July 14, 2006
Bruce Arena: In Memorial
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July 05, 2006
Tomato, Basil, and Greasy Divers
The World Cup is drawing to close, and I'm in something of a bind. With Germany's devastating overtime loss to Italy yesterday, the last of my favored teams exited the tournament. The hearty Dutch are back with their windmills and the underachieving Spaniards underachieved. Even my outside picks -- the spunky South Koreans, the impassioned Ivory Coast, and the Aussie comeback kings -- have gone. And the expected winners left early, too; no more does Ronaldinho gallop about the pitch, twitching his tail.
I will cheer for France this afternoon -- not really because of Zidane, but for the racial realities with which the French starters confront their nation -- yet I have a sinking feeling that Italy just might win it all come Sunday.
Yes, sinking. I do not want Italy to win.
I have tried to talk myself out of this invidiousness. I have written lists; I have catalogued the good and noble reasons to cheer for the Italians. Yet it is all to no avail:
1. I think Rebekah Forman is a good person.
(True, but she is not a full-blooded Italian.)
2. I like their wine.
(Yes, but Argentinian wine is even better...)
3. They have produced some of the greatest artworks of all time.
(Undeniable. On the other hand, my graduate work is in contemporary art, and the Italians haven't done much of note in the last fifty years.)
4. I love their food. Pasta. Pesto. Pizza.
(I cannot argue against this. Yet we know that if my stomach cannot convince my heart, then we are dealing with an issue of utmost gravity and darkness.)
I cannot deny the strength of their defense. I cannot dismiss the beauty of their goals. Still, I remain unmoved. I cannot find a moving story of adversity overcome in the Italian players. I am incapable of churning up some vicarious sense of national pride when their national league is embroiled in scandal and corruption. When the Italian team begins to the play, it is as if someone has scattered a bucket of dramatically-gifted mackerels across the pitch.
Perhaps I am wrong. Perhaps the Italians are footballers of a most delicate nature, so sensitive to the slightest of seismic changes that the most minute shift of atoms renders them incapable of remaining on their feet.
No.
Oh, reason compels, yet the heart has its reasons reason cannot know. Tuffatori grassi.
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June 23, 2006
World Cup Inspired, Sideline Respected
Noel has been playing in an indoor soccer league, and, at their game last night, he and his teammates were determined to redeem American soccer. Unfortunately, in the first few minutes of play, Noel had a poor first touch which promptly knocked the ball out of bounds.
"Don't be Demarcus!" I yelled from the side.
He played much better after that.
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June 06, 2006
Avoiding World Cup Widowhood
Ladies, the World Cup kicks off this Friday. Do you know where your man will be?
It is a little cruel, isn't it? Since soccer is shown so rarely at respectable hours on available channels, your fellow has been slowly accumulating an extraordinary capacity to watch folks tear about the pitch. It's unlikely that he'll grow weary any time soon.
But let's be frank. Do you really want to drag out the weeds and acquiese to being a World Cup Widow while the rest of the world is having a big party? I mean, practically the entire population of Brazil will be cutting it up in Cologne for the next month. Live a little.
As with any other sporting event, the solution is a delicate balance of education and emotional attachment. To this end, the Weichbrodts cheerfully present their own creation: Avoiding World Cup Widowhood -- a Guide for the Uninitiated. Download, print, and fill out. Hand it out at parties. Keep it buy the tv for quick distribution the unlearned you entertain. Sleep with it under your pillow.
Come July 9, you might just find your face paint running with tears of joy as you wildly wave a scarf in the air next to your better half.
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May 17, 2006
We Got Cable for 2:45 This Afternoon
...and we will be watching this this. When, and only when, the smoke has cleared and Ronaldinho's ponytail has galloped off the pitch, we will leave for St. Louis.
That's just how we roll.
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May 02, 2006
Confession: I Will Be On the Edge of My Seat at 6 pm Tonight
Over the past year or so, my happiness and home life have become increasingly influenced by the whims and wisdom of a man who looks like an orangutan. His name is Bruce Arena.
And so it comes to this: I am nervous, actually, honestly nervous, about the imminent selection of the World Cup roster.
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