For the last decade, the greatest benefit to being a Manchester United fan has been the license to perpetually wear a smug grin of satisfaction. Liverpool only qualified for the UEFA league again? Poor King Kenny. At least Andy Carroll has curbed his drinking problem and keeps the bench nice & warm during winter. Arsenal struggling to start the season? Well, at least they’ll get a cash injection from Barcelona in the transfer window. Lately, though, the tides have turned.

I don’t care to talk about tactics. Or signings. Or injuries. Or luck. United crashing out of the Champions League at the group stages raised my eyebrows, but did not alter the Earth’s orbit. For the last few years, since the Ronaldo-Tevez-Rooney trident split up, Sir Alex has patched together a quilt of a team from uneven scraps of cloth. Like a baby-boomer refinancing a mortgage, SAF always found family jewelry in the attic to auction and get an iPad. Until now. I love the current players, but even I find myself going elevator-eyes when City’s roster flickers on screen. But we couldn’t finance the purchase of an ottoman with our credit score.

So, for the first time in years, I actually rooted for Chelsea in a game. The match reminded me of the NBA lockout, where behind closed doors billionaire owners from small Midwestern cities fought with multi-billionaire owners from the big coastal metropolises. I wanted both to lose, but knew that wasn’t possible. No matter how many times I rubbed the lamp, City and Chelsea were not going to kiss, hold hands, and jump off a cliff like scorned lovers. I needed mini-Goliath to beat Goliath. A draw would help, but not much.

During the World Cup, lots of neutrals watch games to keep tabs on groups, advancement possibilities, and to see some good teams. This was not one of those “general interest” viewings. I have occasionally engaged in Schadenfraude (especially when Arsenal is up by a single goal to a Stoke City-esque side), but normally keep my eyes to my own team(s). This was kinda Schadenfraude, but not entirely. Watching City-Chelsea was without a doubt a new experience – after years of holding destiny in our hands, I sat helpless as lady fate swung her pendulum to-and-fro. It was…an uneasy feeling. Like a tattoo parlor that is not open Friday or Saturday nights, something was very amiss.

So, yes, I am kinda embarrassed to be in the Europa League. However, as an optimist, at least we don’t climb the mountain to lose the hill-race. If, heaven forbid, we were to catch up with Liverpool in Champions League victories just to fall behind in Europa League crowns, then we’d still be at the same destination. Right? RIGHT? Still, United fans have very sore necks. We can no longer look down, and the grin has turned into a smirk.

We will become Gunners fans for a week, but secretly pray that this is the last weekend where we need to keep tabs on other teams.

In other parts…

The False 9 had a pretty cool Venn diagram, even if the Matrix reference is not entirely right. Check it out here.

For those of you who love streams of games, the well may soon run dry. The US Congress is considering a law that will give large corporations the tools to shake down ISPS and domain registrars, all in an effort to prevent you from seeing content streamed by RoniTV. I’ve written about RojaDirecta‘s legal battles before and you know whose side I’m on. A Football Report details all the pitfalls of the “SOPA” law here.

Elliott’s soccer eBook “An Illustrated Guide to Soccer & Spanish” is available on the Nook for only $5.99. Check it out here.

This past weekend, a German referee attempted to commit suicide. CNN reported on this tragedy, and also managed to sneak in the same article some game recaps. Tactful! The Guardian did one better, reporting racism charges against Luis Suarez while also letting us know that the alleged racist did not play in an international friendly due to injury. Useful! I will now do them both one up by reporting on this week’s Champions League fixtures…..and the gruesome puppy death(s).

(Associated & Fabricated Press) – Today, we regret to report the death of over 200 adorable puppies. And a less than adorable nun and bus driver. At eight o’clock at night, the Save-a-Pup bus, full of 200 recently rescued puppies, rambled down the road on its way to a warm & welcoming puppy shelter. Little did the driver realize that rather than heading towards Brownsville, Texas, he and the puppies were on track for their own grisly deaths. Taylor Sampson, a volunteer bus driver with Save-a-Pup for over five years, was going the speed limit on a country road when he noticed, despite poor lighting, that several stray cattle had escaped from a fence and wandered onto the road. He flashed his lights, honked his horn, and then, not seeing any traffic, switched to the other lane to avoid hitting any cattle.

Sadly, due to the lack of streetlights, he did not see Sister Johanna Merkers on her motorcycle. The Sister had just returned from 10 years of missionary work in India bathing lepers and lepers’ close associates (including friends, immediate relatives, and not so immediate relatives). Exhausted from the ten years of service and half-day flight back to South Texas, she must have forgotten to turn on her front lights and did not hear the bus honk or see its flashing lights.

The bus smacked into her head on, sending the nun to her immediate death and the bus flipped onto its side. It spun several times. The puppies, confused and startled, yet still adorable (perhaps even more so due to the fact that their yelps of distress sound cute to human ears, oddly), were tossed about the inside of the bus cabin. Logically, one could presume that several cute puppy bones were broken. However, a veterinary-coronary report is impossible. The bodies are charred beyond recognition, along with the bus driver’s.

After the bus stopped twirling, the engine began to leak a lot of gas. By a lot of gas, I mean an oil tanker worth of gas. Not literally. Figuratively. Hyperbole-ly. Gas. Everywhere. Lots of it. The car’s engine, terribly damaged from hitting head-on a nun in a motorcycle, intermittently turned on and off. The bus driver, half-conscious from the blow of the collision, could smell the gas and immediately realized the danger. If any sparks from the stuttering engine touched one drop of gas, he and the puppies would be toast.

The immediate impact had separated the bus driver’s right shoulder. He lay on his side, still buckled to the driver’s seat. The air bag had inflated, but only blocked his path to salvation. Pain shot up and down his right arm. The fumes made his head spin like a carousel. Taylor could taste his own blood in his mouth. The puppies shrieked in terror. Some moaned in pain. Others lay still, shocked or dead by the impact. He knew that he had to reach the ignition and turn off the engine. He had to turn that key.

He winced and attempted to move his right arm. A thousand needles stabbed him in his back. A hundred knives stabbed him in the right shoulder. He lacked feeling in his right arm. The engine sputtered. It clicked. He felt gasoline by the left side of his face. A pool was forming. It felt cool as water yet smelled terrible. He took several deep breaths. There was still no smoke. Some hope remained. He spat out blood, bit his tongue, and tried to move his right arm one more time. This time ten thousand needle stabbed him in the back. His right arm was useless.

The shrieks of the puppies made his head twirl. He felt his own heart beat. Among the adorable but injured canine groans, he could make out one dog’s voice, a miniature schnauzer. Taylor had several years experience as a driver for Save-a-Pup. He knew to keep an emotional distance from the puppies. He knew that he could not save them all. He knew that he could not, and should not, play favorites with the rescue puppies. But that miniature schnauzer had gotten to him. From the first time he saw her, he was smitten. Her trimmed hair, her bushy schnauzer beard, the way she wagged her cute little tail – he tried to ignore her, but he couldn’t. Hearing her low schnauzer moan inspired him for one last effort.

He had to turn that key. He took a deep breath. He gritted his teeth. He said a prayer. He closed his eyes and braced for an unimaginable quantity of pain. He would count to three and then try to move his arm and turn that key, pain be damned. One…..two…….

And then the engine sputtered, sending a spark down to the pool of gasoline beside his ear.

In other news, on the same planet but a different continent, professional soccer clubs in Europe played a series of games. Some teams won. Some teams lost. Some teams tied.

Manchester City beat Manchester United at Old Trafford by 6-1. The win was deserved, even if a late deluge of goals made the scoreline slightly more embarrassing than warranted. Still, bloodbaths of this magnitude tend to fray the senses, melt the mind, and sportswriters revert to a Neanderthal mental state. Here is what they will have written Monday morning.

SUPER MARIO OVERCOMES ADVERSITY OF BEING HIMSELF. Don’t let the final score fool you. This was a close game that was cut open by the sheer will and talent of Mario Balotelli. He scored the first goal off a brilliant far post finish, he earned the free kick and red card of Johnny Evans, and he scored a nice second goal with a well timed far post run. If you thought he set off fireworks the night before the match, he saved the real Roman candles-bottle rockets-black cats-insert firework brandname-for the game! And he had the tact to not play a single game of Angry Birds on his iPad after getting subbed off. The sky is the limit.

UNITED MOURN RETIREMENT OF VETERAN DEFENDER GARY NEVILLE. If ever United had to win a game by sheer willpower as opposed to natural God-given talent, then it was today. Several of United’s players received yellow cards for late tackles and Johnny Evans saw red early in the second half. In sum, United needed Gary Neville on the field. The all-terrain terrier’s spark and ability to avoid cards by sheer ugliness (refs hate to have to face him so close) was sorely lacked. Against a lineup featuring the silky David Silva and explosive Sergio Aguero, United needed more grit than grace. The Medusa of Manchester United was sorely missed and has no natural replacement, assuming the current crop of United players avoid pouring acid on their face.

NOT HARSH RED CARD DOESN’T DETERMINE DERBY’S OUTCOME. It is a red card offense for the last defender to take down an opposing forward and negate a goalscoring chance. The TV replays clearly showed that Johnny Evans was the last defender and grabbed Balotelli’s arms with both hands, tossing him to the ground. But sometimes referees must be judges and exercise discretion. If any player deserves pity and a second chance, it’s Johnny Evans. He will forever be known to United fans as “that center back who is not Pique.” Surely the ref could have looked the other way or something.

FERGIE TIME LEADS TO BREATHTAKING CITY COMEBACK FROM IN FRONT. Up by only 3 goals to 1 with a few minutes left on the clock, everybody in Old Trafford held their breath and prayed for a miracle. And a miracle occurred. Manchester City, playing up a man for half an hour and noticeably fatigued or bored, found one last heroic burst of energy to heroically come from ahead to score three more goals. Eden Dzeko’s first goal, a brilliant Pippo Inzaghi-inspired knee deflection from two yards, brought the crowd to their feet as they quickly filtered out of Old Trafford, their heads held low.

I still remember the days of the anti-intellectual era, so I’m pretty happy to see tactics-speak take a place in our collective chit-chat about soccer. But, at some point, tactics-speak must go beyond tactics-speak. Eventually, all discourses can become a closed system, an algebraic formula with a predetermined end that ceases to illuminate. You saw the United-Liverpool game. You read the match recaps. You saw the heat maps. You glanced at the passing stats. You even perused the chalkboards. But one question remains, and it just may be the most important one, at least from a Freudian Psycho-analytic perspective.

Just how guilty do you feel for sustaining an erection while being held by your mother as a three year old child? Let’s find out together.

First, let’s take a look at this image. I want you to really focus on this image and then create a mental note of the thoughts that popped into your head.

Did you see a hastily sketched MS Paint starting lineup chart? Did you dare to glare at two 4-5-1′s lined up against one another? Did you see Park on one side of the midfield and Kuyt on the other and think – sigh, another midfield slug fest with, yawn, few clear-cut chances? Did you find it odd that Sir Alex would play Park for fear of the overlapping threat of Luis Enrique, or equally odd that King Kenny would deploy Kuyt to stifle the aging Evra? Did Liverpool have a bit of a logjam on the right side with no clear winger?

Maybe. But you just failed to articulate what you really saw, didn’t you. You truly saw a lot of blue and red dots on a green block. These dots are really the manifestation of your inner id, of long-suppressed childhood feelings of shame and guilt. That’s right – these circles are not a a players’ location on the field, they are your mother’s breasts. As a young child, you suckled upon them but soon began to teeth. Despite this pain you inflicted upon your mother, you continued to yearn for milk.

And you have never recovered. And now it clouds even the most simple of life’s pleasures, like watching a soccer game or reading a blog post about said game. I suggest either Paxil or Zoloft. Only once a day.

Now, let’s take a peek and reflect upon this image. Take a deep breath and focus on the image. Do not force your subconscious to speak, but open your eyes, heart, and mind to what your id is truly trying to say.

Do you see a poorly done MS Paint arrow movement map for the first half of the United and Liverpool game? Are you sure? Are you sure that you’re sure? Did you think you saw Downing and Luis Enrique get a bit of joy down the left flank early on and late in the game? Did Evra occasionally burst forward, and plant a decent early cross on Jones’ head? Did Ashley Young start out brightly but fade near the end?

Wrong. Wrong. Wrong. I believe you saw the faint outlines of a hexagon. You did, didn’t you? Well, I hate to break it to you, but a hexagon is kind of a red flag for serious clinical depression brought on by both suppressed id desires and negated childhood shame from suckling upon your mothers’ breasts as a child and on occassion sustaining an erection. Have you apologized to your mother for these actions? Have you even considered it? Or were you just gonna go through your entire life watching EPL games early on Saturday morning, and then sleeping away the afternoon and not even bothering to call home?

I suggest you take Prozac at least twice a day. But remember, I am not a Doctor, just an armchair Psychoanalyst.

Now, stare and ponder at this image. For this image, you must really focus on yourself and open up your mind a bit. It is essential that you attempt to break down any internal filters to suppressed childhood memories.

Did you see a very basic passing map for the first half of United vs. Liverpool? Did you see lots of horizontal action from United? Did you see perhaps a bit too direct of play from Liverpool? Yet, eerily, did you think you saw that both teams experienced the same basic failure to provide service to either Wellbeck or Suarez? Did they predictably lack support?

Wrong again. However, I just hope you didn’t see an inverted red pentagon and/or a blue parallelogram. These geometric shapes you allegedly see are really kinda creepy and hint at much much deeper and disturbing childhood issues which cannot be fully addressed in a single blogpost. Instead, I suggest you hire me as your full-time shrink for only $250 per hour. Your desire to project order upon the chaotic shadows over the internal chaos that dictates your own life and feelings. Please consider my offer as you look at the remaining images.

Stare at this image for a few minutes, and do not make any superficial judgments or skip ahead. I repeat, do not skip ahead.

Did you see an MS Paint goalmouth action chart for the first half of United vs. Liverpool? But where are the lines? Where are the other dots? Where are the shots? Where’s the passing? Did the first half of this game leave your eyes hurting? Did you regret setting your alarm last night? I think, based so far on this analysis, regret plays a larger role in your life than you’d like to admit.

Obviously, what you see in this goalmouth action chart is not a boring first half, but rather your own childhood insecurities and reactions to guilt. You felt guilty for suckling upon your mothers’ breasts while teething and occasionally sustaining an erection, therefore you began to separate from her to avoid these feelings. Did you start to make friends at the age of four? Did you start to play with these friends rather than suckling upon your mother’s teet and/or sustaining an erection? I thought so. That’s pretty cowardly of your four year old self, don’t you think?

Yes, Kuyt could have pushed forward a bit more to support Luis. And Giggs could have done the same for Wellbeck. But you need to stop using soccer, charts, and players to hide from the real underlying issues. What you need are some selective serotonin reuptake inhibitors. None of those tricyclics that leave you up but you cant take a shit for days (which is another issue, ahem). And stop blaming a “lack of support” for your own inability to address these issues.

Now, view this image and try to place it temporally. Yes, you can try to place it within the context of the United-Liverpool game, but only as a first step towards examining your own much larger issues.

Do you see an MS Paint rendition of the clusterfuck that was the last twenty minutes of this game? Did Sir Alex really play three forwards plus Nanni? Did King Kenny really take off Leiva for a second-striker-esque player in Henderson? When Gerrard scored off a free kick, did your heart skip a beat? When Chicharito scored a classic poacher deflected goal off a corner, were you really all that surprised?

You’re inability to make any sort of tactical shape out of these players is intriguing and very problematic. Sir Alex and King Kenny did not just toss on offensive players and hope for a goal. They would never do that. Not even in a Champions League final against Bayern Munich. From a tactical standpoint, King Kenny obviously opted for a 4-1-1-1-1-1-1, with Adam shielding the backline, Gerrard slightly advanced and to the right, Kuyt slightly more advanced and to the right, Henderson slightly more advanced and to the left, and Suarez slightly more advanced ant central. It’s clear as day.

What’s not clear, though, is why you are still in denial about your childhood issues. How much longer can you go about like this, watching EPL games while the guilt, shame, and loneliness eat away at you? Until you take all the above medications, hire me as a shrink, and apologize to your mother for suckling at her teeth while teething and/or sustaining an erection, I’m afraid the answer is…indefinitely.

This post was conceived and created in close collaboration with the wonderfully talented Andy of Toblerone Jones. If you liked this, then you should also check out theShortFuse’s answer to Arsenal’s right back dilemma. And, of course, you can find real and insightful tactical analysis from Michael Cox at the excellent Zonal Marking.

So, a few weeks ago, the Portuguese federation banned Ricardo Carvahlo for a year because he skipped out on a national team practice. A pretty harsh punishment, right? If Allen Iverson, the former NBA player, had been dealt with accordingly, he would be serving his ban up until just before the successful colonization of Mars. Sadly, though, I don’t think Ricardo will learn his lesson. Why?

Well, because the punishment is a classic paper tiger. The Portuguese federation did not fine him money, property, or anything else of tangible value. Rather, they punished him after he left the practice…and announced his retirement. Thus, the steely grip of justice is not choking a perpetrator, but rather grasping at thin air. Still, though, not all is lost. I applaud the Portuguese federation for this delicious dish of amusing impotence. While authorities often do this crap to save face, they only provoke chuckles to thinkers with a keen eye.

And now let’s speculate on a few other paper tiger punishments that could have never changed the course of history had they been brutally imposed upon certain perpetrators….

Sepp Blatter’s Punishment after the Corruption Scandals: Term Limits on Swiss Presidents Whose Last Names are the Same Word as Body Parts.

We all know that FIFA is corrupt. We all know that during the Blatter era, indifferent eyes have failed to see the exchange of briefcases full of cash. Many held hope that Grant Wahl could have offered a viable threat to Blatter’s campaign of incompetence, but he failed to secure a nomination. Blatter also managed to unleash an ethics inquiry into his only opponent mere months before the election. What could we possibly do to tame this monstrosity?

Well, Blatter has already said this will be his last term as FIFA President. Thus, the best paper tiger punishment is an irrevocable term limit on FIFA Presidents with a last name that also means a body part. No exceptions, not even for Hispanic candidates with the unfortunate last name of “Colon.” This symbolic punishment would undoubtedly restore the never-existed-credibility of FIFA in the world’s eyes.

Sir Alex’s Punishment for Not Talking to the BBC: Retroactive Gag Order for Interviews with the BBC by Manchester United Managers.

Sir Alex Ferguson hated the BBC. For over seven years, he did not speak with them. Only recently has he made amends. A coach has a right to free speech, including not talking, correct? Wrong. In private enterprise, the Premier League needs the media glow like a human needs oxygen. The Premier League has probably lost millions in free advertising in countless misquoted and erroneously-attributed quotes that could have resulted from Fergie-BBC interviews. Is the just punishment a fine? No. That would be too obvious and costly. At least to Sir Alex.

Rather, the Premier League can only redeem their respect by unilaterally imposing a retroactive interview ban on Sir Alex Ferguson with the BBC for the last seven years and ending today. And this is no “gloves on” touchline retroactive but not currently active ban. Rather, Sir Alex will have been retroactively banned from all past in-person interviews, emails, telephone calls, text messages, gchats, skype chats, skype calls, the whole nine yards. Only then will Sir Alex really learn who was in charge this whole tiime.

Didier Drogba’s Punishment for Diving: $50,000 Fine for Standing in the Box by Chelsea Forwards.

What is it about gusts of wind that inspire poets, guide sailors, and send Didier Drogba tumbling to the ground? The Ivorian has recently volunteered for a Truth & Reconciliation Commission which makes sense – if anyone knows about laying down your arms in opposition territory, it’s Didier. Still, many opposing central defenders have insisted he be shown a yellow card for simulation. However, a yellow card is too strict a punishment with Didier. If he got one for each dive, he probably would get red-carded in a few matches. Thus, another punishment is necessary.

A fine for standing in the opposition box. Yes, you read that correctly. No slap on the wrist. No finger-wagging. No yelling. No timeout. Straight for the jugular, hit him where it doesn’t hurt, fines for things that rarely happen. Obviously, this fine could have repercussions for Nicolas Anelka, who on the rare occasion has accidentally stood his ground in the box. But that’s just the cost of justice.

Rafa Benitez’s Punishment for Being Rafa Benitez: Court Order Preventing Rafa Benitez from Impersonating, Acting, or Leading Another Person to Believe He is Anyone Other than Rafa Benitez.

This is obviously the harshest yet most fitting of the punishments. I know that the global economy is stuttering along, jobs are scarce, and even Rafa Benitez needs to make ends meet. I also know that, in his chronic boredom, he has started a website. But here’s the deal – if we let Rafa Benitez pretend to be someone else, say, submitting an application for the Inter job under the moniker Bafa Renitez, then here’s the risk: somebody else runs could be confused for him. And that’s simply unfair.

Thus, the ultimate paper tiger punishment (which actually has real claws) for the quinteessential blame-the-players-and-gm coach is to be forced to be himself. And to have to live with that fact everyday for the rest of his life.

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

After our last post on club ownership, some curious readers and tweeters have asked – what exactly is a “partial flotation” on a stock market? What does Manchester United plan to do? Generally, the Red Devils want to go public, but not as publicly as we’d like. They want cash, but not transparency. How can we tell? For starters, they have chosen the Singapore Stock Exchange, which has less disclosure requirements than the LSE. Secondly, I’ve glanced at a few recent Singapore IPO listings, brushed up on international finance 101, and brainstormed a few possible permutations for this alleged “partial flotation.”

Things do not look pretty. Here are the likely forms and results:

First Partial-Flotation Variation: Huckleberry Finn’s Raft

A partial flotation is a quick cash grab. You usually have a big but floundering parent company, and a studly subsidiary. The parent company sells a minority interest in the subsidiary looking cash in on “the good son.” This raises some cash but also a dilemma – how can a shareholder truly value this somewhat removed fraction of an interest in a spin-off? Uncertainty leads to volatility, like the choppy waters of the Mississippi in Mark Twain’s classic “The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn.”

The Glazer’s Singaore IPO certainly has shades of the escapades of the Duke & King from Huck Finn. The American owners have royally angered England-based fans, so what do they do? They hop on over to the next town down the river and try a new trick to raise funds. Overseas, far away from the local fans who have filled Old Trafford for decades, who knows what the Glazers will do if we turn a blind eye? What will they sell? Like the last few chapters of Huck Finn, this ending could be unsatisfactory on various levels. 

Second Partial-Flotation Variation: Captain Jack Sparrow’s Ship

Another major risk for a partial IPO in a subsidiary is that instead of price volatility, it simply flops. Investors could be concerned about two issues: First, who calls the shots at the subsidiary? After all, an executive Board holds the Parent Company in check (in theory), but does that same Board have a say in the Subsidiary? What about possible conflicts of interest between the studly Subsidiary and plodding Parent? On a general level, isn’t it odd that the Parent Company is slowly sinking but the Subsidiary is a Black Pearl of profit?

Then there’s the biggest risk – like the first Pirates of the Caribbean, success breeds shitty sequels intended to squeeze more dimes out of a bored populace. If the Glazers raise some cash in Singapore, then will a partial IPO in Bangladesh be next on the agenda? Perhaps they could go to Barbados, canvass door-to-door, and raffle off certificates of ownership to local residents! And, ad nauseum, this will further dilute the value of the “what the fuck are these exactly” shares already sold.

Third Partial-Flotation Variation: the Barge from Apocalypse Now

The Glazers really haven’t made many friends in England. Let’s just imagine that their “unfriendliness” leads to a few local enemies in Singapore, who then pull strings to make United’s ownership on the  Stock Exchange a living hell. After all, the former American owners of Liverpool got ran out of town on a horse. In Singapore, things could end even messier.

Why? Well, the alcoholic beverages advertised on the Singapore Corporate Counsel Association website gives an impression of an entrenched “Old Boys” culture. “Let’s take a few shots of Jim Beam and wax fiduciary duties, dude!” This is not a land to get mired into a messy corporate battle. Nor a place where you will probably get the fairest of shakes in a dispute. An exit could be tedious, costly, and worse than the benefit of entry.

Fourth Partial-Flotation Variation: Willy Gets Freed, Kinda

Another risk in selling a minority share in a subsidiary is that the subsidiary gains enough momentum to break free from the parent company. This is the least likely and most fascinating scenario. What if Manchester United manages to break free from the Glazers and…falls into Singapore investors hands? Technically, a partial flotation will require the Glazers to create or use a legally distinct subsidiary and then sell shares in that entity. If there’s enough cash, and, crucially, belligerent shareholders, then the parent company could be swept away in  Tsunami of money & boardroom politics & lawsuits. Granted, the two-tiered voting structure is meant to impede this. Not likely, but we can hope.

The great irony, of course, is that thousands of Englishmen & women love Manchester United and would love to own a part of the club. The Glazers want that cash, but not the responsibility. Even now, I can imagine local Singapore subsidiaries being created to allow for English investors to own a piece via the Singapore IPO. I’m sure the English are somewhat happy with United’s success, but, like the end of Free Willy, are sad to see a friend go away.

In sum, the IPO partial-flotation has several possibilities. It’s unlikely that the Singapore IPO will free United from the Glazers, but we can dream. In a few weeks or months, the Red Devils will go public. We can only pray for the best results. Will you be there?

There’s only one Paul Scholes. And after his testimonial game, we probably will never see him don a red jersey ever again. To categorize Scholes is to do him cosmic injustice. To describe a talent beyond words is a fool’s errand. Yet the player, who meant so much to so many different fans and players, deserves a tribute. And a tribute he shall receive.

He was not always revered. At the beginning, decades ago, Liverpool ruled England and United lived nervous nights in Europe. From Fergie’s fledglings, though, soon Scholes, Giggs, Keane, and Beckham sprung forth and formed the best midfield in the world. And in a few manic minutes in the Camp Nou, they became Champions of Europe. Yet before  that night, Scholes and his teammates were mortals. They were vulnerable. They were boys. Wickedly talented boys, but boys nonetheless.

Time passed. United accumulated trophies. However, at the international level, things with England never worked out. The fans cried for Frank Lampard and Steven Gerrard to lead the Three Lions, ultimately winning over Sven Goran Eriksson. After the 2004 Euro, when he was subbed each game, he tactfully resigned from international duty. Only George Best immediately realized the enormous loss, remarking that “England has lost their best player.”

In that sense, Paul Scholes was a prophet. The ginger possessed two capable feet, a lovely pivot, and the patience to pass sideways rather than relentlessly run at goal. As a spectator, you got the sense that two Paul Scholess existed at the same time – one was playing the game, while the other sat beside you and radioed in the correct pass to open space. He played possession soccer before Spain matched the style of tiki taka with success.

For a player that made his living kicking a round ball, he seldom looked at it. Rather, like the later “balding” playing stage of the great Sir Bobby Charlton, his head seldom lowered. His vision and close control fed off one another, slowing down the game around him. Pivots and first touch passes bamboozled opposing players foolish enough to rush him. Examples abound of his gifts, yet words shackle his talent. In a sense, Scholes did not simply possess a good first touch, because in reality his feet never “touched” a ball. Rather, soccer balls melted into his legs, chest, and thighs.

Unless he didn’t want them to. Several years after that fateful night in the Camp Nou, Scholes and United faced the brilliant Barcelona side of Frank Riijkaard. The 2008 Champions League semi-final had been closely fought, with neither team giving an inch. Cristiano Ronaldo dribbled into traffic, surprise, and Gianluca Zambrotta picked his pocket. However, in the blink of an eye, Scholes intercepted an errant pass, flicked a bounce pass to himself, re-balanced his center of gravity, and unleashed a bending volley past Victor Valdes from 30 yards. The goal would send United through and on to an eventual Champions League victory.

Despite the subtle brilliance of his play, at least the YouTube generation will appreciate Scholes’ Hollywood strikes that resulted in goals. For corner kicks, most fans anticipate a header by a burly target forward. Yet Scholes stalked the 18 yard box like a lion near a watering hole. The ginger lurked about stealthily, preying on poor defensive clearances or clever teammates’ passes to unleash thunder strikes.

And, of course, he was a quiet man that enjoyed spending time with his family. Not an easy feat in the Red Devils locker room. He rarely gave interviews, speaking with his boots, not his mouth. His volleys represent the brilliant truth behind his game: grace, coordination & balance are the fundamentals of power, not antithetical to it.

You knew he would score via a thunder strike in his testimonial match. And not because it was scripted. Not because United played an allegedly non-existent MLS club. Why? It’s simple. There’s only one Paul Scholes.

Wicked cool stuff from Mr. Swarbrick of Gareth Bale also-cool-animation fame.

(Via AFR)

“I’m Still Here” by Tom Waits

“Where is My Mind?” by The Pixies