tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36340663494312252252024-03-04T21:34:28.804-08:00the girl at the publiz in betahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03550321793787602177noreply@blogger.comBlogger28125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3634066349431225225.post-8001030624806993392011-02-12T04:09:00.000-08:002011-02-12T08:32:37.274-08:00Here is Where I Do Not Explain My Absence<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGIPQCBjNXEuc73WUTgsPMdjs6ie7KCb_F5VWj0FbbKgEE8Z5TgFXFADdu_7OIY0JopXqLrnGplSshaADr-I26y1HbjMKl9DvSGUqrJ-yrBbWMBpvKP4VwakuBaWaWHK-m9K96nGas91G3/s1600/Betty-by-Gerhard-Richter-001.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="347" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGIPQCBjNXEuc73WUTgsPMdjs6ie7KCb_F5VWj0FbbKgEE8Z5TgFXFADdu_7OIY0JopXqLrnGplSshaADr-I26y1HbjMKl9DvSGUqrJ-yrBbWMBpvKP4VwakuBaWaWHK-m9K96nGas91G3/s400/Betty-by-Gerhard-Richter-001.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />
<div style="font: 10.0px Arial; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Did you think that because I was silent, I was still? Well then, you trust yourself too much. My machinery doesn't turn off as soon as you leave the room. We've been working here, slowly at first, small motions: curling toes, one, two, three. Now fingers. Muscles under skin, cruciate ligament, tibia to fibula. Progress is not incremental, I've told myself. And again. </span></span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="font: 10.0px Arial; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">There are alot of things we need to talk about. And yes, we need to find a nicer place to do it. </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">This place is fraying, you can glimpse the plastic underneath. </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> I'm working on it (see: muscles under skin, cruciate ligament- yes yes, you see. I'm talking <i>technologies</i>. Clever, you.) </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Football used to be the place I went to get lost. Somewhere along the line it collapsed into the sum of its parts. Lives inventoried like so many chalkboards. Hazy, vague mornings killed off 140 at a time before they had a chance to mean anything. </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">I am not a chalkboard, and neither are you. Let's choose that, and start again. </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="font: 10.0px Arial; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">
<span id="goog_1250418048"></span></div>liz in betahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03550321793787602177noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3634066349431225225.post-29659234201608703662010-07-11T07:31:00.000-07:002010-08-14T20:56:45.934-07:00To Cesc-With Love and Squalor on The Night Before Spain's First Game<div style="font: 10.0px Arial; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiy_KnWmr27AWenLjUBgW3YtJ2JeZd8fIIUosuBiPNtwV15DviKLFCNeM80fhpWVyY3d4JYWrX_qUtbNeNQWBsEg4FpofqFyPv1HyRxcrNH5dRvoyQ-otd8JymVKEfI9Gzbb8fyD209hrxJ/s1600/cesc_fabregas.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><img border="0" height="287" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiy_KnWmr27AWenLjUBgW3YtJ2JeZd8fIIUosuBiPNtwV15DviKLFCNeM80fhpWVyY3d4JYWrX_qUtbNeNQWBsEg4FpofqFyPv1HyRxcrNH5dRvoyQ-otd8JymVKEfI9Gzbb8fyD209hrxJ/s400/cesc_fabregas.jpg" width="400" /></span></a></div>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span> </span><br />
<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 10px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Hey, Cesc. Can you hear me? You seen any elephants yet? Oh, right. Stupid question, Liz. Ok. I know it's late there. It’s just that- I’m gonna see you for the first time tomorrow and it’s hard. I mean- to see you with them. No, not Switzerland. </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Them</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">. All of them. And him. </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Pique</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">. Do you have any idea how it feels watching you guys laughing and joking and having cool hair together? No. I know we've been over this: it’s not your fault you have cool hair. I know Pique's hair </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">just does that. </span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">But hey- we've got good hair too. Arshavin: babysoft. Rosicky: bohemian chic. Sagna! What about- ok. You're right. The hair's not the point. But I still can't bear the thought of you all listening to dance music together and you getting that glow you get when you hang out with them. You know you do, Cesc. Your Catalan glow. </span></span></span></span></span></div>
<div style="font: 10.0px Arial; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 11.0px;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></span></span></div>
<div style="font: 10.0px Arial; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">And I get it- I mean, who I am anyway? Just some lousy fool who against every contrarian impulse has chosen to believe in Arsenal and its built-in suffering. A club that’s made me believe in the RIGHT WAY OF DOING THINGS, in- oh. Rhetorical question. Right. That’s another conversation. But- </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">is it?</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> I mean: think about it. You are the most perfect product of our footballing philosophy. Yes yes I know. You are not a product. You are a person, Cesc Fabregas, you are a person. I’m not being sarcastic. That’s just the way I talk. I’m American, remember? Hey, don’t forget: we have the same birthday. That should count for something shouldn't it? May 4 buddies in the house! Ok ok. I'm sorry. Weak. Won’t bring it up again. </span></span></span></div>
<div style="font: 10.0px Arial; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 11.0px;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"></span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><a name='more'></a></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">And I know it’s not like you're running</span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> away </span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">from me. You are going </span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">home</span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">. Where the sun is warm and the dancing lasts all night. Yes of course you need to train while you’re there. There at your </span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">more than a football club</span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">. Please. It’s not like there’s a pool. There is? Oh. Several? Awesome. But I did want to ask you- what does that make us? Have you been playing all this time at </span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">l</span></span></i><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">ess than a football club</span></span></i><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">?</span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> I know I know we've been over it: it's your destiny. But guess what: I don’t care! What about my destiny? To not always have a losing fucking side? Who else is gonna give me balls with "intelligence" on them? Are you there, Cesc? Oh. Sorry. Yeah no. No I didn't- yeah. A translation issue.</span></span></div>
<div style="font: 10.0px Arial; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span> </span><br />
<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">I know that at this rate one of those defenders from the North will go straight for your knees by the first week of the season. But you don’t need to play forever do you? I could take care of you. I mean, it's only a rental, but- hey! They won’t love you like I love you. Hey! They won’t- Fuck. Sorry. I know. I promised. I know that song makes you cry. It’s Pique’s favorite too? Oh yeah? Fuck Pique. Just go already. Just go. </span></span></span></div>
<div style="font: 10.0px Arial; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 11.0px;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></span></span></div>
<div style="font: 10.0px Arial; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">But the thing is Francesc- oh sorry, Cesc, got it- the thing is you and I grew up together. I mean, footballing wise. At first I probably thought you were hot, though I don’t remember that. No no I didn't- no sad face! I can hear your sad face. </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">¡Cesc Fábregas Soler, el más guapo del carrer! </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Better now? Ok. Where was I? Anyway, then I wanted to watch you </span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">play</span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">. And then: I wanted to BE you. No, it’s not creepy. I just wanted to be able to think like that. I wanted to understand space the way your body understands space. Cool. See, I knew you’d know what I meant. </span></span></span><br />
<div style="color: #1a1a1a; font: 10.0px Arial; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 11.0px;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></span></span></div>
<div style="color: #1a1a1a; font: 10.0px Arial; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 11.0px;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: black;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Cesc, tonight I found myself thinking back on the time we spent together, and I wound up watching this video over and over. It was the last time we were truly happy, wasn’t it? What a great fucking afternoon. Damn, I want to hate you. I do. It would make everything easier. I want you to sit on that bench for every game. But I don’t really. I want you to run out onto that pitch and show the world what we made. Yes of course that’s what I meant: what you </span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">are. </span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Because If I am Arsenal and Arsenal is me well then you, Cesc Fabregas Soler, are my best self. Best selves move fast, they leave, and they leave us behind. It’s what they do, Cesc. It’s just what they do</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">. </span></span></span></div>
</div>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><object height="385" width="480"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/CnzQE_CBHxI&hl=en_US&fs=1&rel=0">
</param>
<param name="allowFullScreen" value="true">
</param>
<param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always">
</param>
<embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/CnzQE_CBHxI&hl=en_US&fs=1&rel=0" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="480" height="385"></embed></object></span></span>liz in betahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03550321793787602177noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3634066349431225225.post-2951037241861595382010-07-10T09:30:00.000-07:002010-08-05T13:11:02.819-07:00Being Boring<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgk3pKDsfIC7wXszTdOCsT2iz_o_PP_vrPAgCg_cCpDHccrjDaexTg-yEQWypfgsa5nBJAqRq2ssarJB3OhcjZDzfIULGV6t9cRTz9nOzcNpYe3u0QojTY436VRZD55HaAzElqYp3wf7yqk/s1600/staring_contest.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="322" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgk3pKDsfIC7wXszTdOCsT2iz_o_PP_vrPAgCg_cCpDHccrjDaexTg-yEQWypfgsa5nBJAqRq2ssarJB3OhcjZDzfIULGV6t9cRTz9nOzcNpYe3u0QojTY436VRZD55HaAzElqYp3wf7yqk/s400/staring_contest.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
<div style="color: #1a1a1a; font: 10.0px Arial; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"></span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"></span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"></span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"></span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><div style="color: #1a1a1a; font: 10.0px Arial; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">I don’t think Spain is boring, but I understand the thrill that comes from saying they are. A couple of weeks ago I decided to advocate for benching Xavi knowing I’d get destroyed for it. A journalistic death wish. It felt great, even if I didn't let anyone read it. I’m not crazy, after all. There are finer football minds engaged in this debate, and every possible point has been covered. I thought a very forlorn Raphael Honigstein summed it best when he was asked on the podcast why Germany didn’t play the game we were used to seeing against Spain. “It’s difficult to express yourself when you’re being a</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">sphyxiated.”</span></div>
<div style="color: #1a1a1a; font: 10.0px Arial; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 11.0px;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></span></div>
<div style="color: #1a1a1a; font: 10.0px Arial; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">And there you have it. Spain creates a vacuum of beauty on the pitch. The tragic aspect of their dominance in possession is the way they make the giddiest teams like Germany or Russia of 2008, teams that rely on counterattack, that run on oxygen and sparks, look cheap and desperate, even a little pathetic. Spain is a charming girl at a dinner party who wants you to laugh at all her brilliant jokes but won’t even let you tell yours. It’s a bit exhausting to always be in thrall. </span></span></div>
<div style="color: #1a1a1a; font: 10.0px Arial; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 11.0px;">
<br />
<a name='more'></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">I think everything else has been covered. Except- isn’t the problem also just a little bit that the whole world is suffering from Messi withdrawal? Can’t we just cop to it? Spain compensates, but it’s undeniable that at times they feel like Barcelona without the living, breathing livewire at its core.</span></div>
<div style="color: #1a1a1a; font: 10.0px Arial; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 11.0px;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></span></div>
<div style="color: #1a1a1a; font: 10.0px Arial; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">I’ve become less interested in the question itself than the resultant conversation. While it’s occurring throughout the heated halls of the internet, in the States it instantaneously took on a regressive tone of “What side are you on?” After all the positive movement in the last month, I had hoped the discussion around soccer in the US had moved beyond immediate intellectual brittleness and overpoliticized arguments. It’s a bit dismaying, really. </span></span></div>
<div style="color: #1a1a1a; font: 10.0px Arial; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 11.0px;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></span></div>
<div style="color: #1a1a1a; font: 10.0px Arial; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Because if we did all agree that Spain is boring- well then, so fucking what? One of the best things I’ve learned from watching football is how to engage in the act of being bored. It happens. The attitude of viewer entitlement bewilders me. Here we are now, entertain us. I don't believe watching football is a passive activity. When a game bores me, I try to find different ways to approach it, to enter into the story of it. And I refuse the accusation that that makes me a snob. Actually, quite the opposite: it makes me a hard worker. </span></span></div>
<div style="color: #1a1a1a; font: 10.0px Arial; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 11.0px;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></span></div>
<div style="color: #1a1a1a; font: 10.0px Arial; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">As people who really love football, we are absurdly fortunate to have a final that allows us to look at the states of two different forms. We should be down on our knees thanking the footballing gods for this final. I believe that in most cases, you can get as much out of a football game as you give to it. Both of these teams are playing thoughtful, intentional football, trying to reach a balance between purity and pragmatism. Both teams are stocked with superstars- it can be no small feat for these egos to have combined into cohesive units in such a short time, and yet they’ve done it. The coaching minds, backroom staffs and players of Spain and the Netherlands are working harder than ever to distill old forms of football and through those distillations, to create new forms of football. So why the hell shouldn’t we work a bit harder too?</span></span></div>
</span></span></div>liz in betahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03550321793787602177noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3634066349431225225.post-69563338318252477892010-07-08T22:46:00.001-07:002010-07-11T08:46:59.049-07:00Match Report: My Soccer Heart & My Human Heart: (Spain v. Germany Semifinal)<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLuBpdNigU8XxARG_iPyyHZb_V_eoSQTXudPOFR1ao83JQ276smQX6iTvnucDpvN4dOAfaZipLMKWfBJ6Km0c4F3t9ujY1afjDSurm5GRgH2XtlDwYgivyiFIOfmV-1-nokL2hoIfaKpBh/s1600/tradebitheartoutline2.bmp" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLuBpdNigU8XxARG_iPyyHZb_V_eoSQTXudPOFR1ao83JQ276smQX6iTvnucDpvN4dOAfaZipLMKWfBJ6Km0c4F3t9ujY1afjDSurm5GRgH2XtlDwYgivyiFIOfmV-1-nokL2hoIfaKpBh/s320/tradebitheartoutline2.bmp" /></a></div>
<div style="font: 10.0px Arial; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I think Alexi Lalas was speaking about the Algeria game when he said it first. At the time I took it as confirmation that he was a robot come to torture us. Well, I wish to publicly rescind that: I think Mr. Alexi Lalas made an exceptionally eloquent distinction when he attempted to explain the different desires of his “soccer heart” and his “human heart.” What I liked about his mumbled, attempted differentiation was that it wasn’t just a lazy breakdown between thinking and feeling, or between head and heart. What he seemed to be attempting to express was that different parts of your heart can long for different things, and find beauty in different things, and need different things to satisfy it. And so last night I watched - just as I had exactly two years ago when Spain decimated Russia, <a href="http://thegirlatthepub.blogspot.com/2010/06/from-vaults-euro-2008-falling-for.html">the first team I ever fell in love with</a>- my human heart be broken while my soccer heart nearly exploded with joy.</span></span></span></div>
<div style="font: 10.0px Arial; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 11.0px;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></span></span></div>
<div style="font: 10.0px Arial; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">When Spain is playing well, I am reminded of why I watch football; the infinite possibilities of space. A few times, when I’ve concentrated hard enough, I can see them as points in space, and not people. It’s difficult for me, but it has happened. Watching them beat Germany yesterday made me understand football better. And in no way is it only “intellectually rewarding”: it’s guttural, alive, immersing. And when it was through I was devastated that it was over: I knew with another half an hour, there was more they could teach me. When I’m watching Spain spin their web, well, it’s like being in love. </span></span></span></div>
<div style="font: 10.0px Arial; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 11.0px;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></span></span></div>
<div style="font: 10.0px Arial; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"></span></span></span><br />
<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"></span></span></span><br />
<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"></span></span></span><br />
<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"></span></span></span><br />
<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"></span></span></span><br />
<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><a name='more'></a></span></span></span><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The problem is that watching Germany 2010 (or that team of Russian imps) is like </span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">falling in love</span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">. These past two weeks have made me realize that what I long for in a football team- no, it’s worse- what I </span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">need</span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> from a football team is fearlessness, recklessness. even. This offends me about myself; I wish I pined for something less excruciatingly obvious. And yet: that’s the human heart part. I can’t help myself. I especially like to watch teams that haven’t played together very long. That jittery negotiation of overlapping spaces, the bartering of bodies. It’s becoming in motion, it’s heady and makes you stupid and fills your head with ridiculous ideas. It’s not built to last. But it is the thing that made me sit down and write about soccer for the first time (and then abandon it until, well now.) I decided to dig out that piece the other day because realized I was using all the same words. They’re just the words you need to use. </span></span></span></div>
<div style="font: 10.0px Arial; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 11.0px;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></span></span></div>
<div style="font: 10.0px Arial; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Spain 2010 makes me want to take out colored pencils and graph paper; Germany 2010 and Russia 2008 made me take out calligraphy pens and parchment stationary and a wax seal. When I watch Spain, I want to watch the games again and again, I want to isolate and examine everything they did. I’ll have a Spain game on when I’m just around the house. Each viewing builds on itself, reveals another layer. Makes me feel like I know more, and less, at the same time. Right now I’m following Iniesta through each game. It’s hard as hell, he’s like a ghost thru those channels. But it’s worth it. </span></span></span></div>
<div style="font: 10.0px Arial; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 11.0px;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></span></span></div>
<div style="font: 10.0px Arial; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">But with Germany 2010, I’m like a teenage girl watching “Twilight” (again with the “Twilight”). After both the England and Argentina games I rewound the goals over and over again. Late at night, close to the television, volume turned low, so no one would know I was watching <i>again</i>. In thrall to this group of boys that look like bunch of prep school outcasts playing while their parents are away, assigned to the-not-so-watchful eye of their cool uncle Klose. Look at it- It’s redemption and becoming all the same time. I can’t even tell you how many times I watched the last 2 goals against Argentina. Ozil’s rainbow of a cross. Schweinsteiger’s animal run. Martin Tyler absolutely losing his cool at the last Klose goal. <i>Brilliant wonderful glorious Gerrrrrrmany. </i>The way his voice drops about 5 octaves when he roars Gerrrrmany, suddenly conscious of being sure to not sound too nationalistic and yet too thrilled to care. Everything’s contained in that moment of confluence. I felt drunk.</span></span></span></div>
<div style="font: 10.0px Arial; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 11.0px;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></span></span></div>
<div style="font: 10.0px Arial; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">As I’m writing this I have the game on repeat. It’s just ended. Two German players look the most upset- Ozil and his sad sad sad eyes and Schweinsteiger, who is disconsolate, in a heap on the pitch. Their heartbreak is a credit to them both, since these are probably the two players whose personal stock rose the most in this World Cup, and yet they still wanted the win for their team this badly. All over the field, I’m struck by the post-game interactions between the players. There’s a rare gentleness to them (The 2008 conga line will not be discussed here. I choose attribute it to the sheer shock of finally winning.) Villa and Klose and their gentlemanly negotiations of a shirt swap. Several Spanish players come over to Schweinsteiger, caught in his personal moment of dejection, and touch him- a hand on the back, an offer of a handshake. On the sidelines, Llorente hugs the backroom staff, bending his tall body for an equal embrace. This is Spanish footballing culture at its loveliest- you’re instantly reminded that even though most of the Spanish players play at the biggest sports club on earth, none of them cultivate a larger than life ego. There’s a sense, even after a performance this astonishing, of gratitude. And with that, my narcotic teenage crush on the counterattack evaporates quickly as it appeared, and I'm safe, for the moment. </span></span></span></div>
<div>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial; font-size: x-small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 10px;"><br /></span></span></div>liz in betahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03550321793787602177noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3634066349431225225.post-68785998638707733272010-07-08T06:15:00.000-07:002010-10-14T14:33:36.148-07:00Missing Muller and Considering The Psychological Wonders of Nicklas Bendtner<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGCeP19ZBY_FrdDcKMGPbyi3wx6GZOQf6u72Ky4oZ-236z7O-aTc1kEiSRFe19CqwyoHrZgyovgE_HJI0dBoc-EQdlH823i4MwMClttgGJK_vzdx7UrBjGAjmZUHYEd2hsU4oG-eHDcwXd/s1600/610x.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="295" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGCeP19ZBY_FrdDcKMGPbyi3wx6GZOQf6u72Ky4oZ-236z7O-aTc1kEiSRFe19CqwyoHrZgyovgE_HJI0dBoc-EQdlH823i4MwMClttgGJK_vzdx7UrBjGAjmZUHYEd2hsU4oG-eHDcwXd/s400/610x.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
<div style="font: 10.0px Arial; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">If Thomas Muller becomes a great German player and this young German team becomes a great team, which all signs are certainly pointing to, his unfair exclusion from the semi-final will take on more and more historical importance. I expected a louder outcry over his preposterous yellow card; all I can assume is that Suarez had already used up the all the possibilities of indignation in the tournament. And that it was a matter of timing: at that moment in the win over Argentina, Germany was flying so high it felt like they had players to spare, an embarrassment of counterattacking riches. But if for some reason this kinetic young team falls apart due to injuries, or internal strife, the only thing keeping it from being a "what if?" for the ages is the clear technical superiority of the Spanish. Because Muller's absence was an obvious game-changer. They obviously missed his presence in the box, and his height and ability to convert set pieces. But as I watched the Germans come out of the tunnel without Muller, and I saw Ozil’s nervous, stricken expression, and the changed demeanor of all of the young players, I wondered if it wasn't more than that. I wondered if they didn’t mainly miss The Bendtner Factor.</span></span></span></div>
<div style="font: 10.0px Arial; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 11.0px;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></span></span></div>
<div style="font: 10.0px Arial; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">(And just like a woman I used to work with who managed to bring everything I said, however idiosyncratic and obscure, be it meeting times or printer ink, back to what she had eaten for lunch, so today I am with Arsenal. It’s what happens at<a href="http://thegirlatthepub.blogspot.com/2010/07/friendly-is-like-electrical-grid.html"> cusp times like this</a>. The end of the regular season seems to exist only to tell us about the country teams; the first friendlies were useful mainly to confirm what we knew was broken about the club teams. And so in order to re-engage with club and prepare to face the spiritual abyss after Sunday, I’m grasping at any metaphor and connection I can and hoping for multiplication. Let’s just see if this one holds, shall we?)</span></span></span><br />
<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"></span></span></span><br />
<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"></span></span></span><br />
<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><a name='more'></a></span>
I’ve always been fascinated with Wenger’s attitude towards Bendtner. He seems to keep Nikky B around as a sort of psychological freakshow; you sense Wenger wants to put him in a jar and conduct experiments on him. I think he wants Bendtner to act as a sort of human sponge, absorbing the rampant neuroses of the rest of his team. A counterpoint; a psychological tonic for that army of small, lithe “intelligent footballers” whose minds so often get in the way of their football. Muller is clearly already a much more complete footballer than Bendtner, and from a finishing standpoint you can’t really compare them. And of course his mastery of English idiom shows him to be quite a bright fellow. But still- that particular brilliant bravery of a certain kind of youth at the front, that lackadaisical explosiveness, can galvanize a team in a way a more established "Tall Man at The Front" like Ibra does not. It's both risk and insurance. Because the fact remains: Germany showed no nerves in the quarters against Argentina, who were an estimable opponent- why the incapacitation by nerves against Spain? </span></span></div>
<div style="font: 10.0px Arial; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 11.0px;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></span></span></div>
<div style="font: 10.0px Arial; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">R. has a theory about Bendtner. He thinks that his extraordinary confidence in himself is deliberate. I mean- more than just fronting. He insists that Bendtner is intentionally externalizing the necessary internal landscape of the striker. Every striker must have the same seemingly inexhaustible, dumb faith in his ability, but R. maintains that Bendtner has decided to forego the extra step of creating an alternate persona of modesty in proportion to his actual accomplishment. And that by doing this Nikky B has intentionally provided a sort of psychological social service almost to his teammates. This argument could be dismissed as football fan’s desperate plea for help, but you must concede that Bendtner really does have a bit of the idiot savant about him. I imagine he chews with his mouth open, stroop waffles flying everywhere, and then turns and calmly tells you the complete history of machinery manufacturing in Denmark. </span></span></span></div>
<div style="font: 10.0px Arial; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 11.0px;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></span></span></div>
<div style="font: 10.0px Arial; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">During the loss to Spain, the cameras cut constantly to Muller in the stands, track-suited and squirming in his seat in the stands, looking like Prince Harry and Prince William's German cousin, the crown prince of a far-off, mineral-rich province. His inability to disguise his physical desire was touching: you could tell everything you needed to know about his state of mind just by looking at him. I did for a moment think of Bendtner. One never needs any previous knowledge about the schedule or the importance of the match when Bendtner is starting; you can glean everything from the intensity with which he chews his gum during the lineup. Sometimes there is that half-smile. But in the World Cup games he chewed it slowly, deeply, as though digesting a very intense, and very minty, thought. </span></span></span><br />
<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></span><br />
<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">PS: After watching the third place game, I realize my comparison really falls apart. Though of course Germany did play better with Muller there, it could hardly be attributed to his psychological presence on the field: the completeness and boyish ruthlessness of Muller’s play is startling. At the same time, the presence of such a powerful conscious unselfconsciousness surely didn’t <i>hurt</i>. And I’ve already found this adorable picture of him and his wife and a heart-shaped pretzel, so I’m loathe to abandon the idea altogether. Consider it then just a meditation and not an argument on the inside-out mind of the striker</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 10px;">. </span></span></div>liz in betahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03550321793787602177noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3634066349431225225.post-86109859977286672612010-07-03T00:01:00.000-07:002010-08-05T00:31:35.103-07:00International Levitations & Optical Illusions: Assorted Thoughts on Watching Germany Beat England & Argentina<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEge-O7Aq4UbYiXoJ8LIDLJmRhKq7PpMJWDXyhO7R9lvWq02axQ7NDt1g73X-5wxq5Ykvz6LPbjEKVFOo3jMFaODdoZK4kW7f680J16EGKiVGjBOTVN7g7X0P0iwxZP78464tFFRiAjtJtJF/s1600/child-levitation-witchcraft-saducismus-triumphatus.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEge-O7Aq4UbYiXoJ8LIDLJmRhKq7PpMJWDXyhO7R9lvWq02axQ7NDt1g73X-5wxq5Ykvz6LPbjEKVFOo3jMFaODdoZK4kW7f680J16EGKiVGjBOTVN7g7X0P0iwxZP78464tFFRiAjtJtJF/s320/child-levitation-witchcraft-saducismus-triumphatus.jpg" /></a></div>
<div style="font: 10.0px Arial; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">It’s all so gorgeously disorienting. Pleasure comes from the most unexpected sources. Every team is pulling a fast one on us, or really, they’ve been there under our noses the whole time as we allowed ourselves to keep watching ghost versions of them, reflections of who we wanted them to be. I pride myself on not falling prey to stereotypes of national identify, and yet I’ve been as exposed as anyone for holding nonsensical notions. Right now, we can’t trust our eyes. Or actually we can only trust our eyes, and nothing else. </span></span></span></div>
<div style="font: 10.0px Arial; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 11.0px;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></span></span></div>
<div style="font: 10.0px Arial; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">After watching Germany’s last couple of games I have no idea what is real and what I’m creating out of some sort of heady liberation from my preconceived notions and my senses. All I know is we might only have another 90 minutes to watch it happen. So we need to keep our eyes peeled. They’re moving fast; they’ll dummy us all if we’re not careful. As for me, it’s clear I can’t trust myself. I am under various spells and being acted on by various forces. The first opiate: bandwagon fumes. I’ve always been susceptible, it's the curse of the contrarian. So driven by my own resistance to what is popular that the harder I fight the harder I fall. The spring from my own resistance has a momentum of its own. Perspective is lost. </span></span></span></div>
<div style="color: #1a1a1a; font: 10.0px Arial; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 11.0px;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></span></span></div>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><a name='more'></a></span><br />
<div style="font: 10.0px Arial; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">For example: sometimes I am convinced Mesut Ozil is standing still on the pitch. In the middle of play. As Stuart Pearce so adequately points out: “he takes up intelligent positions.” Not he finds space, gets into space, uses space well; with Ozil it’s all about where he seems to wind up. But the thing is-sometimes I don’t see him getting into those spaces. He’s just there. Perching, like a bird, the impish machinery of him planning his next spot. Yes, I think I’ll go with this. Like he’s out collecting worms. And the way he winds up to kick, hops high in the air and then twists his entire body to meet the ball: at some point, the boy is just going to take flight. Though I suppose I'm especially intrigued by Ozil’s hoaxes of stillness since I spent the first two weeks of the World Cup studying the movements of Clint Dempsey, a man who must look like he’s falling down while he’s sound asleep. </span></span></span></div>
<div style="font: 10.0px Arial; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 11.0px;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></span></span></div>
<div style="font: 10.0px Arial; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Oh, god. Do you know who Ozil is like? Ozil is like Edward from “Twilight” (I only saw the first one- I’m assuming he still does that vampire thing in all of them?) He’s in a tree. He’s in a classroom. He’s back in the tree. He’s to the left of the goal, sending Klose a perfect pass from nowhere, black kit disappearing under the stadium lights. </span></span></span></div>
<div style="font: 10.0px Arial; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 11.0px;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></span></span></div>
<div style="font: 10.0px Arial; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">My confusion about what I’m seeing is only heightened by the presence of Chancellor Merkel. The invisibility of women- as pundits, fans, even just an audience to sell things to- in mainstream media during this WC has been dispiriting. It’s surreal to see an educated (and powerful) female fan who loves the game as much as any man in the stadium, and for whom football is not just an excuse to be looked at, a walking male fantasy wrapped in a flag. (Note: I’ve thought about writing about Larissa Riquelme, but what can you say? As a woman who loves football and is constantly struggling to be taken seriously, she is my worst fucking nightmare.) During the Argentina game, the camera cut to Merkel’s reaction on every goal: she controlled the vision, and the gaze of the whole stadium. And I’m forced to wonder if I’m looking through her vision when I look at Bastian Schweinsteiger, long the object of Herr Chancellor’s eye. </span></span></span></div>
<div style="font: 10.0px Arial; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 11.0px;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></span></span></div>
<div style="font: 10.0px Arial; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">I found notes I had written after the Bayern/Lyon CL game in which I mention that Bayern Munich resembles a 19th century Bavarian Penal Colony team. It embarrassed me even when I wrote it and yet one must admit that the assorted mugs on that team require some sort of macabre, small-minded description. Have I lost my mind? When did Bastian Schweinsteiger become so, well, beautiful? Has he always moved like that? LIke some sort of half lizard half man half horse demon angel? He can not be real. I can’t believe that it was just German stereotyping that kept me from seeing him. Some of it is surely me. But I’m convinced some of it is him, too. </span></span></span></div>
<div style="font: 10.0px Arial; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 11.0px;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></span></span></div>
<div style="font: 10.0px Arial; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Because while some things are a matter of sight, there is nothing subjective about the pleasure of a new footballer becoming great in a big tournament. In many ways my ambivalence to-all-things-country leads me to prefer the quotidian comforts of club football, but for me this emergence is the truly supernatural part about cup competetion. Oh yes, here they come, these vague rhapsodies that fuel a thousand soccer blogs. Yet if we deny ourselves a dumb gush, what’s the point of all the slogging? I've written so much during the World Cup about the ways we use the power of our collective attention for destruction; let me enjoy a rare inverse moment.</span></span></span></div>
<div style="font: 10.0px Arial; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 11.0px;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></span></span></div>
<div style="font: 10.0px Arial; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">In another piece I wrote about <a href="http://thegirlatthepub.blogspot.com/2010/06/on-mornings_11.html">the feeling I have when I’m watching a game intently</a>, that the attention I’m giving it is the engine that causes it to exist. But that description isn’t quite right- it makes it seem like it’s all about me when it’s exactly the opposite; it’s about the giving away of the experience, not the holding close. When a player is as young and full of life as Germany and as improbable, that engine multiplies and a collective goodwill can form around them. </span></span></span></div>
<div style="font: 10.0px Arial; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 11.0px;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></span></span></div>
<div style="font: 10.0px Arial; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">The whole world fuels a body and it becomes more than the sum of its parts and skills. Our attention becomes a form, an action, of international levitation, of faith and grace, and through this some of the most beautiful footballing performances have emerged. I mean- think of it- it’s just a body, one body, maybe two, receiving the currents of the world and transforming it into motion. If there is something more beautiful than that- well, is there?</span></span></span></div>liz in betahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03550321793787602177noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3634066349431225225.post-2099521779750884422010-07-02T10:16:00.000-07:002010-07-11T06:37:00.592-07:00Here is Where I Sleep Through The Ghana v. Uruguay Game<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhO0hyphenhyphenYofM46O4OHT4dfOu4OBC0AmkpQPft8QlxZxp4yQLntqIKTTUAGgorurkYYPtLa96pX33seiWGflX0uSZvlr9fifrtrXLmYR4LluWAyIBwbMytqJak6aHrx1T8ZvrmoLISZMuuQClG/s1600/2092063_gzRTw.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="331" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhO0hyphenhyphenYofM46O4OHT4dfOu4OBC0AmkpQPft8QlxZxp4yQLntqIKTTUAGgorurkYYPtLa96pX33seiWGflX0uSZvlr9fifrtrXLmYR4LluWAyIBwbMytqJak6aHrx1T8ZvrmoLISZMuuQClG/s400/2092063_gzRTw.jpeg" width="400" /></a></div>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">And briefly lose all hope. This is also where I start to worry about what my life will look like on the other side of the formation I've constructed as a shelter. It's a simple 4-2-3-1. I needed something safe. I wanted to blend in. When I tell the story of today, I'll try to tell you from the inside and not the outside where I'll already be, even though something will be lost; the day's unglossiness, some necessary frictions.</span></span>liz in betahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03550321793787602177noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3634066349431225225.post-38787629357318329162010-07-01T23:31:00.000-07:002010-08-04T21:52:20.380-07:00On Mornings<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSTuYtzYAeI1_h4rZMhGl77l7kSfqYbb4A0xsmaI2cdoVHKAYvEg1mICpQ63Uq5tFSp3InRIsGWDm5AtukDD8_Awkjvu_zmF3e54wJsjej_sI1M9Hl-5W7GmOqqm3OGgzWjth7AEaxaqRj/s1600/_42638899_nakul.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="286" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSTuYtzYAeI1_h4rZMhGl77l7kSfqYbb4A0xsmaI2cdoVHKAYvEg1mICpQ63Uq5tFSp3InRIsGWDm5AtukDD8_Awkjvu_zmF3e54wJsjej_sI1M9Hl-5W7GmOqqm3OGgzWjth7AEaxaqRj/s400/_42638899_nakul.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
<div style="font: 12.0px Arial; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></span></div>
<div style="font: 12.0px Arial; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">You sit in smoke residue and drink strong tea, or warm beer, and you are happy. You love the shuffling in, the shared sense of shame and mischief and mutual addiction: no one has ever wandered into a darkened pub in a snowstorm at 8am on a Sunday by accident. Men, young and old, shake snow off jackets, the night before still written on their faces, and in their hair. You attempt to remember a time when you were content to spend Sunday mornings pressed up against and screaming with, sometimes at, only one dirty, hungover boy. Now anything less than fifty is a disappointment. But the sleepy smell of contented aggression, of soap and the scorned possibilities of soap, is the same.</span></span></span></div>
<div style="font: 12.0px Arial; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></span></span></div>
<div style="font: 12.0px Arial; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Every once in a while there’s a girlfriend along, half-awake and texting. You’re careful not to judge them: after all, you started as a girlfriend enjoying the simple </span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">idea </span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">of the game, the</span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> feeling</span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> of the pub. But then you didn’t want to be a girlfriend anymore, and then you weren’t, and you realized you found neither the feeling nor the idea simple at all. So you kept coming. Anyway, usually there aren’t girlfriends or any girls at all that early in the morning. There is only you.<br />
</span></span></span><br />
<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><a name='more'></a></span></span></span><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">You can sense that your presence disrupts a certain covenent, causes a self-awareness in the room that would be absent otherwise. This is the last thing you want to do: you’ve come for the room the way it would be without you. Even in your silence you work to explain that you have no intention of disrupting this covenent, and to show through a slow series of impercetible motions that you understand how to be in this space. </span></span></span></div>
<div style="font: 12.0px Arial; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></span></span></div>
<div style="font: 12.0px Arial; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">You do not chat while the game is on. You do not text while the game is on. You do not look at your phone except to check other scores at the break. Through careful study, mental diagramming and terrible mistakes, whole halves spent cramped, limbs going lifeless, you’ve learned where to stand when the pub is packed for a big game. Often you are offered a seat which you refuse because you know it’s not a seat: it’s a test. If you are sitting and there's an empty seat next to you, no one ever sits down until the break. Assuming you are waiting for someone. </span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Someone who will be explaining the game to you.</span></span></i></span></div>
<div style="font: 12.0px Arial; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></span></span></div>
<div style="font: 12.0px Arial; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">You are neither open or closed. No, not true: you learn how to project that you are open to the room and closed to anyone in particular. Occasionally you participate in a shared grumble, but you never go on too long. You do not need to prove to them how much you know or care. Just being there does that. </span></span></span></div>
<div style="font: 12.0px Arial; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></span></span></div>
<div style="font: 12.0px Arial; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">You are known to be a talker and it’s a nice change for you, this quiet. At least that’s what you tell yourself instead of addressing why you are more at peace in a bar, silently surrounded by a hundred men, than actually holding a conversation with any of them. Or your actual friends. You do, after all, have friends. You could bring one. But you don’t want to have to consider another person. For the first time you can remember, you’d just like to exist. Because you've realized that this sealed space of invisible proving where you are at home and at the same time entirely alien, belonging and unbelonging, is the most comfortable place you’ve ever been. </span></span></span></div>
<div style="font: 12.0px Arial; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></span></span></div>
<div style="font: 12.0px Arial; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Most mornings blend into each other in a string of familar equations (mesmerizing+dull, thrilling+brutal) solved ninety minutes at a time. Your team often causes you actual physical pain, as your team is known to do. After long internal debate you occasionally decide to have a beer and then spend the rest of the day hazy and headached and wishing you hadn’t. Often you feel like you haven’t been watching well enough, that you’ve been somehow outside the game and you can’t find the story, but then you feel a goal coming and it does. Secretly you know you are part of that goal: your attention was the engine that made it exist. </span></span></span></div>
<div style="font: 12.0px Arial; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></span></span></div>
<div style="font: 12.0px Arial; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">And then on some mornings without threat or warning, the game catches fire and you find yourself bound together with every person in the room, caught in one shared intake of breath. You know it’s the early hour that allows this to happen, that in the lazy, sleepy agreement of the morning everyone’s forgotten to fortify with coffee and sarcasm, even you, and through plan or accident you’re open to giving over to something outside yourself. You don't find this strange. You find it beautiful; tender even. </span></span></span></div>
<div style="font: 12.0px Arial; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></span></span></div>
<div style="font: 12.0px Arial; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">And you know that as soon as you stumble into the daylight, scent of lysol and body still heavy in your lungs, searching fast for your sunglasses, you’ll see that that you have already lived through several lifetimes, complete cycles of fear and joy and pain at 10 in the morning, and when you walk down the street you’ll feel light and wise, as though more than anyone you pass you are the one that understands the morning. But you sure as fuck would never admit that to any of the boys in the pub. You just nod, and pay your tab, and leave. </span></span></span></div>liz in betahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03550321793787602177noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3634066349431225225.post-75722099656216315022010-07-01T10:11:00.000-07:002010-07-11T01:50:05.604-07:00A Strategy of Hugs<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbZ2c-FhBCgaM0ZsmtVXdBRt7ggJSaaUs-BnJvYv29NGp0BFRtTQ0sY9nvcIlkP9uKpLwDMXfBTT6N9f-4903dPoTcAn_WUF_IWn3fw7nXTRlNkRa6KJPrjNkQOY34fTnPkuWX9RzPtYcg/s1600/2135738515_4baa093d98.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="297" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbZ2c-FhBCgaM0ZsmtVXdBRt7ggJSaaUs-BnJvYv29NGp0BFRtTQ0sY9nvcIlkP9uKpLwDMXfBTT6N9f-4903dPoTcAn_WUF_IWn3fw7nXTRlNkRa6KJPrjNkQOY34fTnPkuWX9RzPtYcg/s400/2135738515_4baa093d98.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
<div style="color: #1a1a1a; font: 10.0px Arial; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Any follower of English football would be touched by the site of Carlos Tevez beaming with pride at Maradona after his second goal against Mexico. Tevez’s history with management is complicated and genuinely sad- manipulated, used, bought and sold, discarded- and look at that! Maradona figured it out. All Carlitos really needed was to be told he was doing a good job. Tevez has come alive under Maradona’s Papa Smurf Brand of Inspirational Methodology- he’s having a cracking tournament and reminding every team Argentina meets how unwise it is to undervalue him. </span></span></span></div>
<div style="color: #1a1a1a; font: 10.0px Arial; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 11.0px;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></span></span></div>
<div style="color: #1a1a1a; font: 10.0px Arial; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">And yet- I’m surprised by the unilateral endorsement of Maradona’s displays of affection. I acknowledge their charm. All that boisterous male cuddling and hair tousling would thaw even the coldest heart (um, mine). For better or worse, Maradona has staged the most sustained and authentic-ish show of male affection in recent history. That’s worth something. Think what fun it would be to see them play the Dutch, a team whose peculiar icy repressions and unwilling communications isolate them on and off the pitch. I can already see Van Persie looking to the sidelines longingly at the prospect of a big bear hug and a pat on the back. </span></span></span></div>
<div style="color: #1a1a1a; font: 10.0px Arial; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 11.0px;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></span></span></div>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><a name='more'></a></span><br />
<div style="color: #1a1a1a; font: 10.0px Arial; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">And yet- I find something grotesque in Maradona’s hugging. He’s like an out-of-control stage mother determined to assert himself on his child’s every achievement. You can’t tell me that those hugs are somehow accidental. Or should I say- without intention. This is calculated embracing. I have a pet theory that I’ll share. It’s shameless pop psychology, and I usually try to keep my pop psychology at least somewhat shamed, but if Diego doesn't concern himself with such things, why should I? I think Maradona is terrified of Messi’s potential to eclipse him and thus determined to imprint himself on every moment of Messi’s success. It's sabotage by embrace. Perhaps Maradona even asked Messi to be more of a playmaker to keep him from scoring goals and make him seem like a disappointment to less experienced football viewers. It's true, Argentina lacks a playmaker and has a giant gaping hole in their midfield. But for arguments sake- there it is. Coldest heart apparently unmoved after all. </span></span></span></div>
<div style="color: #1a1a1a; font: 10.0px Arial; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 11.0px;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></span></span></div>
<div style="color: #1a1a1a; font: 10.0px Arial; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Maradona does shows an admirable trust in his players with Tevez and Higuain on either side, and Messi free to go where he pleases (though still doing a lot more link-up work than he’s used to). There doesn’t seem to be a drawback- they are playing joyous, marauding football- but they haven’t really been pushed at all. How will Maradona deal if it gets tense- when they aren’t the biggest personalities on the ball? When they meet the more organized junior marauders of Germany? Despite Argentina’s strengths, one would imagine them the more reactive tactical side in this match-up; is Maradona prepared if he needs to implement a major tactical shift? Do Hugs count as Set Pieces? Perhaps they can go to Penalty Hugs. And what will happen when Hugs aren’t enough?</span></span></span></div>liz in betahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03550321793787602177noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3634066349431225225.post-75311117151569337832010-06-28T08:04:00.000-07:002010-07-10T15:58:29.297-07:00Here is Where The Invisible Female Football Fan Will Be Made Visible<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhuhuvzN4yOmGsfHMCx7CCRooO4YB_Qzd41r-ScClpV7tRC1hecalwTT1d4h10ir477N7MlE1RVVzSVe8YJ6qCZu0oVVRVw6PIZzCH9HyyzUAD0lgPmo9QVky7P4xOFApl_yj047t4R6b1/s1600/7728_138821554204_653634204_2616367_5622032_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhuhuvzN4yOmGsfHMCx7CCRooO4YB_Qzd41r-ScClpV7tRC1hecalwTT1d4h10ir477N7MlE1RVVzSVe8YJ6qCZu0oVVRVw6PIZzCH9HyyzUAD0lgPmo9QVky7P4xOFApl_yj047t4R6b1/s320/7728_138821554204_653634204_2616367_5622032_n.jpg" width="316" /></a></div>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Also more generalities and one or two specificities of being a female football fan. Some having to do with etiquette, a few having to do with boys, but mostly all concerning language. </span></span>liz in betahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03550321793787602177noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3634066349431225225.post-84175235313424497822010-06-26T12:44:00.000-07:002010-07-10T15:01:21.055-07:00Here Is Where I Will Successfully Defend Alexi Lalas. No, really. No: really.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSLpIQAl8UCcQ14aQoeeQ3VQq1Snb1pq5p9TzI-_S2bDOSGCnHJID05zFNCjlCkb8ozFKdE1rYUjpH2odCNQ36KFz7ei00u_5HXevmb8-IQyPqFmgVhu7hGge3_BF3_HuX37e94TboBrr_/s1600/rise_g_lalas_576.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="360" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSLpIQAl8UCcQ14aQoeeQ3VQq1Snb1pq5p9TzI-_S2bDOSGCnHJID05zFNCjlCkb8ozFKdE1rYUjpH2odCNQ36KFz7ei00u_5HXevmb8-IQyPqFmgVhu7hGge3_BF3_HuX37e94TboBrr_/s640/rise_g_lalas_576.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span><br />
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Tentatively entitled: "A Dude Evolving." </span></span></div>liz in betahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03550321793787602177noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3634066349431225225.post-41264462847657102162010-06-25T02:00:00.000-07:002010-07-11T00:36:15.687-07:00Here is a Placeholder That Was Made in the USA<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZv1SW1rFQyYvtN5iuG47nBAFeHgWzxfxk_n_XmC0UtIOdZn_JcS_-M96uYXYpXqchlkY1gMQ6RqGn94DOY2JitCVEmWOh9uxCs0RQE8489AZ-cgvzVJBonO0oye82qGn2kpaP6q3XNUUZ/s1600/fireworks_2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><img border="0" height="330" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZv1SW1rFQyYvtN5iuG47nBAFeHgWzxfxk_n_XmC0UtIOdZn_JcS_-M96uYXYpXqchlkY1gMQ6RqGn94DOY2JitCVEmWOh9uxCs0RQE8489AZ-cgvzVJBonO0oye82qGn2kpaP6q3XNUUZ/s400/fireworks_2.jpg" width="400" /></span></span></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Here, or somewhere abouts, is where my survey of all things USA will inevitably nestle. Clint! Clint! Clint! That other guy! Emancipation from the English! Clint! More a note for me (Liz!) than you, because before you even read this threat of emerging, the actual emerging might have taken its place. But we need the note just in case; can not risk losing the timeline. In football it's really all we have.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> </span></div>liz in betahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03550321793787602177noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3634066349431225225.post-27614472510035407652010-06-22T05:26:00.000-07:002011-04-22T10:59:43.949-07:00Clipped Wings: Generational Fractures in the Magical Kingdom of Iberia<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTTQ30SbX1vqw4KHuBmXW9aLnV-7PT8_kT8PksOCypUJm7Npb-V_4fjU891PrWkv-6RxMTSNuDsRkPlXLF-zIAMjkG_i5ZX3j5BPmH2bibE9_M80Caien6TjCFWM1xwY32sJLWEXnXMlkH/s1600/butterfly-coloring-pages00017im.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="308" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTTQ30SbX1vqw4KHuBmXW9aLnV-7PT8_kT8PksOCypUJm7Npb-V_4fjU891PrWkv-6RxMTSNuDsRkPlXLF-zIAMjkG_i5ZX3j5BPmH2bibE9_M80Caien6TjCFWM1xwY32sJLWEXnXMlkH/s400/butterfly-coloring-pages00017im.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
<div style="font: 10.0px Arial; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I find nothing more seductive than process except writing about seduction by process. As soon as Spain gently defeated Honduras, I ran to my computer, giddy at the prospect of writing yet another piece about a team who became so enamored with the act of playing that they forget to score goals. A piece I could add to my library full of unfinished explorations of every possible cliche of Arsenal heartbreak. Unfinished because in the middle of each piece I would be driven to write down thoughts about writing my piece about process. But once I thought on Spain v. Honduras and wrote about my thoughts about thinking on it, I realized that I wasn't concerned by the over-simplified threat of "death by passing". Instead, I noticed a couple of emerging on-pitch fissures on the Spain team that the translucent anonymity of the Honduran performance had brought to the surface.</span></span></span></div>
<div style="font: 10.0px Arial; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 11.0px;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></span></span></div>
<div style="font: 10.0px Arial; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Spain’s early efforts were full of the fresh, elegant, telepathic play they’re known for and every football fan on earth (outside Tegucigalpawas at least) simply <i>had</i> to find pleasure in Villa’s one great- and one supergreat- goal. But by the middle of the second half, they looked out of ideas and exhausted. Much of the post-match analysis focused on Torres’ wastefulness of chances, but placing blame on him seems given how little game time he’s had since his surgery, and with the Jabulani/altitude combination. But mainly it seems odd because I found myself transfixed by Torres' early missing. As much as I admire Torres, he’s never been one of my favorite players to watch. In fact, I don’t think I’ve ever enjoyed watching him play as much as I did today.</span></span></span></div>
<div style="font: 10.0px Arial; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"></span></span></span><br />
<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"></span></span></span><br />
<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"></span></span></span><br />
<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><a name='more'></a>It's true that every time Torres was fit enough to play for Liverpool this season he looked hopelessly miserable, and when he did manage to score it seemed like the goal was either dragged out of him against his will, or motivated by a ferocious, athletic spite. So I found it quite startling to see him smiling today, without a trace of petulance, after his botched attempts. But it's absurd to view his smiles as indicators of complacency. I think he had just accepted the process of letting his body re-memorize its ease. We all know that when a striker tries to force it he always fails; he has to get past it, to a sort of state of post-scoring, when he honestly trusts that his touch to return, and lead <i>him</i>. I’m especially vigilant for these signs of killer ease after waiting all season, sadly in vain, for to see them reappear in Eduardo. But tonight Torres seemed to get more confident with each miss; every attempt was a sort of sloppy physical and psychological unfurling towards goal, the muscle memories clicking into place one by one. By the end of the Chile game if you listen, under the ocean of Vuvuzela, I'm sure you’ll hear the sound of mechanical agreement, a lock lock lock lock lock, and he’ll be back. </span></span></span></div>
<div style="font: 10.0px Arial; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 11.0px;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></span></span></div>
<div style="font: 10.0px Arial; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">My thought about Barcelona all year, even before the loss to Inter, was that if a team managed to disconnect their matrix of connectivity, all was lost. They didn’t seem to have another way to play, a Plan B. They were like the Death Star of footballing beauty, and Xavi was Darth Vader. Once splintered, they become less than the sum of their parts and I never saw them offer new solutions. But of course, their Plan A was heavenly. And, of course, Messi alone offers a Plan C through Z. As long as Iniesta returns, everything should be fine. But if he doesn’t, despite the supposed “positional redundancies”, there will be a problem. Because I’ve been starting to suspect that Xavi doesn’t quite works without Iniesta. </span></span></span></div>
<div style="font: 10.0px Arial; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 11.0px;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></span></span></div>
<div style="font: 10.0px Arial; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Today, and in other outings without the movement and threat of attack that Iniesta offers, Xavi has looked to me in this World Cup well- a bit- formulaic. Considering the fact that he plays on the most popular team on earth right now, this presents a real problem: every footballer from Chile to Slovakia studies Barcelona, and Xavi especially. They all know his plays, because they want to emulate them. And it’s becoming more and more clear how much Xavi has tailored his play for Messi’s “playstation” abilities. Messi will always be moving and yet is always where you need him to be. Neither Torres or Villa offer that kind of variety; or on the most basic level, that unknown quantity. I suppose that’s it- without Messi and Iniesta, Xavi’s midfield, despite its unrivaled intelligence and elegance, is very much a known quantity to every team they are going to meet in the World Cup. It’s a bit...static. (Ok. So far so good. I don't appear to have been immediately sentenced and transported to hell for such sentiments. Perhaps this is a local line?)</span></span></span></div>
<div style="font: 10.0px Arial; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 11.0px;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></span></span></div>
<div style="font: 10.0px Arial; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">So I know I put myself in line for the mockery of, well everyone, but I think if Spain is to have any chance of being a serious competitor something radical is called for. The one element of surprise they have right now is Jesus Navas, who gives them desperately needed width and speed on the right. Navas’ similarity with Theo Walcott is marked, and there were many complaints today about his lack of accuracy, but I disagreed. I thought his backpass to set up the second goal was sublime and quite unexpected, and there were several other decent chances that Villa and Torres missed. In order to capitalize on his speed, Spain need a creative midfielder that has more both more mobility, physicality, and most of all, potential for tactical looseness and surprise than Xavi. It seems to me they need Fabregas not as an ancillary, but as the coordinating force. </span></span></span></div>
<div style="font: 10.0px Arial; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 11.0px;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></span></span></div>
<div style="font: 10.0px Arial; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Despite Cesc’s public protestations of patience and teamwork, his frustration with the stubborn aesthetic system that was in effect when he got on the pitch was immediately evident. Even Martin Tyler commented on his almost destructive eagerness “shuttling the ball back and forth”. But it was clear in the short time that he was in the game that though he might want to leave the EPL, he certainly has taken his lessons from it. And while he looks adorably young- funny how on Arsenal he seems like such an august leader, but here the beard just makes him look like he’s about to have a pictures taken for his fake ID- he offers everything Xavi offers, plus another attacking option. And, of course: he’s hungry. I've seen a slight lack of hunger from Xavi in recent performances. He’s become almost an automaton of Barca creative passing perfection; his play, while still perfect, has looked a bit insular to me; caught in his ways.</span></span></span></div>
<div style="font: 10.0px Arial; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 11.0px;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></span></span></div>
<div style="font: 10.0px Arial; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">This positional/generational rebellion is also evident in Pique’s aggressive waywardness. His role as make-do forward at Barca seems to have left him with a distracting hunger for goals. Over and over again he rushed forward, like a bear in an RV camp looking for the sandwiches. There was a certain amount of room and support for that on Barca, but here it’s more disruptive; Ramos too never wants to be left out of the action in the front. Everyone’s down on Busquets, but I see his continued inclusion as an act of great tactical honesty by Del Bosque. Without him covering the gaps Pique and Ramos leave through assertions of their own attacking agendas, the back would have been shockingly exposed to any Honduran counter, had they offered one. The subtleties in the difference of play between the more results-minded Madrid and the system-loyalty of Barca still seem to be causing a breakdown in coordination between Pique and Ramos. And though defensively Ramos is fine as ever, he seems to be struggling with the Jabulani more than his teammates; his crosses in haven't ben up to his usual standard.</span></span></span></div>
<div style="font: 10.0px Arial; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 11.0px;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></span></span></div>
<div style="font: 10.0px Arial; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">But thankfully in the middle of all these agendas and subtle clashes of style, there is the human machine of precision and footballing sense that is Xabi Alonso. How is it possible that he keeps getting better? No other player has been able to fuse the pragmatic, physical style of the EPL with the intelligent keep-away of La Liga with as much efficiency and grace. While the same Barca-Mardrid aesthetic friction is existent between him and Xavi, it hardly seems a long-range worry; it’s clear both players will adjust for the good of the team. When Xabi Alonso retires from football, he should consider being a SWAT officer or dealing with high-pressure hostage situations, or bridge jumpers. As long as he is on the field, I know that even if I find myself trapped in a tactical suicide mission like suggesting the absurd changes I just did, everything will be alright. </span></span></span></div>
<div style="font: 10.0px Arial; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 11.0px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></div>liz in betahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03550321793787602177noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3634066349431225225.post-5855158621678488212010-06-20T08:19:00.000-07:002010-07-10T08:29:11.525-07:00Here is The Site of The Combustion<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjw52dD2HFYARgwgScW0TlIRxN9H0sFJ2MdNpg1vD-truOmmQcRy4lbEdpN_-GeX4HuETCNvTzR2uC2TGVH91Ze-AnO1_a_-5hPN02jjPfVFEH13EXwv4w-rHD-_ZK6Izdyjk4qV7IsFTP1/s1600/alexandresong_internal_2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="360" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjw52dD2HFYARgwgScW0TlIRxN9H0sFJ2MdNpg1vD-truOmmQcRy4lbEdpN_-GeX4HuETCNvTzR2uC2TGVH91Ze-AnO1_a_-5hPN02jjPfVFEH13EXwv4w-rHD-_ZK6Izdyjk4qV7IsFTP1/s640/alexandresong_internal_2.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Which must be inventoried along with everything else. </span></span>liz in betahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03550321793787602177noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3634066349431225225.post-58666074441013971372010-06-17T10:28:00.000-07:002010-07-09T15:44:02.162-07:00Stop Blaming the Players and Start Blaming Yourselves: Thoughts on the First Week<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwYqEC73HVRATTk9no3n8YZ0KuWpLPD3oe4EZD2z6POuUGfegz6lIZAgeUE1k8lpB_y_7Y1jq-sHoZ70iho6_wPPUPwPzV0_YMvaQmErhNKuIx9_wZVKo471XVgO09j2UlOrM71IeAInfh/s1600/1899166-lg.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwYqEC73HVRATTk9no3n8YZ0KuWpLPD3oe4EZD2z6POuUGfegz6lIZAgeUE1k8lpB_y_7Y1jq-sHoZ70iho6_wPPUPwPzV0_YMvaQmErhNKuIx9_wZVKo471XVgO09j2UlOrM71IeAInfh/s400/1899166-lg.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
<div style="font: 10.0px Arial; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">N</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">ote: I </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">am too slow. Thoughts and observations come quickly; connecting them is a bloody crawl. And so, since I started writing this Switzerland has upset Spain and Forlan has scored a hundred goals. In 24 hours this little note has become a historical document, and I’m forced to rewind myself into yesterday, before a couple of open games convinced us all that our lives were worth living again. </span></span></span></div>
<div style="font: 10.0px Arial; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 11.0px;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></span></span></div>
<div style="font: 10.0px Arial; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">This week’s panic didn't seem to build: it was right there, obviously already coiled and ready, waiting within us. The whole world hungry for meaning and for something pure. Hovering and set to pounce. In a way, I think we all needed this World Cup too much. We longed for this terrible month long high, this instant transport to our fractured pasts, to our personal timelines of World Cups. So much more than a madeline, or an accidental song on the radio: the World Cup has become a sort of nostalgia corporation, pumping out projections of a more innocent time. It’s a ghost world of man-boys, queueing up for a tour of their childhood room: these are my model airplanes. This (bounce bounce) was my single bed. Do you wanna look at my Panini albums?</span></span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"></span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><a name='more'></a></span><br />
<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">But it's absurd to ask a worldwide commercial event to soothe us into accepting our linear histories. We’re treating football like some 2-bit whore, flinging our pasts and meanings onto her like she has none of her own. All right. Perhaps a bit dramatic. But I was determined to say 2-bit whore in this piece somewhere. I mean- I'm hardly exempt from pushing meanings and interior lives on football. On the contrary, I’m the most indicted of all. God knows I’ve suffered through moments of paralyzing nostalgia since the tournament began. I suppose my only deliverance is that I muddy football on a weekly basis with my emotional agenda, and not once every four years. </span></span></span></div>
<div style="font: 10.0px Arial; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 11.0px;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></span></span></div>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"></span><br />
<div style="font: 10.0px Arial; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">I’m not denying that there are concrete issues: while everyone in the bar was glued to the England v. USA game I had to look away, the bouncy Jabulani offended me deeply, so completely disrupted the flow of the game. And of course: we like goals. The world needs goals. We </span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">deserve </span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">them. True true. But the speed of the denouncing was outrageous. So many indictments exerted on each oxygenless game. We turn to each other and ask again and again: why are the games so stilted and deadened? Well, could it be that the suction of our conversation has suffocated the football? Can we not bear to not be in control, to be only receiving and not writing the story? If only Twitter controlled the muscle memory of the players on the field. Why can’t they adjust as fast as we can type? I’m only half kidding. If we’re not careful, we’re going to strangle the very thing we’re so desperate to protect. Look at them, the players and the teams. They’re terrified. Despite all their cash and contracts, they are just people, not mythical creatures or goal machines. We are crushing them under our demands for immediate transcendence. </span></span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></span><br />
<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">And when are we going to admit to ourselves that the World Cup belongs to a world that doesn't exist anymore? Or more precisely- how do we stop asking nostalgic questions of it? We spend four years creating interwoven cultures, economies, and football teams and then we spend a month regressing into an amnesiac state of unquestioning nationalism. The things we seek from our football teams: narratives, suspense, experiments, teamwork, identity- aren't these things that can more readily be found from our clubs than our countries in this day and age? All week, as the roar of disastifaction grew, I’ve been wondering if the problem isn’t that our clubs have <i>become</i> our countries. I realize I’m a specific case, but I care more about Arsenal than I do about USA. From a human point of view, I’d just as well commit to a Russian, a Belgian, a Dane (ok, maybe not the Dane) and a bunch of French guys than to a bunch of guys from Southern California. I am loyal to those players than I watch every week, not these random guys that happen to be born in the same country as me that I see play once every for years. Why wouldn't I be? And the assumption that national football is somehow more pure, or less financially-driven, confounds me. </span></span></span></div>
<div style="font: 10.0px Arial; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></span><br />
<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Right now, the whole world is like a kid staring at a chimney waiting for Santa Claus. Holding vigil over the plate of burnt cookies. We need to stop looking for a moment. Or at least- stop judging. Turn our heads. Get back to our lives and allow the football to breathe a little bit. Let it seduce us instead of demanding that it fill us up. Or at least that’s what I was going to propose, despite the utter ridiculousness of asking the world to stop watching the World Cup, but then Switzerland upset Spain and Forlan scored a hundred goals and we all rejoiced and were excused from having to take another moment to consider our complicity and the panic that was revealed to be lurking under the surface of our everyday lives. Please don’t misunderstand me: I have no interest in looking at said panic lurking under the surface of my life. I can’t think of anything I’m less interested in. I watch football to avoid it. I’m just in favor of acknowledging the fantastical expectations we brought to the World Cup. Until we can program players with our IPhones, we need to remember that those expectations weigh on the 22 men we most want to be weightless. </span></span></span></div>liz in betahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03550321793787602177noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3634066349431225225.post-63701968134145631952010-06-11T21:17:00.000-07:002010-07-10T12:00:35.508-07:00Here is Where I Will Announce Something That I Will Not Do<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhH8WD8YCBOUEyhhFpyTjhe2S5DRniN9vHKn2jzTdeNpYo8OAdy1XB01P13rS4ZsM5GrHZqQEWRx3FiyhlE_S3X5HhhGPnmh5wwMf-9Hw5akkNLqNpTEYJESFOUD3hYxYg8cmxJxswYAz8d/s1600/crash+course+logo3_2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="372" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhH8WD8YCBOUEyhhFpyTjhe2S5DRniN9vHKn2jzTdeNpYo8OAdy1XB01P13rS4ZsM5GrHZqQEWRx3FiyhlE_S3X5HhhGPnmh5wwMf-9Hw5akkNLqNpTEYJESFOUD3hYxYg8cmxJxswYAz8d/s400/crash+course+logo3_2.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Later I will spend time attempting to convince us both that my failure revealed more than my success ever could. </span></span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>liz in betahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03550321793787602177noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3634066349431225225.post-40745623144490580962010-06-10T21:45:00.000-07:002010-06-11T00:22:51.477-07:00Disconnect Me: Thoughts on the Night Before the Most Connected Human Event of All Time<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVDrS6QTiph0DOsLs2dDSFLsp9bsAO8x9vO9DBW_FeePYvAGd7aSVPaFgI7CmLsQqFI0ULPvQr3dsMD6X2Hs5i3x9FbWaW6Cw0DZznJbbLFokIyWM_Fw7Y8-n9gDRZcEv7rTlZyEYv7Acn/s1600/unfolded+soccer+ball+2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVDrS6QTiph0DOsLs2dDSFLsp9bsAO8x9vO9DBW_FeePYvAGd7aSVPaFgI7CmLsQqFI0ULPvQr3dsMD6X2Hs5i3x9FbWaW6Cw0DZznJbbLFokIyWM_Fw7Y8-n9gDRZcEv7rTlZyEYv7Acn/s320/unfolded+soccer+ball+2.jpg" /></a></div><div style="font: normal normal normal 16px/normal Courier; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; min-height: 19px; text-align: auto;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Today I found myself longing for a Tuesday afternoon Carling Cup qualifier. Just me and a couple other obsessives who wanted to see their team’s young players in action, players that wouldn’t start for a couple of years, if ever. Or perhaps an early-season Serie A game at an empty, half-rate Little Italy bar, bartender flirting with a couple of Dutch tourists as I was bored and hypnotized, lulled, by the lazy back and forth of Parma and Bari in a game of absolutely no consequence. </span></span></div><div style="font: 16.0px Arial; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 18.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></span></span></div><div style="font: 16.0px Arial; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Please understand: I love the World Cup. I am thrilled to see something that means so much to me mean so much to other people. I love how it connects the whole world. And yet- and I know it’s unfashionable- but there is a certain sadness, almost a mourning- that comes from suddenly having to share something that means so much to you with everyone else. The idea of sharing soccer with the whole world for an entire month suddenly struck me this afternoon as, well, rather profoundly exhausting. </span></span></span></div><div style="font: 16.0px Arial; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 18.0px;"></div><a name='more'></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Of course, I am not exhausted by the soccer itself. I am exhausted by the astonishing, breathtaking surge of information </span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">about </span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">soccer. As the week progressed, and I became more inundated with minutiae about each team, and felt my compulsion to consume it grow, and then without warning, stop altogether, I’ve found it increasingly more difficult to hear the voice in my own head, and to document my own relationship to the game. And so I’m counting down the hours just like everyone else because I know it will be better as soon as the whistle blows. Because watching a game is the thing that refreshes me, that clears my head so I can hear that voice, and that organizes the space of my thoughts in a way I never thought possible. </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></span></span><br />
<div style="font: 16.0px Arial; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 18.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></span></span></div><div style="font: 16.0px Arial; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">I’ve been watching soccer on and off since the 1998 World Cup, but last year, when my life suddenly went topsy-turvy, watching games became the axis that I organized my life around. Because I knew that for that 90 minutes, I could just be. I did not have to think about myself, or anyone that wasn’t on a pitch across the ocean. And I was forced to concentrate in a way I never had in my entire life. Because the amount of attention I contributed to the game, to breaking down the plans of movement and linkages and patterns, intentional and accidental, was exactly what I would get back. It was an even exchange. I found that both fair and thrilling. In fact, I'd never experienced anything as thrilling as trying to solve the same equation of bodies and motion as a room full of silent strangers. </span></span></span></div><div style="font: 16.0px Arial; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 18.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></span></span></div><div style="font: 16.0px Arial; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">And it’s the preservation of these rooms and spaces that I’m most worried about in this, the most connected, commented on, tweeted, blogged event in history, where the real competition won’t be on the fields, but a minute-by-minute contest to see who is viewing the best and who can communicate it to the most people the quickest. Don’t get me wrong: I asked to be a part of this worldwide conversation because I love writing about soccer. But historically, while the game is actually on, my pleasure has come from the moments I share with the people around me, in flesh and blood, and I'm still hesitant to relinquish that. When I think about it, I <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 16px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">always come back to this idea of quiet, but it’s not the lack of sound I’m trying to express: it’s the lack of </span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">noise</span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">. It’s the assertion and attempt to exist only where you are, in that second. Some people learn that from church, or meditation. I learned it by watching soccer in pubs.</span></span></span></span></span></span></div><div style="font: 10.0px Arial; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 11.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></span></span></div><div style="font: 16.0px Arial; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">One might argue that the World Cup has always been thrilling because we knew the whole world was watching: we could </span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">feel</span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> it. And then we could read it. And then we could see it. That’s true. But even if the whole world is watching, watching a soccer game in a bar, or a pub, or a park, or a town square, is one of the only true local acts left. It's in that place of postponement and magic when the outside disappears, time stops, and for a couple of moments, a new and complete community, in a new and complete universe, is created. </span></span></span></div><div style="font: 10.0px Arial; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 11.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></span></span></div><div style="font: 16.0px Arial; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">And how will our need to communicate at every instant affect what our experience of the game is? How do we avoid experiencing this World Cup only through transmission, and not through the act of being where we are? Will our need to communicate -a play, an injury, a bad call- make the scene itself only real to the people that read it, not the people that are there, in the room, the social club, the bar? Will the people in the room only truly feel that they’re there if the whole world has a picture of them there?</span></span></span></div><div style="font: 10.0px Arial; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 11.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></span></span></div><div style="font: 16.0px Arial; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">I recognize that it's time to fling open the doors of the pub, and let the world in, and hope and trust that it’s not that that the outside gets smaller, clenches down, but that the inside gets somehow bigger, richer, more present, and of course, more inclusive. Tonight, I’m worrying about these things. Tomorrow, the games will start, and I will rest. </span></span></span></div>liz in betahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03550321793787602177noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3634066349431225225.post-68353382277668980342010-06-05T00:07:00.000-07:002010-07-11T07:21:13.916-07:00The Week Before: The Nike Ad and All These Broken Bodies<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiF_rfQ6jYxyr_cKd9ECvsQhCTseJgg4S0wLVr54boZ01AvWIaEdECvdDf98DkCBWOmrbo6yZX2oezrpouBKGrx7qpFSgIQ3i09JEaZtCsnEVKUGi13QOGkHrCTeKY57iJDGx50_VHQ9WxD/s1600/hermes-praxiteles.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="325" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiF_rfQ6jYxyr_cKd9ECvsQhCTseJgg4S0wLVr54boZ01AvWIaEdECvdDf98DkCBWOmrbo6yZX2oezrpouBKGrx7qpFSgIQ3i09JEaZtCsnEVKUGi13QOGkHrCTeKY57iJDGx50_VHQ9WxD/s400/hermes-praxiteles.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">The first time I watched <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=idLG6jh23yE">the Nike ad</a> I liked it well enough. I mean: how fun! <i>Ronal-doh!</i> But afterwords I was left with a lingering feeling of nothing, and then a growing level of disturbance. This is hardly just an ad after all: it’s the single biggest artistic statement about the World Cup- about soccer in general-that will be distributed in the US. Obviously they constructed it so it could be experienced on different levels, depending on your level of knowledge. But it was just wrong. About everything. For everyone. </span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Ok. So. It’s poking fun at the personas soccer players take on. So far, so good. We can all understand that. But it’s the laziest poking possible: it’s all just so </span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">obvious</span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">. This is a multimillion dollar soccer commercial that doesn’t give any indication of knowing a thing about any existing soccer subtexts. The only piece that touches on more than canned aspiration is Rooney’s; at least it gets at the odd tragedy of his class striving and makes a nod to his mysterious tendency to signify as a Bear. But that’s about it. Sure, I suppose I’m use to a high-level of football satire, but the ladies at <a href="http://www.kickette.com/">Kickette</a> could have written a more interesting script in their most champagne-soaked sleep. </span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><a name='more'></a></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">The ad fictionalizes a rivalry between Rooney and Ribery for its own purposes (at least as far as I know is doesn’t really exist) while ignoring the much knottier and charged history between Rooney and Ronaldo. Or even between Rooney and Drogba. All the neophytes I quizzed assumed there was established bad blood between Rooney and Ribery from watching the commercial. Perhaps this seems a petty complaint, but I think the false manufacturing of such basic truths immediately took away any relevance from the narrative. All I was left with was <i>Hey. It’s Landon. And Pique. </i>Actually I thought the cameos by the Spanish and American players were the most effective moments: their petty jealousies and smug gloating were believable, human at least. </span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">And despite the aggressive sparkling and millions of cuts, the Nike ad is an essentially static viewing experience. The soccer’s all synthetics and performance, no physicality. They just looked like lumpen versions of their video game selves. The same old penalty moment (done so much better <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tsizQdNKhGg&feature=channel">here</a>.) Digital sweat. Yes, back to body fluids. But they matter! They are proof that we are not robots! Or cartoon characters! I tried to determine- was the whole thing meant to function as a critique of advertising itself? Self-parody- was Nike actually <i>trying</i> to make the world's best football players look like nothing more than corporate pawns? (I wondered that too about the Adidas/Star Wars commercial, which i find too nonsensical to even discuss.) It shows football as all about the players’ hopes and dreams and egos: all about </span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">their</span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> experience. Not about our experience of them. It made me feel like my only part in the game was watching. Frankly, I felt left out. </span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">It’s a sharp contrast to the <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vAX1UCpLBoA">ecstatic feelings of inclusion</a> that accompany the Puma ad campaign. While yes, it does show traditional fetishized stereotypes of Africa, my glee certainly outweighed my discomfort. It is such an visceral ad: the first time I saw it in late Spring I could feel, taste, hear, smell the World Cup. I felt included in the world, and no sense of separation between the inside and the outside. Football felt alive. It was also a deeply efficient ad: I watched it repeatedly and sent it to everyone I knew. I wanted to buy a pair of Puma shoes and run up and down my block. Despite its seeming indirectness it did its job exquisitely: I was even more excited about the World Cup, and more crucially- I was conscious of Puma’s part in it. </span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">But in the end, the sneaker companies have no say in anything, really. The only controlling factors in football are the limitations of time and space, the presence of luck, and the cooperation of the body. And alas, as we saw with the onslaught of injuries this week, the bodies are refusing to cooperate. Grueling domestic seasons and high-pressure Champions League fixtures have taken their toll: the players are running on empty. As far as I can remember exhaustion has never really been a dialogue in world football. I’m sure this will be the tournament to change that. Schedules will be examined. And by depicting them as cartoon characters, not the tired humans they are, the Nike ad hasn’t cursed the players as much as revealed the curse they live under. It’s been oddly moving to see these extraordinary athletes come up against the limitations of their highly-superior bodies- Drogba’s arm, Rooney’s exhaustion, Ronaldihno’s age and weight- even Ribery’s temptations of the flesh. They are not machines or statues; in many cases they are barely grown men. And as of yet there's no director Nike can hire and no soundtrack they can add that can possibly change the common and unexceptional truth of their players’ mortality.</span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">*This is my favorite football <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=szlV8utHHGM">ad of the past year.</a> Short, but elegiac, and expresses so much. </span>liz in betahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03550321793787602177noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3634066349431225225.post-41941056731464485522010-06-03T10:04:00.000-07:002010-07-10T20:11:45.057-07:00Here is Where I Will Lay Down The Rules<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5N_yh_Ttiho8wCk9V90t3RH0lF4iWpyqh_nztg5KfqcMJEgO0BnlGfIlID8261uubqY_5LAlflCG5ix3AKb9AeNRYjojeYigOGRSSBQMEwtI5DMQnuaKOLWBtz2mxx-anFOc25oo58jFL/s1600/kevin-keegan-drawing.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><img border="0" height="292" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5N_yh_Ttiho8wCk9V90t3RH0lF4iWpyqh_nztg5KfqcMJEgO0BnlGfIlID8261uubqY_5LAlflCG5ix3AKb9AeNRYjojeYigOGRSSBQMEwtI5DMQnuaKOLWBtz2mxx-anFOc25oo58jFL/s400/kevin-keegan-drawing.jpg" width="400" /></span></span></a></div>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">The ones I learned along the way. Before this whole World Cup thing gets going. Not life rules. Just football rules. Life of Football Rules. Trouble is I didn't tell them to you before this whole World Cup thing got going, and you can't tell someone the rules after the games are already finished. But my heart is so heavy with constructed guidelines and hidden codes of conduct that only I know the architecture of. Listen to me tell them to you and nod. Imagine I'm your grandma. The grandma at the pub.</span></span>liz in betahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03550321793787602177noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3634066349431225225.post-58642485010891717812010-06-01T01:20:00.000-07:002010-07-08T21:47:19.757-07:00Match Report: Friendly Currents (England vs. Mexico Friendly, 5.24.10)<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3prSsqkO_dYErNq2Xn8T0Ng4uLfBFvMsc4tATf2QYLk7Ahf3f_VjXe7ngk5plKEUMTON85tIxWuPVTuTqQNJyq3QHpn72wiAvPoRK-uaUTwcMNTerCoy1G3UHT9IPQAEn5jaOaWE5wLR1/s1600/grid_test2_29165a.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3prSsqkO_dYErNq2Xn8T0Ng4uLfBFvMsc4tATf2QYLk7Ahf3f_VjXe7ngk5plKEUMTON85tIxWuPVTuTqQNJyq3QHpn72wiAvPoRK-uaUTwcMNTerCoy1G3UHT9IPQAEn5jaOaWE5wLR1/s400/grid_test2_29165a.jpg" width="400" /></span></span></a></div>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">A friendly is like an electrical grid. Parallel currents at different voltages headed to different destinations. Directions and objectives opposed but still getting and giving energy to a bigger network. It’s bodies and it’s running but it’s not a game exactly; it’s more and less than a game. Everyone on the pitch is playing their own game of candidacy, but they’re also just an x on a chalkboard in motion. Speeds become personal: while some players are just going through the motions, jogging in place, others fight for their lives. On the surface a friendly can seem boring, exclusively theoretical, but if you look more closely there's terror and panic. You never know when you'll hit a live wire; an unanticipated connection; a shock to the system.</span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"></span></span><br />
<a name='more'></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Other things a friendly is like: a video game, or even table football. The manager twisting and rearranging the players at his whim; living, breathing coordinates. So for someone like me who still has a lot to learn about tactics, friendlies can be very useful. Or at least that’s what I kept telling myself as I wasted the afternoon away at the bar with a couple of old drunks, mesmerized by the first post-season England friendly against Mexico and taking non-game game notes on a napkin (see below).</span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">And in every grid lights flicker in and out and reveal unexpected things in unexpected places: just as the last weeks of the regular season revealed more about the possible English team than the clubs, this game’s first use was to distill the flaws and strengths of the clubs this season. Notes: The absence of the Chelsea players- not absence, since more than present in sideline smirk- only confirmed their supreme efficiencies and how much more likable the team is when they’re not on it (Lampard excluded). Wayne Rooney is just one man. He can’t do it alone. Crumbling looms, under expectations of team and empire. Is this being attended to? Who is attending to it? Easy connection for goal between King and Crouch a reminder Tottenham was playing better Arsenal football than Arsenal at the end of the season. Not that I’d forgotten. Midfield is starving for someone as mobile and resourceful as Fabregas or Modric. Couldn’t Spain spare just one?</span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">And as for Arsenal: there are revelations on both sides. First, the hollow promises of Walcott. My Saturdays miss his ritualized deflation already. That dizzying burst of glorious speed down the flank capped by a swift, incisive and direct pass straight to the other team. I mean- Is it getting any better? How long do we all keep hoping? I don’t like to question Wenger; I worry that if I pulled out one seemingly irrelevant card the entire Swiss house of logic would tumble. I admire and respect his loyalty to players that are struggling like Eduardo- and yet look at Vela when he’s allowed to lead! He’s bossing the whole Mexican side right now! Wenger’s neutered use of him is inexplicable.</span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The game also confirms that Rafa Benitez has pictures of Hicks and Gillett in full bondage gear. I’ve suspected it for a long time, but today I’m sure. Sickening how much fine football his players his players had stored up in them. They looked like they were longing to play, like their bodies were aching to be put to some tactical use.</span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">When Manchester City’s Adam Johnson is introduced it takes hold before I can control my hands: spontaneous girl applause. Fast, fluttering little claps, like a seal. Arms held high under my chin. Official evidence that a football crush has taken hold. When he trots onto the field a row of cornflowers blooms everywhere he steps. His inclusion is a very encouraging sign- he's exactly what this team needs: freshness, raw laddish desire and a speedy left foot. Also it becomes clear that I desire to dress him up in girl’s clothes and make him have tea and biscuits with me. This can only mean good things for England. </span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">And while the England game occupied all the flat-screens, one lone television deep in the corner of the bar showed the Argentina game. Even there Liverpool shackles were being shook off: Maxi Rodriquez looked like an entirely new player as Argentina cheerfully demolished Canada. The reception was bad and the sound was off, and the game looked like it was streaming directly from 1970. Streamers and confetti streaked across the screen. It made me think of a television that would be on in a gas station in a horror movie, fuzzy and ominous: something’s coming from the South and it’s gaining beauty, gaining ground.</span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
</span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Part 2: The Power of A Head Bandage: The Rebirth of Steven Gerrard to follow</span></span>liz in betahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03550321793787602177noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3634066349431225225.post-40146800883803649332010-06-01T01:00:00.000-07:002010-07-11T00:34:45.896-07:00Match Report Part 2: The Power of A Head Bandage (England vs. Mexico Friendly, 5.24.10)<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhoIzQc1gkXxrDVav3OQI4M-2_OqaW-297WM_7rtVH3W9lCgmWH2GhOp1Fk9fxvnxrfnIdHalKQW3ihmm1hIeSkHUUvAGt8k7KmsnHEf0IoA0nb2vZzZy5drhbsX3cE4r80o2G46BphsXuB/s1600/BloodyBattlers05_482x650_2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="352" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhoIzQc1gkXxrDVav3OQI4M-2_OqaW-297WM_7rtVH3W9lCgmWH2GhOp1Fk9fxvnxrfnIdHalKQW3ihmm1hIeSkHUUvAGt8k7KmsnHEf0IoA0nb2vZzZy5drhbsX3cE4r80o2G46BphsXuB/s400/BloodyBattlers05_482x650_2.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
<div style="color: #1a1a1a; font: 10.0px Arial; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">At some point during the first half of the friendly against Mexico, Steven Gerrard took a knock on the head. He returned to the pitch with a bandage on his head and a new outlook on life. During the Chelsea v. Liverpool game a couple of weeks ago, I compared him to a mental patient; with roughly-wrapped gauze around his forehead he certainly looked like one. But a liberated one. Gerrard looked like a mental patient who had escaped from the asylum of his season at Liverpool through a very small bathroom window and thrown his sedatives into the artificial pond as he roared out of the compound. At least until the mania hit, intoxication was guaranteed: with his freedom, with everyday life, with breathing. Alternatively, you might say he looked like a little kid who fell out of bed after a season-long nap. Watch out mummy, he’s mad and he’s ready to play! Take your pick. He was a man resurrected. </span></span></span></div>
<div style="color: #1a1a1a; font: 10.0px Arial; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 11.0px;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></span></span></div>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><a name='more'></a></span><br />
<div style="color: #1a1a1a; font: 10.0px Arial; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I confess that when I started writing this I didn’t know about either Terry Butcher or Paul Ince’s bloody displays. Only the several I’d collected over the past year or so, mainly the stunning ooze of Zhirkov and the accident that sent Carragher on that sartorial journey into black headbands. But I shouldn’t joke: as long as it doesn’t seem too serious, there is nothing that thrills me more than a good head wound on the pitch (obviously an injury like Cech’s is a whole other matter).</span></span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></span><br />
<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Blood draws everyone into the game. It breaks down the boundaries between the viewer and the player in a way that 3D will never be able to. And the players' performances always change, pumped full with a sort of masculine glee. I always study players faces’ when they have a head wound, and I’m convinced they like it. Suddenly, a metrosexual robot morphs into a modern gladiator in front of the whole world, and all his boyhood dreams are fulfilled. Especially Carragher. Always Carragher. I could see him looking out of the corner of his eye at Gerrard’s bandage, overcome with schoolyard jealousy, wondering if he could throw himself headfirst into the goalpost to get his own.</span></span></span></div>
<div style="color: #1a1a1a; font: 10.0px Arial; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 11.0px;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></span></span></div>
<div style="font: 10.0px Arial; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Gerrard’s performance was energetic from the beginning of the game but the bandage brought his contribution up to a whole other level. (Yes, he shift from the left into the center helped too. Gave him the room to orchestrate the link up play and re-establish his connection with Rooney.) And what a delight it was to see him running madly about, tearing up the midfield, tackling and tumbling. Even if Capello has resolved the famous morass that is the Gerrard/Lampard midfield, Gerrard must have savored the chance to roam free in Lampard’s absence.</span></span></span></div>
<div style="font: 10.0px Arial; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 11.0px;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></span></span></div>
<div style="font: 10.0px Arial; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I’m not sure what it is about Gerrard that makes me want to throw him into fictional scenarios, the TARDIS of my brain, and position him as a series of masculine archetypes, but it’s happened consistently since the first I saw him play. No matter how you feel about him as a player, or a person, or a Phil Collins fan, it’s impossible to deny that the man lends himself to myth. In the beginning I was fascinated with his hair. R. must have told me that Gerrard was a Liverpool boy who actually played in LIverpool, and I recall immediately imagining him sitting at his mother’s kitchen table in a scene I think I stole from “Hope & Glory.” Mum forcing him to finish the rhubarb custard so she could wash the bowl it was in, flip it over, put it over Gerrard’s head, and trim his hair around it. I could not believe that he was paying money to have his hair cut like that. Unless he was paying someone to specifically make it look like his mother cut it, which is a level of genius that is beyond my comprehension. I can still see the wallpaper in the kitchen I imagined for him: little faded yellow roses, water stains, peeling corners. </span></span></span></div>
<div style="font: 10.0px Arial; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 11.0px;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></span></span></div>
<div style="font: 10.0px Arial; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I certainly can’t fathom what Gerrard means to the English; I wouldn’t even try. All I can attempt, as an American, is to think about what he </span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">seems</span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> to mean to the English (and what he means to me, in my relationship to them). He seems to me not to represent the English as much as telegraph their state of mind. When Gerrard frets, does he frets for all of England? In this game, by breaking through the self-reflexive paralysis of the Liverpool season and escaping beyond the patterns of light, the intellectual contusions of the tactical exercise he was embedded in, Gerrard reminded his country that he would shed public blood for them, too. You know, <i>for he today that sheds his blood with shall be my brother</i>. And all that. </span></span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div style="font: 10.0px Arial; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 11.0px;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></span></span></div>
<div style="font: 10.0px Arial; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">POSTSCRIPT: This World Cup has been a hotbed of blood and bandages. The topic really deserves its own post. But I do want to note that while Pique seemed to bleed too much, ostentatiously, as though he was auditioning for a Goya painting, Clint Dempsey bled just enough, and kept moving down the field. </span></span></span></div>
<div>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial; font-size: x-small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 10px;"><br /></span></span></div>liz in betahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03550321793787602177noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3634066349431225225.post-35331176913979179232010-05-21T09:53:00.000-07:002010-07-09T09:01:02.637-07:00Match Report: Sanatorium FC (LIverpool v. Chelsea, 5.4.10)<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi60f_L8I1rTG51IxFNlCsPRSYnM2RAAykJ2JsWQw_q6cmBAtKsxlXbwoHdHivx6LGubkXeO-R0eeOauLJLdyAZ0n6R6MXsxBGrEf9zK8VWCUEDl-sGk_BC0TT_T3Hp1pYh74Hy_OolrBcd/s1600/PL-WAVERLEY-HILLS-SANATORIUM-PATIENTS.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><img border="0" height="262" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi60f_L8I1rTG51IxFNlCsPRSYnM2RAAykJ2JsWQw_q6cmBAtKsxlXbwoHdHivx6LGubkXeO-R0eeOauLJLdyAZ0n6R6MXsxBGrEf9zK8VWCUEDl-sGk_BC0TT_T3Hp1pYh74Hy_OolrBcd/s400/PL-WAVERLEY-HILLS-SANATORIUM-PATIENTS.jpg" width="400" /></span></span></a></div>
<div style="color: #0a0909; font: 10.0px Arial; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">If Nicole Diver and Hans Castorp pulled their friends at the sanatorium out of their beds to play a match, this is what the match would look like. Televised Ambien. At first it makes sense: after all it’s 8am on Sunday, I’m hungover, wrapped up in blankets on the couch and I could care less about either Liverpool or Chelsea. I’m watching solely to will Liverpool to win so Chelsea doesn’t take the title. A defensive viewing like this is never passionate or pretty. But slowly it dawns on me that the players are not hungover on the couch wrapped in blankets watching teams they don’t care about. So how come they look like they are?</span></span></span><br />
<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"></span></span></span><br />
<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"></span></span></span><br />
<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"></span></span></span><br />
<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><a name='more'></a></span><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The second half picked up a bit, but not enough to erase the singular anesthetized miseries of the first. It was impossible to distinguish one comatose set piece from the next. I flickered in and out of sleep, last night’s bad choices still breaking down in my bloodstream, and as I did I began to dream of a game of football played by a group of half-sedated lunatics running around in the snow. Slow motion limbs all at the wrong angles. There’s a light snow falling and the light’s a strange gray, cold and bright. Did I steal this from somewhere? A Herzog movie? Harmony Korine? The scene is so familiar and specific that I’m convinced I have, and yet afterwords I spend weeks trying to track it down, to no avail. </span></span></span></div>
<div style="color: #0a0909; font: 10.0px Arial; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 11.0px;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></span></span></div>
<div style="color: #0a0909; font: 10.0px Arial; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">In this dream scene, as in life, the most misery was Gerrard’s. He seems to grow older by the instant. He gives off a curious sense of having turned on himself; his football does too. It’s all over the pitch. Every kick shines with crisis. At best, wayward. At worst, spiritually slovenly. In the first half of the real game he made a back pass that Drogba intercepted and sent straight into the net. A play from another planet, where streams run backwards and children eat ice cream for breakfast. Illogic in motion. </span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">It is beyond my control</span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> Gerrard's foot announces to the world. As I drift off I imagine him in a little paper gown, with little paper slippers, waiting for a little paper cup full of pills. </span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">It is beyond my control </span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Gerrard announces to the nurse. I hope it doesn’t come to that for him. One more morning in a football universe as counterintuitive as this and it may come to that for me. </span></span></span></div>liz in betahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03550321793787602177noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3634066349431225225.post-73291620997074356002010-05-09T09:36:00.000-07:002010-07-10T21:52:47.585-07:00Here a New Life Will Be Told in a Season<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDPnekS68w2Vfotl4JDIBMcDAVYXiDiXztDQxUoLIx8l7EXa3c8TO4ybLc_1uuQf8tSdlThVlREfVKztjUAnJeBut0h8ncVxediTqbLhYaaP5B2LGUJhqDBuy2TphDFWeZ8E7ZWUlZ5BUX/s1600/b8b7a2cf53c849afcd33dc73ec996ea4-getty-fbl-eng-carling-cup-arsenal-lpool.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDPnekS68w2Vfotl4JDIBMcDAVYXiDiXztDQxUoLIx8l7EXa3c8TO4ybLc_1uuQf8tSdlThVlREfVKztjUAnJeBut0h8ncVxediTqbLhYaaP5B2LGUJhqDBuy2TphDFWeZ8E7ZWUlZ5BUX/s400/b8b7a2cf53c849afcd33dc73ec996ea4-getty-fbl-eng-carling-cup-arsenal-lpool.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">There are notes. Many notes. Charts, game plans, stats. Occasionally there is also something about football. </span></span>liz in betahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03550321793787602177noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3634066349431225225.post-77829262231778564842010-05-08T09:20:00.000-07:002010-07-10T10:40:49.229-07:00Here, Wedged in Here, Is The Story of The In-Between<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4PMPnkABN6xPF4h4SsZZDXZD2OfjknkzzQUmmmlz0CZystOAiS-7xc8LmdLem9yynCmD4xc8InKZ0gAZ0iwzuXf6ZHqCH3O-x0S4fPWYhqgjD3Kq3rucnh9LzKUM_PE72ceNSgavO_LbI/s1600/empty_box.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4PMPnkABN6xPF4h4SsZZDXZD2OfjknkzzQUmmmlz0CZystOAiS-7xc8LmdLem9yynCmD4xc8InKZ0gAZ0iwzuXf6ZHqCH3O-x0S4fPWYhqgjD3Kq3rucnh9LzKUM_PE72ceNSgavO_LbI/s400/empty_box.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />liz in betahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03550321793787602177noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3634066349431225225.post-57655549333236478492010-05-07T09:05:00.000-07:002010-07-10T09:11:43.366-07:00Here Is Not An Ending<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgK2c8zXnUkQkgvZDRW_YOR8FPfxQGmqTP1bbAHvUGP1pCF65xqu0XugE0DvsrMYUf_D0TezIybftK4t_OV-KNiL5OCQ-ONqzaOCqOvvTzERcpHFQ74m_ezIw77kxIBGLyVQJrwfKnPT8Eq/s1600/5855_104747149204_653634204_2192057_3443429_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="297" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgK2c8zXnUkQkgvZDRW_YOR8FPfxQGmqTP1bbAHvUGP1pCF65xqu0XugE0DvsrMYUf_D0TezIybftK4t_OV-KNiL5OCQ-ONqzaOCqOvvTzERcpHFQ74m_ezIw77kxIBGLyVQJrwfKnPT8Eq/s400/5855_104747149204_653634204_2192057_3443429_n.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">It's just a football game disguised as one. </span></span>liz in betahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03550321793787602177noreply@blogger.com0