Barcelona v Internacional

Congratulations to SC Internacional.

Here at a pretty move . . . we're proud American Barcelona supporters. Our team played with honor and they played well. But Brazil's Internacional played even better and they are now the FIFA Club World Cup champions.

Till another day . . . . But now sleep awaits.

FC Barcelona 0-SC Internacional 1

When the Hurlyburly's Done . . .

The sinister UEFA Champions League last 16 draw has materialized:

FC Porto v Chelsea
Celtic v AC Milan
PSV Eindhoven v Arsenal
Lille v Manchester United
Roma v Lyon
Barcelona v Liverpool
Real Madrid v Bayern Munich
Internazionale v Valencia

Let the laughter and sobs commence!

Mlada Boleslav Booted

This time of year, in Mlada Boleslav, it's so cold that when you step outside your eyelashes and nosehairs freeze in under a minute. It's snowed and turned to slush and snowed again and frozen over so that the entire town is a treacherous ice rink, and the snow is dirty and grey and not at all picturesque. And the hometown team returns there, defeated following its bid for European glory, having snagged only three points to finish at the bottom of the UEFA Cup's Group G. Seems they never quite recovered the dazzle they called up for their surprise defeat of Marseilles in the qualifiers, but I'd hoped they'd hold on long enough and play a team significant enough to get televised in this country. I read somewhere that they actually played with a pretty move or two. Still, they remain near the top of Czech's Gambrinus Liga. Better luck next year, lads.

Barthez Reborn

When I first began watching footie, knowing nothing really about the sport, I was instinctively drawn to the keepers. The position seemed to me a lonesome and existentially absurd one, in which long stretches of boredom are punctuated by moments of sheer panic. That says more about the kind of lousy keeper I'd make (my sporting philosophy, born of a black eye inflicted by a poorly passed American football when I was in the fifth grade, is to run away from, not toward, the ball) than it does about the actual job itself. Still, my initial affection for the keepers of the world was only reinforced when I discovered no shortage of eccentrics and ne'er-do-wells who'd held the line against the final onslaught of the opposing squad, like Colombia's Rene Higuita. Of these keeper-eccentrics, one of my favorites is the erratic and unreliable French national Fabien Barthez. I was terribly disappointed when he went into a forced retirement following the World Cup, when, following his resignation from Marseilles, basically no team wanted him (imagine!), and I'm delighted to report Fabien's about to be out of retirement and prowling the pitch once again: he's due to sign a contract with struggling Nantes and could be between the sticks again before the end of the month. Look out, Nantes--er, I mean, all you other Ligue 1 contenders!

Club America v Barcelona

Gudjohnsen (11")
Marquez (30")
Ronaldinho (65")
Deco (85")

It was a beautiful thing.

Club America is a great team and I guess the jet lag was just too much for them. This was hardly the same furious club that severely tested the Catalans back in August in that 4-4 draw in Houston. But last night, Barca was hardly the same club either. Although jet lag seemed to be a factor for them as well, Ronaldinho and the lads dominated the match and cruised to a 0-4 victory that puts them in the FIFA Club World Cup final against Brazil's Internacional on Sunday. Unlike the Club America match, though, Internacional is sure to give Barca plenty of problems.

FIFA Club World Cup 2006

Just when I was about to write off the 2006 FIFA Club World Cup as irrelevant and lacking in quality, which is strange considering that the six clubs involved--FC Barcelona, SC Internacional, Club America, Jeonbuk Hundai Motors, Al-Ahly, and Auckland City FC--are all champions of their respective confederations, last night’s semi final game between Egyptian team Al-Ahly and Brazilian side Internacional was out of sight. I’d never seen Al-Ahly play before this tournament and knew little to nothing about them, but Internacional was a team I’d become fond of after watching them battle it out and eventually beat the reigning champs Sao Paulo in this year’s Copa Libertadores. Unlike the first two games that opened the tournament—Auckland City v Al-Ahly; Jeonbuk v Club America—the quality of last night’s match was what you’d expect from two such prestigious clubs and it was always deliriously enjoyable.

I should clarify, though, that the Auckland City v Al-Ahly wasn’t bad exactly, but it didn’t exactly reward me for staying up till four in the morning to watch the blasted thing, either! Auckland City, a true underdog team as well as an amateur one, easily won me over with their foolhardy courage and ability to give the Egyptians the occasional problem. But the next match between Korean club Jeonbuk and Mexico’s Club America was woeful and embarrassing in moments. It was still fun to watch, though, if only because I couldn’t believe some of the gaffes being inflicted upon the viewing public—namely a disturbingly bad deflection of the ball by Jeonbuk keeper Kwon Sun-Tae into the path of America’s Argentinean bull Claudio Lopez, who then subsequently screwed up the shot by shooting it wide of the net with no one to hinder him. There were other cringe worthy moments—thankfully, I’ve already forgotten most of the specifics—and after the match, as I dragged my sleep-starved body to bed, I had to rethink my ambition to watch all the games live. No doubt the brutal jet lag has taken a toll on many of the players, and the seemingly non-stop schedule has flogged plenty of punishment upon their bones and muscles as well, degrading their skills and my mind along with it.

But after last night’s match, I’m sticking with it. Internacional, who are now missing a few major players (including Rafael Sobis, who now plays for Spanish club Real Betis, and Tinga, who plays for German club Dortmund) since the Copa Libertadores win, still has plenty of old veterans and youngsters to make trouble for their opponents. And the new super-hyped kid on the pitch, seventeen year-old Alexandre Pato—who is already being compared to that Ronaldinho fella—didn’t disappoint. Pato, aka Alexander the Duck, scored early in the first half, only to have it disqualified for being offside, and then a struck again in the 23rd minute with a controversial strike that counted (despite its being slightly offside). He was impressive throughout and he’s definitely someone to watch. No doubt the sporting Mabuses, I mean agents, are already devising black magic spells to lure him to their respective clubs. The Egyptians scored themselves in the early stages of the second half evening things up and valiantly controlled the game for large portions, never losing their composure throughout. But Internacional scored again, breaking the tie, and managing to hold on for the well-deserved win.

Tonight, European champions Barcelona take on Club America in the semi finals and it should turn out to be a brilliant good time. Both clubs met this past summer in Houston for an exhibition match and Club America did not make things easy for the boys from Catalonia. So tonight’s meeting should be a tasty treat for supporters of either club as well as for neutrals.

For more information about the tournament, which has been in existence since 2000 and is held annually in Japan, click here and here.

Pardew Sacked

I shouldn't have been surprised by this looming inevitability . . . but I was. The team is in shambles and facing relegation, Saturday's 4-0 loss to Bolton was embarrassing and heartbreaking--though that image of some Hammers away supporters snaking through the stands in a conga line, accepting such a brutal ass-kicking with a two-fingered salute and a laugh, was splendid--and Pardew's exit (after a sometimes tumultuous and blissful three years) only adds to the ongoing perplexing drama.

But I don't think Magnusson should have fired Pardew just yet, especially as the newly appointed chairman had just promised the Hammers faithful that management would stick with Pardew and that he would be allotted plenty of cash for January transfers. Not true, I guess. And I can't help but wonder what other surprises the new Icelandic consortium have in store for the team and supporters. And though Pardew should carry his fair share of the blame, I can think of a few players--Harewood, Zamora, Reo-Coker, Ferdinand, et al--who haven't been holding up their part as well. And then there are the two lads from Argentina. I still hold out hope for Tevez to make a big contribution to the squad this season, but Mascherano is sure to be back in South America next year or perhaps in Spain.

First team coach Kevin Keen will take over management duties until the West Ham board hire a new one. Former Hammer Alan Curbishley seems to be the front-runner, though current Wigan manager Paul Jewell has also been mentioned, among others. Thank the gods, though, that Sven-Goran Eriksson (whose name was bandied about earlier today) has denied the reports.

You can read more about Pardew's firing here, here, here, here, here, and here.

Brazil's New Phenom

Ronaldinho, meet your new teammate, Tevez:

http://football.guardian.co.uk/breakingnews/feedstory/0,,-6246459,00.html

Matchmaker, Matchmaker . . .

There was plenty of great football played this weekend, including the Bolton vs Arsenal match, West Ham vs Sheffield United, Barcelona vs Villarreal, and AC Milan vs Messina. Not all of it was pretty, but a lot of it was exquisite (the Barca match) and/or oddly beguiling, which equaled plenty of excitement around these parts.

Sam Allardyce’s grubby yet thoroughly underrated squad from Bolton must perplex the hell out of Arsene Wenger and his North London team of silky-footed mirror dancers. Long criticized and mocked for their supposed reliance on the dreaded long ball—most notably by some of the Premiership’s most outspoken and fiery managers, Benitez, Mourinho, and Wenger—the Bolton Wanderers have continually confounded those that can’t quite see the appeal of their strange brand of dynamic and infuriating English hodgepodge football. I don’t always understand the appeal myself, but I’ve been watching them off and on since the 2005-2006 season when the troublesome El-Hadji Diouf started playing for The Trotters after an unfruitful stint with Liverpool. Despite his reputation as a scalawag—which is an extremely nice way of putting it—Lynda and I hold a soft spot for the little giant-killing hellion due to his unforgettable performance with the equally unforgettable Senegal national team in the 2002 World Cup. So from Liverpool to Bolton I went, always waiting to see that Senegalese spark flare up again, though sadly rarely getting a chance to. Then one of my favorite Mexican players, Jared Borgetti, joined up with Big Sam’s club of misfit toys with plenty of hype, and for reasons that will simply perplex me to my dying days, he floundered there. No—he was mistreated there. Borgetti, who is Mexico’s top goal scorer for the national team and was the first Mexican, I think, to play for a Premiership club, was lured to Bolton with all the tantalizing lucre and publicity that a player of his caliber is due. Unfortunately, the bobble-headed striker failed to make an impact, rarely starting (though Allardyce rarely played him at all) and he simply kept the bench warm game after game after game. Whatever the reasons why Allardyce decided to keep Borgetti from playing, it was a painful experience for fans of this engaging star since one of the major reasons Borgetti went to Bolton in the first place was that he wanted to play in European competition (Bolton had earned a spot in the UEFA Cup tournament that season) as a sort of warm-up to the looming World Cup in Germany. Instead, he atrophied on the bench, though he did score in Bolton’s opening UEFA Cup match and subsequently in the FA Cup and, I believe, the Carling Cup.

Anyway, I digress. Bolton’s match on Saturday against Arsenal was as exciting as I’d hoped for, and even without the presence of either Thierry Henry or William Gallas due to injuries, the Gunners weren’t exactly pushovers even though their finishing was as consistently ghastly as it’s been all season despite their command of the second half. But despite Bolton’s own defensive problems, Allardyce’s lads managed to keep on exploiting Arsenal’s own defensive weak spots without giving up goals (c’mon, the Silva one was a fluke!) and maintain the antagonizing of the easily irritated Jens Lehmann time and time again--just watch the replay of that wonderfully precise Diouf corner to Faye in the 9th minute resulting in Bolton’s first goal of the match. Lehmann’s tidal wave of anger after the fact, directed at his teammate Toure’s incompetence more than anything, had me shivering and cackling simultaneously. Brilliant. But it was the overdue emergence of Bolton forward (and ex-Arsenal player) Nicholas Anelka that really shined. A costly acquisition (Anelka is the most expensive player to join the Wanderers) to say the least, the graceful Frenchman scored two decisive goals against Arsenal—the first one being a stupefying blast from 30 yards out and the second one coming off a crazily good long ball pass from Ivan Campo, another favorite player of mine, resulting in a solid counter-attack exclamation point. All in all, it was a superbly entertaining 3-1 Bolton win.

Didn’t get a chance to watch much of the West Ham vs Sheffield United match (it was on opposite the live Barca vs Villarreal game) but I caught it later Saturday night and I’m, of course, happy with the result. Tevez didn’t score, but he played well and with that gritty conviction that Hammers’ supporters love. Unfortunately, the fleet-footed Argentinean stalked out of Upton Park and went home before the end of the match when manager Alan Pardew replaced him in the second half. Bad move on Tevez’s part, though it seems as if the whole affair has been forgiven and we can now move on.

AC Milan, who have been having a few problems of late (they can’t score!) and seem far from their stealthy best, did manage to pull out a victory—from a nice goal by Methuselah Paolo Maldini in the 13th minute—against Messina. Always hoping for the formidable Milan striker Kaka to rediscover his faith in scoring goals, I watched with increasing disinterest and eventually fell asleep and dreamed an entirely different gorgeously insidious result.

But the game of the weekend for me—sorry Dr. Gogol—was indeed the Barcelona match against the Riquelme-absent Yellow Submarine. I’m fond of Villarreal and if I could have changed the result . . . well, I wouldn’t have. But I would have loved it if Barca’s triumphant and blistering 4-0 performance had come against another squad (Real anyone?) instead. Alas, Barca deserved their spectacular win and despite Gudjohnsen’s horrible manipulation—i.e. dive--in the box when Villarreal’s Cygan grabbed him ever so lightly, subsequently climaxing in a typically brutal penalty kick by Ronaldinho, they played with their characteristic imagination and elegance. I’m biased, of course, but anyone who witnessed this match knows what I’m talking about. And what about Ronaldinho’s cosmic shot at the end of the game? A gorgeous miracle worthy of legend, and one that regrettably eclipsed Iniesta’s own 70th minute goal that was effulgent and dream worthy itself. After a slow start this season, Barcelona finally seem to be stretching boundaries and shape-shifting football into sacrament once again. I only hope the Catalans can continue this blossoming against the confident Werder Bremen in the Champions League next Tuesday.

And I guess I’d be remiss in not mentioning the mucho hyped clash between Manchester United and Chelsea yesterday. Had a great time watching it, and unlike the West Ham or Barcelona matches (or Portland Timbers for that matter), I was able to loosen up and just witness the action as a passive, neutral observer. I rarely actually enjoy watching my own teams play and only on replay or in retrospect within the stadium in my head, do I actually relish being a supporter. It’s so much easier to watch other people’s teams battle it out. For the sake of my fantasy football team, though, I did silently hope that Drogba would score for the Blues. But Carvalho’s header (or was that Saha’s?) was excellent, as was Saha’s legit stuttering strike—a nice moment of redemption for a player who desperately needed it after his ridiculous gaffes against Celtic in the Champions League earlier in the week. I’m still not convinced that the newfound rivalry between Man U and Chelsea is that earth shattering, but it sure did bring a much needed jolt to the Premiership’s so far intermittently dramatic season.

Boleslav's Barely Breathing

In the latest gripping installment from the little-team-from-where-the-hell-is-that? that could, Mlada Boleslav grabbed a lifeline of a draw in yesterday's UEFA Cup match against Rapid Bucuresti. They needed three points, but one keeps them alive, if tied with PSG for the last place slot. Panathinaikos looks poised to take this group pretty easily; the only real hope any of the other teams has is a second place advance. Will any of the bottom three rise up to challenge H. Tel-Aviv? Will the lads from Skoda country grab their first group win against PSG on November 30? Will they repeat their qualifying upset against Olympic Marseilles and go on to stamp the name of King Boleslav II on the world map of football? Will one of their matches ever be televised in the US so I can actually watch them play? (cue hollow laughter)

I love the internet: Mlada Boleslav has its own wikipedia entry.
More on the match itself at uefa.com.

ESPN Hates The People

There's been plenty of excitement in the Champions League the last two days. Yesterday saw that splendid game winning free-kick by Celtic's Shunsuke Nakamura in the match against Manchester United--a bruising yet gratifying defeat that put the Celts top of their grouping and now forces Man U into another problematic situation that mirrors last year's ragged-ass fall from the group stage for Fergie's goal-impotent glory seekers--and then there were today's games in Group A between Werder Bremen vs Chelsea and Levski Sofia vs Barcelona. The Group A situation has been especially dicey for Barcelona, who've had a rather disappointing go of it in the tournament so far, and didn't especially play brilliant, pretty football this afternoon either. But they got the win with a nice early goal from the aging French gnome Giuly and another in the 65th minute from the young midfielder Iniesta, a player I'm increasingly becoming fond of (he scored a fine goal this past weekend in Barca's game against Mallorca). Barca's precarious situation in Group A was also predicated on how Chelsea fared against Bremen--a Blues victory would've helped Barca squeak into second-place. Unfortunately, Bremen won their match 1-0 and now Barcelona has to win their next match against the Germans . . . or else.

I would've loved to have watched some of the other matches today, but what with us being held hostage in the States, there was only one televised match all day (the Barca game, and that wasn't even live!). I know, I know, ESPN2 had much better things to broadcast--more poker, old college tackleball games, and the always mesmerizing possum relays--than another boring ninety of the people's game (our advertising revenue will plummet!). Anyway, the Liverpool game looked exciting (though the Reds ended up sustaining three injuries to their team) as did the Inter game, though I'm sure that wasn't as entrancing as I imagine it being, despite the Fabulous Crespo's magical slight-of-foot.

Matchday Six--December 5th and 6th. I'm ready. Hopefully ESPN will be as well.

Longboats Have Been Sighted . . .

Although the team is only a point above the Premiership relegation zone, West Ham United have finally been taken over by Icelandic businessman and head of the Icelandic FA, Eggert Magnusson, and his consortium of billionaire Northmen. The details will be trickling out over the next couple of days, I imagine, but the East London team can now finally get back to figuring out how to salvage their so far deplorable season and cease from worrying about this long, dragged out affair. No doubt the Argentine dynamic duo of Tevez and Mascherano, who were scuttled into the club back in August by prospective buyer Kia Joorabchian (who also made a play to buy out West Ham) under shady though oh so spectacular fashion, will find themselves separated (which is sad since I've always imagined that they must always room together, much like The Beatles in the film . . . is it Help!?) and sold off to other clubs during the January transfer window. Perchance back to Brazil? I have no idea. I'd love to see them in Spain. Wherever they end up, whether together or not, I hope they prosper. Despite the excitement the Hammers' supporters (Lisa and I included) initially showered upon the two, it really hasn't worked out. Oh, man, how it hasn't worked out! But at least Magnusson will be keeping battle-hardened manager Alan Pardew aboard.

You can read more about the West Ham takeover here, here, here, and here.

Ferenc Puskas RIP

One of the all-time great football players the world has ever seen has died. The mighty Hungarian forward Ferenc Puskas, who led the fabled Hungarian "Golden Team" to a shocking 6-3 victory over England at Wembley in 1953 and then beat up the Three Lions a little more the following year 7-1, passed away in Budapest after a long slow struggle with Alzheimer's disease and most recently, pneumonia. Later in his career Puskas was also an integral member of the phenomenal Real Madrid squad of the late 1950s and early 1960s, that also included the great Alfredo Di Stefano, and conjured up magic there as well. Being a Barca supporter, I acknowledge the greatness but don't celebrate it. Yeah, I realize I wasn't even born yet, but still. Seriously, though, how I would've loved to have seen Puskas in his prime. I know Puskas only through the same black & white footage that everyone else has seen over the years, and through books, articles, what have you. Even so, his extraordinary skills came alive and were mind-blowing to behold within my imagination.

You can read a lot more in-depth and knowledgeable writing about The Galloping Major at the following sites:

http://news.bbc.co.uk/sport2/hi/football/6155766.stm

http://football.guardian.co.uk/obituary/0,,1950878,00.html

http://football.guardian.co.uk/News_Story/0,,1950418,00.html

http://blogs.guardian.co.uk/sport/2006/11/17/best_beckenbauer_platini_zidan.html

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ferenc_Pusk%C3%A1s

take that! and that! and one of those

Hammers were full of piss and vinegar yesterday, matching the Gunners move for move and grabbing an unpretty and well-deserved victory at Upton Park. It was a match nowhere near approaching the level of ugly rancor attained in Chelsea v Barca, but scrappy nonetheless and flesh-thumpingly physical.

Few came away unbruised. Blood spilled on yellow kit (I'm looking at you, Zamora). Jonathan Spector had his plate full trying to mark Robin van Persie--nobody's favorite player on the pitch today, I think--and never backed down, proving himself no physical coward and giving as good as (better than?) he got. To prove the point that van Persie was winning no popularity contests, an ill-tempered coin flew from the crowd and nailed him on the touchline. In my favorite bit of reportage for the day, Matt Scott wrote in the GUARDIAN: "He fell to the floor clutching his head, further enraging the crowd." My boy, do not muck around with West Ham fans. (I make fun of it, but it made my skin crawl. One craven fellow with a bad mood and a pocket full of pound coins and the Irons could find themselves back in the relegation zone.)

My personal guilty pleasure of the day: Teddy Sheringham shamelessly bodychecking Jens Lehmann. (Oh, what? He's twice Sheringham's size. It was raffish and picaresque,--if I may borrow Mourinho's word,--and Ted's a lovable scamp.)

The game remained scoreless until literally the last minute, but it's a credit to both teams that there wasn't a moment in it that I didn't expect a goal on the far end of every next pass. Harewood broke his long dry spell in the 89th minute when he blasted Etherington's hard-won cross past Lehmann and celebrated by getting a yellow card. (I don't understand goal celebration yellow cards. Celebrate, by all means. Just keep your clothes on. It's two minutes until the game is over, Marlon. You can run around shirtless then. In fact, that's a good idea, as it'll give you something to do besides trying to pick a fight with little Cesc.)

It was after the game was ended that the real machismo fun began, and we at home missed the bulk of it. Cesc Fabregas apparently had words with the ref, which somehow culminated in a squabble with Harewood. Lehmann retaliated against the scalawag Sheringham by squirting him with his water-bottle, which led to the Arsenal physio wrestling the keeper to the ground (I'm not making this up, I swear), which led to Wenger himself tackling the physio. What I would give to have watched that live and uncensored. It's like an SNL skit, only better, because the strange and spidery Arsene is involved in a sort of dogpile. Then there's the whole Pardew v Wenger tangle ("This is MY personal space. This is YOUR personal space.")

It was an exciting day. My muscles ache just from watching. Everyone, Hammers and Gunners alike, will sleep soundly for several days, I think.

Barcelona Hold On

We all knew it was going to be a tough match anyway considering that Deportivo haven't been beaten at home all season. And then there's the fetid residue of Tuesday's draw with the Blue Bastards from London that still lingers in the memory. But with the tragic and sudden death of Barca captain Carles Puyol's father yesterday, which understandably forced Puyol out of the match and back to Barcelona to deal with more important matters, the team had an even bigger test of will to contend with. Barca looked edgy and lacking in the exquisite finishing that we expect from them--that we hunger for--but they managed to grab a point out of the hectic affair with the determined and aggressive Deportivo squad, ultimately keeping things level at 1-1.

All of us here at a pretty move are sad by Puyol's loss and wish him and his family the best.

Gunners Shoot Blanks

It was an incredibly entertaining match, but someone must've sprinkled heaps of bad mojo on Arsenal because none of their attempts on goal (what, like a hundred or so?) amounted to anything but frustration. Plenty of shots were supplied with horrible finishing (like that can't-miss Rosicky shot in the early moments of the second half, though Fabregas also had a horrible gaffe in the first, I think) but others were subservient to something weirder than human error. Superstitious? How could you not be when so much beautiful, attractive football via the Gunners came to naught on a cold, endless Russian night.

You can read more about match here.

News Flash: Keano Seethes

Two of a pretty move's favorite managers, Mick McCarthy and Roy Keane, kiss and make up (sort of), but their (sort of) reconciliation is overshadowed by Sunderland's 1-2 loss to Cardiff City. As Lisa points out, it's got to be chilling to be around Roy when he gets so terse he stops using pronouns.

Sheringham and the Spastics

There's still a lot of work to be done before the club transforms back into the gritty yet dynamic West Ham squad that we love, but today's gloriously ramshackle and much needed win against Blackburn (minus the ghastly Robbie Savage, who was supposedly blow drying his hair in the loo or something) was a great start toward good form. I could barely take most of it--I was too nervous, too aware that at any moment Sheringham and the lads would blow it and we'd have to start all over again next week, against Arsenal of all teams.

But the Hammers didn't blow it, and their performance today was heroic, inspiring, and entertaining to watch (on second viewing, of course), despite the uneven performance. But I don't care about that right now. I tried to really analyze the game on that second viewing (I was half-asleep and terrified during the live broadcast in the morning), but my emotions swept me away when I heard the faithful at Upton Park sing, chant, roar, and do whatever it took to conjure up the Twelfth Man. It was damn emotional, and what with me being inclined toward sweeping dramatic narratives, I was easily sucked into the team's desperate attempt for a little salvation.

It's hard to believe that the team hasn't won a match since opening day back in August, but it's true. Even harder to believe that they didn't score a goal for seven straight! Zamora (who was scoring before that but is now struggling like everyone else on the team) looked a lot better today, though Harewood is still confounding with his lack of putting . . . the . . . ball . . . into . . . the . . . back . . . of . . . the . . . net. He'll regain his predatory ways eventually, so I'm not really worried.

At times I felt the game was ugly and spastic. But when Sheringham scored in the 21st minute with that confident blast of a header, I could've cared less about the aesthetics of how the Hammers were going to win. I wanted melodrama and redemption, not subtlety and grace. As the game went on, the Hammers did start playing with that peculiar snap and working-class conviction that appeals to the faithful--me included--though they almost blew it at the end when Blackburn scored in stoppage time and then immediately attempted to even it up when Jeffers took that uncomfortably close shot. The Hammers didn't break, though, and they managed to claw their way out of the relegation zone into 16th place. Still a precarious position to be in, but I can live with it. I'm just glad for a glimpse of salvation.

You can read more about the match here and about the hero of the day here.

A Cruel Fascination: AC Milan 3-Inter 4

I have to admit that my enthusiasm for a lot of the matches I've been watching of late has been very low. My teams, Barcelona, West Ham, and my dear local club the Timbers--who ended their poor season in September--have all left me feeling exasperated and a bit bewildered. Barcelona are still top of their league and they are far from lousy or anything like that. But when it comes to the big matches, like their Champions League game against Chelsea a couple of weeks ago or last week's disappointing loss in the El Clasico against Real Madrid, the superstar Catalans have looked anxious, indecisive, and more than a bit lost without their star striker, Mr Eto'o. And I won't even get into talking about West Ham--at least until tomorrow--because I can't even grasp the melodramatic turmoil fermenting across the pond at Upton Park. I've tried, I've tried to write about it, and everytime I start a post about the Hammers' dilemma I reach for a book instead--or a last cigarette and a blindfold.

But today, the Italians brought me back. And my peculiar (for me) interest in the Serie A continued to deepen and fascinate. The rivalry between Inter Milan and AC Milan is always a contentious affair (what derby isn't?) and today's match was no big surprise in that respect. But what was a surprise was the amount of goals (seven in all) and the absolute euphoric atmosphere and, more importantly, the courage and unbridled passion from both teams that was on full display down on that glorious pitch.

I've never watched a Milan derby before, so I don't know how it compares to previous matches between these two squads. But I'll go ahead and take at face value what the GolTV commentators exclaimed over and over again by the end of all the drama: this was an absolute classic to be remembered for a long, long time. It sure seemed that way.

I missed the first half due to my very late waking time (it's a long story), but the beginning of the second half was enough to pull me into the storyline and keep me seduced throughout its forty-five minute (and then some) feverdream of a game. At first, I wasn't so sure. Inter was up 2-0 (goals from the fabulous Crespo and Stankovic) and I almost switched off the television, even though I like the lads in blue and black, because I figured it was just going to be a good yet slightly depressing pummelling of Berlusconi's Rossoneri. And when Inter's Ibrahimovic scored a brilliantly brutal and wild goal against Milan's Brazilian keeper Dida within a few minutes into the second half, I was convinced. Fun for a team's supporters, but boring for the relatively neutral spectator like myself (I lean toward Inter, though I have to admit that I have a perverse sort of infatuation with Milan, and I feel dirty, sleazy, and used because of it, but I keep watching nevertheless).

How could a team, even with the deep talent of the Rossoneri, come back now? It seemed impossible and stupid even to contemplate. Milan's fans were stunned and silent. Creepy capitalist-cryptofascist-godfather-devil (redundant, I know) Berlusconi glowered in the stands and I imagine was mentally making a list of what players to torture after the match (Ah, Maldini always looks so pretty with tears in his eyes!) But before the steely-eyed bureaucrat could figure out a way to slip out of the stadium with some dignity intact, Milan's Seedorf restored some honor to the club by scoring in the 50th. Then Inter answered back when everyone's favorite wise-ass and self-proclaimed idiot Materazzi (I don't even know what a terrorist is!) delivered a vicious header and sealed up the game, one could safely assume. Oh, and then Materazzi got red carded for his celebration. How come I wasn't surprised?

At this point I really wouldn't have blamed the Rossoneri for giving up. That they didn't, though, is a testament to the quality and passion of the team. Fired up even more, Milan attacked, attacked, attacked and earned a well-deserved second goal when Gilardino scored again (his first goal was ruled a no-go for offside a few minutes earlier) and then Kaka shot one in during stoppage time. The Rossoneri may not have won the match, but their crusade to regain some respect after such a dispiriting first half was inspiring, entertaining, and memorable to say the least. The Devil may have ultimately betrayed the team's devotion to the dark side, but they were dragged down to Hell with style, flair, and determination--cementing my cruel fascination with this attractive gang of lost souls.

el clasico, 2006 edicion: or, the evil Earps at the OK corral

Was it really just Wednesday when 2/3 of a pretty move met with Zach from 11 Devils and got the life-force sucked out of us watching a weirdly vacant Barca well and truly pummelled by the overpaid boys in blue? (See Zach's inimitable description here. Not only does he write with vigor and style, he even secretly paid for the french fries. Thanks, man.) It didn't bode well for this year's battle in the ongoing war between Real Madrid and Barca, AKA the Fascists v the Catalans. Last year's showdown was a sparkling triumph for Ronaldinho and the boys, in which they garnered a round of applause from hardened Real fans at the Bernabeu just for playing so damn well.

This year falls into the realm of different gods entirely. Darker gods, the kind that hunker and lurk.

Two minutes into the action, Sergio Ramos (he works for the devil, but he may be my favorite of all the young Spaniards) sent a perfect ball forward and center to Raul who headed it past Valdes so smoothly that we collectively got the wind knocked out of us and nobody spoke for a full minute. Then Lynda muttered something about NOW is the moment Raul decides to make his long-delayed and much-despaired-of comeback? I said he's like the gunfighter who spends the whole movie drunk in the gutter then cleans up and busts into the saloon just in time for the final shoot-out.

In retrospect, it's an apt metaphor for the whole team. All season long, the word about Real has been nothing but negative. Bloated, ego-heavy, unmanagably expensive, the team has emitted the warning creaks and groans of a sinking ship all year. And yet, here we are, the smoke clearing in the saloon with the wrong cowboys still standing. Evil cowboys, yes, but today they do look shiny. Robinho's yellow boots owned the pitch from one end to the other. Raul exuded youth and vitality the whole 90 minutes, as did Reyes when he came in during the second half. Ruud and Guti indulged in some bullying Schadenfreude and I wish I could say they played badly, but that would be disingenuous.

As for the Catalans, Ronaldinho remained unmanned (or, as Zach aptly put it, "decoded"), as he had been against Chelsea. He delivered some lovely crosses and one splendid free kick but the finish was fumbled by Gudjohnsen. The mighty Viking was invisible at Stamford Bridge on Wednesday and worse today, missing every opportunity that came his way. Messi had some shining moments, setting up what ought to have been the equaliser more than once. Puyol did some brave defending but we all sorely missed Marquez.

The man of the match for me was announcer Ray Hudson, with his musings on "manly machismo" and "donkey work", and his whimsical metaphors, one in particular about "a snowball plunging out of a snowy sky." I swear he even referred to one of the Real players (for God's sake, WHO?) as "my little lollipop."

In then end it felt like the STAR TREK episode in which Kirk and the landing party found themselves cast in the roles of the Clanton gang and facing a dashingly evil and seemingly invincible line of Earps. Today, the Bad Earps won, but even I have to admit they looked rather magnificent doing it.