I've been estranged for the better part of a year now about the fourth CL spot. Supporting Villa's quest to break the English caste system should be right up my alley in theory, however they've yet to entice me into actually walking down the damn thing. I've preferred squinting at and speculating from a distance instead. (This caution could be because there's a closet, located somewhere in the deepest & darkest annals of my affections, that contains just a minute amount of love for Arsenal; that's not a door for today, unfortunately.)
I almost did take that walk, though. Martin was this close to talking me into it. He at the least commanded my heightened attention, as from afar a man resembling a coke-binging sprite on the touchline often will. Every goal Villa scores (or concedes, but emphasis on the former), they are to him each their own unique rapture, though from what it's hard to say, for few are as safe in their posts as O'Neill is in his. Whatever the reason, his elations have now ceased where they should instead be finding most warrant, for his Villans have scored just five in their last eight and are gazing skyward towards fourth after so long staring down from it. The side could actually finish as they did a year prior if they don't find their bearings right quick; a promising vision, but sixth place and trophyless.
Most will be quick to condemn; I just kinda wanna know what the hell happened. The usual suspects are all there in broad daylight, primed for criticism, but when corralled they seem more than a little inaccordant. Everyone seems to wanna point the finger at his team selection in Moscow, as though there couldn't be a worse infraction than disrespecting a trophy and the arduous quest for, but then these same fingers will later direct themselves towards the squad's paucity and how ragged his boys' legs have run. So what should O'Neill have done, exactly? Conceded the UEFA Cup back in July by playing the nobodies then? I look at their beating at Liverpool's hands today, and I see things through more modest and specified lenses.
I see 6'3 Alberto Riera turning 5'9 Nigel Reo-Coker into his bitch on one flank; I see 6'0 Luke Young playing out of position on the opposite; I see a fit Nicky Shorey (not to mention Zat Knight, who could shove the 6'3 Cuellar over onto Riera) languishing on the bench entirely, an all-too-common occurance for the smallest squad in the PL. Warming that same bench I see a 22 year-old Gabby Agbonlahor, saving his energy after the exhausting one-game-in-two-and-a-half-weeks schedule he just labored through; I did not see Emile Heskey do absolutely anything of note before being yanked besides drift out left and clog any drains Ashley Young would normally flow through. I see five-nil from four set pieces and a Pepe Reina masterstroke (of which should be regarded at Delap-like levels and defended accordingly from now on, it's such a weapon), and I see said goalkeeper saving a duo of beyond solid Carew attempts when the score read much more favorably.
But most importantly? I see Martin O'Neill. I see Old Trafford looming in a fortnight's time, coinciding with an improbable and unthinkable hiccup in Man Utd's blessed step, which are either the best or worst circumstances to play there under. The tactical miscues above, I suspect them abberant, and to be eliminated in but a game's time. There's work to be done, yes, but after everything this year, I just don't see Villa collapsing with but a whimper in late March, their story to be forgotten faster than it could have ever been conceived. Not in 08/09--it wouldn't seem right. Don't get complacent, Gunners. It's not over quite yet.
One of, if not the only, positive parallel between the MLS and the American sporting climate? Expansion, kids. And so, a diary of the Sounders inaugural game.
6:19 pm, pacific time. God, that guy had great hair. Just don’t see spikes that committedly big at other sporting events. Sounders 1, OKC Thunder 0.
6:30 Wonder the last time Qwest had that much energy pumping through it. Probably wasn’t for a Seahawks game. Kickoff.
6:36 Exactly as you’d expect from an expansion team’s first time out; lots and lots of midfield dispossession. The green & blue looks sharp in HD, though.
6:41 I bet Sounders left back Zack Scott is seething about missing his Zags play tonight in the NCAA tourney. Good thing he won’t have anything to do besides chase Dane RicharOOOOOOH SHIT A GOAL! EL CABALLITO DE COLOMBIA FREDY MONTERO!!!!!! GOOOOOOOOOOOOOOL!!!!!!!!!! LOS SOUNDERS 1, LOS TOROS ROJOS 0!
6:44 That was absolutely the best thing that could’ve happened for this game. Were they interpreting a caffeinated Latin-American centipede for their celebration, though? Probably gonna wanna work out those triumphal kinks next practice, guys, before the goals dry up.
6:51 Is his name really Jhon Kennedy Hurtado?
6:55 Brad Evans takes Cepero five-hole, Sounders 2, city of Seattle 1,000, Red Bulls 0, OKC Thunder -3. Weren’t New York the Western Conference Champs last season? Good one all around, playoff system.
6:58 Just because you’re 40 doesn’t mean you get to wear tight yoga pants, Kasey.
7:03 Requisite “Jhon Kennedy used his hands” joke here.
7:07 It’s really a shame no one on the Sounders looks like he’s in a grunge band. Just seems like such an easy get; hopefully Sigi takes a trip to Argentina sometime in the near future. (edit: 'twas later mentioned that the team in fact took a trip down there; remains to be seen why the roster wasn't adjusted during the proceedings.) 7:11 I’d take exception to the Pacific Northwest receiving three football clubs in three years, but I didn’t have my basketball team raped and pillaged out from under me. (Portland has the Blazers, but remember too that Vancouver lost the Grizzlies. Evens out in some way, I think.) 7:15 Alliance For Progress be damned, Jhon Kennedy is manhandling a Colombian in Seattle tonight. Juan Pablo, ¿dónde estás?
7:17 Halftime. One wonders if NY is this bad, or if Seattle’s adrenaline is simply that pronounced. I’m not, but one might.
7:30 I can’t put into words how much I hate that Messi chests the game down in that PES commercial. 7:34 Second half. The field has stripper glitter all over it. 7:39 Good number crunching, ESPN. 12 touches, 9 moving away from goal for Ángel. My sister’s fiancé Rigo is also a dead ringer for a lovechild between JPA and Shakira. ¡Viva Colombia y sus cejas! 7:45 I’ve thoroughly convinced myself the Red Bulls jerseys have a goofy little innocuous zipper like a Patagonia sweater where that patch of red is on their collar. 7:48 JP Dellacamera asks the question I’ve been wondering since the second goal; where exactly does Freddie play if this form stays true?
7:52 Adam Scott torpedoes through JPA’s ankles like he talked shit on John Stockton’s shorts. Somebody let him know the Zags advanced tonight, stat.
7:56 Can I be the first to make the Lebron-Zakuani comparison? If for no other reason than both are first-picks out of Akron (even if Steve’s actually from the Congo)—that’s enough to start, right? No? 8:00 Keller is finally afforded a chance to test the elasticity of his comfort pants. 8:04 Montero loots Mike Petke of his dignity, gets his brace, gives me my adjourning cue. Sounders 3, NYRB 0, city of Seattle 7,640, Clay Bennett - ∞, justice 1. Hope it helped a little, Seattle; lord knows you deserved the hell out of it.
The second in a dozen pages has fallen off the calendar, and I’d foolishly presumed that tumbling right alongside February would be a London demigod and it’s usual procurement of Champions League football. Much to my dismay, then, was Stoke’s resurrection Sunday at Villa Park, which occurred about halfway through said presumption rounding into literary form. Congratulatory meditations will now have to be put on ice, and instead, I come in reprieve to the afflicted; bearing analysis of Arsenal’s plight through sheer irreverence and balderdash.
Precursor: I suspect I might be preaching to any number of choirs, but “hip hop” (used as an adjective here, and in quotes not out of buttoned-down ignorance or disdain but out of undying respect and for lack of a better or appropriate term) is the adhesive that binds today’s American sporting culture together amidst the countless pratfalls colluding to bring it all crashing down. Everyone’s definition and criterion surely differs, but the impressions left are canyons regardless. The NFL has it in spades; the NHL's almost completely bereft of. The NBA is redefining it on a daily, hourly, oh what the hell, minutely basis, perhaps even more than the actual genre of music itself does. Exhaustively numerous pieces documenting sport and hip hop’s symbiosis can be found elsewhere; what’s necessary here is a simple understanding of the following:
-A person’s hair, & the coordination, assemblage and semiotics of, much as in any sociocultural niche, is of near-peerless influence within hip hop’s cause.
-Arsenal have the finest coiffure collection in England, if not the world, and have this season in particular shown an intensified penchant for experimentation.
-Arsenal also register as the most hip hop football club in England, if not the world.
Those last two are indeed indebted to but not solely dependent on each other, for a well-coiffed club can fail entirely in being hip hop, and vice-a-versa. But it’s the Gunners with which my intrigue is piquing, and so without further ado.
Emmanuel Adebayor
Musical Bilocation: Brooklyn, '89
If ever the massive potential in Arsenal's fountain of afrocentricity floweth over (and I say this because, in case you hadn't already discovered, football sits rather low on hip hop's totem pole), one needn't look further for the undamming culprit than this here man. The Togolese wristbands, the dance with Henry, the antelopic strides, all of it--but really, it's that hair, an ever-shifting testament to the glory of all that is afroed. One could be compelled to start anywhere, from the pipe-cleaner-thin 'rows after the World Cup, to the subsequent hi-top, trapezoidal fro from the back half of last season. Before injury this term, he'd gone for something in-between, but in general he's been but a shell of last year's romping statement of arrival, enough to where I'd suggest something different up there, something raw, unabashed. His hamstring looks set to heal in the next week or so, and not a minute too soon, as another in-league nil-nil might cause the Emirates to implode entirely.
Robin Van Persie
Musical Bilocation: Glasgow, '82 / your local mall, present day.
Up until about December, he looked prepped and primed for his 4th grade yearbook picture, in all its gelatinous and vert-ramped splendor. Then young Robin was stamped a miscreant, and a homewrecker; he countered with a fervently rapturous Fuck You brace at the Bridge, and followed with what’s become the ultimate in new-leaf turning, a fresh 'do (see: Iverson, Allen). And a mohawk—genuine, no faux or fro, buzzed sides and all—to boot. Since the switch, Van Pershie has taken the team lead in goals, scored a sublime penalty in the ever-increasingly-important CL against Roma , skipped from 4th grade up to 10th, and most importantly, has preserved his health amidst copious compatriotic casualties (knock on wood), fooling the public into forgetting we once knew him as Mr. Glass. Seems to be the exception to the rules here, including the resounding lack of hip hop present.
Samir Nasri
Musical Bilocation: Orlando, '98
Oh, dear. Who sanctioned this? This is the most recent of the adjustments, and is triumphantly the worst. My ears are struck deaf to the season opener against West Brom; my eyes blind to the victorious brace against Man U. Frosted tips are the bane of a follicle’s existence, where style goes to wither & die, humbled & embarrassed by the monster it’s created. Stay a Franc, dear son, & don’t let any bubblegum Aryans beguile you, for it’s Zizou’s name they whisper when your feet and ball entwine.
Bacary Sagna
(not so) Musical Bilocation: Cairo, 40ish BC
Will and does channel any, every, and all eccentricity through those blonde beaded curtains, leaving but a studious, award-winning, and frankly kinda boring-in-his-assuredness right back underneath. But any male attempting a grand theft eponym of Bo Derek surely can't be held all that accountable for his club's strife this year, so onward.
Nicklas Bendtner
Musical Bilocation: Hollywood, '87
Oh, sweet Nicklas, how you tangle webs and addle wits with your punctuations of effrontery. You fastened your name synonymous with the berry Vapors; you publicly fashioned yourself hip hop enough to garner guarantee in the Arsenal eleven. But I thought I'd been in their presences enough to know a whigger when I saw one; you've got me flummoxed to a foreign degree. Pink boots are well and dandy if when embracing your feet it's as though they sense the heightened audacity present and perform accordingly. Merely having confidence in oneself isn't enough, either; it's nothing but down-home bullshit if both before and after self-deification your game isn't cashing the checks your mouth's written. And though pronouncing the only superior to a pink boot an allover diamond incrustation screams hip hop, a blonde glamhawk--tested for any duration--screams "I was at Vixen on Sunset in '87, man. I was there."
Kolo Touré
Musical Bilocation: Brooklyn, '89, with Ade
Another in midseason transitions, Kolo arrived with his scalp covered in charred alfalfa sprouts, surely to either promote the organic jheri curl or veil an unsightly head wound, either of which would explain why his temples were shaved concurrently. This was hip hop at it’s most beautifully unkempt, a Jules Winfield guest-spot on a Jungle Brothers demo—only for the Ivorian to lose form, strain his calf, put in a transfer request, brandish and later bury the hatchet with Billy Gallas, and revert to a modest close crop, which I suppose is better than just shaving your head, but still. His form seems as though it's sharpened, though he was suspiciously troubled by Andy Johnson on Saturday, so the jury’s still out here.
Andrei Arshavin
Musical Bilocation: So many
When Arsene told fans he was going down to the store of convenience and asked if they'd like anything, near everyone listening said something to the tune of "central defense & midfield, preferably the experienced kind, no almonds". He instead went to the Russian deli, haggled for & purchased the finest vodka available, and liquored everyone up enough to forget their original requests. What's more, the vodka then decided that Londonians trained in the barbering arts weren't up to snuff and so arranged on his dime to fly his own stylist out. And at the sake of personifying inanimate objects any further, the lad's had only two games, so I haven't an opinion other than hopefully time & growth will be bringing with it more than simply the above exercise in (massively expensive) function. Though from previously premeditated stylings, who's to be sure?
Manuel Almunia
Musical Bilocation: London, 1982 / Various towns in upper central California, i.e. Santa Rosa, present day
Jens Lehmann was (is) hip hop. Jens Lehmann, as you should already know, was once so incensed at being substituted off at the break after allowing three behind him that he right then and there boned out, in full keeper’s kit (circa ‘93, no less), paying for & riding the tram back home. Jens Lehmann did this just a fortnight ago. (If confused, quickly imagine someone pulling off a teammate’s headband in the NBA with such malice.)
Manuel Almunia has had his hair this way for almost two years. Eccentricity is an evolving trait; often if one chooses to liberate their quirk through the hair on their head (Lehmann didn't) they do so in swift and anonymous intervals (see: Cisse, Djibril; Rodman, Dennis). I’d have trouble believing someone bleached their hair on anything but a whim, but to then decide upon that as your staple, your trichologic calling, unto which you give your good, unsullied name? It’s the reason why Marshall Mathers, damned hard as he tried, could never fully be counted as hip hop, and that that had nothing to do with the color of his skin. Manuel Almunia isn’t hip hop, nor is he trying to be, nor, do I reckon, does he know on what plane we’re even discussing the phrase; the recent photo of him walking his pink-drenched terrier is more than incriminating. But Arsenal calls for something more, more than counterfeit idiosyncrasy, & definitely more than this Billy Idol impostor.
Arsène Wenger
Hark, the pundit's murmurs are in ascent, to levels of which our ears can now fully percieve. My perceptions of their diction go something like this: not only has their favorite French New Waver misplaced his dear plot, he's now searching for it in all the wrong drawers. But I shan't be that quick to carp or condemn; for nary a pundit has led his troops into the flames Thirty-Eight times and emerged unscathed every damn one of them. But maybe, just maybe, the Professor could use a trip down to his local salon, if only to reignite whatever spark may indeed lay dormant. Hell, with the degree in engineering the better hands for the job might actually be his very own. It's bequeathed success for an aforesaid few in his troupe, the catharsis cut; I'm not suggesting anything rash, but it's not as though the Parisian schoolboy look is solving the world's fiscal catastrophe or anything (or even catching whomever stakes claim to fourth this season).
And to think, I'm not even a Gooner.
(Postcursor: Had intentions to add ¡el capitan Cesc!, except he's both out another month and is probably the actual reason why the current Arsenal glow of a different, tamer hue.)
