Spurs at West Ham, Feb. 25th, 2013

This Is the One Where I Am Sincere, and Happy About That, and It's About Sports

         This is why I ditched my carpool, drove home from school really fast, threw on my strip and scarf, and waded through bullying Sam Allardyce-isms to finally, ecstatically reach a 2-3 result. What was the cost of getting home to watch? I missed the first two goals, but I waved my scarf and sang to "Nice One Cyril" while blazing north on the 99. The squad could not cope with West Ham's brutal pressing for the twenty first-half minutes I took in. Each time the ball landed at the feet of anyone but Parker, slow and back to goal, they were quite comprehensively muscled off. I had a snack at the half. Nothing changed, and Joe Cole scored in a way that seemed very embarrassing for all Spurs involved. It was as if they'd all peed themselves at once, and somehow another man profited from their collated incontinence. 

      But then Sigurdsson looked good! And Bale, of course, nailed it. Half on my unsteady, padded rocker, I half-screamed at his strike. Seated in the middle of the day 7,000 miles and a bunch of time zones from the action, yells of a more full-throated variety are difficult to muster. But if I didn't produce it, I felt it nonetheless. I gave a clap, texted my mom, made a drink with gin, and pretended like I hadn't still felt the nerves all through that extra time. Their historical deficiencies, the frailty and fear and proclivity for disappointment and inability to produce feelings of security, were unabated still by the Welshman's arrow. I knew that somehow Jaaskelainen himself would race/lumber to the opposition box and equalize for them, plunging his debt. 

     One man is basically scoring all the goals, if you haven't heard. Dembele's strike in Lyon and Sigurdsson's epic bundle seem exceptions to the rule. Adebayor is meant to be the tip of the proverbial spear, yet it is the poisoned barbs beneath the dulled head doing the damage. In the main, the work of the team instrument is being accomplished by a single component, though Lloris has been great at the way back. The others have ranged from forgettable, though not without very special moments of nice-ness, to more-than-solid, without being overly productive. No matter the individual quality of each member of the back four, any sort of attack turned towards them yields a disgusting amount of anxiety. Despite the quality of our center backs by themselves, I would like to see the unifying presence that will accompany Kaboul's return. Caulker is very good; Vertonghen is very good, at least when he plays at the center of the defense; Dawson is decent, and provides occasional offensive support, though the team's counter-attack is pitiful in its sloth. 

     Examples are often shown of the extent to which the fan "loves" the game. How do I love the game, or the team? Purchasing ephemera, singing songs, deliberating on having to drive an extra day, an extra eighty miles. After watching the (uggggh) VICE (aaaaaabaaarfff) "Rivals" video piece on the animosity between, or, more accurately, emanating from, A.F.C. Wimbledon and/upon M.K. Dons, I want to visit England even less. If the plane dropped me straight off at the Lane and picked me up two hours later I will have considered the trip complete. But how does the game, or team, love us back? Anxiety, frequent emotional hollowness, grumpy-ness, and having to get up very early on weekends to watch something you fear might be a crushing loss, and feels like a crushing loss even when it's not. A hangover deepening and sharpening as the goals from rather twinky fellows in red shirts pour in on your mom's birthday, when she wanted to hang out with you and watch soccer at a bar on a Sunday morning. And then once it's 5-2, and it'll be 5-2 the next time when you wake up at 4:30 on a Saturday before having drive an hour North to take a four-hour train to the Bay, you feel even worse about not getting a particular woman's phone number at the party the previous night, and the rest of the day is just awful. 

     But today felt great. The tying goal against Manchester United a couple months back, when I had to wait for it to show up OnDemand and the epic soup I'd crafted disappeared down the drain amidst overheated glass, inspired the same feeling. The conclusion of the dramatic narrative, where we get to win this time, where it's our dream and we're taking it the fuck back. Catharsis and amazement and satisfaction, even when broke off from the uncertain surrounding rubble, are what we ask for, and what is seldom delivered. Yet when I fell asleep out back after the match, The Wings of the Dove half place-held on my knee, the Spurs scarf still hung about my neck and I was smiling. 

It's a Party, It's a Party, It's a Party

PART TWO: So Hood-Rich

The teams mentioned in part one are the squads who I believe will flirt with relegation this season, some merely casting a saucy look while three others will wind up getting it pregnant behind the middle school. Though Newcastle’s start has been very bright I do not see their momentum lasting. With their lack of depth, especially in terms of scoring, a steep drop is all but a lock at this point. Additionally, their schedule up until this point has been very light, with Spurs posing the only real challenge. As for Arsenal, it’s altogether possible that van Persie’s goals will carry them back near the table’s summit, but fuck those guys anyway. Part two deals with the teams whose relegation ranges from “unlikely” to “possibly prohibited by the Magna Carta”.

EVERTON: They’re in pretty nasty shape at the moment but always finish strong. Including Drenthe in the first eleven will provide them with a sense of innovation so far lacking. With Coleman tearing along the sideline and Fellaini predatory in the center of the park Drenthe should have a decent amount of space to practice his witchcraft. They still have little in the way of goal scorers, but their midfield depth and typically solid central defense, not to mention the Dudley Moore stylings of adventurous wingback Leighton Baines, will see them through, albeit in a lower position than in the past few seasons.

FULHAM: Thank Gaia they snatched up Bryan Ruiz. That he should flop for them and not Spurs, who wisely avoided the Costa Rican, is a mitzvah. At over 10 million Euros and still unable to displace the persistently beyond-their-depth up-front duo of Andy “The Bald Damien Duff” Johnson and Bobby Zamora, I could see a Mauro Boselli-esque failure on the cards. His chipped goal against Everton was a rare bright spot. No matter who coaches them they’re still built to draw rather than to win, a lack of ambition that paints them as more of a Championship-level squad. Maybe a switch to Serie A would help? They’re essentially the Chievo of West London at this point. I’m pretty sure Brede Hangeland’s nickname is “The Flying Donkey”.

STOKE CITY: Stoke are for real. Clearly evolving from the Neanderthal template of their first few years in the Premier League, these homos erectus have incorporated enough Lilliputian ingenuity into their land-of-giants framework to make a case for a strong, perhaps top-8 finish. Pennant and Etherington work very well on the wings, crossing into the likes of Crouchy and Kenwyne Jones. Looming without being lumbering both up front and in the back, their spine is something of a concern as they lack a real playmaker in the middle.

NORWICH CITY: The chances of Norwich maintaining their early-season form are very small. The chances that Canaries supporters will adapt “Squalor Victoria’ by The National into a stadium anthem? Hopefully 100%! Whereas Swansea’s naïveté became all too apparent in their late draw to Wolves, Norwich’s resolve at Anfield pegs them as genuinely worthy of the big time. The back four have holes, especially the unwieldy Leon Barnett, but Hoolahan and Pilkington and Holt have shown decisiveness and bravery in their forward movement. The fact that Holt isn’t reeeealy built like a rugby player but still manages to look like one should come in handy when facing teams scared of walrus faces. They’ve demonstrated laudable composure, if not many points, from their tough early fixture list, a quality which bodes well for their survival.

LIVERPOOL: They’ve spent a bunch, not produced many correspondingly quality results and lack steel at the back. The folly of simultaneously signing young flyweight midfielders Henderson, Downing and Adam without adding to their frequently mangled defense isn’t in the same realm as the Eagles picking up DRC and Nnamdi at the same time in terms of befuddling redundancy, but like Andy’s refusal to upgrade the linebacking corps it’s been a major impediment. Suarez has yet to gel with Carroll and as such his sneaky runs frequently find no outlet. Additionally, he’s a total bitch. Liverpool are still smarting from the departures of Lil’ Masch and Xabi Alonso in the middle, with Lucas still unconvincing as a one-man replacement for Alonso’s passing vision and Mascherano’s balding dickery.

WEST BROM: Shane Long is out for a while, which hurts them a lot but coming off consecutive local derby wins and getting the killer Peter Odemwingie back should paper the cracks. I think that Foster is a terribly underrated keeper, though the number of rad saves he makes may be something of a consequence of WBA’s suspect rearguard. They’ll have to make do with Brunt or Cox playing off Odemwingie until Long returns but this is a squad with a very nice combination of young talent and old bastards who have nothing better to do.

TOTTENHAM HOTSPUR: I think we can finish fourth this year, above Liverpool and the unfortunately improving Arsenal. We should’ve had fourth last year but Champions League activity and the absence of quality strikers hurt immensely in that awful run of draws against the Blackpools and West Hams of the league. That same feeling crept in as we held on tenuously at Blackburn this past weekend but it’s a sign of how much Adebayor has helped that we actually kept the lead. Despite not getting on the score sheet the threat he provides up front kept Blackburn somewhat honest, at least compared to the negligible danger represented by Pav or Peter “The Human Jackknife” Crouch. Picking up a center back, if not two, is a certain necessity in the upcoming transfer window. Kaboul has been decent but lord help us if Corluka or Bassong have to become regular replacements in the long absences of Gallas, Dawson and, inevitably and very unfortunately, King.

CHELSEA, MANCHESTER UNITED AND MANCHESTER CITY: They will all probably stay up. Right? Chelsea’s certainly lost at least a step from their title-winning three-peat but will most likely hold on to third as Spurs manage to fuck it up towards the end of the year. If City hold their nerve the title is theirs, especially given the unsteady construction United’s midfield. But really, whatever. The struggle for survival is decidedly more compelling than the plod to the title. A really great, wealthy team from a very tiny pack will win. The relegation battle, on the other hand, will be contested by a plethora of squads with varied economic and historical profiles. It’s a race where every goal registered in the “for” column counts as a seismic victory, every “against” shipped results in crippling horror for thousands of supporters. Contrast this to the title race, where the eyes of billionaire owners dart instead between red and black. Grit, guile, faith and luck will guide the chosen, whose victory is in not-losing instead of winning. And, lest we ever happen to forget, Spurs have a game in hand.