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Barca

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Second halves are rarely at the midpoint of anything. You know they are upon you not by a calendar, but by a set of unseen cracks in your very fiber and standing that seem to widen all at once — for a man, for instance, it’s the pretty girl who now looks right through you, the sudden back spasm, the name of that childhood sports hero suddenly no longer on the tip of your tongue. You can survive a second half for a while, even thrive, but there is nothing to prepare you for that first gust of chilly wind, the blow to your confidence delivered by the quick loss of things you took for granted.

For Barça 2009-10, we can now declare the real first half of the season over — the unbeaten one, the largely injury-free one, the one in which we were serene about the smallish gap between ourselves and our perpetually fretful archrival. (You would thought that 5 points was 50, so unconcerned did everyone — except Madrid — seem about the rest of the season.) Players are now going down like Columbus has brought smallpox upon them: Now Xavi is out for 15 days and Keita a month — throw those logs on the pyre along with the bodies of Yaya Toure, Dani Alves, Abidal and Chygrynskyi. The lead is down to 2 points after yesterday’s universally foreseen loss to Atletico — a 6-6-9 team that shockingly dominated Barca in midfield and made Carles Puyol look about 75 years old on their counterattacks. Phil Ball says neither Barca nor Real would be “suicidal” if they lost La Liga, so long as they won the Champions League…but if you thought Messi cried after failing to defend the Copa del Rey, they’re going to have to build an ark to navigate the sea of tears if Real’s smash-and-grab spree is vindicated in the end over the patient tutelage of La Masia. Death Star is in our rear-view mirror again, and gaining fast.

So one defeat can turn a major chord minor; yes, it can. Which is not to say that Barça shouldn’t have won the match — they should have, handily. The one difference between last year and this year hides in plain sight: goal scoring. 68 after 22 matches last year; 53 after 22 this year. Goals came in swarms last year, in Everlasting Gobstoppers. The chances are there again this year, not quite as many…but the strikers are now missing; Pedro blew about four yesterday, and Ibra fumbled his customary two or three. As the old saying goes, strikers are paid to miss; but not this much, and not over the course of a season. We’ll have to wait for a new second half for that to change.

(Image credit: piterart/Flickr through a Creative Commons license.)

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Why I Won’t Be Watching Brett Favre on Sunday

by Bob Lalasz on January 22, 2010

in Barca, Football

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My colleague and Packer-fan-in-arms Michael Cade is through with Brett Favre, disgusted, after a long love affair. It’s a nice piece. If you haven’t been a Packer fan your entire life, it’s hard to imagine how some of us feel about what’s happened this year. Hatred, bitterness, disbelief, shame, despair — all of these; more. There are almost no parallels in sports — Luis Figo going from Barcelona to Real Madrid, maybe. We need a huge composite German adjective of Fassbinderian desire and soul-sickness to even start talking about this.

Brett Favre might have been the reason I stopped watching football. He was certainly one of the reasons I continued watching football for as long as I did. And now we’re the ex-boyfriend, and our girlfriend is fucking our estranged brother, and we can’t stop imagining his hands all over her, and what she does to him, what she stopped doing with us. That wasn’t supposed to happen — Brett Favre grew, and we didn’t? Are you kidding me? We can’t imagine ourselves without him. There are no Green Bay Packers anymore. He became us and then took our selves away.

It’s pretty to think, as Mike suggests, that there was once Good Brett, Our Brett, and then Daddy died and Brett lost his superego. Lots of people feel this way. It’s critical to think that we weren’t wrong about him, that he was once who we thought he was: Our son, our brother, too ingenuous to hide even the dollar he’d borrowed from our wallet, no more complicated than the mowing rows of the Mississippi tractor…almost see-through. It reminds me of Tiger, in a way.

Now he’s just an amazing ageless wonder — isn’t that the narrative? Sports narratives are so impoverished these days. The single salty tear so easy to conjure. I’m done with him, too, but I’m done with football completely. I watched the last quarter of the Packers/Steelers, and Roethlisberger threw that perfect pass at the end to beat us, and everybody could see it coming, and I thought: This game is too easy. Way too easy to score; way too easy to have my heart broken. No more.

(Image credit: Emery O/Flickr through a Creative Commons license.)

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Guardiola Looks Not Elsewhere

by Bob Lalasz on December 31, 2009

in Barca, Football

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ESPN’s Matthias Krug reports that Guardiola played golf with old friend and teammate Ronald de Boer in Doha after the Club World Cup and told de Boer he’s not burnt out at all, loves the team, and thinks there’s more success ahead.

You know what that means. So let’s move on Mark Hughes, shall we, before Bolton snaps him up…

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Barcelona 1-0 Espanyol: No Ambien Required

by Bob Lalasz on December 13, 2009

in Barca, Football

Votes for Catalan independence. The Club World Cup. The Champions League. A Spanish conspiracy to keep Barca exhausted by forcing their flight to Abu Dhabi to stop in Turkey, meaning they’ll be on the plane for 11 straight hours. Amidst all that melodrama, who has time for a little derby (which, Joan LaPorta said earlier this week, isn’t even a derby anymore, since Espanyol moved outside the Barcelona city limits)?

Pep says the team is shattered, and no wonder — 7 games in 21 days. Yesterday was the worst game they’ve played in over a year, as flabby as your average NFL game. Espanyol didn’t get a sniff, but then again, they didn’t have any real strikers, and neither should have Ibra — maybe the best thing you can say about the dive by “Little Bit of a Naughty Boy” Xavi to win the PK (see video) is that he was too tired to keep running. Yes, winning in Abu Dhabi would complete the best year in club soccer history. But at the expense of what’s ahead?

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Deportivo la Coruna 1-3 Barcelona: The Last Pass

by Bob Lalasz on December 6, 2009

in Barca, Football

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Has Leo Messi plateaued? Everyone is thinking and almost writing that, while also protesting that it's almost churlish to think and write that, as they pull up short and blame Maradona's mind games. Messi's second in La Liga in goals scored — despite Maradona, despite exhaustion…isn't that everything? He scored twice yesterday and brilliantly dummied a pass that went to Ibrahimovic for the third. Case closed.

But he's no longer the king of the team, and his play speaks of insecurity over that (relative) fall. When he doesn't pass — which is even more frequent than last year, when he flagrantly ignored Samuel Eto'o so many times it looked like one of those unspeaking marriages where the parties use a son (probably Bojan) as a communication go-between for 30 years; when he dribbles into six defenders like a crazy gyroscope, wobbling through hits until someone finally steps in and steals his lunch…he looks no longer artistic but desperate, the boy at the adult party who doesn't understand why playing the same magic trick over and over isn't still charming everyone. When he does pass, it can be brilliant, and it can also be a buffoonish turnover, especially in midfield. The Barca fan keeps waiting for everything to click back into place, for the stars to rotate back half an inch and his crazy runs to once again yield their impossible and yet inevitable magic. Time passes for everyone — but even a 21-year-old Messi? Still, see the first goal yesterday in the video above — a thing of impossible, whirling, deadly beauty…

But it's Ibrahimovic's team now — yes, because of the El Clasico goal, but also because the game is so clearly on his boot when he has the ball. As Brian Phillips has pointed out, he stops better than anyone in the game. He stops, considers, calculates…then passes — almost always passes, and it is always the most creative, the most expressive, and the best possible pass, the mathematician an artist in the way that he solves the proof, the Way suddenly opening itself with extreme simplicity, his previous flamboyance at Inter now elegant, unadorned necessity. Our mouths agape. Who wouldn't be insecure around this? (Thierry Henry is practically invisible.) When Ibra did score yesterday, he smiled sheepishly, almost embarrassed at the largesse. He looks happy. Which, should it continue, means Barca always has a chance.

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Barcelona 1-0 Real Madrid: Sprites and Elves

by Bob Lalasz on November 29, 2009

in Barca, Digital, Football

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You never know which Dani Alves is going to show up — the good elf whose free kicks are sprinkled with fairy dust, or the bad elf whose crosses sail into orbit (or dent the Stamford Bridge Shed trying), who flops and whines and collects yellows like baseball cards. But in a match of boy sprites (Messi, Xavi, Kaka — even Ronaldo seemed a little smaller, just a bit more feminized than usual), it was the mischievous good elf Dani who finally slew the dragon, making Ibra appear like the right call after all. That and Puyol, putting his body in front of every bullet fired. He can’t run, but he sure can catch up.

Seriously, though, Real looked very dangerous for about 20 minutes, and then disappeared. Manuel Pellegrini whipped out an Arsene Wenger protractor during the press conference to prove that Real was the better team. Barca will certainly need more than two points lead going back to Madrid in April — but ask Messi, Pique, and Abidal which team blew more bunnies in front of the goal mouth. It was Real at its best this year versus Barca at not nearly its best, and if you can’t get the result under those circumstances you should not say anything at all.

BTW: New hashtag on Twitter: #fillinginforray, started by The Run of Play. Because Ray Hudson was apparently replaced by someone whose brain had been completely hollowed out by bovine spongiform encephalopathy and then stuffed like a turducken with cliches. And he didn’t mention crickets once, perhaps because the game was too important. But not too important for GOL TV to show us their 30-second “exclusive camera shots” of players warming up along the sidelines while the action was going on.

(Image credit: foxspain/Flickr through a Creative Commons license.)

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Soccer Line of the Year

by Bob Lalasz on November 21, 2009

in Barca, Football

"He's running like he's got 1,000 crickets in his pants."  — Ray Hudson on Lionel Messi.

(Only Ray knows how did the crickets got from singing Messi's praises from the trees to inside his pants…)

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The Remainder of Thierry Henry

by Bob Lalasz on November 21, 2009

in Barca, Football

It’s de rigueur to say that Thierry Henry’s reputation — as a sleek, sweet, sophisticated sportsman who floated somewhere slightly above mere mortaldom — is in permanent tatters after his double handball against Ireland. (It’s in fact de rigueur to reach for French phrases to describe Henry’s crime.) Some now argue he never fully deserved the adulation, as the Guardian’s Richard Williams seems to imply (”Henry was a hopeless captain at Arsenal and he is a hopeless captain of France”). Easier still is positing that such a knightly mein was impossible to live up to all along. (I grew up watching Robin Yount, who played 21 years without a dent in his persona, living in a modest rambler about a mile from my parents for that entire time in Milwaukee — in retrospect this all seems miraculous). Certainly, Henry should have called a foul on himself instead of running off to celebrate — there is rare precedent, as Williams points out. He is deservedly a leper in the football world, outside of the odd defense by Roy Keane. It will be interesting to see how Barcelona — the city, the fans — react to him now, some of the only fans in the world who deify beautiful losing (and fetishize justice) over winning at all costs.

What’s really interesting to me, though, is that these five seconds seem to have destroyed Henry as Henry. One can hardly think of him now — can hardly imagine him at all. He was all about high style, and this incident was a felony against that style, and it is now as if he is a word in the dictionary without a definition. It is the precise opposite of Maradona, for whom the Hand of God seemed retrospectively (and growingly retrospectively) in character. It is difficult to think about taking any pleasure in watching him slidestep his defender to sleep down the touchline before striking like a cobra, impossible to imagine chuckling at that outstretched hand gesture he makes when he’s been wronged by a non-call. What remains of Thierry Henry now? He will slink off to New York now, kind of like a louche comedian settling in for a years-long run in Branson, instead of coming in as a savior and a king. The worst part is that none of this now seems like a tragedy — as if he doesn’t even deserve that far a fall.

One other thing in the wake of l’affaire Henry: Yes, the game needs replay, but why isn’t anyone talking about how structurally bad football referreeing is? How you can’t possibly police a game with 22 players with only four officials — only three of whom are on or near the pitch? I’ve only been watching this game intently for a year now, but it is clearly the worst-officiated major sport in the world, obviously too big and fast for all but a handful of the people who watch over it. Instead, football culture romanticizes bad calls — they become more legendary than players or teams.

(Image credit: atomicShed/Flickr through a Creative Commons license.)

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