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.

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.

I’ve heard there was a special chord

That Ray Hudson sang when Messi scored

But you don’t really care for pundits, do you?

It goes like this

The fourth, the fifth

The Xavi pass, the Andres split

The baffled d decomposing Hallelujah

Hallelujah, Hallelujah

Hallelujah, Hallelujah

Your faith was low you needed a lift

You saw him darting on the pitch

His beauty in the floodlights overthrew you

He glued you to a Nou Camp chair

He climbed your throne, he showed you flair

And from your lips he drew the Hallelujah

Hallelujah, Hallelujah

Halleluja, Hallelujah

There was a time when you tread below

Dinho was fat & Marquez slow

But now you look down upon me, do you?

And remember that game of four to one

You did the pasillo and then we won

And every breath I drew was Hallelujah

Hallelujah, Hallelujah

Hallelujah, Hallelujah

Maybe I’ve never been here before

My heart in one place but eyes no more

I used to follow one team before I knew him.

I’ve seen your flag hung from Gaudi arches

A sudden burst then victory marches

It’s a bright and it’s a sudden Hallelujah

Hallelujah, Hallelujah,

Hallelujah, Halleljuah

We often take past names in vain

The past the past the present the same

But if I did, well really, what’s it to you?

There’s a blaze of light in every step

It doesn’t matter the most recent set

The holy or the broken Hallelujah

Hallelujah, Hallelujah,

Hallelujah, Hallelujah,

They did their best, it wasn’t much

They couldn’t keep up, they tried to touch

I’ve told the truth, I didn’t come to fool you

And even though it all went wrong

I’ll stand before the Lord of Song

With nothing on my tongue but Hallelujah

Hallelujah, Hallelujah

Hallelujah, Hallelujah

Hallelujah, Hallelujah

Hallelujah

Song Credit: Leonard Cohen, Jeff Buckley

(H/T to Nutmegradio)

Three years ago to this day, American novelist, journalist, and professor extraordinaire David Foster Wallace took his own life. If the present is walking in the shadows of our ancestors, then these are dark times indeed. DFW’s excitement at ideas, wild imagination, uncanny wit, and penetrating analysis resulted in fantastic sports writing on tennis and also several great novels, including his magnum opus, Infinite Jest. The world is a worse place for having lost him, but a better place for having had him.

Thematically, the concerns in his writing were two-fold: (1) The conflict between globalization and local identities, and (2) Technology and consumerism’s hand in turning solipsism into fashionable profiteering. He trembled at the prospect of the internet diluting the exchange of ideas into an instant gratification button equivalent to Pavlov’s dogs. He also shared Gabriel Garcia Marquez’s discontent with liberal democracy’s inability to get anything done, aside from repeating mistakes.

Stylistically, his prose has been criticized as dense, but his writing often imitated unpopular and oppressed vernaculars, in the style of American fiction pioneers like Mark Twain and William Faulkner. And the Hemingway/Strunk & White “concision is objectively the best” school of thought often conflates superficial ease of comprehension with insight. Yes, he assumed his readers knew what the fuck he was talking about. But don’t we all?

In honor of David Foster Wallace, I took a stab at a slightly long-form  piece on Lionel Messi at the Run of Play. I don’t pretend to have DFW’s talent, but did my best to wed my love of soccer with the themes of technology, solitude, consumer culture, and solipsism. Check it out here. If you dare. Special thanks to Brian for hosting this piece and helping edit it into a slightly more palatable form. But not, like, Happy Meal palatable form.

I will keep this short and sweet in the interest of time. FIRST and foremost, Xavi’s hair will look like an iguana. No, I don’t refer to that pet iguana you had in grade school that eventually died because you forgot to plug in the hot rock. No, I refer to some sort of wickedly cool animated iguana who wears a Hawaiian t-shirt, travels by skateboard, constantly gives the thumbs up, and endorses a variety of delicious fruit-tasting snacks which contain little to no fruit.

SECOND and also quite importantly, Dani Alves and Sergio Busquets will continue their perpetual audition for the Catalan tumbling team. Somewhere in the stands at the Nou Camp, a man in a trench coat and with a mischievously large mustache will write on a small notepad numerical scores for their respective tumbles. At the end of the night, only one of them will be selected for this elite honor. And the other will be heartbroken.

THIRD and also kinda important, Mourinho and Pep Guardiola will fool you into thinking that they shake hands. However, in reality, their hands will get super super close but not actually touch. It will be more of a close-to-touching-hand-vibration with more wobbling than actual shaking. Mourinho may also wear a special hand colored glove just to be safe.

FOURTH and kinda depressing, Alexis Sanchez will like, toddle around a lot and be nondescript for large spells of the game. You will forget he’s on the field. Then, out of the blue, he will break Madrid fan’s hearts. If you are near a Real fan, they will ask in shock and disgust – “where did little dude come from?” And Barca fans will smirk, saying “Udinese.” And the Real fan will reply “I am not being nosy. You da nosy!” Then pout for the remaining 80 minutes.

FIFTH and obvious for all to see, Xabi Alonso and Sami Khedira will go WWF on Andres Iniesta, regularly taking down the little spinning Spaniard. If there is a folding chair near the sideline, watch out. The mayhem will continue until Javier Mascherano snaps into a Slim Jim and takes out Xabi from behind with a double studs up tackle.

SIXTH and most likely to be forgotten, you will confuse Pedro for that other dude who looks like Pedro but is not Pedro.