only a -14 goal differential, but a fairly lucky 11 points through 14 matches.
(*Now, I'm often wrong - very wrong - on this blog, but I'm thinking that the guy who recommended Joseph Niouky probably won't be having his calls returned anytime soon.)
Here's the problem: those excuses apply to every single MLS team on the planet. The Galaxy are playing in a bad economy to the tune of 36 points. Granted, their murses are quite a bit fatter than the league average. But if there's one thing "The Beckham Experiment" taught us, it's that you can dump a small fortune on players and still play terribly.
The Dynamo? They've been dogged by injuries. Goodbye to Geoff Cameron for the season. Brian Ching's been bruised all season. Cam Weaver probably wishes he wasn't as breakable as he's been in the 20-10. But the boys from H-town have somehow avoided the sloppy play and chaotic form (see: 5-0 RSL, 4-0 Chivas USA, and 3-0 Seattle defeats) that have ravaged the Revs all season.
When it comes to player acquisitions, there's absolutely no doubt that good players are like good women: hard to find. Sometimes, you luck out, though. RSL with Alvaro Saborio. Columbus with Guillermo Barros Schelotto. Ashton with Demi. Jake with Vienna. OK, I totally lied about that Jake and Vienna part. Keep your head up, bruh.
The front office has fed the above reasons to the fans, media, blogosphere, and Earth-2 for the better part of the past three seasons, going back to the club's evermore distant 2007 MLS Cup appearance. It is not easy to win an MLS Cup for these reasons, they say. And that is, of course, absolutely true.
Up until this year, they've managed injuries reasonably well, more often by moving players around the pitch rather than adding new names. From the arrival of Stevie Nicol in '02 up until this season, the Revs masterfully managed their roster. It was easy when you had Taylor, Clint, Parky, Shalrie, Rally, Pepe Cancela, Pat Noonan, Jay Heaps and Avery John. They went to four MLS Cups in six seasons.
But when players started leaving, started getting hurt, and started retiring, the Revs tried to do what they'd always done: draft their way out of trouble. They refused to spend their money on the top-flight players that fled Foxboro. They thought that if they drafted well, and played reasonably decent soccer, and not spend money in the process, they could always spit the "good player is hard to find" line.
Alas, it was only a matter of time before that credo caught up to them. What's worse is that if there was ever a time when resources needed to be carefully culled and intelligently invested it was, oh, six months ago.
Take the Hot Tub Time Machine back to February, and the knowns went a little like this: Taylor Twellman, despite what the club vehemently held, could NOT be counted on this season. Brain injuries are just too risky. Jay Heaps had retired. Steve Ralston signed with AC St. Louis. Sure, he eventually returned, but the season began without him. Matt Reis would be out until June. Jeff Larentowicz was traded away. Brad Knighton, a serviceable backup keeper in his own right, also went vamoose.
To counter these titanic losses, the Revs went out and tried to draft their way out of trouble again. They selected Zack Schilawski. Then, Zak Boggs. After that, Seth Sinovic. And for good measure, they signed another draftee, Jason Griffiths, in June.
Oh, and of course, they took the obligatory flier on an international when they signed Marko Pervoic, the former Red Star playmaker who's YouTube footage impressed even the most critical of observers.
In summary, the Revs brought in four college kids and a curiously-free international to address the crater-sized holes on their squad list.
It's now July 6th, and the Revs currently have a total of 11 points. They've been shut out in eight of their last nine matches, including the pair of friendlies against Benfica and Cruzeiro. Think about that. In the last 59 days, the Revs have scored exactly the same amount of goals that Justin Braun - as in, the same Justin Braun currently signed to a developmental contract with the Goats - scored tonight against Houston.
The Revs aren't just a bad team right now. Why stop there? After getting PWNED by RSL, they are now constructing new club standards for futility.
And in light of that televised late-night embarrassment, the situtation is about as clear as it gets: the Revolution backline of Alston-Gibbs-Osei-Sinovic/Tierney is about as solid as a cup of Jell-O pudding. The Joseph-Niouky/Phelan central midfield has FAIL written all over it. Schilawski could have wallet brimming with Black Cards, and still could not buy decent service. They could expand the goals like they were thinking of doing back in the APSL days and Dube would continue find a way to miss. The communication between Perovic - the team's alleged attacking midfielder - and his teammates is comprised of ambiguous hand gestrues, misunderstood instructions, and indecipherable criticisms.
Suffice to say, New England needs good players now. Not tomorrow. Not after the All-Star match. Not after the transfer window opens and they're mathematically eliminated from the cakewalk that is MLS playoff qualification. Now as in "NOW."
One good player is hard to find, indeed. Finding two is like winning ten G's on a scratch ticket. It's going to take a lottery-winner's luck to find the three or four that this team needs to regain its rapidly-deteriorating form.
Let's be honest: it's probably too late. This season is a lost cause. The Easten Conference semis will probably not return to Foxboro in the fall. Given the braintrust's recent track record of uncovering talents such as Niouky, Edgaras Jankauskas, and Stephen Assengue, it's very unlikely that the Revs will find the quality players it needs to burrow out of the MLS basement.
The humiliation of the Revolution at the hands of the defending champs should be the wakeup call that finally jolts the front office after hitting the snooze button for months on end.
The 3,981 unique weaknesses the club had apparently hidden from the front office through the first 13 matches leading up to the RSL massacre were neatly wrapped up and showcased in a single league match. Even my girlfriend, who is fairly new to soccer, noticed about half of them. In the first ten minutes.
I suspect, by now, that the folks in the Revolution front office are fully aware of the club's numerous needs. Mike Burns knows. Steve Nicol knows. Brian Billelo knows. Slyde probably knows as well.
There are probably a few reasons - good reasons - why they haven't addressed these deficiencies before. Good players are hard to find. We're in a bad economy. Injuries. Unreliable wi-fi. Bad advice from inside contacts.* All very valid excuses as to why the club boasts not only a -14 goal differential, but a fairly lucky 11 points through 14 matches.
(*Now, I'm often wrong - very wrong - on this blog, but I'm thinking that the guy who recommended Joseph Niouky probably won't be having his calls returned anytime soon.)
Here's the problem: those excuses apply to every single MLS team on the planet. The Galaxy are playing in a bad economy to the tune of 36 points. Granted, their murses are quite a bit fatter than the league average. But if there's one thing "The Beckham Experiment" taught us, it's that you can dump a small fortune on players and still play terribly.
The Dynamo? They've been dogged by injuries. Goodbye to Geoff Cameron for the season. Brian Ching's been bruised all season. Cam Weaver probably wishes he wasn't as breakable as he's been in the 20-10. But the boys from H-town have somehow avoided the sloppy play and chaotic form (see: 5-0 RSL, 4-0 Chivas USA, and 3-0 Seattle defeats) that have ravaged the Revs all season.
When it comes to player acquisitions, there's absolutely no doubt that good players are like good women: hard to find. Sometimes, you luck out, though. RSL with Alvaro Saborio. Columbus with Guillermo Barros Schelotto. Ashton with Demi. Jake with Vienna. OK, I totally lied about that Jake and Vienna part. Keep your head up, bruh.
The front office has fed the above reasons to the fans, media, blogosphere, and Earth-2 for the better part of the past three seasons, going back to the club's evermore distant 2007 MLS Cup appearance. It is not easy to win an MLS Cup for these reasons, they say. And that is, of course, absolutely true.
Up until this year, they've managed injuries reasonably well, more often by moving players around the pitch rather than adding new names. From the arrival of Stevie Nicol in '02 up until this season, the Revs masterfully managed their roster. It was easy when you had Taylor, Clint, Parky, Shalrie, Rally, Pepe Cancela, Pat Noonan, Jay Heaps and Avery John. They went to four MLS Cups in six seasons.
But when players started leaving, started getting hurt, and started retiring, the Revs tried to do what they'd always done: draft their way out of trouble. They refused to spend their money on the top-flight players that fled Foxboro. They thought that if they drafted well, and played reasonably decent soccer, and not spend money in the process, they could always spit the "good player is hard to find" line.
Alas, it was only a matter of time before that credo caught up to them. What's worse is that if there was ever a time when resources needed to be carefully culled and intelligently invested it was, oh, six months ago.
Take the Hot Tub Time Machine back to February, and the knowns went a little like this: Taylor Twellman, despite what the club vehemently held, could NOT be counted on this season. Brain injuries are just too risky. Jay Heaps had retired. Steve Ralston signed with AC St. Louis. Sure, he eventually returned, but the season began without him. Matt Reis would be out until June. Jeff Larentowicz was traded away. Brad Knighton, a serviceable backup keeper in his own right, also went vamoose.
To counter these titanic losses, the Revs went out and tried to draft their way out of trouble again. They selected Zack Schilawski. Then, Zak Boggs. After that, Seth Sinovic. And for good measure, they signed another draftee, Jason Griffiths, in June.
Oh, and of course, they took the obligatory flier on an international when they signed Marko Pervoic, the former Red Star playmaker who's YouTube footage impressed even the most critical of observers.
In summary, the Revs brought in four college kids and a curiously-free international to address the crater-sized holes on their squad list.
It's now July 6th, and the Revs currently have a total of 11 points. They've been shut out in eight of their last nine matches, including the pair of friendlies against Benfica and Cruzeiro. Think about that. In the last 59 days, the Revs have scored exactly the same amount of goals that Justin Braun - as in, the same Justin Braun currently signed to a developmental contract with the Goats - scored tonight against Houston.
The Revs aren't just a bad team right now. Why stop there? After getting PWNED by RSL, they are now constructing new club standards for futility.
And in light of that televised late-night embarrassment, the situtation is about as clear as it gets: the Revolution backline of Alston-Gibbs-Osei-Sinovic/Tierney is about as solid as a cup of Jell-O pudding. The Joseph-Niouky/Phelan central midfield has FAIL written all over it. Schilawski could have wallet brimming with Black Cards, and still could not buy decent service. They could expand the goals like they were thinking of doing back in the APSL days and Dube would continue find a way to miss. The communication between Perovic - the team's alleged attacking midfielder - and his teammates is comprised of ambiguous hand gestrues, misunderstood instructions, and indecipherable criticisms.
Suffice to say, New England needs good players now. Not tomorrow. Not after the All-Star match. Not after the transfer window opens and they're mathematically eliminated from the cakewalk that is MLS playoff qualification. Now as in "NOW."
One good player is hard to find, indeed. Finding two is like winning ten G's on a scratch ticket. It's going to take a lottery-winner's luck to find the three or four that this team needs to regain its rapidly-deteriorating form.
Let's be honest: it's probably too late. This season is a lost cause. The Easten Conference semis will probably not return to Foxboro in the fall. Given the braintrust's recent track record of uncovering talents such as Niouky, Edgaras Jankauskas, and Stephen Assengue, it's very unlikely that the Revs will find the quality players it needs to burrow out of the MLS basement.
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