Batman without the bat signal. Superman sans the cape. Mr. Clean without that rough and tumble earring. Every hero needs an icon. And justice, a diffuse concept that is not easily grasped by materialistic minds, needs a hero. Always. Since the start of time; ’til the end of time.

UEFA’s Financial Fair Play is no different. A recent report shows over half of European soccer clubs uncomfortably in the red. What’s worse is that the “Jones effect” is in full swing – like an obnoxiously new rich gated community in a tax haven exurb, the top clubs spend and abuse credit to compete with one another to win. Obviously, not all debt is bad. To use a person analogy, many professionals rely on student loans to advance themselves and their families. However, the UEFA report shows more shady car dealers than doctors. More disparagingly, Platini, the lapboy of Blatter, does not instill fear. Imagine him in a batsuit, leaping from a rooftop into a dark alleyway to punch a mugger. However, after landing a dainty single blow, he buckles over and is gassed for air.

We tried a special Supporters’ Trust (FCDSTT) to stem debt, but it failed. UEFA needs a hero. Justice needs a face. And I believe it should be Pepe.

I start with two ironclad premises: (1) that justice requires force and (2) Pepe would easily defeat Bane, the antagonist in Batman comics and the forthcoming DKR film. I say both with certainty. As background, in the comics, Bane frees prior bad guys from jail that then battle and tire down Batman, and then Bane breaks Batman’s back. Pepe, however, would cut through Arkham Asylum like Azrael with a lightsaber. The Scrarecrow needs special gas to drive victims crazy. Pepe, from the long and proud line of f’ugly Brazilian born soccer players, needs only to smile & wink in order to melt your eyes to their sockets. The Joker would try to trap Pepe in a prisoner’s dilemma between saving one innocent or another, but halfway through the dialogue Pepe would probably stamp the Joker’s hand, face, and crotch, and then sarcastically applaud the real life police force.

In sum, Pepe is the perfect tool of force to enforce UEFA Financial Fair Play.

Of course, this begs the question – does UEFA really want to enforce these rules?

Logistics would also be a dilemma. Obviously, as the anti-hero who enforces the law but does not abide by “due process” or “arrest warrants” or other major inconveniences for police, Pepe couldn’t be on the UEFA payroll per se. They could probably spare for a Pepe symbol, but may need to channel some funds via an offshore trust or Cayman bank account. They couldn’t give him any awards, but they could half-assed attempt to catch him but look the other way if they ever got close.

The results would be terrific. If anybody can bring an end to the coming backdoor old boys bogus business deals that will soon eviscerate Financial Fair Play, it’s Pepe. Did the Sheik’s Uncle’s business just agree to sponsor City in a record deal? Oh. Wait. Pepe dangled him from the top of the Burj Khalifa until he agreed to tear up the contract. Did City just agree to sign your club’s favorite player? Not so fast. Pepe broke his ACL, MCL, and even a metatarsl for good measure (while he lay prone on the camilla and was being carried off the field).

Of course, the boo birds will blow out of proportion Pepe’s pasts indiscretions. If anything, the time he’s sitting out and serving a suspension would be ideally utilized to enforce FFP provisions. Pepe would bring some needed sharp edges to the corners of the FFP paper tiger. Sure, once Pepe attains perfect 100% compliance then the absence of credit will dry up opportunities for advancement by middle class clubs, but that’s a problem for another day. For now, the bane of football’s existence is debt.

Granted, the greatest problem with European soccer clubs is preposterous labor costs. However, this may actually play to Pepe’s advantage. If he can just end the career of 3-4 players per team, then he could dramatically reduce payroll costs around La Liga and in the Champions League. There are less violent means, such as a salary cap and luxury tax, but that’s stuff for the UEFA folk, not the caped Pepe crusader. Like a heat-sinking missile, he will seek and destroy all potential debt and future FFP problems.

There are two simple facts: FFP needs teeth. And nobody can stamp out free-wheelers like Pepe. Thus, in our darkest hour, we should follow Alfred’s advice and turn to a man that we don’t fully understand.

“Take that, hand that was about to sign a contract at unsustainable wages! Justice!”

Have heart Real Madrid faithful, the Phoenix shall rise from the ashes. Barcelona‘s roster will age, wither, and eventually lose to us on a more regular basis. However, until then, we must cope. Seven points give us solace, but not joy. Rumors of Mou’s departure stalk our nightmares. Only one thing can brighten these dark times: laughing at amusing and ill conceived pictures.

In that respect, I present the first ever Futfanatico Caption Contest with the grand prize being the honorary title of “First Ever Champion of a Futfanatico Caption Contest.” Put that on your Linkedin Profile and smoke it! But seriously, here are the rules:

You have seen the above picture. Now, write something funny. More specifically…

1) Be Good-Natured.

I don’t want to ruin your view of life, but I heard that this one time a fan got angry about something about his or her soccer team. In reality, said fan hates his or her life and projects that aggression onto unsuspecting and well paid professional athletes. Pity them. This blog is a well guarded preserve of the passive aggressive, so an unacceptable entry would be “Xavi and Iniesta suck and shit.”

Here are some acceptable entries: “Win at the Bernabeu & Three Thumbs Up!” Or perhaps: “We won, & now we dance….the Macarena.” Also: “Xavi Silences Madrid Crowd; Goes for Swing in Banana Hammock.” You can cut a little closer, perhaps with: “We Lost the League…But Won the Bernabeauty Contest Hands Down.” And lastly: “Greg Lougannis Eat Your Heart Out.”

2) Don’t be Heterosexist.

The key aspect of this picture is a short, hairy dude in a speedo giving the thumbs up. Xavi might as well be on Semana Santa in Monaco. I don’t want any gay jokes and I will be moderating the comments to that effect. All sports involve some degree of same sex bonding, but displays of affection should not be construed or misconstrued to prefer one sexual orientation over another.

3) The Contest Closes At An Undefined Point In Futureland.

My real job has deadlines. I hate them. Thus, this pic caption contest will continue ad infinitum. I prefer that you add your entry to the comments of this post. However, you can send them to me at futfanatico (at) gmail (dot) com. You can also tweet me them, you lazy bastard you. In one weeks’ time, special guest judge Dr. Moschlavius Gumperteer will return to name the top entries and winner. And maybe even give some useful SEO tips! So put on your creative thinking cap and then be ready to dust off that black hat!

Note: this pic was spotted by the eagle eyes of Neil Sandwich. He regularly contributes to the collection of artists formerly known as Surreal Football: the FCF.

Awards are for the vain folk that feel the need to be rewarded for greatness. An award, usually a piece of precious metal, is handed to an individual, usually a sentient homo sapiens, based on that individual’s contributions to a particular endeavor. Subjectivity underlines the entire process. Humans clasp at the material to the detriment of the abstract. In soccer, we look at goals and dribbles and sometimes assists. Messi and Cristiano Ronaldo scored a boatload of goals last term. In the attacking third, both cause havoc. However, neither Messi nor Cristiano is a Champion of Europe nor the World with his national team. Both offer immediate impact at various moments during a game, yet disappear for spells.

I don’t think that Xavi deserves a soccer award because this material token would cheapen his accomplishments. Xavi is transcendent – we ironically love him as a footballer for transporting us to a place outside football while we watch him play football. He is the consummate non-footballer footballer.

And here is some proper praise (from a Real Madrid fan, no less). Spain and Barcelona bask in the glow of a golden generation. Aside from Xavi, David Villa, Gerard Pique, Andres Iniesta, Sergio Busquets, Xabi Alonso, Iker Casillas, and for a time Fernando Torres, have all lit the world aflame. The passing. The technique. The pivots. The plucked eyebrows. The five foot seven frames. Spain’s national team overcame its longstanding inferiority complex to become giants of the game.

More importantly, Xavi has presided over an unprecedented run of Champions League glory for Barcelona. Yet titles, like awards, make for neat paragraphs in history books but fail to tell the story. How these teams win deserves analysis and praise. In Spanish, their style of play has been referred to as tiki-taka. However, I want to move beyond the literal. For me, Barcelona and Spain play a “rolling thunderstorm over the Great Plains” attacking game.

In any savannah, you can see a thunderstorm from miles away. In the distance, dark grey clouds swallow the sky and choke off all sunlight. Slowly but surely, the clouds approach. You soon hear the rumbling of thunder. A single raindrop falls on your nose. You are Iker Casillas vs. Barcelona. Or any goalie vs. Spain. From 60 yards away, you see the opposing back line pass the ball like pinball wizards. Your forwards get tired. Then, from 30 yards, the opposing midfield inches towards you. You gulp and pray the lightning finishes you off quickly and painlessly.

And Xavi is at the heart of this maelstrom.

You get the feeling that no youth coach ever pulled Xavi aside and said “You know, the point of the game is to, like, score goals, right?” How can I say this so confidently? Because Xavi’s game is passing, spacing, and continuity. Nobody outpasses Xavi. Nobody. Other players dribble and deke and shoot and complain and whine. Xavi’s goal is to be the omnipresent Point B between Points A & C, his two teammates.

The Iberian Universe revolves around Xavi, yet he abhors the spotlight as nature abhors a vacuum and I abhor vacuum cleaners. At the Balon d’Oro, he sits uncomfortably on a couch, probably wearing a suit his mother selected for him. Pomp and circumstances mix with his demeanor and style of play like water & oil. However, unlike the awkward Messi and insecure Cristiano, one gets the sense Xavi is at comfort with his discomfort. His personality fits his effect on a game – it is dark matter, indiscernible to the naked eye but everywhere.

The greats in all fields transcend their respective areas. They do not break boundaries, they make you forget that boundaries even exist. For the past few years, Xavi has been the consummate blogger’s player – not award prone, not a physical freak of nature, but tours like a rock star and has a style all his own. You don’t love Xavi because he’s a great football player, you love Xavi because he makes your forget he’s a football player. Xavi inspires each of us because he appears to have eliminated the athletic component of the game. Joe Schmoe believes he can step onto the field and thread passes between Sergio Busquets and Andres Iniesta. Not because he can, but because Xavi makes it look like he can.

Yet Xavi’s greatest illusion has been to resist the calling of father time. He has largely avoided injury, but seconds, minutes, days, weeks, months, and years stop for no footballer. Xavi made us forget soccer is a sport, but he also has stretched his window of opportunity for success beyond most other midfielders. On the field of play, he has made us forget about the clock and those mere 90 minutes of play. Each Barcelona possession stretches into infinity, approaching the goal, circling the net, and then waiting to strike.

Still, all players expire. All eras end. Xavi has won every team medal possible, yet individual accolades elude him. As the time winds down on his great career, don’t shed a tear. Just be happy you got to see him play and watch the sun slowly set.

Digital Image Impressions: Julia Blankenship. Check out her graphic design website here and follow her on twitter here.

The Best of Futfanatico 2011 is available for only $1 right here.

So, in case you have resided in a cave on the large rock in outer space formerly known as planet Pluto, Real Madrid played Barcelona in the 2nd leg of the Copa del Rey. Based on secondhand accounts, ’twas a most enjoyable spectacle. Teams scored goals. Teams kicked soccer balls. Teams ran. At the end of 90 minutes, the two teams tied 2-2. On global goal difference, Barcelona advanced 4-3. Most importantly, Pepe did not stamp on anybody’s hands and Busquets did not call any players mono. Thus, Barca fans accepted the narrowest of victories and Madrid fans  boasted about effort & dedication & spirit.

Yet, of course, a third class of person watched the game. The kind that write under deadline pressures. Here is what he or she or it wrote in a vain attempt to explain the sporting phenomena. Inside the chest cavity of Barcelona players beats the heart of a Champion. The heart is not abnormally large. The heart does not beat any faster or any stronger than most other hearts. However, there is still a great difference. And it is this: the heart beats inside a chest cavity of a player that is a Champion. And you can always tell a Champion from a non-Champion because the non-Champions finished second or worse in a competition. The Champion? First. So, Barcelona advanced over Madrid because of that little thing between their sternum and spine.

Barcelona had that extra something. Madrid did not. The Cule players just have “it”, but “it” cannot be precisely described with words. Rather, “it’ must be defined in relation to surrounding phenomena. For example, rumors percolate that Elvis Presley himself crafted “it” while working as a secret scientists at Area 51 and manufactured “it” out of the skin of the Lochness Monster, the brain of an alien, and the hair of Bigfoot. “It” was last reported in unofficial government records as being in the hip pocket of Amelia Earheart as she boarded her last flight. Since then, rumor has it that the kidnappers used “it” to help calm down the crying Lindbergh baby, but we can’t really speculate too much more on “it.” The important thing is that Barcelona has “it” and Madrid does not. “It” is the reason that they advanced. Duh.

Barcelona has the right mix of veterans and young players. Sometimes, veterans will get old and no longer be useful. They will lose footraces to younger players. Other times, a player will be too young and react poorly to an adverse crowd or a mistake or a foul. Barcelona’s roster is the perfect mix of veterans that are knowledgeable and young players that win footraces. Real Madrid’s roster is not the right balance. Madrid has too many veterans that are now old and well past their expiration date. Madrid also has too many young players that react poorly to new stimuli like being booed. Thus, Barcelona advanced because of the balance of their roster.

Barcelona’s youth academy is better than Real Madrid’s youth academy. Let’s just forget the Quinta del Buitre and focus on Bojan Krkic and Giovanni Dos Santos, the living proof that La Masia regularly produces world class players like an assembly line. Let’s also forget that Fabregas, Pique, and Iniesta actually left Barcelona to play at other clubs. That is not important. What is important is that La Masia produces consistently world class talent. This is not a golden generation of Spanish players that will fade like Les Bleus of the late 90s and early 2000′s. This is all the work of La Masia. Barcelona has La Masia, Real Madrid does not. Case closed.

Also, tactics. Barcelona played with better tactics. In particular, Puyol’s clever “let Benzema embarass me” tactic truly and fully lured Real Madrid into a false sense of hope, exactly as Pep drew up the game on his chalkboard at halftime. Pep also strategically planned on a Dani Alves screamer goal. Beforehand, Mourinho’s tactical gameplan to concede two early goals was a mistake. He should have tactically planned to only concede a single goal. Conversely, Pep’s halftime tactics to concede two goals was edgy but paid off. And that was the difference. Tactics. Tactics. T-A-C-T-I-C-S.

Lastly, the locker room. My reputable foreign sources reported that Mourinho has lost the locker room. A few weeks ago, Mourinho knew exactly where the locker room was. Mourinho could have been blindfolded and found the locker room. Mourinho knew the locker room like the back of his hand. It was a static, enclosed room in which players dressed into and out of their uniforms. Not anymore.

Mourinho woke up and everybody realized that he had lost the locker room. He’s still not sure how the locker room escaped. It may have been a hole in the fence. Or Perez may have left the gate open for the 1,000th time. What’s worse is that unlike most respectable dog or locker room owners, Mou did not even try to inject any GPS tracking device into the locker room. Thus, Mou’s best bet is to offer a reward, ask some friends to drive around nearby neighborhoods with him and shout “locker room”, and frequently check the “found” section of Craigslist. Pep, however, has his locker room. And it was a major advantage.

Christmas time fast approaches. Slowly, the universe disconnects from the web. We sip eggnog. We talk with family members. We exchange gifts. Co-workers get embarrassingly drunk at holiday parties. Dormant hands get grabby. Title VII lawsuits get filed soon thereafter. But before you sign that release of claim waiver and confidentiality agreement, enjoy these footy links:

Remember when FIFA said they were going to release documents on December 17th and we got all excited? Well, there is no Santa Clause. Nor financial transparency. Just unkept promises. The release has been delayed due to “legal privacy concerns.” And the Qatar bid will not be re-evaluated. On the plus side, Sepp has now gone almost an entire week without uttering a racist or sexist or homophobic remark. He must have had dental surgery.

Over at the Classical, James T of Unprofessional Foul has a nice look at the evolution of the German National Team. More Turkish. More Tunisian. More flair. Less headers. (Classical)

Vaclav Havel, Czech President and pro-democracy activist, has passed away. One of his great theories was that informal associations were key to combating dictatorships. This makes perfect sense, as dictatorships rely on fear, distrust, and pitting private citizens against one another. Read one of his essays at (Slate) Now, apply it to soccer in Egypt. Ultras, groups of militant soccer fans, were essential to taking down the former President and are now confronting the military. (TWMS)

For some lighthearted fun, Brooks toyed with photoshop and removed the green complexion of Harry Redknapp. He looks horrid, but has definitely turned into a Grinch. His tax woes have left him a joykill, and he doesn’t want his players to enjoy xmas. (Dirty Tackle).

In other news, the long awaited Pitch Invasion book has been released. You can get the eBook edition for $5.99 or the print version for $11.99. I highly recommend this book, although the nostalgia factor is a bit high for us old-timers.

Have you ever wondered how Andres Villas-Boas got to where he is? Or where he may end up? Me neither. Yet the folks at SF spin comic gold out of these topics in a flowchart. (SurrealFootball)

Barcelona beat up on Santos in the Club World Cup, and Neymar received some criticisms back in Brazil. Deportes Mais ran a clever “Missing Child” pic of him on their cover. (Unprofessional Foul)

Lastly, Darren Bent went Christmas shopping this past weekend. THE MONSTER! Yet as the only human being who goes shopping on the second-to-last Saturday before Christmas, he received ire. And, to be fair, he also kinda skipped out on watching his own team Aston Villa play. Granted, he was injured. However, you’d expect some emotional investment in his own team. Right? Wrong. He actually has an airtight defense. (The DA)

Kids have dreams. And we all dream of being a star. When I was about eight years old, I opened my first ever Excel spreadsheet. It blew me away. The charts. The formulas. The numbers. From that day on, I dreamed of someday being an adult and spending all day looking at Excel Spreadsheets and trying to maximize EBITDA for high revenue but low profit multinational corporate entities. I also foolishly hoped to someday create elaborate PowerPoints to disseminate this knowledge to half-interested executives and lower-level management.

And my name is Arsene Wenger.

Seriously, though, trophies are for the weak and titles for the vain. Everybody knows that the true measure of any club’s success is its daily checkbook. Do you have to float some worthless shares in Singapore to be able to afford a teenage Eastern European central defender? Oh. Too bad. Is some Middle Eastern oligarch trying to work some backdoor sponsorships to get around Financial Fair Play? Ah. Poor baby. We all know that the Gunners are the greatest team of the last decade. The “Invincibles era” was their last hiccup of non-profitability, but the club soon straightened out their finances.

Which is why they must and will sell Robin Van Persie to Barcelona.

Like a pint of Guinness on a rainy day, transfer rumors make us warm & fuzzy inside. Yet, for us experienced bloggers, we know that true transfers operate like hurricanes – ominous silence before the storm. David Villa is injured. Barcelona could use a striker. Robin Van Persie is a striker. Henry blossomed at Barcelona after an extended trial run with the Gunners. The clock is ticking on Van Persie’s contract. The cards add up too nicely. And…..nobody has said anything. Silence is the telltale sign. Then comes the Wenger claims of “not for sale”, then comes the briefcases of cash.

But I am breaking that silence. And I am starting this soccer transfer rumor. And unlike ESPN, I will credit my sources. Me (pats on back). Based on uncorroborated reports from the award-winning Futfanatico, Van Persie to Barcelona is a done deal. In fact, the deal is so done that there’s no point in other outlets reporting it. It’s like saying that the sun will rise or the Earth will rotate or Lady Gaga will get drunk and embarrass herself in public. Fait accompli.

I remember a time when Brian and Fredo and I were somewhat surprised at the British Press getting duped by a fake footballer. We were so innocent then. Now, I assume all players mentioned in the British Press are fake, especially when they have preposterous names like “David Silva” or “Robinho”, or come from obviously invented countries like “Japan.” Where do they come up with this crap?

But only a cold and stark reality stands behind the Van Persie to Barcelona trade. I feel sorry for Gunners and disgust for Cules. As for me, I’ll just batter down the hatches and get ready for a wave of hurricane-level traffic. I expect the Daily Mail to pick up this story at any moment……

Digital Image Impressions by the wildly talented Erik Ebeling. Check out his own website Erik Ebeling Art. He also did the original illustrations for “An Illustrated Guide to Soccer & Spanish”, available on the Kindle for $5.99. Check out a free preview here. The UK version is available here.

I am beyond elated. When I first started blogging, my goals were simple: break transfer rumors, injury reports, starting elevens, and try to bring a little of ESPN-guys-yelling-in-suits to the blogosphere. Since that fateful afternoon several years ago when I started this endeavor, I have won countless awards. This year, despite stiff competition from the ultimately disqualified fakefutfanatico and fakerfutfanatico, I won all five awards – best blog, best iPhone app, best Android app, best eBook, and best awardie! It’s a glorious time to be the proprietor of a blog with “futfanatico” in the URL.

However, none of these awards would have been possible without a very special person.

No, not the spirit of Ferenc Puskas. No, not Dr. Moschlavius Gumperteer. No, not Real Madrid’s future greatest player (once upon a time) Junito. We know who’s the key player to my success. We know who forms the foundation to this delicately balanced house of cards. Now, normally this is the part in the boring and recycled award acceptance speech where relatives are thanked with too little detail. Not here, though. Rather, I will start at the very beginning in too much detail. No, not my birth. Rather, my conception. Based on some educated guesses, I imagine this happening. First, I thank my dad and mom for having a few drinks and maybe going dancing. Then, when they get home, I thank my dad for [FIVE PARAGRAPHS OF NC-17 GRAPHIC DETAILS OMITTED BY EDITOR]. So thanks mom and dad. You sweaty and filthy bastions of original sin, you.

But I also owe it all to you. You, as in the person reading this post. Thanks for reading. Thanks for commenting. Blogs are fun because of you. Except for you, Liverpool troll dick whose comments I automatically send to the spam folder. You are the exception. Everybody else, thanks.

For those of you who foolishly boycotted the elections and want a proper piece of soccer writing, I penned a little something something at the excellent Classical. My post attempted to make sense of Mourinho and Guardiola’s odd press conferences. Check it out here.

You no longer need an eBook reader to enjoy Elliott’s “An Illustrated Guide to Soccer & Spanish.” A DRM-free, ePub version is available at Goodreads. Check it out here. A HTML version you can simply read in your browser is available at Smashwords. Check it out here.

For the last year’s Champions League quarterfinal, we speculated that Barcelona just may embody the spirit of a high school full of vampires. We were pretty close in the comparison and the prediction. Ultimately, despite solid Arsenal resistance, the Cules drove a stake through their hearts.

But the Clasico exceeds in self-appointed grandiosity any old run-of-the-mill Champions League quarterfinal clash. Thus, flash forward several months and add millions of dollars to the movie’s budget. Plot-wise, the vampires have since graduated from high school. They and their werewolf double agent allies have plotted to take over a small pioneer town by the name of Bernabo Bay. Only one thing can stop them: Cowboys. And one more thing: Aliens. And one last thing: Predator.

Of course, we can never fathom why this macabre collection of nocturnal monsters desires to take over Bernabo Bay. Tis a quaint town with humble hardworking folks that work hard in mines. The vampire leader, the fanged and immaculately-eye-brow plucked Count Xavi Nosferatu, has perhaps grown restless in his old age and got bored with his haunted Castle Nou near Mont Thabor. Regardless, he brashly believes that Draculiniesta and fierce werewolves Masher and Busk will make quick work of the townfolk.

They are in for a rude awakening. Bernabo Bay is aware of the impending attack thanks to their own double agent: skinny and socially awkward vampire heartthrob Angel de Muerte. De Muerte looks like an emaciated kid with a tapeworm or a teenager who went vegan to impress a goth chick, but don’t let appearances fool you – he is as quick with his mind as with his feat. He cleverly befriended Lord Leo, a knight of the vampire order, and learned of their attack.

He reported the pending vampire & werewolf invasion to Joe Mayorinho, the town mayor. Mayorinho held a town hall meeting that at times grew rowdy. Peppy, a local ruffian, suggested that they all just kick and step on the vampires until cracking their shins and every metatarsal in their feet. Rancher Sammy the Kid suggested they merely body slam the werewolves into a million pieces. Mayroinho listened to their suggestions, and he liked them. But he also had his own grand plan.

During the meeting, at the back of  the town hall stood the cool and eternally calm cowboy Shabby Lonzo. He smirked from time-to-time and puffed on a cigar.

Shabby and Mayorinho both knew the inherent difficulties of vampire combat – any single one could bite you at any single time. Even a prick from vampirocito Alex Sancho would be fatal. The vampires would form a long and spread-out line, appearing thin in ranks. However, at the first sign of success at any single link in the chain, they would then shift their formation to fully press that particular spot. They attacked like water – first a drop, then a flood. The townsfolk did not have time to construct a metaphorical dam, but they would need to stay compact and prioritize the City Hall, the Grain Depository, and the Post Office (with its telegram in case reinforcements had to be called). United, they had a chance. Separated, they would fail.

They would also need help. Each vampire posed a threat, but the Lord Leo and Count Xavi Nosferatu must be divided and accounted for at all times. No human being could stop Lord Leo in flight. Not even a hungry werewolf. They would need help from out of this world. They would need an alien.

Not just any alien would be able to tail Lord Leo. The alien must be fleet of foot but also incorporate unique cloaking techniques so as to render itself invisible at key moments, but also blind Lord Leo at appropriate times. Ideally, the species of alien would have a white cranium that could reflect light to accomplish both those tasks. Thus, Shabby Lonso, despite the inherent frailty and great risk of any cowboy-alien alliance, sent smoke signals into the sky. And sure enough, an alien ship responded, landed, and down came the white-craniumed Coentraooooo. His bleached scalp temporarily blinded Shabby. Perfect, Shabby thought, rubbing his eyes.

Alien forces would also be necessary for any hope of attack. The rear of the vampire legion was guarded by two ferocious werewolves, Masher and Busk. No man could get past them. Even for an alien, battling hand-to-hand with werewolves was a fool’s errand. The alien species must defeat them through slipperiness, not strength. Shabby needed an alien ally with an incredibly moist and slick cranium that could avoid werewolf teeth, and also fake-baked smooth and plasticy skin that could avoid werewolf claws.

He knew who he needed. And, with assistance from Coentraooooo, he coaxed the slimy Crishtano into landing on Earth and forming an alliance with the folk of Bernabo Bay. Still, Crishtano would not start the fight. Rather, he would lurk in a bunker at the end of a very long tunnel and wait for the right moment to spring forth. Joe Mayorinho organized and rallied his men, designated Shabby as lieutenant, and prayed for victory.

A full moon peaked through the clouds. The witching hour approached. The vampires stealthily crept closer. For all the moon’s whiteness, a sea of red soon flooded the town of Bernabo Bay. The townsfolk unleashed an ambush. Ruffians and ranchers and cowboys and vampires and aliens did battle. It was a battling battle of battles that can only be described as battlerific. On a ten-point scale of battleosity, it would have ranked just above Hannibal’s crossing of the alps and just below the Battle of Carthage. 7.8, to be precise.

On the field of battle, the battlers battled valiantly. The townsfolk swarmed Lord Leo at every available instant. At one critical juncture, Peppy tossed a special wooden, silver-lined stake (designed to be deadly for both vampires and werewolves) at the young Lord. His compatriots screamed in horror as the wooden, silver-linted stake flew through the air.

Masher, the werewolf, sensed the danger and sprinted towards his ally, Lord Leo, intending to heroically throw himself in the line of danger. He was willing to sacrifice his own tortured existence for the greater vampire-werewolf good. He galloped a might gallop, with all his might. However, he inexplicably fell to the ground and clutched his ankle, despite no contact whatsoever from any other person or object. Nobody knows why he fell.

Busk, the other werewolf, also alert to the danger. He saw the wooden, silver-lined stake flying towards Lord Leo. He also saw Mash inexplicably laying on the ground. He began a mad dash towards Lord Leo, hoping that he could heroically toss his body in the line of fire and protect him. He ran and ran and ran. However, he too inexplicably fell and clutched his ankle.

Lord Leo appeared doomed. The stake flew closer. However, at that time, Angel De Muerte shouted “Noooooo” and showed his true triple agent colors! Yes, he had tipped off the townsfolk to the vampire attack, but he had also tipped off the vampires that he had tipped off the towns folk to the vampire attack. That’s how they had survived the initial ambush! Apparently, Angel valued his friendship with Lord Leo above all else. He sprinted as fast as he could, intending to valiantly toss his body between the wooden, silver-lined stake and Lord Leo. He sprinted and ran and moved his legs as fast as he could. However, he too fell inexplicably and clutched his knee.

Angel De Muerte, Masher, and Busk writhed on the field in made up agony. The stake flew ever closer to Lord Leo, but in the blink of an eye he sidestepped the stake and made Peppy look like an idiot. For the millionth time. Lord Leo then set his sites on the last hope of the Bernabo Bay: prodigious child of the force Iker Skywalker. He targeted the unsuspecting Iker, prepared to deliver a fatal blow, but then was brutally and savagely taken down from behind by none other than Sergio Han Ramosolo!

This shocks everybody – vampire and aliens and cowboys alike. The night before the big battle, Sergio Han Ramosolo had been all “I’m a cagey bad-ass rebel who is leaving Dodge” and all the cowboys were heartbroken because they thought after all they had experienced that Sergio would have developed bonds of affection. Thus, for Sergio Han Ramosolo to come out of the blue and foul the hell out of Lord Leo was pretty neat. He got a red card for it, but still. 

And then came the end game. The pawns cleared the board and out came the true daggers: Jose Mayorinho vs. Pepator, the preppiest and best dressed Predator ever.They circled. They grunted. Before the day of the battle, they had exchanged obtuse banter and indirect barbs via press conferences. Now it was time to fulfill their word.

Then came a fight scene so awkward, so fully of shitty special effects, that it could easily pass for the end of a Star Wars Prequel. At the end, it turned out that Bernabo Bay was built on top of some sort of pyramid or some crap. Nothing important was resolved. Everybody left, disappointed.

Elliott’s soccer eBook, An Illustrated Guide to Soccer & Spanish, is available on the Amazon Kindle for only $5.99 Check out a free preview here.

The current possession era of soccer, with goalscoring wingers and almost invisible false nine forwards, has placed a premium on passing stats and yawn yawn yawn. Okay, I wrote a soccer-based Cristiano and Leo comparison several months ago. Most of it still rings true. However, I decided to do some real detective work because I noticed an odd occurrence – I’ve rarely seen Cristiano and Messi play at the exact same time. Unusual? Odd? Suspicious? Most definitely.

I did some digging, and realized that they normally only play at the same time and at the same location twice a year. Last season was an anomaly – they did so five times. However, even then, I could only witness this coincidence by television. TV often lies. Also, when one of them touched the ball, the other normally loitered off-screen. Body doubles? Definitely possible.

In sum, every other Cristiano-Messi comparison is flawed because it starts with a faulty premise: they are not the same person. Based on a wealth of circumstantial evidence, I formed a hypothesis: Leo Messi and Cristiano Ronaldo are the same player and person. I did even more research, and now an abundance of indisputable direct evidence proves my point. Simply put, they have too much in common to not be the same person. Observe.

First, I begin with the long-held and well respected premise that we must trust nobody and believe nothing until we see actual & official birth certificates. Have you ever seen Leo Messi’s birth certificate? Or Cristiano Ronaldo’s? Me neither. Thus, none of us can be sure of their actual names, actual parents, or actual place of birth. In fact, we can’t be sure that they weren’t born at the same time, in the same place, to the same parents.

Thus, I took a magnifying glass to these two “supposedly different” gentlemen. I was and am shocked at the results. Upon closer inspection, thousands of similarities appeared. For example, they inhabit the exact same solar system: the Milky Way. And it’s not like Messi lives in a loft in Andromeda and rolls into the Milky Way once a blue moon to gets some lottery tickets and beer – neither he nor Cristiano has ever left the Milky Way. In fact, neither of them has ever been so far as the trans-Neptunian region. When Ray Hudson yells that “Messi is out of this world,” he does not in fact mean that Messi inhabits a mansion on Makemake. It’s a figure of speech as far as I can tell.

Okay, so no birth certificate and same universe – not exactly groundbreaking observations. But don’t worry, this ball of yarn is just beginning to unwind. Many members of the Messi-is-not-Ronaldo-eratti point out a simple fact – last season, Ronaldo won the Golden Boot for most goals in La Liga. Messi did not. However, during that entire time, both players lived on the same planet: Earth. Not Neptune. Not Mars. Not even that dwarf “real planet wannabe” Pluto. Earth. Tierra. And things get even creepier upon an even closer inspection.

Did you know that on Earth there are around 8.7 million species? Out of those millions, you’d expect Messi and Ronaldo, soooooo different, to belong to different species, right? Right? Wrong again. They are both Homo sapiens. Not Homo sapiens sapiens. Not Homo sapiens idaltu. Despite what Cristiano’s critics say, he is not Homo sapiens neaderthalensis.

Granted, this is a point of contention. Some scientists assert that a subspecies of Homo sapiens are Homo rhodesiensis. Furthermore, Cristiano has often been grouped into a unique subspecies known as Homo poppedcollarus. And Messi has been inaccurately categorized as belonging to the long extinct Neversmilesgrimsaurious. Still, these theories have yet to find common acceptance. Thus, until the year 3000 AD when Homo sapiens split into two species, Leo and Cristiano are one and the same.

Are you starting to see how a little suspicion can go a long way? Let’s stop and do a quick tally of a few of the many things that these allegedly different & distinct carbon-based lifeforms have in common: they are not iguanas. They are not dogs. They are not birds. They are not sharks. They are not whales. They do not live on the Moon. They breathe air. Their bodies are about 57% water. Their bodies also contain around 6.7 X 10 to the 27th atoms. I could go on and on and on unto infinity. Yes, Leo Messi and Cristiano have an almost infinite amount of things in common. Indisputably, the mathematical case has been made for them being the same player and person.

Granted, some things are more important than others. Not all sciences are equal. However, even observing them both using cutting edge phrenological observational techniques, similarities pop up. While I personally have never had the pleasure of popping a caliper on the head “or heads” of Cristiano Leo Ronaldo Messi (his true name I suspect), Dr. Franz Joseph Gall himself would be intrigued by the visual evidence available.

Case in point, take a gander at “Leo Messi” and his alleged noggin.

Based on the latest and peer-reviewed phrenological publications, we know that the human head has 27 individual organs. These organs control various aspects of our personality. The organs are often detectable as bumps. In the above picture, Messi’s flat forehead in the “memory of events” region indicates a rather poor capacity for short or long-term memory. This probably explains why he has so many multi-goal games, and continues to score even though his team is winning handily. While most people relax, Messi may forget his team is winning and hurriedly rushes forward to seek a necessary & winning goal.

And Cristiano’s allegedly separate cranium? Have a look.

Shocking isn’t it? It’s basically the exact same as Messi. And it also explains why he also has so many multi-goal games. Now, don’t let the hair distract you. “Cristiano” likes to grease it up, but also changes his style frequently. In fact, that’s another cause of suspicion – his hairdo is almost always different from Messi, as if, as if, as if….he wanted you to see his hair and think “there’s no way this person is Leo Messi because the hair is covered in cooking oil and could explode into flames at any point.”

But maybe it is. And based on the lack of proper authenticated birth certificates and millions of never before articulated similarities, plus the latest in visual phrenological analysis, it probably is. As the soccerverse spits stats and vomits lazy comparisons at you, remember the millions of things that Cristiano Leo Ronaldo Messi has in common with himself. It’s the only way to stay sane.

Elliott’s soccer eBook, An Illustrated Guide to Soccer & Spanish, is available on the Amazon Kindle for only $5.99. Check out a free preview here.

Pasillo is the Spanish term for “hallway.” However, in the world of La Liga, it has a secondary meaning: guard of honor. After a team wins either La Liga or the Copa del Rey, at the very start of their next game, it’s customary that the opposing players will stand in two lines near the entrance tunnel, forming a hallway, and salute the champions as they enter the field. For example, last season, after Real Madrid won the Copa del Rey, their next opponent, Valencia, formed a pasillo to greet them onto the field.

For various reasons, the pasillos between Barcelona and Real Madrid have been few and far apart. The two teams normally race neck-and-neck until late into the La Liga season, and thus have already played one another twice before the champion is determined mathematically. Thus, their consistent duopoly in accumulating points prevents either one from having to honor the other.

Except, of course, for a few remarkable seasons.

1988: a Fond Farewell to the Quinta del Buitre

In 1988, a glorious era was coming to a close for Real Madrid. The club’s cantera had produced a fine crop of star players. Key players included the Quinta del Buitre (“The Vulture’s Cohort”): Emilio Butragueno, nicknamed el Buitre (“The Vulture”), Manolo Sanchis, Martin Vazquez, Michel, and Miguel Pardeza. Spearheading the attack was Mexican legend Hugo Sanchez. The team played an aggressive and physical game – think Mourinho’s tackling meets Pep’s pressing high up the pitch. The team won five La Ligas, two UEFA Cups, and Hugol won 5 pichichis as the top scorer in the league.

On April 30th, 1988, at the Nou Camp, Barcelona’s players formed a pasillo to greet the La Liga champions onto the field. In terms of the actual game, Buitre didn’t feature in Madrid’s team, Dutchman Leo Beenhakker was Real’s coach, and Barcelona won 2-0 thanks to a goal from Englishman Gary Lineker and an own-goal by Manolo Sanchis.  Still, though, it was a bitter taste for Cules – they had won a battle but lost the war.

In the grand scheme of things, though, invisible plates had started to shift. Real’s team dominated domestically, but never managed to win the Champion’s League. The bright and bustling Quinta del Buitre increasingly showed signs of age, while Johan Cruyff would soon return to Barcelona and re-make the roster in his brilliant image. For Real Madrid, the pasillo was a parting wave to a generation adored by blanquillos. Barcelona may have la Masia, but Real also lived a successful period thanks to a fertile cantera (“Youth academy”). In a few years time, though, the tables would turn definitively.

1991: the Dream Team Draws First Blood

It did not take Johan Cruyff long to turn Barcelona into winners. He signed several fantastic foreign players, such as Ronald Koeman and Michael Laudrup. The Dream Team also featured several star Spanish players, like Josep Guardiola, Jose Mari Bakerao, and Txiki Begiristain. Their first title was a Copa del Rey in 1990, and they then won four consecutive La Ligas from 1991 to 1994. The Dream team’s most famous moment, though, was their European Cup victory in 1992 at Wembley. An iconic image for all Cules is Ronald Koeman’s celebratory hug -  shirtless, he jumped into the arms of a nearby assistant, overcome with joy. He had scored the Cup-winning goal with one of his trademark free kicks.

In June 1991, the sky was the limit for Barcelona. The roster brimmed with talent, and the Copa del Rey and recent La Liga had instilled in Cruyff’s side the confidence of a champion. The Dutchman’s trench coat on the sideline was a calming presence. Josep Guardiola was the metronome in midfield. Ronald Koeman, nicknamed the Floquet de Neu after the Barcelona Zoo’s albino gorilla, provided long-range passing from the center back position. Michael Laudrup was a fluid midfielder that created goals almost at will.

Cruyff’s team reflected his cerebral approach to the game – they confidently passed sideways and backwards, snaking the ball around the field. On that hot summer day in June, Real, playing at home, formed a pasillo to greet the Champions onto the Bernabeu field. The merengues, coached by Radomir Antic, played a cautious game, nicked a goal from Adolfo Aldana, and miraculously managed a clean sheet. Still, the writing was on the wall – a new era of Barcelona dominance was merely beginning.

2008: the Second Salvo of the Dutch Dynamos

Many Barcelona fans love to reminisce about Ronaldinho’s smile & Frank Rijkaard’s stylish locks, but gloss over their nasty divorce from the club. After Barcelona’s 4-0 loss to Milan in the 1994 European Cup, the team fell into a bit of a tailspin by their standards. A decade later, Rijkaard righted the ship, Dinho turned on the style points, and the team returned to European glory in 2006. Yet problems arose soon thereafter.

Ronaldinho’s love for the nightlife soon turned into a lack of motivation. On the field, his lengthy dribbling runs turned into extended walk-abouts. He fell out with Rijkaard, but no ready replacement existed. Brazilian play-maker Deco also went on a mysterious and extended injury leave. Many speculated that the departure of iron-fisted Henk Ten Cate had left the laid back Dutchman with no respected enforcer. As the late Gary Speed said, “hard work beats talent that doesn’t work hard.” The Cules oozed talent but lacked dedication. Barcelona soon shipped Dinho to AC Milan and Frank left the club in 2008.

Given the duopoly of La Liga, when one club struggles, the other profits. Real capitalized on Barcelona’s dip to win consecutive La Ligas. For the first title, Real Madrid hired Italian disciplinarian Fabio Capello to bring order to a talented but rowdy roster. He immediately dropped Beckham, and regularly played two holding midfielders: veteran Brazilian Emerson and fiercely combative Mahamadou Diarra. Up front, Ruud and Raul formed a thunder & lightning partnership. Real won La Liga with brutal efficiency, but Capello was sacked for lacking style.

That summer, the club brought in Dutch coach Bernd Schuster, and also Dutch players Arjen Robben and Wesley Schneijder. With a creative play-maker and dynamic winger, they won La Liga handily. On May 7, 2008, Barcelona formed a pasillo to welcome the champions onto the Bernabeu field. Unlike past pasillo-clasicos, the champions actually won the game. Real dominated Barcelona to the tune of 4-1. Still, despite a roster of very good players, uneasiness permeated the blanquillo fan base. Two consecutive La Ligas was a decent run for any team. Except Real Madrid.

Pep Guardiola would soon take over Barcelona, leading them to great success, and that May 7th game probably remains the sweetest taste in a merengue mouth since.

Elliott’s soccer eBook, An Illustrated Guide to Soccer & Spanish, is available on the Amazon Kindle for only $5.99. Check out a free preview here.