A Fan for a Day: Espanyol v Werder Bremen

Werder Bremen strode into the Estadi Olimpic de Montjuic, home of Barcelona's other team Espanyol, the clear favorites... but by the end of the 90 minutes it was equally clear that the aging Espanyol squad had not yet heard the news that their own UEFA Cup semi-final dreams were to remain just that. Bremen moved menacingly toward goal in the early stages of the game, but a steady and contemplative Espanyol slipped the first dagger in via a splendid corner kick by Ivan de la Pena to Francisco Rufete who subsequently crossed to an eager Moises Hurtado for a goal in the 20th. In the opening stages of the second half, Bremen were still focused and attack-minded, but disaster struck in the 50th minute when Espanyol's Walter Pandiani headed in the ball past Bremen keeper Tim Wiese. And it was downhill from there.... Eight minutes later the home side's Raul Tamudo broke free from his defenders in the midfield and kept the advantage as he sprinted toward a second goal, curving his body and ball past the charging Wiese. Unfortunately, a body can only twist so much and Tamudo's ability to stay on his feet was tested by a cynical Wiese, who I guess was more at ease with a red card than with yet another goal slicing past him. It would have been a beautiful goal and moment for Tamudo and Espanyol's feverish supporters, but that third goal would have to wait until later. With Wiese off, Bremen put in 38-year old Andreas Reinke to man the posts, but his valiant efforts to stave off a third goal dissolved in the 88th when substitute Ferran Corominas shot one into the net, solidifying a well-deserved first leg victory for the Spanish club who has not exactly been burning up the standings in La Liga this season. Espanyol win 3-0. Next week's second leg match at Bremen, it goes without saying, should be mandatory viewing for fans of the Spanish game and anyone else out there who is more than a little disappointed/underwhelmed by the remaining teams involved in that other European tournament.

Man of the Match: Alan Ball Jr. 1945-2007

It's always sad when a legendary footballer dies. And when you were a vital component of an equally legendary squad--say, the English team from '66 who won the World Cup against West Germany--it's even sadder.

I wasn't even born yet when the Three Lions raised the Jules Rimet trophy for the first and so far only time.... I've watched that color footage over and over again in an attempt to time travel back to Wembley, wondering what it must have been like to witness such a feat. I can only imagine.

The stocky midfielder, who was the youngest player on the '66 team, also played for numerous clubs, including a short stint with the Vancouver Whitecaps back in '79-'80.

I guess Mr Ball died not long after watching the Man U v AC Milan match last night. There are certainly worse ways to go....

You can read more about the flame-haired legend here and here.

Man U v AC Milan 3-2

Despite a Manchester United goal in the fifth minute by Gabriel Heinze--no, strike that! A goal by the twinkle-toed Cristiano Ronaldo--damn it! Okay, it was a blasted own goal by Milan's stalwart Brazilian keeper Dida--#&*%!

I guess it was Ronaldo after all. Unfortunately I still think Dida flicked it into his own net. No matter. A goal is a goal is a goal and Man U wasn't going to argue it. They were on the scoreboard and ready to fire more against a stealthy but aging Milan squad who looked a little unsure of themselves in those opening moments. Luckily for the supporters of the Rossoneri, the magnificently composed and dangerous Kaka generated some serious comeback thrills by scoring in the 22' and 37' minutes respectively, immediately lowering the crowd volume and expectations at Old Trafford and seemingly casting a divine light upon the veteran Italian team.

But the football gods are a fickle bunch and by the time Rooney awkwardly managed to fumble a ball past Dida in the 59th (thanks to a plucky Paul Scholes pass), it was becoming increasingly clear that Milan would be lucky to leave with a point. This was not the same goal-crazed Man U that dismantled Roma a few weeks ago with that 7-1 embarrassment, but they nevertheless managed to remain focused, patient, and deadly when need be. And in the 90th... with the clock ticking down... Rooney made sure that he would be the one to keep Man U's crusade to the Champions League finals divinely alight. I still think that Milan can pull off the win next week at the San Siro, but that dream of European victory for the controversial, battered, and weary squad looks a little dimmer. And though I would love to see a rematch between Liverpool and Milan in the finals, something tells me that this year may belong to Mourinho and The Blues after years of European disappointment.

Portland Boys, We Are Here

A revamped Timbers squad--retaining a mere handful of players from last year's disastrous run--took to the pitch on Saturday night against the Puerto Rico Islanders. Among the more painful losses: longtime Timbers Byron Alvarez (gone to Charleston), fan favorite Hugo Alcarez-Cuellar (snapped up by--this one hurts--arch-rivals Seattle Sounders), and Josh Saunders, who was in the goal for Puerto Rico Saturday night. It's always wonderful, of course, to see Scot Thompson back, but why hasn't a European side offered him a decent contract yet?

We were guests of a generous friend who had tickets for seats just above the beer garden, which provided an excellent view of the players, the pitch, and a magnificently loud and magnificently full North End! The Timbers Army can no longer be contained in one, two, or even three sections! Also, I cannot quite believe that this is still coming up--but anyone who claims that the Bad Words of the TA go ringing throughout the park, scarring small children for life and setting them on a sure path to juvenile delinquency, is a dirty liar--the only obscenity which can be discerned is the tiresome, charmless, please-God-let-it-be-retired-already "You suck, asshole!" which is really offensive on account of being, well, lame.

Aside from the fantastic vantage point, lordy, those seats have nothing to recommend them, unless you enjoy a soccer match with all the atmosphere of a Midwestern Lutheran church service as described by Garrison Keillor. We were anxious to get back to our people and fled to our fellow hooligans for the second half. Kudos in particular belong to the youth of Rose City--we saw lots of enthusiastic teens and, uh, young people (we'll just be over here adjusting our walkers) filling out the sections. A fantastic and enthusiastic turnout on a cold, rainy, miserable night.

And the match! Josh Saunders, who gave us some good years as keeper before succumbing last year to the same loss of form as everyone, let three goals get past him. (Honestly, we like Saunders a lot and think he's a good keeper, and wish him much success and many clean sheets in his future, as long as he is not facing the Timbers.) The formerly-evil Andrew Gregor shed his bad-guy Seattle duds and opened the match in spectacular fashion, scoring the first of his two goals in the second minute (although he apparently has also spent some time training with England's national team, judging from the quality of his penalty kicks). Luke "Use the Force" Kreamalmeyer headed in our other goal for a final score of 3-1. Our new keeper, Josh Wicks (formerly of the Vancouver Whitecaps) looks pretty good, as does the rest of the new squad. (My friends pointed out that since the new keeper is also named Josh, I won't even have to scribble out the name I have written all over my pee-chee. I'm sure I have no idea what they're talking about.)

For an actual match report and incisive commentary, see Allison and Roberto.

Happy Birthday To Us

A pretty move, conceived in a fever of excitement over the impending 2006 Portland Timbers season, the World Cup in Germany, and late-night, possibly drunken ramblings that kept ending on a note of "Hey, we oughta start a soccer blog!" is one year old today. Happy birthday, apm!

We've had a few changes around here since then, perhaps most notably the move of one of us to a largely soccer-free zone (we'll see her back in these parts once she's getting regular broadcasts again). It's been a fun little experiment so far and we thank everyone who's read, linked to, and commented on our idiosyncratic and erratically maintained blog.

We, uh, seem to have gone on something of an accidental hiatus recently, not for lack of interest or things to write about but mostly due to (sigh) other commitments. But the start of an exciting new season for the local Portland Timbers should see us back on track. Last night's 3-1 triumph before a crowd of nearly 8,000 was a fantastic opener and we'll be writing about that tomorrow.

In the second year of the life of a pretty move we anticipate continuing with our usual obsessions: La Liga, the Czechs, the soap opera that is West Ham, the Argentinean national team, and various other diversions. And while 2008 is a long way off, sometime around the New Year we should have some dramatic and interesting changes to our football-watching habits and coverage. Cheers!

Reserving Our Energy

The offices at a pretty move have been pretty quiet of late (for no particular reason, mind you) and though we've been watching a few games here and there, nothing of note has really excited us. And the games that we have eagerly wanted to view, e.g. West Ham's last couple of matches, Barca's last two games, and Sunderland's match-up against Wolves this past weekend, have simply not been in the cards. It happens. Oh well. Perhaps we're just reserving our energies for the upcoming Portland Timbers season which starts up in the next couple of weeks.

Even the Champions League has failed to inspire us ever since Barcelona was booted out by Liverpool--oh the agony!--and our Spanish club allegiances were diverted to nifty-footed Valencia. I enjoy watching Valencia play, and really hoped that they could turn last week's 1-1 draw against Chelsea at Stamford Bridge into their advantage today at home, subsequently moving on to the semi-finals. But it wasn't meant to be... and now there could possibly be three English clubs in the semis if Liverpool win tomorrow against PSV. Ugh. No offense to any Premiership freaks out there... but I can't help but feel a bit pissed at seeing the Spaniards fall out. But there's always the UEFA Cup, right? Woo Hoo!

Okay... enough bitching. That Man U game against Roma was sort of incredible, I guess, even though I can't stand Rooney/Ronaldo and company. But there was something sort of impressive about the whole pummeling. Three goals in 19 minutes, and the last two within a couple of one another! Yeah, there was something sort of brilliant about it. And Roma return home, hopefully without any violence erupting in England tonight... though god knows the dark, unruly clouds of hooliganism have been ever-present of late. I just wish that fleet-footed petulant Ronaldo would slip on the proverbial banana peel at some point. Damn, he's good. Perhaps I'll change my mind about him at some point considering I sure did an about-face regarding Drogba....

Nah. I don't see it happening either.

Newsflash: Maradona Indulges to Excess

You know how American celebrities are always admitted to the hospital for "exhaustion"? And sometimes it follows a "collapse"? Man, if only their publicists were this honest: Maradona admitted to hospital for over-indulgence. We here at a pretty move and doubtless everyone throughout the soccer world is shocked...shocked!

Soca Warriors Unionize

If you read a pretty move during its bout of World Cup fever, you may recall that I was a big fan of Trinidad and Tobago's Soca Warriors, and the spirit and joy they and their supporters took to Germany. Now the Warriors are going to court over their post-World Cup maltreatment. They are being fobbed off with payments totaling less than $1000 each, despite the fact that the T&T football federation is financed by none other than wealthy FIFA vice-president Jack Warner. This is by no means the first time footballers from nations with lower profiles in the soccer world have been treated this way. If there is truly little money to pay your athletes, and they go into tournaments knowing that's the case--well, that's one thing, but the stories rarely seem to play out the way. Much more often, as is the case here, promises are made with no intention of fulfilling them. Here's hoping the Soca Warriors get their day in court and justice reigns.

And while I'm seething with indignation about soccer injustices, here is a piece from earlier in the month about the challenges faced by the English national women's football team. This is a fantastic piece that I've been holding back on linking to because I wanted to write about it in the context of a more substantial post on women in the footballing world. However, I haven't had time to devote to a substantial post in a while, so this will have to do for now. A few months ago I remember reading some comments on a Guardian blog, perhaps in response to remarks by the misogynistic and now-unemployed (huzzah!) ex-Luton manager Mike Newell but perhaps about something else--at any rate, they were to the effect of "Have you ever watched the English women's team--it's hilarious how rubbish they are! No wonder no one cares about women's football!" So hilarious that, as they say, I forgot to laugh--particularly after reading about the crap food, crap training, players juggling their international duties with full-time jobs, and nonexistent support for families.

Hat Trick at the Camp Nou Corral

The funny thing about soccer is that, as many others have pointed out before me, watching it live is kind of an exercise in masochism. It's rarely what you'd call fun: because a lead can vanish or appear so suddenly, it is often ninety minutes of sheer agony punctuated with moments of ecstasy or grace, which can be gone again just as quickly. When kid dynamo Leo Messi kissed the crest on his Barca jersey following his third goal in the crucial closing minutes of the match--that was one of those moments. The goal itself--I screamed, I laughed, I jumped around the room, and, uh, I think I got something in my eye.

I have to go back and rewatch the match on tape, because I missed parts of the second half. The prospect of watching Barca go down for the third time in a week broke me. I couldn't sit still, I paced, and finally I scrubbed the bathroom floor, running up and down the hall to check out the action according to the noises Derek was making. My bathroom is really clean now.

I hate players and managers and fans who whinge on and on about unfairness when top teams don't win (on the other hand, if you are a supporter of, say, not-top teams like West Ham or the Portland Timbers, whinge away: you probably are hard done by). It smacks of poor sportsmanship and entitlement, and yet I was going to moan hypocritically here. Of course I thought the ref was dreadful; of course I feel robbed--I'm a Barca supporter, and over the ninety minutes of the match the accusations I sputtered at the ref (and wouldn't you know, he didn't seem to hear a word I said) would have done any Italian football conspiracist proud. But I thought I'd take a page instead from Linda and let it go (now that I've conveniently given you the condensed version). It was a stunner of a match, individual Barca players made some mistakes but on the whole the team played beautifully, and I felt like the squad I knew was back.

Did you see? Did you see that gorgeous footwork from the likes of Iniesta and Messi, the heroic defending, the courageous attacks, even with one man down? And let's not forget the brave performance of a crippled Real Madrid squad, either, who battled with more skill and spirit than most of us expected from a team with so many on the injured list. What a Clásico! What a debut from young Leo! Oh, what a squad--Més que un club indeed!

The Wrong Inheritors

I loved David Winner's book Brilliant Orange--an idiosyncratic yet endearing tribute to the sometimes surreal world of Dutch football, and in particular the fabled World Cup '74 burnouts led by Johan Cruyff--and heartily recommend it to anyone out there. But I'm absolutely confused by this piece in The Guardian from yesterday, wherein Winner claims that the inheritors to Rinus Michels' alchemical brand of creative play are... Arsenal. Perhaps I've just been watching some other team that calls themselves the Gunners, but that proclamation seems insane to me. Have I been misunderstanding the basic ideas surrounding the idea of Total Football? No offense to my friends who support Arsenal, but whatever elements of TF that Wenger utilizes in games seems circumspect and superficial. However glamorous and formidable the Gunners seem on paper--and they are impressive at times--the team consistently revert to boring, conservative play (4-5-1 anyone?) on the pitch more so than not.

Am I completely misinformed here?

I admit my bias for Barcelona, and the team's connection with Dutch players and tactical ideas has been strong for decades. But it really does seem more appropriate to view them as the true inheritors of the TF system. Even then... Rijkaard's version of TF is still a modified version of the free-flowing theory. But it's the closest thing we've got.

I'll have to think about it some more. In the meantime, you can read Mr Winner's views on the matter here.

the joys of infidelity

I think it was during the World Cup that there was some heated on-line discussion about the ethics of cheering more than one team. Does it brand you a turncoat? a fair-weather friend? a dilletante? Shallow? The consensus here at a pretty move at the time was that we, as Americans, are almost necessarily youthful in our football passions, and therefore free to throw our love around liberally and without guilt as if it were hippy-days in the Haight. Something akin to that. We're in love with the lovely goal, the graceful maneuver, the beautiful moment, unabashedly so, and will sing the praises of such, regardless of the color of the kit involved.

Still, we have our favorites. None of us shy from trumpeting our collective Barca-love, two-thirds of us are proud to wear the claret-and-blue of the West Ham supporter, and I have always harbored a quiet but passionate amour for Liverpool. In the wake of the West Ham v Liverpool FA Cup final and today's Barca v Liverpool Champions knockout, I can tell you this: there are few pleasures greater than watching two teams you genuinely love vying for an important win. It blends ecstasy and melancholy in the sweetest possible ways. One knows every man on the pitch well enough to enjoy heightened emotions at nearly every turn.

Much as I hate a Barca loss, Liverpool made me proud today. They emerged from the tunnel with the aggregate edge but the underdog's uncertainty, and how many sides (I'm looking at you, Arsenal) would have locked down into an ugly night of pure defense and playing it safe? Not these fine Liverpudlians. They came out walloping and kept it up; it was only by the whimsy and caprice of the Football Gods that Riise didn't score in those first minutes. How many was it? Three times he blasted a beauty toward the goal to see it deflected by the bar, or a defender, or possibly the invisible hand of the Football God? Same for Sissoko's long 32nd-minute shot off the bar, and, for that matter, Ronaldinho's, later on. The Gods were having great laughs up their godlike sleeves on the touchline all night.

This is the first I've seen of Liverpool this year, and if I was initially uncertain about the new backfield, they set my mind at ease within minutes. Those fellows are lovely. And talk about a great backfield: when Rijkaard pulled Thuram--Thuram!--to send on Gudjohnsen, it was a stroke of genius. It didn't even feel like a risk to me, because he still had Marquez and the Armored Saint watching the goal. (Did you see Puyol clear the end of that fierce Liverpool attack right off the line? Classic.) And it paid off, almost immediately, but not enough.

Therein lies the melancholy in the mix. What will become of our beloved Barca? Will this beautiful squad disentangle one from another and dissipate across the hemispheres, each man wearing different colors? During the pre-match when the starting eleven flashed on the screen I said to my mother (who, thank God, has ESPN), "You will never see a better starting line-up than that, if you were to watch football every day for the rest of your life." Then I thought of the fellows waiting in the wings to come on (Giuly! Zambrotta! Gudjohnsen! Gio!) and got real chills. So why did the life never manifest? Messi was penned in (artfully, I must say) beneath some skintight marking by Arbeloa. Eto'o never found his way to that sweet spot up front, and neither Deco nor Ronaldinho roused up to full force. Early on I was nursing a theory that Ronaldinho was playing possum, lulling his normally fierce markers into inattention, but if so, the plan never came to fruition.

In any case, there it is. Barca is out; Liverpool continues. I mourn and I exult. The King has fallen; long live the King. My life is a happier one for having the opportunity to watch these fine sides play, and I steadfastly recommend refusing to follow only one.

We Won! Oh, Wait....

Despite Barcelona winning 0-1 against Liverpool at Anfield, a goal courtesy of second half replacement Eidur Gudjohnsen, Barca have been knocked out of the Champions League due to the away goals rule (Liverpool scored twice at the Camp Nou last week in the first leg).

Sigh.

We still have the league, though. Sort of.

Chelsea, Roma, and Valencia also move into the next round. Glad to see Spanish club Valencia squeak through, an underrated side that could bring a few surprises to their next opponent.

But it just won't be the same.

Sigh.

Fit to Wear the Colors

Despite more depressing news coming out--though hardly surprising--that the Hammers squad is indeed falling apart behind closed doors, and the looming possible penalties (financial and the dreaded points reduction) that the league may hand down this week in regards to the Mascherano/Tevez trade, the team still can't pull off a win. Again, not surprising.

But the Hammers played with genuine conviction Sunday (especially Tevez, Noble, Zamora, Konchesky, and Green) and almost pulled off the biggest win of the season. Alas, it wasn't meant to be. West Ham were up 2-0 at the half, but they simply couldn't hold onto the lead. Lee Bowyer stupidly took down Aaron Lennon in the box in the 50th minute, giving Tottenham a penalty kick opportunity, which they indeed claimed courtesy of Jermaine Defoe. Hammers' keeper Robert Green's luck and skill at post (he had some remarkable saves earlier on) vanished at that point and the game was on.

Anyone who watched knows how topsy-turvy the proceedings got. Tottenham scored again in the 63rd to even things up, then West Ham jumped ahead in the 85th (Tevez sailed a stunning free kick into the box for Zamora to head in), and I was actually pretty sure that the Hammers were thankfully going to pull the win off. The season may be doomed, but the win... ah, the win was ours!

Bullshit. The scatter shot defense returned and the inability to navigate through the pressure as well. Tottenham scored twice in two minutes and took the win. They deserved the win.

But plenty of the players on West Ham showed courage yesterday (Tevez, Green, Noble, Konchesky), proving that they deserved to wear the colors. And if the sight of Tevez freaking out after claiming his first goal for the club, diving into the crowd and into the arms of the faithful supporters who rabidly stand by their team even as relegation Armageddon looms, doesn't bloom a little sympathy for the Hammers' plight, then I'm not sure I want to know you. It was a beautiful moment, and one that I'll remember for a long time. But damn, I can't wait to forget the burnout that defined the rest of the season. Awful, simply awful.

I wonder if West Ham manager Alan Curbishley is tired of all these votes of confidence that team chairman Eggert Magnusson (aka The Elf) keeps burdening... I mean lauding upon him?

Beyond the Pitch, A Troubled World

Two Barca players talk politics and more. Defender Lilian Thuram speaks out against the cynicism of politicians on the left and right and remembers the impoverished circumstances of his youth.

On his legendary goals against Croatia in the 1998 World Cup that set the stage for France's victory:

It was what I call my Miles Davis moment...Footballers can be like artists when the mind and body are working as one. It is what Miles Davis does when he plays free jazz - everything pulls together into one intense moment that is beautiful. He doesn't have to think about it; it's pure instinct.

And on the failed 2001 attempt at a reconciliation match between France and Algeria:

With tears in his eyes, Thuram ran from the pitch, charging straight to the dressing room without speaking to anyone. 'What happened that night was a disaster,' he says. 'It was as if everything I have ever believed in was wrong. I hoped, and still hope, that races can live together, but that night I saw such anger and hatred that it made me afraid for the future.'

And Barca right-back, Catalan nationalist, and all-around political activist Oleguer--who drives not a fancy sports car, but a van--suffers for his stand taken against the Spanish judicial system, but reminds us

'If we want a better world, we all need to roll up our sleeves. It's easy to moan to your friends and then do nothing. The consequences I suffer are nothing compared to what many people go through.'

Even on the heels of yesterday's disastrous outing against Seville (and what the hell was the deal with the red card against Guily? Are they giving those out for breathing too hard in the other guy's direction now?), man, do I love this team.

Wiping the Cobwebs from My Eyes

Like the masochist that I am . . . I will be watching the West Ham v Tottenham match Sunday morning. And I too have finally come to the realization that the Hammers are going to be relegated. But thank you Mr Brand for reminding me of why that team matters.

You can read more about being doomed with West Ham here.

Can't We All Just Be....Oh, Screw It!

Twelve minutes into the second half of the second leg of the Copa del Rey match between arch-rivals Real Betis and Sevilla, chaos bloomed. The silky-footed Frederic Kanoute scored in the 57th, breaking the 0-0 tie, but before the players could finish their celebrations, projectiles rained down upon the pitch and Sevilla's head coach Juande Ramos was struck in the back of the head with a bottle. As players, staff, and police scrambled around the unconscious Ramos--who was then stretchered off the pitch and into the locker rooms--it was obvious that the safety of the players, and everyone else for that matter, could not be guaranteed and the match was called off. I bet the programmers at GolTV love it when that happens.

You can read more about the incident here.

Luckily the second leg Copa match between Barcelona and Zaragoza went off a lot better. Barca, who are still redeeming themselves after last week's dreadful (though historically consistent when facing Liverpool) Champions League match against The Reds, returned to their united fleet-footed witchery and knocked Zaragoza out of the cup with a 2-1 win. There were a few ridiculous moments (Hey, Messi, I'm looking at you! D'Alessandro! Where the $@!% are you going?!) but Barca dazzled with some nifty passing courtesy of Iniesta, Xavi, and Marquez. Iniesta and Xavi also supplied both goals. Good match, good form, and no one got hurt, although there was plenty of rambunctious flailing about. Messi, get back over here! Okay, okay, I saw the footage. You did get head-butted. But. . . .

We Need a Bigger Couch

It's been awhile since we've posted anything (mostly due to . . . uh, life intruding upon the fantasy that is football), but the two matches I did manage to see this week so far (the melodramatic Carling Cup final between Chelsea and Arsenal and today's FA Cup 5th round replay between Reading and Man U) were brilliant.

What happened today? In the opening six minutes Manchester United, with their silky yet suspiciously robotic killer instincts on full display, managed to score three goals and arguably seal the deal. But Reading player Dave Kitson scored a committed header in the 23rd minute, and though I wasn't convinced that Reading could pull off an upset, I was happy that at least they weren't going to crawl under the porch without a snap of the jaws or two.

But in the second half, the Reading team did a whole lot more. With the inclusion of Glen Little and Leroy Lita, the squad consistently outplayed the big red machine and threatened to even up the score after Lita helped make the seemingly impossible possible in the 84th. Sir Alex, who had been confident enough not to play either Rooney or Christiano Ronaldo for most of the match, capitulated and put both players into the fray in the 76th and 89th minutes respectively to sustain the lead. And though Reading threatened, they unfortunately couldn't pull off an upset. But it was nevertheless exhilarating and I almost flipped over our couch while still seated in it.

Manchester United now face Middlesbrough in the quarter-finals.

Silence in the San Siro

When the Serie A scandal erupted last spring in Italy, it seemed for a few weeks as though the fat cats at the heart of some of the worst match fixing--and if what I've read elsewhere is to be believed, match-fixing is almost endemic at all levels of the Italian game--might finally be punished, and soccer might flourish anew. After a great deal of sound and fury that ultimately amounted to very little, the real losers ended up being the fans, and top-level players like Gianluigi Buffon and Pavel Nedved who made the difficult decision to remain with Juventus despite its relegation to Serie B.

Only this season have I begun to nurture an appreciation for il calcio, for the quintessentially Italian take on the game, complete with all of the theatre and much of the corruption one might expect. I hoped that the bad old days might be left behind, despite the fact that most of the punishments meted out amounted to wrist slaps. But the news that has trickled out of Italy this past week has gone from bad to worse, from a story about an official murdered at an amateur match to the death of policeman Filippo Raciti in the rioting outside the stadium during a game between the Sicilian cities of Catania and Palermo, reported first as though it occurred in the course of the melee and only later describing him as specifically targeted by a group of Ultras for having testified against them.

Italy's immediate cancellation of all matches must have been devastating for the fans, but it also seemed a sign that the country might finally be taking its problems with soccer violence seriously. This weekend teams throughout the country will play again, but with only six stadiums meeting newly announced standards, most--including Ronaldo on his AC Milan debut--will play before silent, empty seats. I am a novice when it comes to matters of Italian football, but I'm not convinced this and other measures will put an end to the violence. Part of the problem, of course, is age-old hatreds, grudges that long predate the arrival of il calcio, but there is also the problem of the Ultras. Not all of the Ultras, of course--as always, the peaceful supporters end up tarred with the same brush as the troublemakers. But can the measures put in place succeed as long as the Ultras continue to command the power they do over the clubs? This Guardian writer thinks it's a step in the right direction; I am somewhat less optimistic, because I'm simply not convinced that the powers-that-be mean it this time.

My other concern is the fact that empty stadiums, or stadiums packed with only home crowds, will not prevent "fans" from battling it out in the streets, which was the problem at the match in Sicily.

During the World Cup we swiped a bit of shorthand from both the football anthology My Favorite Year--in which Tim Parks describes his Italian father-in-law's needs for long, solitary walks when his team lost--and from the opening pages of Joe McGinniss's The Miracle of Castel di Sangro, in which the Major he meets at a train station goes out for a walk following a match and . . . well, you'll just have to read the book yourself to find out what happens. But these walks, they became our shorthand for moments when the pain of a defeat was too great, when we no longer felt like knocking back another pint and arguing about formations and bad calls but simply needed to be alone for a while to contemplate the existential pain of being a football fan. I am thinking of football fans across Italy who will not be allowed in their stadiums this weekend, the tumultous times that doubtless still lay ahead, and I am imagining that, win or lose, there might be more than the usual number of long, contemplative walks ahead for the lovers of the game.

The 36th Chamber of QPR

This was not the Beautiful Game. Nonetheless, I'd have paid good money yesterday to see this mad monkey kung fu brawl between the Chinese Olympic football team and West London ruffians Queens Park Rangers FC. Did no one suspect mayhem when the master killer himself Gordon Liu materialized on the pitch as the Twelfth Man? And to think we thought Shaolin Soccer was just a movie fever dream.

You can read more about the insanity here via The Guardian.

Anything But Friendly

The ongoing rivalry between the Mexican national team and the US team cranked up another few notches this evening in favor of Uncle Sam’s army of underachievers, with a 0-2 win that will no doubt make it that much easier to strike that “interim” tag from coach Bob Bradley’s title. The first half was a dreary affair, with Mexico gaining a slight advantage in terms of possession and shot opportunities. But that all changed in the second half when the US came out reinvigorated and defender Jimmy Conrad headed one in off a Landon Donovan corner kick. Mexico looked far from giving in, though, and second half substitutions Omar Bravo, Jose Fonseca, and Adolfo Bautista all contributed to or had viable shooting chances. Then in the 90^th minute the US cemented their win with a Landon Donovan goal off of a Ricardo Clark pass in midfield (which originated from a deflection off referee Mauricio Navarro’s feet!). A brutal finish to what ended up being a rather entertaining match.

And earlier today in Manchester, England, Steve McClaren’s inflated Three Lions braggarts failed to do anything interesting against the lads from Spain. Midfielder Andres Iniesta (who was subbed in early in the second half) scored a brilliant long-range shot in the 63^rd minute, earning the FC Barcelona player his first goal for the national team in eight appearances and the game winner to boot. The quick-footed and even quicker thinking player has become one of my favorite members of Barca this season and I’m glad to see the youngster’s good form for the Catalans translate to the national team. I’d bet serious money that the majority of the crowd packed into Old Trafford had no idea who the crafty Iniesta was before the match. But by the end of it, many in the crowd were no doubt muttering the Pale One’s name in between their curses, shouts, and boos directed at McClaren and his reptilian smile. Spain victorious 0-1.