World Cup Day 16

It's not all bad. Sure, the U.S. ripped out the collective heart of its supporters with today's 2-1 loss to Ghana. They're a soccer team: that's what soccer teams do alot of times.

Instead of performing the autopsy, penning the obituary, or giving the eulogy on this current crop of Americans, I think the space afforded me at this little blog is better used by putting this whole bit of heartache into perspective.

First, lets look back at the past 365 days. At this time last year, the Yanks beat Spain, a.k.a the country that hadn't lost in its previous 35 matches a.k.a the best team in the world, in convincing fashion.* A few days later, they went up two goals against Brazil in the Confed Cup Final, only to fall 45 minutes short of winning their first global competition.

(*So convincing that Switzerland stole the American blueprint on that game to beat the Spaniards 1-0 during their first match in Group play. The last time the USMNT's tactics were copied: never.)

Months later, they finished first in CONCACAF en route to the World Cup. Once they arrived in South Africa, they drew the Three Lions, the same Three Lions that should have mauled them to like a 7-2 bloodbath or something. Days later, they rallied from a two-goal deficit and came within a Koman Coulibaly brain cramp of pulling off The Greatest Comeback the World Cup Has Ever Seen. They effectively ran the Algeria match before deciding to finally put it away in stoppage. And today, they put an extremely underrated Ghana on the ropes before succumbing in extra time.

Today hurt. There's no debating that. If your patriotic heart loves soccer, today wasn't fun by any stretch. But, despite the pain, let's not forget that there's so much more to admire about this bunch.

Their accomplishments in the past year have been unprecedented. This team found an identity along the way to the World Cup and dogged out five points to win their Group for the first time in 70 years. They fell behind, and battled to draw even three out of four matches. And yes, they've been bossed out of the gate in those three matches. Clearly, this team was not Kobe Bryant-ready this afternoon.

What they were, and are, is an accomplished bunch of soccer players. Perhaps the best this country's ever sent to a World Cup. Just look down the roster. Tim Howard, Clint Dempsey, Landon Donovan and Oguchi Onyewu are some of the finest players this country's ever produced. They were augmented by young money like Jozy Altidore, Michael Bradley, and Jose Torres.

No doubt, there are some departments in which this team is desperately lacking. And those deficiencies will surely be addressed through player turnover, coaching, and countless hours of training leading up to Brazil '14.

In the interim, it would be an injustice to overlook the fact that this team is eons better than it was less than a generation ago. Progress is in full effect. We are living in exciting times.

A few people have remarked that the way the chips fell this particular tournament greatly favored the Yanks. Had they won today, they would've played a beatable Uruguay and possibly could have pulled a shocker in the semi-finals, all the while England, Germany, Brazil, and Argentina were busy beating themselves up elsewhere. It had all the makings of a soccer Cinderella.

But here's the thing: the days of Cinderella are over. I suspect that in four years' time, the Americans will be better than they currently are. And in saying that, I also say this: the days in which the Americans are a soccer superpower are not as far away as it looks right now.

The same, but different: Griffiths takes Twellman's spot on the active roster

In a not-so-unexpected move, the Revolution filled the vacancy left by Taylor Twellman's assignment to the season-ending injury list by signing the man who momentarily put a gleeful Benfica on notice that cool, rainy mid-May evening: the courageous Jason Griffiths.

You may (or may not, depending on how early you left the match) remember that Griffiths, who was sent out into a sea of red-clad wolves that pillaged the Revolution camp to the tune of four (almost seven) goals, showed himself well enough to purchase a few weeks' worth of training and ultimately draw a steady paycheck from Major League Soccer.

Griffiths, you may also recall, is a 23-year-old graduate of the University of Kentucky who acquitted himself well in the role of midfield maestro with the Wildcat men's soccer squad in the late-2000s. He was drafted by the Revolution in the third round of this year's especially loud and boisterous SuperDraft.

But instead of joining the club during the frigid month of February - even the well-weathered sasquatches stayed away from Patriot Place - he elected to finish his studies down in the Bluegrass State before being called up by Mike Burns to play the Campeoes and, more remarkably, surviving to tell about it.

With the addition of another fresh-faced collegian rather than, say, a proven goalscorer (Cristian Gomez? Alex of Fenerbahce? Soccer Dog?), a midfield partner for Shalrie Joseph (Dave van den Berg?) or a seasoned left back (Jay Heaps? Why not?) the Revolution seem to have signaled to the navy-clad masses that no, this will not be the season that they sign a Designated Player.

And somewhere, a Revolution supporter's life force has diminished ever so slightly.

Taylor-made ending?

(Linda Cuttone/Sports Vue Images)

Amid yesterday’s whirlwind sports day – the dramatic, last gasp victory for the U.S. Men’s National team, the never-ending John Isner-Nicolas Mahut match at Wimbledon, an unbelievable TCU comeback over FSU in the College World Series, and a thrilling 9-3 Appalachian League victory by the Burlington Royals over the Greeneville Astros* – came quiet word that Taylor Twellman will not be returning this season.

(*Yes, I’ve adopted another distant professional sports team. On my visit to North Carolina for my cousin’s wedding, I stopped by the closest professional baseball stadium I could find, as I am wont to do whenever I travel along the Eastern seaboard. The closest one happened to be Burlington Athletic Stadium, a rustic looking ballpark that was actually built in Danville, VA. After a few years, it was disassembled and shipped to Burlington, where it has since stood.

Now, I loved the ballpark. But the people working there – it was about six hours before gametime – were some of the nicest people I’ve ever encountered at any stadium or arena. They opened up the souvenir stand for just for me, even though the small stand – which was essentially a standard-sized backyard shed – allowed me to roast at 400 degrees for five minutes. At least it felt that way. But anyway, that left an impression with me. An impression that has led me to happily cheer for the B-Royals this summer.)

Sadly, the official end of Taylor’s season is a surprise to very few. Twellman, who’s dedication and commitment to the team has never wavered, has certainly tried his damnedest to get back on the pitch. You could tell that wanted to help his club - a club that obviously missed his uncanny goal-scoring abilities. So he did whatever the doctors would allow him to do. He hit the stationary bike. Climbed the stairclimber. He undertook a regiment of light sprints and passing drills. He jogged. In short, he did everything but scrimmage with his fellow teammates.

And yet, it appeared as if there was progress. The team publicly held onto the hope that Taylor Twellman would return in 2010. He would not only return, but he would help this very team this very season. He would score. He would change the game by single-handedly shifting the opposition’s attention to him, leaving teammates completely unmarked. Of course, nobody seemed to know exactly when, but the hope that he would do all of those things this season certainly remained. All he needed was time.

But the amount of time required for Taylor’s bruised brain to heal would not come this season. According to the team’s press release, he suffered a setback last month, at a point in which it appeared he still had not even scrimmaged or participated in full training. This would lead many to believe that Taylor, despite his best efforts, the reports of progress, an optimistic attitude, wasn’t even close to stepping back onto the pitch when the setback emerged.

In light of that, it seems that the prospect of Taylor Twellman, the face of the franchise, ever returning to playing professional soccer again is all but gone. Based upon what little information about Taylor’s condition has been shared, it appears as if the symptoms that continue to plague him could very well remain a part of his life for good.

Returning to the pitch, where errant elbows and flailing forearms threaten to inflict greater damage, is a risky proposition. Combine that idea with Taylor’s well-documented score-at-any-cost attitude inside the 18, and we’re talking Russian roulette. The brain is just too fragile an organ.

Let’s face it: brain injuries are very different than leg injuries, arm injuries, torn tendons, and lacerated spleens. You can repair a broken leg, a torn ACL, or a dislocated elbow. Through the miracle of modern medicine along with the guidance of a seasoned medical staff, almost any injury can be repaired to like-new condition.

And athletes do their part, too. They dig deep. They will themselves to recovery, many times. All of those tired clichés that bounce around every locker room all park themselves in the forefront of a recovering athlete’s mind.

Unfortunately, head injuries do not obey the law of cliché. Hard work doesn't always ensure success. Time does not heal all wounds. There isn’t always a way, even if there is a will.

World Cup Day 13

This is probably going to be one of the most raw, emotional posts in the short history of this blog. It’s entirely biased, completely unobjective, and almost purely stream of consciousness. In other words, it’s also probably going to be one of the worst posts in the short of history of this blog.

**

Have you ever witnessed something that you know is real, as real as real can get, as real as slap to the face or a kick to the cookies, and after pinching yourself seventeen times and splashing your face with ice cold water, and biting your forearm, and banging your head against a solid wall to ensure that yes, this is real, yet you still don’t believe it?

Well, I, along with a countless number of soccer fans in this country (and some even abroad), just had a such a moment like that a few minutes or so ago.

What can you say? What can be said? It's indescribable. And that's not supposed to happen to me. I'm a freaking writer,* for God's sake.

(*Though not a particularly good writer, mind you. But a writer, nonetheless!)

After Dempsey’s goal was disallowed and the cries of corruption, ineptitude, and sheer stupidity belted through living rooms, dorms, cublicles, bars, restaurants, offices, and wedding rehearsals, it seemed as if this U.S. team, perhaps one of the most complete U.S. teams ever assembled, by a man who was once “interim manager” after the federation's first two choices fell through, was the Merriam-Webster definition of the term snakebitten.

In their last 135 minutes, the Yanks had charged their way through the midfield, furiously attacking, refusing to relent, and had two legitimate, guaranteed or your money back goals disallowed by two different referees. That just doesn’t happen to mediocre teams. It happens to good teams. Good teams on their way to the top.

Today’s match should’ve carried a warning: if you have a heart condition or are taking prescription drugs for heart disease, proceed with caution. This match had all of the drama, tension, and excitement of a Mario Puzo-penned trilogy. The Yanks saw chance after chance squandered. Dempsey, Jozy, Dempsey again, Bradley - it all seemed oh so close, yet light years away.

With ten minutes until time, the familiar stench of fatalism began to creep through. We'd smelled this smell before. And you could see it manifest, through the crowd, through living rooms, through the internets. It was the scent of imminent failure. You saw the red, white, and blue looks of hopelessness in the crowd. Their team was good. Just not good enough, it appeared. The desperation took hold of the masses, and it nearly choked them as if it was tear gas. That is, until, the face of American soccer, the man who dissed David Beckham, the man counted on to guide these men to World Cup success, pinched the game-winner through in minute number 91. And all was right with the world.

Looking back on the Group play, the U.S. played pretty darn well. Of course, I'm fairly certain my current emotional state is painting a rosier picture than reality. But seriously, save for a horrendous first half against Slovenia, the U.S. played like a legit world power against England, and completely ran the Algeria match. They defended. They attacked. They held the ball. And sure, the finishing, at times, frustrated supporters and non-supporters alike, but it’s a given, for any team, good, bad, or North Korea, that chances aren't always clinched.

In 2006, those chances were painfully absent. It’s not easy to find opportunities when you’re constantly playing from a deficit. And so it was written: the U.S. starved themselves out of Germany.

But 2010 has been different. Far, far different. This team is led by a mature, put-the-responsibility-on-me, Landon Donovan. He oversees some of the highest quality players the U.S. has ever produced in Clint Dempsey, Jozy Altidore, Michael Bradley, Tim Howard, all of whom are peaking at the perfect time. The anti-2006 squad, if you will.

Together, they’ve already provided two of the greatest moments in soccer history in less than a week: the two-goal comeback vs. Slovenia, and the thrilling, all-of-my-fingernails-toenails-and-cuticles are gone finishes many of us have ever witnessed.

And who better to cap it? Landon Donovan himself, in the dying seconds of U.S.-dominated affair that was locked at 0-0 for over 90 minutes. The same Landon Donovan who magically appeared in 2002, crashed and burned in 2006, and like a phoenix, gloriously rose from the ashes in South Africa to put his accomplices through to the Group of 16 for the first time since his hair was blonde and Brad Friedel was back between the pipes.

This time around, though, the Americans of 2010 didn’t have the same luck or good fortune that saw their 2002 counterparts through to the quarterfinals. Rather, they had to overcome suspect officiating, a dizzying two-deficit, and the loss of the prodigious Charlie Davies months prior to not only advance, but to win their group. The last time that happened, Herbert Hoover was trying to steer the country out of the Great Depression, and the prospect of night time soccer was a pipe dream.

What we witnessed today, was history, through and through. A bonafide, I-cannot-believe-what-I-just-saw moment for the ages, a moment when many of us will easily recall, decades from now, exactly what we were doing when our eyes betrayed us, because there was no way we were seeing what we were seeing. I know I will.

Unless, of course, greater moments await.

World Cup Day 8

It's nearly midnight, and by now, we've all seen it. Actually, it's what we didn't see that still has alot of us scratching our heads. Figuratively, of course. I suspect many reactions assumed a more violent tone.

We saw the scenario unfold before our eyes. In my case, it unraveled through my ears, via ESPN Radio somewhere along the New Jersey-Delaware border en route to my cousin's wedding in North Carolina.

The U.S., riding the tidal wave of momentum that often accompanies a pair of second half unanswered goals, were awarded a free kick tantalizingly close to the Slovenian box with a 2-2 score and less than five minutes before time. Landon Donovan, the most decorated American soccer player ever, loomed before the motionless ball, and awaited referee Koman Couilibaly's whistle.

The screech permeated the sea of vuvuzelas and nearly instantly, Donovan approached, then slammed the ball. It arched left. For a millisecond, the ball appeared headed for an unbelievably unoccupied space inside the six-yard box. That was, until Maurice Edu, who shed not only his defender, but also the doubters, the naysayers, and the critics who doubted that the Rangers reserve belonged on the team, filled the gap and stroked his right foot through the ball.

GOAL.

A sea of navy-clad teammates swallowed him. Smiles permeated through the television screen. It was the shining moment of Maurice Edu's brief but distinguished career. Then, it wasn't.

NO GOAL.*

(*The first thing I thought of after the goal was disallowed was that beyond awesome Nike commercial with Wayne Rooney, Franck Ribery, and Cristiano Ronaldo. As soon as it was clear the goal was null, I pictured a bearded Maurice Edu popping out of trailor in some barren wasteland, only to look up and see a billboard with the Couilibaly's green and white painted mug. "Write the future?" More like "Rue the Future.")

Americans have acclimated themselves to the blown call, so long as it's immediately rectified. In American football, the referees review almost every questionable call. When the 17 camera angles prove the ref a mere mortal, corrections are almost always made. This technique is so effective that the NBA, NHL, and even MLB have employed instant replay, albeit on a far more limited basis.

Eveything must be perfect, especially the arbiters who oversee these games. When MLB umpire Jim Joyce pulled the rug on Armando Galarraga's perfect game when he called the final out "safe", the nation's baseball fans threw their collective arms up in the air. It could have cost Joyce, who has garnered annual praise from ballplayers and colleagues alike, his sparkling reputation, and further damaged the game of baseball.

The play wasn't reviewable. But Joyce, a true professional, publicly admitted his mistake. He was candid. "I cost that kid a perfect game." He did. But it made baseball fans feel better about it.*

(*Well, that and Galarrago's calm demeanor, along with the perfect "nobody's perfect" post-game soundbite. Class and candor. Like milk chocolate and peanut butter, only better.)

Now, going back to Edu's goal that wasn't a goal. The first thing Couilibaly should have done, right off the bat, is to recognize that a crucial, late-match decision, whether spotlessly called or laughably missed, demands an explanation. The Americans, bumrushed the referee for just that. They would leave emptyhanded, again. No words, no gestures, no insight. Nothing.

Mistakes happen. Couilibaly, like the rest of us, are human.* He could have issued a statement after the match, explaining his decision. Given the stakes - the goal would have lifted the Yanks through Group C in light of the 0-0 England-Algeria result - one was certainly deserved, and not just to Bob Bradley's boys, but to every viewer who watched (or listened to) the match and wondered what he had seen that the rest of us completely missed.

(*Except Heidi Montag.)

But no such words were offered. Instead of calmly outlining the basis of his decision, Couilibaly simply ran away from the responsibility. He could have taken a lesson from Jim Joyce and either admit the error, or offer justification, out of respect for the game.

Unfortunately, he did neither. Rather, he cowered. He put himself above the game. He did not offer the respect that the very same players he shooed way offered him for 90+ minutes. He simply walked away, and avoided the radioactive fallout he single-handedly unleashed. He showed the masses, via worldwide broadcast, that a spine isn't required to referee the sport's most important matches.

But more egregiously, he deprived millions of fans and viewers, not to mention the American players, the one thing they undoubtedly deserve when a controversial decision is made.

An answer.

World Cup Day 7

(Kevin Alston via Twitter)

Before I get into the World Cup banter, I have to mention that I stumbled upon a moment of unintentional comedy about an hour ago. The scene: Fenway Park. The situation: Red Sox-Diamondbacks pre-game festivities. The individual: Khano Smith. Yes, that Khano Smith. In a Red Sox jersey. The action: the ceremonial first pitch.*

The pitch? What else? An eephus. A left-handed eephus. L.M.A.O.*

(*Adding to the hilarity was that fact that he was introduced as a member of the Bermudan National Team. Oh, you mean the Bermudan NATIONAL TEAM. Oh, ok. "Daddy, why is he so tall? And where's his soccer ball?")

Anyway, let's start with the early morning affair between South Korea and Argentina.

As I may have said before, I think Argentina could win this whole thing, but only if they dump Maradona prior to the final. Don't get me wrong: I really like him. I do. He obviously has an immense passion for the game. So do I. But that doesn't make me qualified to oversee a catalogue of multimillionaire players in the most important sports tournament known to man.

Having said that, I thought that a team like South Korea, a team that plays with precision and discipline (unlike the Nigerian side that should have been beaten by five or more goals last Saturday) could give Maradona some problems. Well, needless to say, it was me who was walking around the office with the tail between his legs this morning.

It's obvious that Argentina is a club brimming with attackers. Messi, Higuain, Tevez, DiMaria, Aguero, Batistuta (holla!), and so on. I suppose the apples don't fall far from the short, stocky tree. Even so, I was positive that the quality displayed Park Ji-Sung and Lee Chung-Yong against Greece would shine. And by "positive," I obviously meant "entirely off base."

Lo, the Albiceleste attacked with fury. They dominated the midfield and proceeded to pitch their flag, set up camp, and roasted marshmellows with Jung Sung-Ryong in the attacking third. It was every man up for much of the match. And when that happens, well, it's not particularly difficult to find the back of the net. Just ask Gonzalo Higuain.

The second match du jour allowed Greece to redeem themselves after playing some of the ugliest, most wretched football I'd seen in my entire life. Okay, maybe not that bad. But it was close. Very close.

Kalu Uche's early goal for Nigeria had me thinking it was going to be more of the same from the Greeks. Of course, I was wrong again. Now, granted, they weren't exactly Brazil circa 1982 - not even close - but hey, they took advantage after that foolish, imbicilic red card to Sani Kaita just after the half-hour. An opponent's red card: the universal sign to stop playing ugly football.

The Greeks, to their credit, scored the necessary goals to put them over, and clinched their first-ever World Cup win. Gyros for everyone.

Finally, the French - yes, those French - were pretty much eliminated by a powerful Mexican team that pretty much proved why France had to handball their way into the tournament. Raymond Domenech waxed poetic after the match: "We feel a great disappointment and sadness. We struggled. At the moment I really don't have an explanation for it."

Sadness? Sure. I'd be sad, too, if I were outed as the worst manager to have a gig at the World Cup. Disappointment? Over what? Trying to hide the fact that France has obviously regressed to the point where they won't even get out of their group?

No explanation? Domenech, who is wont to use astrology in his decision-making, left Karim Benzema - easily one of the best French players on the planet - off his roster. Hmmm. I guess don't have an explanation, either.

So that was Day 7. A day long trip to North Carolina tomorrow for Wedding #2 will likely hamper my efforts to catch USA-Slovenia in its entirety. Clearly, the wedding gods are waging a successful campaign against the soccer gods this year.

Given my proven track record of wild inaccuracy through seven days, I will once again flirt with futility on this prediction: USA 2, Slovenia 1.

Viva Vuvuzelas and other thoughts

(Andy Rain/EPA)

I'm ashamed to say that it’s Day 6 of the World Cup, and I haven’t posted a single syllable since Day 1. And God knows a heck of a lot has transpired since.

So, for your benefit and my conscience, I’m just going to wildly spray some random thoughts on some random matches (USA-England, maybe) here. After this, I plan to stay more current with a nightly recap each night hereon out.

Let me start off with the musical instrument of the moment: the vuvuzela.

I, for one, love the vuvuzelas. I really do. I think they really bring a playfully chaotic atmosphere to this tournament. Some have compared the sound of 30,000 vuvuzelas to that of a beehive, which to me, isn’t a horrible reference. You know what a beehive has a lot of? Movement. Things are in constant motion within the hive (or so I’ve read). Something’s happening, and something’s happening here, and something’s there, and something’s also happening behind that first happening. To me, it’s a wonderful metaphor for exactly what takes place on the pitch.

As an aside, I’ll take the horde of horns over the echoes that bounce around the walls of Gillette (and a few other unnamed stadiums within the States). Horns vs. crickets. Crickets vs. horns. Yeah, I’ll take the horns for $200, Alex.

The USA-England game was an extremely fortunate result for the Yanks. Extremely fortunate in the sense that Linsday Lohan is extremely fortunate not to be behind bars. Clint Dempsey’s goal was a gift our grandkids will be writing thank you notes for.

But while Robert Green wasn’t busy attending to charity, England ran all over the Yanks like it was the Battle of Charleston. There’s no doubt in my mind that England still passes eons better than the U.S. The Yanks will get there someday. That day just won’t occur this year. Of course, I’m happy – actually, thrilled - with the result. It’s not everyday that the Americans get a point against a superpower. But, it was also a reminder that the Yanks still have a bit of distance to cover before they become a legit Top 10 superpower.

I love how Ruud Gullit keeps referring to the Netherlands in the first person plural, and Bob Ley (who has done a wonderful job managing all of the egos parked beside him) constantly has to remind the audience “we being the Dutch.” Little things like that, things that are just blatantly unprofessional, make me thankful that this whole production isn’t as polished as it should be.

I hate how the superpowers – you know, Italy, Portugal, and Brazil – are playing like a bunch of pussycats. Don’t get me wrong: I love cats. I just don’t want to see strong clubs play like a family house pet. Did I enjoy seeing Paraguay claim a point against the defending champs? Yeah, definitely. Italian football is not my favorite brand. Was it fun to watch North Korea nearly outplay Brazil? You bet. Brazil is slowly becoming another South American Italy. Or another Argentina, if you will. Take your pick. Meanwhile, I was absolutely disgusted, especially as a Luso-Americano, to see Portugal play the way they did against a quality Cote d’Ivoire side. I expected the Africans to play for the draw, especially without a fully healthy Didier Drogba. Portugal must have stolen the idea. It was pitiful to watch a team with so much talent simply backpass the match away.

Speaking of ugly football, this World Cup has waaaay too much of it. At times, it’s been more torturous than a half hour of Celebrity Housewives of Orange County. Trust me, I know. The only sides that have played with any hint of grace have been the Southern folk: South Africa and South Korea. Almost everyone else has played like their grandmothers just died.

My girlfriend, who, bless her heart, has taken to watching a few matches with me, cannot stand Diego Maradona. She calls him an “evil oompa loompa.” You know what? I can’t say that statement’s too far removed from reality.

Four years later...

(AP/Anja Niedringhaus)

It's hard to believe that a shade under four years ago, I was watching, through watery eyes, the dying minutes of the USA's final World Cup match against Ghana at the Joyce Kilmer Rest Area off the Jersey Turnpike.* Yeah, that’s how I rolled that day. Eleven minutes to time, and the Yanks were struggling mightily with possession, pathetically scrambling to orchestrate something that resembled a half-chance. Ten minutes…five minutes…stoppage time. Fin.

(*It’s fairly obvious by now that my luck always seems to take its vacation around the World Cup. In my previous post, I mentioned that I won’t be able to watch the USA-England match due to a wedding. For the USA-Ghana match, I was accompanying my godparents down to Baltimore – easily one my favoritest cities in the world – for an extended-weekend vacation. We left at 9am. The match, I believe started at 10am, and we had to be down there by mid-afternoon because we had tickets to that night’s Orioles-Marlins game. What could I do? The only thing I could think of: I employed my brother, who doesn’t follow soccer at all, to watch the game for me and text me updates. Now, I’ve never experienced Chinese water torture firsthand, but I suspect that following a World Cup match via text messages could be just as painful.)

It was my first World Cup as a die-hard soccerhead. As a baseball-loving teenaged boy, I watched USA ’94 with passing interest and completely overlooked France ’98. Somehow, through the wonderful mixture of my undergraduate sleeping habits, Taco Bell, and 44 oz. Mountain Dews, I managed to catch a few matches while the rest of the house was asleep. It was an experience, sure, but I didn’t feel like I’d been kicked in the cookies after Germany stole the result in the quarters. For me, it was back to baseball and NASCAR the next day.

Germany ’06 was the first World Cup I planned my vacation time around. At that point, I knew: yeah, I had become one of those fans. I took a two-hour lunch for USA-Czech Republic, and had to pop a handful of Tums shortly thereafter. My skin sizzled under an unforgiving sun while I watched USA-Italy on the big screen at Gillette Stadium. And for the Ghana match, I found myself on the road receiving text updates from my brother who, lucky devil, was able to watch that entire match from the comforts of the couch. That, in a nutshell, was Germany ’06 to me.

***

Today, the tournament of tournaments returns. This time, the drama will transpire on a continent that has begged to be part of the global conversation for decades. What better way to help remedy that than hosting the World Cup?

Granted, I'm not Miss Cleo, but I predict it will be an exciting tournament. Though Germany ’06 will always hold a special place in my heart, a majority of the non-USA matches were, in hindsight, pretty dull. Maybe it was because the calcio-minded Italians dominated and everyone tried to copycat. Maybe it was the heavy-handed referees who booked everyone within ten kilometers of a foul. Maybe it was that tricky Teamgeist ball.

My hope, first and foremost, is that the security concerns remain just that: concerns. No matter who walks away with the Jules Rimet trophy, this proves to be the safest tournament ever.

I hope that the Yanks make it out of their group. Germany ’06 was a disaster in light of the strong showing at Korea/Japan ’02. Advancing will prove that 2006 was an aberration.

I hope that, should the Yanks fail to win this thing, Argentina overcomes the albatross that is Diego Maradona and takes it back to Buenos Aires.

I hope that Stephen Pienaar and the Bafana Bafana defy expectations and shock a few teams along the way.

I hope that Italy, France, and Germany all fall by the wayside and bow out by the end of the month.

I hope Algeria advances, but not over the US.

I hope Spain plays as remarkably as they did at Euro 2008.

I hope Holland goes far.

I hope England sputters.

I hope that the lasting image of the tournament is of celebration rather than controversy (see Zidane, Zinedine)

I hope that Brazil plays beautifully.

I hope that underdogs win and favorites lose.

I hope that a one-armed Didier Drogba drags Ivory Coast out of the Group of Death.

I hope Cristiano Ronaldo shows up.

I hope the refs keep their cards in their pockets.

I hope that talk of instant replay doesn’t get a chance to rear its ugly head.

I hope that South Africa ’10 is remembered as one of the best tournaments to date.

Hope. It is a universal human emotion, and that is why so many people of wildly different beliefs, cultures and occupations follow this spectacle. The World Cup offers us great theater. But more importantly, it offers us a chance to hope. A chance to dream. A chance to escape to the innocence of a simple ball dictating our pulses.

To me, that is what the World Cup is all about, and that is why I haven’t stopped thinking about it since the final whistle blew on the US four years ago.

Love and marriage

A lot of people have been asking me: Brian, where are you going to watch the USA-England match? And it irks the crap out of me.

It’s an innocent question, sure. There’s certainly no malice behind asking someone who eats, breathes, sleeps, and secretes soccer where they’re watching only the biggest World Cup match of the past decade.* Maybe it’s the first question after “Mind if I join you?” or “Care to predict the final score?” or “How many adult beverages will you be consuming prior to the match?”

(*I’d say the last “big” World Cup match the Yanks played in was against Germany in 2002 quarterfinals. Disagree? Feel free to rip me a new one in the comments section below. )

Again, these are all harmless questions. Typically, I am an easygoing guy. It takes a lot to get me riled up. Inquiries like these shouldn’t bother me.

But this one definitely has.

***

About 17 years ago, on a coolish, late-November afternoon, my friend Matt and I were playing street hockey in his driveway. One goal, three sticks (our friend Derek joined us), and a hard plastic ball. That’s all we needed for a decent game. Anyway, while dodging the orange, brown, and gray leaves scattered along his driveway, this young kid across the street asked if he could play.

“Do you have a stick?”

He nodded yes.

“Go get it.”

I must have forgotten my manners, because a few minutes into our mini-Stanley Cup final, it dawned upon me that I didn’t get his name.

“It’s John. I think your bother’s in my class at Kent Heights. His name’s Chris, right?”

If you had asked me at the time, whether this wannabe street hockey player would stick around for the better part of two decades, I would have called you an idiot. Then again, I was 12 at the time, so I probably would’ve called you something far worse.

***

I’m not going to lie: John and I did not become fast friends immediately thereafter.

We didn’t do sleepovers, ride bikes to the comic store, or even play much hockey after that autumn afternoon. In fact, we pretty much went our separate ways after that initial hockey game.

Over the years, he became close friends with my brother, and they often hung out at our house. Of course, John and I would still talk. John’s never at loss for words. He’s a future politician, I swear. So while we weren’t on each other’s fives or anything, we remained friendly toward each other.

***

Heartache has to be one of the worst feelings in the world. Those of us who’ve been snakebitten by it know its merciless grip all too well. The worst part is there’s nothing you can do to stop it. All you can do is cope. Of course, it helps to have friends surrounding you though. Makes the process easier.

I was going through a bout of heartache myself a few years ago. Like any failed relationship, it’s the separation from someone you’ve spent so much time with for years that really tugs at the heart. The familiarity of it vanishes. Happy routines cease. And so on. For me, it was made even tougher because my ex had moved far enough away where I’d have to buy a plane ticket to see her. I never did. Instead, I allowed myself to be surrounded by people who loved me. Interestingly, John turned out be one of those friends.

He’d been in a similar situation. He said “Brian, don’t think of it as just ‘you’ being hurt. It’s ‘us.’ We’re you’re friends. You hurt, we hurt. You laugh, we laugh.’” I took those words to heart. And he was right: we’d laugh together; cry together, and find time to watch sports together. We became close. He became like a brother to me. And it was just what I needed.

***

John and I used meet every Sunday for breakfast. No matter what happened throughout the week, no matter how busy, we always made time to see each other every Sunday.

We talked about sports, politics (I mean, he is a future politician), and girls. Speaking of girls, it wasn’t long after we began this Sunday morning tradition that John brought a girl named Jill along with him.

***

Two Decembers ago, my buddy Mario called one night in a panic. “I have to get John and Jill a present. Any ideas?” I urged him to remain calm. Granted, it was only five days before Christmas, but as a guy, that’s still plenty of time to complete one’s shopping.

Relax, dude.

“No you, don’t understand. It’s not a Christmas present. It’s an engagement gift. John’s going propose to her tonight.”

***

An innocent little save-the-date card came through the mail last fall. John and Jill had set the date: June 12, 2010. Ceremony at 2, reception at 4. No conflicts, of course. I circled the date on the calendar. It’s going to be a big day, I told myself. A few weeks later, I would fully realize how much that statement bled with truth.

***

Now that I think about it, I shouldn’t be terribly upset when someone asks me where I’ll be watching USA-England. The truth is, I won’t be watching it – live, at least. I’ll, of course, have to DVR it, and likely watch it around the witching hour, which could be a form of fun I’ve yet to discover.

If I had to miss this colossal game between colonizer and former colony, David vs. Goliath circa 1950, superpower vs. upstart, I would have to have a damn good reason not to see it. I’d say that witnessing John marry his beautiful bride Jill will be one hundred thousand times better than any soccer game I will ever watch or partake in.

Don't get me wrong: I love soccer. I think it's pathetically evident that I do. But, my passion for it doesn't even rival the love I have for the people who love me.

Now it all makes sense

The Revs have a funny way of managing their roster.

It's not uncommon to see an open roster spot linger for days, sometimes weeks, while the club searches for a replacement. After they cut ties with Mauricio Castro, it appeared that Ivan Gvozdenovic or Jean-Baptiste Fritzson would fill the vacancy. When both walked out of town without contracts last month, the Revs remained curiously undermanned.

Today, the answer arrived. By now, you've probably read the report* from Kyle McCarthy (who, by the way, is one of the best in the business) that Steve Ralston will be rejoining the Revolution after leaving the financially-plagued A.C. St. Louis.

(*And now confirmed by the club on its site.)

Typically, I'm not one to speculate or create rumors, but after Ivan Gvoz...um, the Trialist and Jean-Baptiste Fritzon failed to find a place with the Revs last month, I suspected that the spot was being held. For who? Not another international. And definitely not a DP. This is the Revolution we're talking about, after all.

No, I had a funny feeling that it may have been held for a familiar face. Down in St. Louis, Rally had just returned to the pitch last month after suffering a torn ACL last September. That, paired with the dire financial situation surrounding A.C. St. Louis, seemed to hint that we hadn't seen the last of Rally in a Revolution uniform.

His return could not come at a better time. The reeling Revs currently sport an embarrassing 3-7-2 record going into the break. The fact that they managed three victories with such a disjointed midfield is primarily attributable to sheer luck and bad teams.*

(*Luck: failing to find the game-winner until the Red Bulls lost not one man, but TWO men, to bookings. Bad teams: D.C. United and the early-season version of Toronto FC, who probably couldn't have defended against a sack of pinnies at the time.)

There is little doubt in my little mind that the state of the midfield will change dramatically now that Rally is on, and Joseph Niouky (who, in hindsight, may have been unfairly judged against Rally this season) is presumably off. The cohesion that we've come accustomed to seeing over the years will likely reappear now that number 14* is back in the middle of things.

(*Sainey Nyassi graciously return the number back to Ralston. Nyassi will now sport the number 17, which formerly belonged to the unforgettable Gary Flood.)

Oh, those sneaky Revs.

The anti Anti-Giuseppe Rossi post

There seems to be a strong current of dislike for Giuseppe Rossi lately. You probably know a little bit about him. He was born in Jersey, sent to Italy at 13, and became a pretty darn good footballer while he was there. Although he had the opportunity to play for the U.S., he elected to star for Italy instead. Oh, and half of his face was on the cover of ESPN the Magazine last month.

You probably also read that earlier this week, he was cut from Italy's 23-man World Cup roster. Naturally, the haters came out in full force.

Personally, I had no problem with Rossi's decision to begin with. Even in the wake of his release from the roster, I still respect it, although there's no doubt he probably questions it right now. He's a talented footballer who elevated his game to the point in which he could make such a decision. His options were the U.S. and Italy. He chose Italy.

Who could blame him? Every kid that plays soccer dreams of winning the World Cup someday. I suspect young Giuseppe dreamt of the same. He grew up in two different countries. Yet, he honed his skills within the perimeter of a soccer superpower, and as a result, became a better soccer player. So wasn't it logical to select the country that afforded you greater challenges? I may be going on a limb here, but I would hazard a guess that the competition within UEFA is slightly better than that found in CONCACAF.

And I know that stung for alot of us, especially after he put those pair of shots past Tim Howard at the Confed Cup last summer. But the decision was no different than the ones Benny Feilhaber and Stuart Holden made. No different than Earnie Stewart picking the U.S. over Holland, or Thomas Dooley siding with the States over Germany. Heck, Jermaine Jones became an overnight sensation when he chose the U.S. over Germany, even though he's already been capped by Germany. And yet, we applauded their efforts.

America is a funny place sometimes. We cry out for freedom in our everyday lives. Our constitution was created to ensure basic freedoms. Yet, when a supremely-talented American soccer player excercises his freedom and opts for an unpopular choice, he might as well be Benedict Arnold in boots. How dare he take his talent to another country, even if it is his family's homeland.

I guess I know why. It's easy to live in a "what if?" world. What if the gifted Rossi accepted Bruce Arena's invitation to play for the Yanks in 2006? What if his adolescence was spent here in States? What if he didn't have the talent to play for Italy's U-16s and U-21s? What if the moon was made of cheese?

"What if?" worlds are fun to live in. They offer limitless possibilities. Pigs can fly, horses can talk, and John Locke can walk. But football careers don't transpire in "what if?" worlds. They take permanent residence in the "what is" world. Giuseppe Rossi chose Italy. And the potshots taken at him, then and now, are simply the products of those bitter folk who'd rather live in these "what if?" worlds.

Men who hate balls

I remember it like it was yesterday. Or seventeen years ago. It was 1993. I was 12. There I was, among a handful of other pre-teens, in the middle of this vast expanse of grass surrounded by a fortress of maple trees. It was hot, which pretty accurately described the weather nearly everyday of camp that summer.

A younger counselor – at the time, she looked way older, although now that I think about it, she was probably 20 – placed two pairs of traffic cones, about ten feet apart each other right next us. She took about a fifty yard jog and repeated the process with the other pair. Then, she produced what appeared to be a well-abused, but sturdy soccer ball, and promptly placed it at the halfway point.

“Okay, I want six of you on this side,” she implored, as she singled six of us out. I was not one of them. “And I want the rest of you, on that side.”

I volunteered for this only because I owed one of my campmates a favor.* I didn’t know a single thing about soccer other than that you couldn’t use your hands. You couldn’t use your hands, and you were supposed to wear your socks high. That’s about it.

(*I'm struggling to remember what that favor was for, although knowing what my appetite was back then, I'm pretty sure it was of the culinary nature.)

A few minutes later, the game was in full effect. Eventually, the ball found me. It was a bad pass that yearned for my uncultured left foot. And it died. Not my foot. The ball. It didn’t bounce off my sneaker, like it should have. Rather, it bought the farm right then and there.

It startled me for like a split second. The following split second, I did what most any kid would do in a situation like that: adjust.

I switched feet, and dragged the corpse of a ball as far as I could – about five or six paces – before I gave it a go from thirty feet. The ball made it twenty before it resumed its lifeless form. The other team secured it, and fired up a counterattack. I don’t recall much of what happened after that – I think I may have scored a goal, although I cannot corroborate that – but I do remember that poor, malnourished ball dying on my foot that day.

I’m sure this story isn’t terribly foreign to most kids, or adults. Playing with damaged equipment is almost a childhood rite of passage. Who didn’t play with underinflated soccer balls, footballs, or basketballs? Who didn’t play wiffleball with cracked wiffleballs?

Yet, here we are, in 2010, and the hot topic amid the buildup to the World Cup is the adidas Jubulani ball.

The consensus: It’s horrible. It moves through the air unnaturally. It’s “nightmarish.”

Now, I‘m not one to read between the lines, but I think what they really mean is that the new ball is the spawn of Satan. And that’s OK. It’s perfectly plausible to feel that way about a soccer ball until it’s time to return to reality.

Cue reality: multimillionaire footballers complaining about the most expensive ball on the market. Well, at least they’re not being absurd.

If you ask anyone, whether it’s the backyard maestro, the street league legend, or Brian Ching, if they would trade places with any of these unhappy footballers at the risk of playing with this insidious ball, I suspect the general response would be “yes.” I would go so far as to even say that some of these hopefuls would play with a square ball if it afforded them a trip to South Africa.

I won’t chastise the likes of David James, Julio Cesar, or Marcus Hahnemann (who actually compared it to the atomic bomb*). They are world class athletes. They all undoubtedly worked hard to secure their spots in the World Cup.

(*The atomic bomb, Marcus? Really? Last I checked, the A-bomb wiped out thousands of people. And we're comparing a SOCCER BALL to that?)

However, they (along with the rest of the soccersphere) better served if they simply put the issue to bed and do what all athletes should do anyway: adjust.