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U.S. Takes Top Prize, Fast and Furious; Fellow Daughters of the British Empire Leap Forward, Swiftly, Less Furiously

July 14, 2015 — by Rob Kirby

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As breaking news to no one, Brandi Chastain ripped off her jersey after the famous 1999 Women’s World Cup penalty shootout final victory, punctuating the U.S. women’s national team’s second taking of the top prize in soccer with a classic photo finish, cameramen lapping up her iconic knee drop and sports-bra reveal. The Americans won the debut trophy in 1991, but 1999 represented the moment when the team first captured the hearts and minds of the American public. Sixteen long years then transpired before the team and country would again celebrate another, on both the day of the 5-2 victory over Japan in Vancouver on July 5 and again in New York City at a ticker tape parade custom ordered for the occasion.

In nearly as notable news, England shrugged off the indifference of a nation to make the semifinals and dispatch Germany in the third-place playoff of the 2015 Women’s World Cup, while Australia took on the mantle of giant killer and dumped Brazil out of the tournament to the shock of everyone, even perhaps themselves.

Seemingly endless hype about the ’99ers surrounded the 2015 tournament, with all the attendant pressures for the female American soccer players competing in this millennium. Germany had usurped the American States United for world number one for the first time in eons, for co-dominance with their male counterparts in the world game. But the current crop of the U.S. women’s national team has now lifted Women’s World Cup trophy, and for a record third time, reasserting top dog status. Perhaps most importantly, everything begins anew, the team has shed the burden of pent-up expectations and the country has identified a generation of new stars.

As for a veteran like Abby Wambach, the all-time highest-scorer in the international game at 183 goals, she has tidily wrapped up any and all unfinished business after semifinal losses in 2003 and 2007 and avenged the penalty shootout loss to Japan in the 2011 final after the 2-2 draw. Officially now retired, Wambach can finally call herself World Cup champion. Of course, she could previously call herself two-time Olympic Gold medalist and 2012 FIFA World Player of the Year, so Wambach hadn’t exactly led a life of abject failure.

American media had conditioned the country to expect success from the not-hands of Abby Wambach or Alex Morgan, but in the end the star that burned brightest bore the jersey of number 10, Carli Lloyd.

Making World Cup history, Lloyd became the first woman and only the second human to score a hat trick in a final—the fastest/faster at that, three goals in the first 16 minutes. (Geoff Hurst scored his hat trick over 120 minutes for England in 1966.) She added the three speed goals achievement to her stat of the only soccer player ever to score match-winning goals in back-to-back Olympic gold-medal games in 2008 and 2012. Lloyd won the Golden Ball as the tournament’s best player, but missed out on the Golden Boot, despite equaling the six-goal haul of Germany’s Celia Sasic, having played more minutes. For those looking to argue Lloyd’s case vis a vis the pitch-time tie-breaker rule, she scored all her goals in the knockout rounds, whereas Sasic scored three in the flat track 10-0 group stage demolition of perhaps the weakest team at the tournament, Ivory Coast. (At the time, Sasic had scored the fastest hat trick in Women’s World Cup history, in 31 minutes, which Lloyd bested in nearly half the time in the final.)

Before the Japanese ever got their bearings in the match, America had run over them, backed up over the bodies, run them over again, backed up again, and then run them over one last time for good measure. Ultimately, the last couple were overkill in payback for the 2011 final loss. The match effectively ended even before Lloyd completed her hat-trick that put the scoreline 4-0, though that safety would only reveal itself later. Lloyd scored twice in the opening five minutes, followed by Lauren Holiday in the 14th minute followed swiftly by Lloyd’s long-distance halfway line strike at the 16th minute mark.

Over the course of seven games, the Americans started off slowly but then steadily improved. Most importantly, they never lost, grounded on a rock-solid defense, gathering form, and with a slice of luck, the right formation, on their way to their most comprehensive win of the tournament on the final day.

Americans had the height advantage over the Japanese, so aerial set pieces that pundits expected the Japanese to contest and lose partly came to pass, only minus the aerial. The first two goals came from set pieces, but not from the air. The U.S. instead went low and direct. The first corner deliveries drove hard to the feet and then straight into goal for Lloyd’s first two strikes, faking out the opposition not once but twice, the Americans blitzing their way to 2-0 on the scoreboard.

After the lone goal conceded to Australia in the opening match of the tournament until Japan’s 27th minute goal in the final match, the the U.S. defense went 513 minutes without surrendering a goal. In the early stages of the tournament, when America failed to score with freewheeling ease, its miserly defense proved vital. When that changed and the goals came, the team could absorb an event like the Julie Johnston own-goal that bestowed Japan a second-half goal.

In hindsight, suspensions to Megan Rapinoe and Lauren Holiday proved fortuitous in that they caused a rejigger of the lineup. Coach Jill Ellis and the team found the best formation, perhaps by accident, perhaps by design—either way, one that gave Lloyd free rein to roam and go for goal while others retained possession, tracked back and covered the central midfield and defensive duties that previously blunted her attacking instincts.

As the tournament signaled a new chapter in U.S. soccer, it also turned out to be the making of two other English-speaking nations, England and Australia.

England reached the final four of any tournament for the first time since 1990 (aside from the ’96 Euros) and the women’s team logged its first major success of any real note ever. Australia reached the quarters, a major World Cup milestone for the former penal colony.

Every four years, women’s soccer appears on the world’s scanners. Or not, depending on the nation. The U.S. belongs to the former, England began June decidedly in the camp of the latter. A look at the U.K. papers showed perfunctory interest at the beginning of the tournament, which itself dwarfed the actual interest of the actual man on the street (minimal to none). As the team beat rivals in a manner totally unlike the men’s national side, however, the English drive to support a homegrown winner ramped up. This became especially pronounced in the first knockout round when Lucy Bronze scored from long-range against Norway to send the team into the quarterfinals and then headed a crucial goal against Canada to help seal a berth in the semis. Staying up past midnight to tune in, 2.4 million viewers in the U.K. watched England narrowly lose 2-1 to Japan, but by then women’s soccer had firmly positioned itself in the national spotlight.

Australia emerged from the World Cup as the Brazil Slayer, just as England did the Anonymity Slayer. Australia’s 1-0 victory over Brazil heralded the 2011 Asian Cup champion and 2015 Asian Cup runner-up as a true force for the future. Brazil came runner-up in 2007 and not long ago ranked world number two. Five-time World Player of the Year Marta, one of the best women’s players to ever play the game, still calls the shots for club and country. The team easily won its group. Australia took a scalp for the ages, and betrayed no sign that the performance represented any form of a freak win.

Professional matches in the women’s leagues of England and Australia see attendance numbers of approximately 800 to 1000. Broadcasters have not tripped over themselves to invest in TV rights, but the viewing figures for the World Cup could change that, although the variables of a one-off tournament and international summer fever have a part to play, and more than once that excitement has failed to carry over into the regular season of many leagues, not just women’s leagues of those countries. One must include America in that discussion, as well.

However, the viewing figures give pause for thought.

In the U.S., each group stage match drew in more viewers. The 3-1 against Australia opened to 3.3 million viewers, the largest television audience for a Women’s World Cup group stage game on record, triple that of the 2011 group stage opener in Germany, though that match occurred on a weekday during office hours in the U.S. (The previous high reached nearly 2.5 million in 1999 during the U.S. incarnation of the tournament.) The scoreless draw with Sweden averaged 4.5 million. Finally, for the final group stage match, the 1-0 win over Nigeria averaged 5 million viewers, the third-largest audience ever for a Women’s World Cup match to that date, behind only the 1999 and 2011 finals but of course, the tournament kept forging new records each day. The Nigeria match numbers nearly quadrupled the 1.3 million for the third U.S. group stage match in 2011, but again, an unfair comparison, as that match took place a weekday during office hours in Germany.

The Round of 16 match in which the U.S. women’s national team beat Colombia 2-0 held more or less even with 4.7 million viewers. The U.S. game against China in the quarterfinals clocked 5.7 million viewers. The semifinal between USA and Germany attracted 8.4 million viewers—the third largest audience ever for an English-language telecast of women’s soccer in the States. Ratings rose precipitously as the Women’s World Cup continued, with the final the apex of shattering past records.

The U.S. women’s national team victory night in the July 5 final in the thrashing of Japan made for action-packed early viewing and blew the roof off the previous ceiling of soccer TV ratings, and not simply by a small margin. The match stands as the most watched soccer game in U.S. history, men’s or women’s, and may hold the title for quite some time. A mammoth 25.4 million viewers watched the Women’s World Cup finals, according to Nielsen ratings data, smashing the previous record, the 18.2 million that tuned in for the 2014 Brazil World Cup men’s group stage U.S. vs. Portugal that so nearly ended in a U.S. victory but which in fact concluded in a 2-2 draw. At its peak, in the final 15 minutes, the TV audience actually peaked at 30.9 viewers.

In the U.K., around 500,000 people stayed up until midnight to watch the final, unlike England’s semifinal against Japan for which the match drew a peak audience of 2.4 million in the U.K. despite a kickoff time of midnight. At the beginning of the tournament, the English media essentially ignored the team and the tournament in general, broadcasting on backwater stations when at all. However, once England bested Norway, featuring with the sensational Lucy Bronze kick in the quarterfinals, the team suddenly found itself live on prestige channels like BBC 1, gaining solid viewership numbers in the wee hours of the morning.

Before this summer’s tournament began, the biggest American TV viewerships in women’s soccer ranked accordingly: the U.S.-China Women’s World Cup final in 1999 topped the list with 17.97 million and the U.S.-Japan 2011 Women’s World Cup final came took silver with 13.46 million. Those events each now move down a rung, as does the overall men’s record.

For comparison, the viewing figures for the July 5 match average audience exceeded every game of the NBA finals.

Expected soccer story lines didn’t come to pass, but what did come to pass made perfect sense in hindsight and from that vantage, all can be reordered from the start to fit the ending of the current present/recent past. And that’s what gets remembered. No one will remember that everyone expected Morgan to explode. Everyone will remember that Lloyd did.

A month on from the June 6 kickoff, things have already changed. The question is, for how long. The sun may have long since set on the British Empire, but the Daughters of the British Empire have risen again. America, England and Australia emerged from the tournament as definite winners, in differing but undeniable degrees, theoretically not to be forgotten as quickly as in years past.

As with any international tournament, one can get sucked in—the matches come fast and furious, and they’re the only game(s) in town, free from competition from the Premier League, the Champions League, La Liga, et al (granted, the Copa America also put on many entertaining displays in the South American men’s international game). The question becomes one of longevity and sustainability after the tournament. Will people keep on watching after the final whistle of the finals? Will spectators show for women’s professional leagues. In the past, the answer has been no. In the present and future, it remains to be seen. But signs look more promising than ever, for a few reasons.

When the tournament approached and then began with the U.S. winning games unconvincingly, pundits pointed to the tournament as the turning point when the technique of other countries would at last surpass the physicality of the Americans. The clunky 4-4-2 that centered on a slower, out-of-form Abby Wambach resulted in an attack lacking bite and creativity. Ellis had taken few personnel risks, brought in hardly any new players, barely rotated. Although the team had strength in depth, that depth had barely gotten anything like regular games pre-tournament. Hope Solo kicked ass on and (controversially, allegedly feloniously) off the field, but should she have received an injury or suspension, no backups had any minutes between the sticks. Expected it-girl Alex Morgan remained injured, continually foiled in reaching full fitness. She started to rack up more minutes, but goals did not arrive in direct proportion.

Teams from countries with thriving leagues had indeed improved greatly in terms of technical skills, particularly third-ranked France, but across the board teams had closed the gap. But to call the U.S. purely a physical team at the expense of technique or tactics is overly reductive. Players can be both technically gifted and amazing athletes. They can play long balls to a dominant striker without it being an act of unimaginative desperation. For an imperfect analogy in the men’s club game, think Chelsea, long balls with lethal finish and attacking bite. The criticisms came in the stages of the tournament when that lethal finish lacked or went missing.

Some wondered whether the nature of a blowout final was bad for the women’s game, but few held that opinion after the mesmerizing 7-1 demolition of Brazil by Germany in the 2014 World Cup semifinals. Conversely, many point to Japan’s poor defending against Lloyd’s first two blitz goals. If so, then so much the better for the health of the women’s game. The blowout final would and could have been a much more closely contested affair.

A couple points for why a shock and awe blowout was good:

First, consolidation of the core audience, the U.S. base. The day after America’s birthday party for itself, sixteen minutes into the Women’s World Cup final on July 5th, the shock and awe recaptured the ‘99er love that had gone AWOL. The multitudes watching renewed their investment in their team, renewed their memberships as soccer moms/dads signing up daughters in youth leagues, and girls watching saw bona fide champions broadcast live and direct. Should it be that America has had its last hurrah, the final clinched a whole new clutch of recruits, suggesting it won’t be the last hurrah.

Second, after all the nil-nils and game-deciding shootouts of Copa America, people wanted goals, and goals they got. Did it damage the women’s game? Since when do viewers hate goals, especially insatiable, win-hungry Americans? Woe to those with poor feeds or tuning in late. The eventual 5-2 seemed an exercise in whether the Americans would blow that sort of mammoth lead. They would not.

Afterwards, in the aftermath, does the international women’s soccer landscape adjust positively to the fallout of a blowout, or react positively to the fertility of the bomb, the boom? The U.S. women’s national team put an end to a sixteen-year barren spell in the World Cup, although several consecutive Olympic golds arrived in the interval. The team had waited, the team had finally ceded world number-one to Germany before the tournament began, but when victory came, they did deserve top prize and the manner of their victory, the nature of the play, did contribute to the benefit of the game.

The U.S. had come under heavy criticism in the group stage for not scoring with abandon. What better answer than to score in the final with abandon? Wambach had complained during the low scoring run that the turf was to blame. She may or may not have been right. She herself may not have been vindicated, but in the end the team won, and as she watched from the bench and came on late, she accepted her elder statesman role. She had either temporarily lost her A-game, got thrown off her game due to the turf or perhaps her professional-level game had just inevitably departed as her career has now wound down. Wambach the Trusted Clutch Finisher represented one main narrative gone awry in the World Cup, just like Alex Morgan the It-Girl. In the end, during the ticker tape parade, it didn’t matter, at least not to the celebrating American public.

To backtrack, the controversial artificial turf, in addition to injuring players, certainly exacerbated the U.S. team’s (and others’) problems with clinical finishing and precise passing game. However, everyone played on the same surface. Passes slightly overstruck went uncaught, long ball strategies involved more speed than players possessed. But, that’s how it goes, that’s how it went.

In their off hours, even in the Group of Death, the Americans still seemed confident enough, in their defense game to get them through to the knockout stage. Undoubtedly, the offense improved once Lloyd took a more forceful role going forward. Once that happened, the formula of power, precision and athleticism finally blended and clicked. The change of formation that freed Lloyd up definitely changed that narrative.

The final would be bad for the women’s game if it merely showed the superiority of physicality over technique, but that’s not what it was. Lloyd put on a master class against a Japan team not at its best. The U.S. team finally gelled after searching for form and the right formation. All the women’s teams in the tournament had improved over the four-year interval. Japan had an off-match, but the Mizuho Sakaguchi goal against Holland that followed the deft, tight passing, backheel and tricky dummy right in front of the goalmouth showed pure class from both herself and her teammates.

In the women’s game, different teams showed they have developed different strengths, some with very good possession and passing technique, like France and Japan. The U.S. has a more direct style incorporating technique and physicality, much of it long ball—not the sexiest soccer term. To compete at the top level in years to come, the U.S. must inject more technical style and incorporate more technique with their athleticism, like Germany, for example. They will have to, if they wish to stay competitive, but for now they have just beaten Germany, Japan and all comers, so no one need sound the alarm too hysterically.

The scoreline certainly did no harm to where viewers won’t watch again. If anything, the opposite. Would the masses prefer another nil-nil? To women’s soccer’s largest viewing audience, the U.S., it hooked people right back in again.

In England, the World Cup effect has already seen an uptick in Women’s Super League interest, but it remains far too soon to declare any sort of real turnaround. Manchester City Women, which features five English internationals, including Bronze, defeated Birmingham 1-0 and set a new attendance record on Sunday with a crowd of 2,102. Sponsors, league officials and broadcasters will watch with interest to see if the trend continues, in England and elsewhere, but 2,000 spectators still represents a near-grassroots level of support.

Neither FIFA President Sepp Blatter nor this number-two, Secretary General Jérôme Valcke attended the Women’s World Cup final to present the trophy, underscoring once again the continuing disrespect for the women’s game in the shadowy power corridors of FIFA. One may recall Blatter’s infamous, endlessly embarrassing hot-pants quote from 2004. “Let the women play in more feminine clothes like they do in volleyball,” Blatter opined grandiosely and idiotically, like a modern day Marie Antoinette of soccer, by way of volleyball.

“They could, for example, have tighter shorts. Female players are pretty, if you excuse me for saying so, and they already have some different rules to men – such as playing with a lighter ball. That decision was taken to create a more female aesthetic, so why not do it in fashion?”

Women’s soccer did not, in fact, use a lighter ball, though the first World Cup did insultingly reduce halves to 40 minutes, assuming that women couldn’t last a full 90, while simultaneously scheduling matches with fewer rest days, thereby actually making for a more grueling schedule than the men’s tournament.

Meanwhile, in 2015 as women kick ass onfield, Blatter remains Zurich-side sipping Swiss Miss in a state of curtain-twitching terror. The day of the final, Blatter told the German newspaper Welt am Sonntag, “Until everything has been cleared up, I am not going to take the risk of traveling.” He clarified, “”Not because the Americans have anything concrete against me, but because it would cause a public stir.” Canada poses notorious travel risks for Swiss nationals fearing prosecution. And public stirs.

Blatter will, however, travel to Russia in late July for the qualification draw for the 2018 World Cup. Apparently that would pose no risk of public stir. Or perhaps it pertains to the fact that Russia does not have an extradition treaty with the U.S.

Blatter once declared, apparently with no genuine meaning, that “the future is feminine.” Perhaps among he mixed up his words, meaning the future is fraught with exile, extradition-dodging and bunker-dwelling.

***

[A special thanks to Larry Weinstein for many of his points in internal emails that I incorporated, concerning overhit passes because of the turf, the long ball game and the 7-1 Brazil killing. I may have missed a couple other points. Also to Sean Mahoney regarding the blend of technical skills/athleticism of the USWNT and John Lally for some factual corrections. I emailed several of the CF crew about the matches and I don’t want to claim their ideas as my own. As well, many ideas came in response to justifying my viewpoints to Eddie Guo, so he gets a shoutout, as well.]

CommentaryDispatchesUnited States

Feeling friendly: 5 goals in 60 minutes

August 11, 2014 — by Tyler

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It’s not the name of a motivational seminar. It was another sprint to Denver and back for the sake of the game. In 2013 there was the U.S./Costa Rica blizzard bowl. Today was the haul-ass that was Manchester United/AS Roma. The tickets were a birthday gift from family, and it was a worthy spectacle in terms of cost and effort.

My sister and I agreed to meet at a parking lot at 1:15 so that we would have ample time to walk over to Sports Authority Field at Mile High, and you’d think we would have the logistics down by now. We both left our homes in different cities, we figured we’d given ourselves enough time, and each of us was late for the 2PM kickoff. She was late to the meeting place but early enough that she’d have gotten into the game with plenty of time, if it weren’t for the fact that I was much later. Some days the trip to Denver is an hour. Today it was two, and my trip was more special than usual this time. The clogged interstate is nothing new, as are the inevitable rear endings when traffic stops and starts. This afternoon, I had the pleasure of being the furthest car back in a three-car chain reaction. We all pulled over and got out, shook hands, agreed that while I was considered at fault in such situations (for following too closely), I was also the only one with any damage to my vehicle. It lasted five minutes. No harm, no foul, and we got in our cars and kept moving.

I found my sister and we hustled to the stadium on foot. It was already 2:15 when I parked, but there were plenty of other latecomers who had likely been stuck in traffic as well. We approached the steps and were met by men with clear plastic bags for my sister to transfer the contents of her purse. That was a new development, which we later learned is something now done at NFL stadiums. (Warning to any of you who plan to attend an American football game in the future: this sucked.) The catch is that anyone with a bag bigger than a baby’s fist must turn in the bag to a bag check station, and then walk around the game with the contents of said bag displayed for all the world to see in one of the clear plastic bags. At least the clear bags were free, but I can imagine a fee being imposed soon enough. At the bag check there were signs: “No weapons. No marijuana.” What about opium? No time for clarification.

We entered, found our seats, and the game already had progressed to the 30-minute mark. My family had come through with some decent tickets, though. They couldn’t have planned it as well as it turned out, but they turned out to be pretty good indeed. We were in the corner, but in the 8th row. For the next hour, we’d see five goals end up in the net at our end of the field. Not bad at all.

I don’t like United. I really don’t like United. But I’m learning to respect Rooney, at least in neutral games. I definitely can’t be mad at Mata, and I’m fine with Wellbeck and Valencia. Others on the team I’m not so fond of, and others more aren’t really worth the emotion or have recently departed. The scoring started just as we sat down, and those familiar United faces were making it look easy. We chatted while watching, I didn’t catch much in the way of tactics but I rarely do anyway, and our timing turned out to be pretty darn good. Rooney scored with a nice floater from the edge of the box into the upper left of the goal, and we’d barely had a chance to figure out if all the fans in attendance were United fans or if it just seemed that way because they were sitting all around us.

The next 15 minutes saw Rooney drop a nicely lobbed pass right in front of Mata for an easy dink into the net, and Rooney completed his brace by converting a penalty. Halftime, and with it came three advertisements on the big screen, all for United. Two of them were identical, played right at the start and again at the end of the break, and they looked like they were corporate ads. That wasn’t the intention, or maybe it was, but that was the feel of the ads. They featured players “training” indoors, doing a conditioning work, perhaps? They featured a good amount Giggs and van Persie, so maybe the ads were for skilled nursing facilities for all I know. Players were shown getting in shape while messages flashed on the screen. “Teamwork.” “Development.” “Religious Symbolism of Gothic Cathedral Sculptures.” “CHEVEROLET!!!” Hell, I don’t know what they said, but it was bizarre. Gag. What, still no opium?

The second half featured the predictable substitutions, like that sissy pants Ashley Young. I used to like that guy until he turned. And then I noticed the very obvious absence of mismatching pink and turquoise Puma footwear. Adios, World Cup. We chatted, United’s 8th-string keeper Amos shanked passes out of bounds and screamed at his own players for not having the forethought to know he was going to kick the balls out, and I laughed. Suddenly and seemingly out of nowhere, the ball went flying more than half the length of the field, over Amos’ head, and into the same goal we were sitting near. What the hell was that? Fans took to their feet and roared, and it became clear that if you weren’t for United today, you were against United.

Pjanic’s 70-yard strike was hilarious to see on the big screen replays. Poor Amos. By the 60th minute, the large Spanish-speaking contingent of United fans had struck up yet another “Chicharito” chant, the (Mexican?) wave passed us by a couple times and eventually we joined in by throwing our hands up each time even if we didn’t stand when it went past. Too cool for that! At far at the other end of the field, the best 12th, 13th, and 14th man in soccer started warming up, which caused the expected reaction among the fans. I can’t hate on him either. As a matter of fact, I have a feeling there isn’t a single person on earth that doesn’t like Hernandez, regardless of who he plays for. Poor guy can’t get a start. He was clearly going to see some action, but first the crowd cheered for a different reason.

Enter Totti. Very cool. I don’t watch Serie A, but I suddenly felt like there was finally a superstar on the field. No disrespect to United (ahem, for now), but there was freaking Totti. We had ample Totti in our corner toward the end of the game, and it seemed like a good time to take some pictures. Hey, no disrespect for United (ahem, for now), but I don’t need any of those guys taking up memory in my phone. My phone takes star pics only, bitch, and Giggs was too far away on the coaches bench to warrant any attempts until now. I got a few Totti pics, and eventually my sister realized his name wasn’t “Toiti”.

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Blurry Totti

Another observation, which always catches me off guard when I get a chance to see top level players from a closer distance: some of these guys are pretty thick. Valencia looked like he could bench at least two and a half Amos, and Totti had the whole Sylvester Stallone can’t-keep-arms-down-at-sides-because-too-huge thing going on. He took the armband when he took the field, not by waiting for the exiting Roma player to remove it from his own arm, but by ripping the guy’s arm clean from its socket. He then turned toward the crowd while holding the bloody stump outward, then thumped his own chest with the lifeless hand of his teammate as the crowd roared, “Maximus! Maximus!”

A small band of dedicated Rome-ite fans just behind the nearby goal made as much noise as they could whenever the Rome-ite subs passed during their warmups. “Is that why they run all the way over there?” my sister asked, clearly implying, so they can have someone in the stadium cheering for them? Then the place erupted. Chicharito was on, and with him came one of several opportunities for me to be bothered by so much of the United fan presence and then calm down and remind myself that it’s just an exhibition match. Dominated by Chevy branding.

Eventually I noticed a lot of booing whenever a Romish defender touched the ball. I couldn’t see clearly, but I figured it was the player responsible for bringing down what appeared to be United’s large, center forward halftime sub whose name I don’t need to know. There were howls from the crowd for a penalty midway through the second half, but United were denied their second chance from the spot and the ref gave them a free kick just outside the box. The booing of the culprit continued and then it hit me: they were booing Roma’s new left piece of poop, Ashley Cole. I have a feeling there isn’t a single person on earth that likes that guy. Too bad he was as far from our seats as any player could possibly be. I would have un-photographed him. I don’t know what that is or how to do it, but it’s very disrespectful.

There was a flurry of activity as Roma tried in vain to narrow the margin. Crosses dropped in the box and we were treated to a bit of a frenzy right in front of us, even a nice shot cracking against the United post and a beauty of a Romium half-volley a few yards to the right of goal. But to no avail. Eventually, Totti brought his team within one more goal, courtesy of a penalty awarded after the ref deliberated for about five seconds, clearly swayed by frantic Italian hand gestures. (It was easy to see how he was persuaded, for Italians very rarely employ hand gestures when speaking.) The ball had smacked a United defender’s hand in the box, the call seemed accurate enough for a friendly, and Totti put it in the net from the spot. The goal was followed good amount of respectful applause for the national and club talisman. It was a nice moment.

The game ended, and we beat it from our seats before the United players’ slow victory lap reached our corner of the stadium. While that wretchworthy annoyance was developing, some Romulan subs were subjected to some light sprints by one of their coaches. It was a strange sight, and with many of the reported 54,000 in attendance remaining to applaud United, it felt like kind of a haves versus the have-nots moment. I really don’t like United. Really, really.

We left the stadium and stood in line for at least half an hour in order to retrieve my sister’s bag. There were no less than five Denver police officers standing there, making absolutely sure that the bag checkers caused as much confusion and delay as possible. Five cops, serving and protecting by monitoring a bag check. Well, what else should they do?–half the city is stoned anyway. I think their badges said “Chevy”. I passed the time by turning to watch small packs of United fans passing by while chanting–three hordes in total, comprised of between four and ten fans each time, not really conjuring up proof that they root for the most popular sports team on the planet–and looking through my pictures. Turns out I got a smidge of Kagawa and a dash of Nani stuck in my phone. Eh, those guys are also all right in my book. I swear I don’t like United.

CommentaryDispatchesEngland

A Walk in Bahia

January 7, 2012 — by Edhino

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Prologue: Salvador, up in northern Brazil, is so unlike Rio and Sao Paulo, the rest of the country refers to Bahiaians rudely as "slow". As I trudged through the late afternoon sun looking for the Newcastle - Man Utd game, it struck me that the heat may have something to do with it.

Dispatches

A Peñarol Fanatic’s Journey Back to Montevideo

June 15, 2011 — by Suman

Two weeks ago, storied Uruguayan club Peñarol stunned Argentinian Clausura table-toppers Vélez Sársfield to set up a historic matchup against Brazilian side Santos for this year’s Copa Libertadores (1st leg tonight is tonight in Montevideo; 9pm ET on Fox Deportes in the USA).  A couple days later we received this message from a Uruguayan friend–born and raised in Montevideo as a supporters of los Aurinegros, los Peñarolenses:

Can you take 3 days to go to São Paulo?  I am in some state of delirium.

Here is the story, still in progress, of where that delirium has taken him:

Forlan's Wall Photo - June 2, 2011

After that initial message, our friend (let’s call him Forlán, after another lifelong Peñarol supporter and prodigal son of Montevideo who has gone abroad to pursue his craft; the real Forlán, btw, is a newly inducted honorary member of the club ahead of tonight’s game*) was looking for someone to accompany him on a trip to São Paulo for the 2nd leg (which is next week–Wednesday June 22). But then Monday we received this via email:

date: Mon, Jun 13, 2011 at 4:23 PM
subject: drama begins

I’m at the Philadelphia airport.
The tickets went on sale this morning at 9 and they were gone in 15 minutes.
(Some 24 thousand had been sold before to club members. The stadium fits
around 65 thousand.)
As of now, I’m without a ticket. But there’s always hope.
On top of everything, all flights yesterday and today in and out of Montevideo
have been cancelled because of the volcano in Chile. Looking at the
wind forecast
for tomorrow, I’m wanting to believe my flight tonight won’t get cancelled.
The game itself might get postponed if Santos cannot fly in.

Presumably he’d travelled to Philly from Ithaca (where he summers, playing the beautiful game and doing his mathematics) by either plane or automobile.

We next heard from him later that evening, via IM:

date: Mon, Jun 13, 2011 at 10:35 PM
10:35 PM Forlán: i’m in miami. they canceled the flight to mvd, but luckily i knew just before leaving phl. So now i’m flying to Sao Paolo and sometime tomorrow from there to Mvd.

10:36 PM My brothers were able to get 2 tickets. Need one more for my niece, will try to get it a travel agency in sao paulo (from the tickets for Santos)

And then back on email the next day (yesterday):

date: Tue, Jun 14, 2011 at 2:35 PM
subject: Re: drama begins

Stuck in Sao Paulo. Will fly to Porto Alegre and catch a bus from
there (12 hours).

He left us in suspense overnight–would he make the flight to Porto Alegre and catch the bus? 12 hours on a bus?? Would that even get him home in time for the game??

But then this email arrived just a few minutes ago:

date Wed, Jun 15, 2011 at 10:29 AM
subject Re: drama begins

At home in Montevideo, ready for the game in 12 hours.
A bit rainy and cold. The city awaits the big moment.
Vamos Peñarol!

So the initial leg of the drama is successfully completed–prodigal son of Peñarol completes the odyssey home in time for the next leg..the 1st leg.  Stay tuned..

*: From that goal.com article about (the real) Forlan and tonight’s match–read to the quote at the end:

Dispatches

The last few days, June 27-29

August 10, 2010 — by Larry

[Editor’s note: This is the final installment in Coach Larry’s account of his trip to South Africa for WC2010.  See his previous SA dispatches here.]

Victoria Market - Durban, South Africa

Poor weather drives us away from the beachfront and up to Umhlanga to the mall for some shopping in the largest mall in the Southern Hemisphere.  Disappointingly, I cannot locate the indoor roller coaster, though it does feature a climbing wall and a goodly number of surf shops.  Over and after lunch we see the surprisingly entertaining Germans roll through the English as if every English defender has lost all sense of position.  The evening match and dinner prove not much more exciting, though it does horrifyingly display more inept refereeing.  Alas, we have worse ideas than an early bedtime, as tomorrow brings us Netherlands v Slovakia.

We make an early trip to Victoria Market, acquiring a mish-mash of souvenirs after walking well past the structure, getting a bit lost in the day market.  At least I have some peri-peri spice for the World Cup Final party back home (fyi, it was pretty good).  A quick beer over at Wilson’s Wharf gets us off our feet, but we return our treasures home to head to the match.  Back down the hill we walk.  We barely make it past the top of Florida Road before we start mixing with head-to-toe Orange clad Dutch fans.  The two miles go quickly as we continue to pick up jumpsuits, admiral outfits, curly wigs, and cow hats.  There was even an Houston Dynamo (Holden) kit thrown into the mix.  As the extreme wind nearly carries away my pre-match beer, I worry the action might get affected.

DispatchesUnited States

Durban-June25-26

July 21, 2010 — by Larry

[We are still going back in time to experience Coach Larry’s trip]

The drive into Durban went easily enough, and we arrived at the hotel around lunch.  We walked down to the beachfront and enjoyed the warm weather.  A mile of sandy beaches with swimmers and surfers, sand sculptors, and a wide promenade separate

Me, Frings in the middle, and the other German from our Jo'burg rikki

the FIFA fanfest area in the south and gorgeous Moses Mabhida stadium on the north end.  The casino and its food court are also in the north, hosting the secondary fanfest sponsored by Hyundai.  Hey look its Frings, and we all enjoy bidding,  “Arrivederci , Italia!” though regretting we will not be enjoying a Netherlands v Italy second round match on the 28th.

We decide to utilize the main fanfest for the Brazil v Portugal crunch on the 25th.  After we enjoy our toes in the sand and a lovely walk around the beachfront, FIFA opens the gates two hours before the match.  We sample some local foods, though somehow miss the bunny chow as we opt for more sausages.  

Dispatches

The drives: Car and Game (June19-24)

July 16, 2010 — by Larry

[Editor’s note: The latest installment in Coach Larry’s series of dispatches from South Africa]

Now it’s Saturday the 19th and we finally get in the rental around 9:30 am.  A friend has assured us the highways have European motorway quality.  Not the route we used on the N17 and N2.  Multiple sections over 100 km either have severe pothole warnings or are down to one alternating lane due to reconstruction.  Our promised 6.5 to 7 hour drive has reached that, but we remain a solid 2 hours away.  We switch drivers to handle dusk and dark, and the GPS steadies my uncertain hand at the wheel.  We reach our lodge, make one last wrong turn, and finally pull up in front of the main house.

We fill the next four days with hosted game drives, boats, and walks.  Ahh, actual warmth, winter here far more pleasant than on the Cape or in the highlands.  The new camera with 70-300mm zoom lens proves its worth.  Spectacular sights of all the animals,

See? Not kidding

first in the distance, then closer, until, finally, you practically have a chance to ride a zebra.  Oh, and all for just the two us most of the time.  The area soon to become a new Big Five park, once they complete the new roads and roll back the eucalytus forests of the paper producers.  The largest area of vegetated sand dunes  in the world should recover nicely over the next 10 years, especially if the decade long drought can come to an end.

What about the soccer you ask?  Well each day’s activities finish, conveniently, before the afternoon kickoffs of the simultaneous third matches for every team.  Our hosts join us in the lounge as we all root on the Bafana Bafana, hoping somehow they will pull of the miracle.  The next day they add to our celebration as Donovan slides joyously toward that corner flag.  We still see all of the action, enhanced by nightly visits by hippos and a buffalo named Reggie to the lodge’s watering hole.

Finally, we depart, return to the N2 heading south, and arrive in Durban.

DispatchesUnited States

USA v Slovenia, June 18-Ellis Park

July 6, 2010 — by Larry

Ellis Park

[Editor’s note: The latest installment in Coach Larry’s series of dispatches from South Africa takes us back to the dramatic USA v Slovenia game of June 18.]

After the easiest trip ever yesterday [June 17], which allowed for a quick 10 minute roulette session (single 0), today our hosts decide to switch it up.  We are dropped in downtown Sandton to catch a shuttle, at any of many numerous stops, which will take us to another shuttle.  We decide to leave early, as we hope to experience more of the atmosphere around this crucial match.  The extra time proves useful, as no police or locals have any knowledge at all about the location of these bus stops.  Within 30 minutes, the two of us now have 8 friends, all looking for “the stop for the shuttle to the shuttle to the park”.  A couple of Germans, one wearing a Frings kit, wave down a minibus taxi instead.  Nine of us pile in, the people already in it get out, and the driver agrees to take us all the way to the stadium.

Located much more in the city, say like Queens, the hills of Johannesburg prevent us from even glimpsing the light stanchions of Ellis Park before being dropped off.