So, back in November of last year, Wayne Rooney was playing well and we sung his praises with a look at some trite football cliches. But here’s the dilemma – since that time, Rooney has gone on an even more torrid goalscoring run and his talents transcend “football.” Thus, we present a series of trite cliches that go beyond the sport.

Against Milan in the return leg, Rooney ran onto a lovely Neville cross and made no mistake. Obviously, the average human being would see Gary Neville start to attempt a cross and give up in advance. They would roll their eyes and shrug their shoulders in anticipation. But not Rooney. He kept his focus on the .001% chance that a decent cross may arrive. And it did. And he finished it. A fan at Old Trafford, savoring the sweet taste of European victory, was heard to remark – “Wayne Rooney has a good head on his shoulders.”

Against Aston Villa in the League Cup final, Rooney fended off James Collins to nod home the winner in pulsating 2-1 victory. This was a clutch goal in a clutch situation – any other player may have gotten wobbly knees despite the apparent simplicity of the task. Not to mention the fact that Rooney, despite a robust frame, does not exactly exude height or jumping prowess. A commentator put it succintly – “Rooney is heads and shoulders above the rest.”

Just a month earlier, against City in the League Cup semifinals, deep in injury time, Rooney again used his noggin to glance home a winner. The goal culminated an emotional fightback by the Red Devils, who had lost to City and an inspired Carlos Tevez in the first leg. Rooney’s goal was not the result of an individual duel of will with a center back, but rather a sharper reaction. Rooney’s goal was the fruit of a focused and acute mind. This time, a manager took a a stab at explaining Rooney’s consistency this season:  ”He always uses his head.”

Signs of this prowess have been plain for all to see since 2007. As a young man in a game against Arsenal, Rooney redirected an Evra cross with a very conspicuous part of his body. Hint – it was attached to his neck and not his torso. No, not his shoulder. This is Wayne Rooney, not Pippo Inzaghi. At the time, many Red Devils fans wondered – could this pale Scouser be the real deal? A Gunner pundit muttered under his breath – “Rooney is heading in the right direction – BAH HUMBUG!”

Still, the year before, Rooney got an infamous red card against Portugal in the World Cup. He stamped Ricardo Carvahlo’s groin and was sent off, with England to later lose on penalties. Questions abounded about his temperament, focus, and dedication. Despite a bit of provocation from Cristiano Ronaldo, Rooney’s own teammates admitted he was a bit “hot headed.”

But after 20 plus goals, a League Cup, and leading the attack in a United side that is threatening for the domestic and European double, a homeless man outside a pub, watching the Milan game through a window, remarked: “Rooney has grown from strong willed and ill tempered to focused and headstrong. Defenders just seem to get out of his way.”

Well, the future is a terrifying place. I saw my own death, and, as expected, it sucks. I also saw a few other deaths – which likewise suck. You would never think that carrying a spoon while running down a flight of 12th century stairs in a Buddhist temple in Nepal would be dangerous, but then some careless monk tosses his banana peel and…You get the picture.

On the other hand, the future is amorphous. Too many writers toss out hypotheticals such as “If Madrid gets the first goal early, then…” or “If Lyon can survive the first 20 minutes, then…”.

Thus, in the interest of justice and reality and my journalistic integrity, I present my preview of the Madrid game with painstaking precision.

First, the game will take place at the Santiago Bernabeu stadium. I absolutely positively guarantee that this game will not be played at the Nou Camp, the Vicente Calderon stadium, or even the Sanchez Pizjuan stadium in Sevilla. Not a chance.

Second, I predict that despite a 1:30 game time, the actual start time will be at least ten minutes later. Not five minutes. Not six minutes. Not even seven minutes. TEN MINUTES. Why? Heineken commercials. Plus, Bank CEOs want to pay thousands of Euros for their kids to be on TV and hold players’ hands. And who am I to stop them?

Third, I predict that the first half will not last longer than 55 game time minutes. Not 56 minutes. Not even 55 and a half minutes. Not even 55 minutes and one second. 55 minutes and ya! Why? Because Sir Alex Ferguson is not the manager of Real Madrid and thus his magical capacity to extend matches while down one goal will be absent.

Fourth, I predict that the second half will not last longer than 55 game time minutes. Not 56 minutes. Not even 55 and a half minutes. Not even 55 minutes and one second. 55 minutes and ya! Why? Because Sir Alex Ferguson is not the manager of Real Madrid and thus his magical capacity to extend matches while down one goal will be absent.

Fifth, I predict that Real Madrid manager Manuel Pellegrini will wear a tie and suit. No t-shirt. No athletic shirt. No tennis shoes. Nike and Reebok emblems will be curiously absent. Not even a black cut-off with “Twisted Sister.” Suit. SUIT.  Suit pants. Suit jacket. Tie. Manuel will not even try to pull off white athletic socks with his dapper pants and dress shoes, like that time you were late to work but forgot to do the laundry the night before. No. If Manuel has to put on a stanky pair of shoes, it’s fine. After all, his co-workers run around and sweat and smell ten times worse. Okay, maybe only 5 times worse.

Sixth, the Real Madrid players will wear jerseys with their last name on the back and a gambling website on the front. The gambling website will be Bwin. Not BetUS. Not BetFair. Bwin. In the case of a repetitive last name or a last name of great length, a nickname will be used.

And as for the game? Well, that’s anyone’s guess. I do predict that if no goals are scored, Madrid will not advance. However, if some goals are scored, then Madrid may advance. MAY.

And you can count on it.

Well, my friend, I’m afraid just isn’t good enough. I have high standards for my testosterone exuding idols – which is why I am furious at Sergios Ramos for his latest goal celebration and its odd explanation.

For those who missed it, Madrid came back from two goals down to beat Sevilla 3-2 at home and climb aboard the top of the table. It was another impressive come-from-behind victory for Pellegrini’s team. Unless, of course, you think that conceding soft goals early could potentially be a bad thing. Theoretically, of course.

Still, regardless of your thoughts on higher mathematics, Sergio Ramos headed home the game tying goal. The problem? His celebration….

Did you see the hand gestures after the goal? The V and then the synchronized nipple itch? After first I thought – well, it is still kinda cold in Madrid, perhaps the new Madrid jersey does not provide ample warmth to generate the sort of blood circulation to keep those nips nice and toasty. And who wants to run around with those things hard as diamonds? The chaffing would be a nightmare.

However, a loyal tweeter informed me that his celebration was in reference to a visit Mr. Ramos made to a prison. Yes. A PRISON.

And this is not just any prison – those from the UK isles may realize that this is the same Valdemoro prison that once housed Linfield legend William “Winkie” Murphy on a 250 euro counterfeit charge. Can you say depths of despair? Doldrums of despondent? But Sergio went there. But why?

According to the official Real site, it seems that Sergio went to the Valdemoro prison to spend time with some kids. Now I know what you’re thinking – kids also go to parks, malls, and movies. Why not head over to these wonderful spots? Well, aside from smuggling in some cigarettes to convicted cousins, Madrid painted this visit as altruistic.

But did Madrid realize that individuals in prison all have one thing in common – they have been convicted of a crime! With a world of orphanages and kids that didn’t choose to be abandoned or neglected, Sergio fills up the gas tank to his kicking ride and pulls up to the pen. How pleasant.

I know what you’re thinking – perhaps Sergio was confused. In many ways, prisons are pretty similar to hospitals – they are full of nervous and miserable people, tend to shun natural lighting, and the depressing ambiance in the air is so thick you could cut it with a machete. But no. No way. Sergio knew this was a prison – just look at this press release:

And finally, we get to my gripe. Look, Sergio can do whatever he wants in his free time, but he needs to understand that he is a role model. Millions of kids watch and mirror his every move. I can just imagine thousands of kids shoplifting just at the odd chance of getting caught and going to the Valdemoro prison.

Even worse, what about the kids who have a chance of being professional footballers? What happens when, instead of putting in the hours of training and practice to light the world on fire just like your hero Sergio, you find the shortcut – misdemeanor assault and/or possession with intent to distribute?

Sergio doesn’t care. You can see it in his carefree laughter during the prison room press conference. Somewhere, a child kicks a soccer ball. Then, another child pushes that kid, takes his soccer ball, and patiently waits for the police to arrive, arrest him, and take him to Valdemoro.

But the police never come. And this child, well, he ceases to be a child. He ceases to dream. And that, my friends, is why I am thoroughly disappointed with Mr. Ramos and never want to see him warm his nipples in a circular clockwise fashion. NEVER.

So the game against Holland in Holland. The US failed to spectacularly crush the Dutch by a scoreline of 5-0 and you are disappointed and venting your frustration at individual players. Those who failed to score a hat trick are your forum effigies to be mocked and tossed under a semi-truck.

But should we really be concerned? Take…a…deep….breath.

Many individuals complain about Bob Bradley’s selection of centermids. To be true, the current pairings have the consistency of an episode of 12 Corazones. Still, this superficial dilemma underscores a startling fact – we are loaded at the position. Maurice Edu, Torres, Little Bradley, Feilhaber, Ricardo Clark, and now Stu Holden….it was only 4 years ago that Bruce Arena had to bring along a less than fit John O’Brien as cover for the aging Mastroeni and Reyna.

Still, some people cry about the lack of a possession offense. Some desire a never ending collection of ten foot sideways passes that may or may not lead to a goal. But is the Barcelona approach the only path to glory? Did the US focus on an athletic and counterattacking 4-4-2 serve us well at the Confederations Cup? A national team needs an identity and these players are American – the Cule tactics are ever so patient and cultured, but the players on the USMNT, quite a few from Jersey, were born to run.

The depth shows up at every position – we lost Gooch, Dempsey, Holden, and Davies, yet played Holland in Holland to a close 2-1 loss. More importantly, Bradley made some strong substitutions to turn the tie on its head – the last 20 minutes were all US, despite going down two goals, the Yanks lifted their heads rather then shrugging their shoulders.

Now I turn to individual players that you hate. Everybody hates Eddie Johnson. I have news for you – EJ is athletic and a competent finisher, even if he struggles with hold-up play outside the box. And DeMarcus Beasley returned to the international mix with some dangerous service and the swagger of old.

The US looked moderately organized at the back and was dangerous on set pieces – is that the sexy attack from the run of play we would like to see? Not exactly. Is that the recipe Algeria used to qualify for the World Cup and Greece also used to win Euro 2004? Yes and Yessir.

Another player we love to hate is Landon Donovan. Well, at the international level smart teams keep an eye on him. And by keep an eye, I mean smother and prevent from getting touches. Still, this magnetic effect opens up space for teammates – let’s just hope they can step up to the plate.

Actual recap available here

I am all smiles today and for one simple reason: this morning, Junito absolutely wanted nothing to do with the broom. Nope, he sprung out of bed, ran to the closet, picked out the soccer ball, and woke me via the traditional “ball hits head” approach. It’s much more effective than an alarm clock.

Perhaps as a young father, I overreacted to the ever slightly changing preferences of a toddler? Nevertheless, I speculate that the trip to the motherland helped reignite his passion to be Madrid’s greatest player. Plus, we got a little help from the Lazytown’s protagonist Sporticus. Junito saw this bastion of masculinity kicking a soccer ball and knew it was okay for half anglo saxons to play this sport, even though it only marginally involves butting shoulders and grabbing at other males. The Backyardigans also had a wicked and trippy soccer monster episode.

My initial reaction was obviously warm and streaming tears of joy. I immediately thought – there is a Jesus, he loves me, and he guides Junito inexorably towards Real Madrid greatness. Or something like that. Plus, on top of Junito’s first career resurrection, during a vicious short side game, Junito landed his first proper tackle. Am I dreaming? Don’t wake me up!

We were kicking around, along with my four year old aspiring doctor daughter, Angie, when suddenly the game switched to keep away. Angie, who has a serious height advantage, used all of her weight to shield off and taunt Junito. Did Junito let his guard down? Did Junito give up and go crying to mommy? Nein.

Instead, Junito backed off, regained his balance, and anticipated Angie’s dribble. He then got stuck in magnificently, knocking away the ball and sending Angie into a fall-less stumble. Don’t worry, neither child was hurt. But Junito is a striker, you recall. A striker getting stuck in? Exactly.

The modern game, with goalscoring centerbacks and galloping wingbacks, requires a collective commitment to defense. I am not teaching him the dark art of the catenaccio…yet. Basically, Junito needs to drop back to support the midfield and suck forward the opposition’s defensive line. And picking a few pockets from time-to-time should boost his goalscoring stats.

While the modern club game has a fluid aspect, one cold, hard, black & white question remains: which national team will call Junito captain? Right now, he has a claim to three different sides, all with pros and cons. Nicaragua did quality for the last Gold Cup, but the World Cup is a long shot. And while I love George Best, I don’t want Junito to supplant him as the greatest player never to play on the sport’s biggest stage.

Mexico and the US, thus, are the prime candidates. And I’m sure Junito will add some picante seasoning to the already steaming rivalry. I’ve already taught him the art of the bilingual trashtalk, whereby you say awful things to the opposition in one language and feign ignorance to the ref in another. But regardless of which team he plays for, Junito seems destined to face a Madin Mohammad-led France in the final.

The kid has a lot of talent:

Despite mad footskills, some questions pop into my head. The most glaring issue is his character. They say the apple does not fall far from the tree, and what parents would have the utter lack of tact to put videos of their child on Youtube? At least have the common decency to use Vimeo or Rutube.

Also, and more importantly, I believe in respecting the opponent without putting them on a pedestal. Positive visualization is crucial, so whenever I get anxious about the inevitable Junito-Madin showdown, I think of this image…

The game: World Cup Final. The location: Mexico City, Mexico. The score: 0-0. The time on the clock: 76th minute. The US/Mexico gets a corner kick which Junito nods but tragically hits off the post. Raymond Domenech, still the France coach, screams for a counter. The ball is swiftly played to Madin in space, courtesy of a lovely weighted ball from Lilian Thuram’s grandson, known as Lilianito.

The crowd stands on their feet, puts away their toothbrushes, and anticipates brilliance. Madin takes a touch, lifts his head, and then, crack, the sound of bones crunching echoes throughout the stadium. Roy Keane, watching from home, turns his head away from the television in disgust. The commentators drop their jaws in disbelief.

Junito has just broken Madin’s metatarsal, ACL, and hip flexor in one double-studs up moment of insane beauty.

The crowd holds a collective silence as Madin is carted off the field on a stretcher, his vital signs weak. Junito is blue carded (a double red in 21st century FIFA rules) and sent to an early shower. As he walks to the tunnel, a cascade of boos showers over him, but Junito, of Aztec warrior blood, defiant as a Cuauhtemoc Blanco, knows about human sacrifice and smiles as he marches. He faces a mere lifetime ban, and with 21st century implanted robotrotic legs, he’ll be back on the field for the 2210 World Cup. A blink of an  eye.

On the sideline, Raymond Domenech loses his mind. More so. He has already used his three changes, subbing on David Terezeguet, then subbing him off, and then subbing him back on again. Despite the man advantage, the US/Mexico does not exactly dominate but does hold on until spotkicks. David Terezeguet clangs his shot off the post, and…

Well, you get the picture. I also want your input on which side Junito should call his own.

Yes, it’s an adolescent crush more so than “falling in love.” But is there a more meaningful kind of love? The three striker formation certainly stirs the blood and engages the eyes, but something deeper pulls at my heart strings. It is the players themselves. It is Carlos Tevez. It is Craig Bellamy. It is Shaun Wright Phillips. Could you envision a more motley crew in the world of sport?

This past summer, we painted City as the overspending-filthy new rich-machination. We cringed as they overpaid for players from top and mid level clubs. But can we fault the supporting cast for an aggressive director? The producer is a total d-bag, but the show on stage is breathtaking. And, at least in terms of my adolescent crush, the show backstage also induces an endorphin rush.

Are the City players’ greedy? Yes. Do they have checkered personal histories? An emphatic yes. Does their ASD personality combination make for an explosive cocktail? Of course. That’s why…that’s why I love them.

Chelsea bought bluechip recruits that quickly became or already were household names. The Blues bought big, tall, broad shouldered “world class players.” Michael Ballack. John Obi Mikel. Those two could probably lift my house by its foundations. But not City. Shaun Wright Phillips could live comfortably in my playhouse, sipping tea with the sister of the world’s once greatest-to-be footballer.

Carlos Tevez spends his time flying between the UK and Argentina to check on his illegitimate children. Granted, his concern does redeem him in some ways. But he’s still unpredictably and unreliable. Delightfully so. And Craig Bellamy? Well, I believe his picture shall someday grace the American Heritage Dictionary for a variety of unflattering words. I spent a part of my formative years in a trailer park, and Craig’s tattoos bring back fond and not-so-fond childhood memories. “Pa, get up…your late for you misdemeanor trial!”

The City players, to put it succinctly, are not the high school quarterback. They are not bland suburbanite overachievers. These are the leather clad boys whom mothers half-halfheartedly warn their daughters about. “He’s not marriage material.” In between the lines, daughters read their mom’s intuition – “You are young, don’t get your hopes up, but have fun.”

So yes, my passing fancy of City is just that – passing. I will probably lose interest in a week or month or so. I’m trying not to fall too in love. I’m tempering my expectations. At least I’m trying. But for now, they are my misfits of the month, my miscreants of the Spring, my…true love.

When Bellamy turned Mikel and finished far post in one swoop, my heart skipped a beat. When Tevez turned Carvahlo and then Terry, the hair on my arms stood on end. And when Tevez took his penalty kick with aplomb, I couldn’t help but batter my eyelids.

I’m trying not to fall too deeply in love.

I’m trying to temper expectations.

I’m….

John Terry. Did I miss the bandwagon? Or am I fashionably late? Regardless of your level of interest, know this – John Terry’s sex life has stuck a simmering poker into the gaping chasm between the anglo-saxon cultures and the Latin world. And yes, I am referring to Sepp Blatter’s odd comments. And yes, I am giving him way too much credit. And yes, I will muse on the Bridge snub. Just bear with me…

I begin with an overlooked fact and a simple premise. John Terry engaged in intercourse of the consensual variety. That is to say – the French lingerie model was in no way coerced either by direct or indirect threats to engage in said relations with John Terry. Rather, she got with Johny Terry for….well, only the Good Lord knows. And even he may be confused.

While Capello stripped Terry of the England captaincy and pundits cried foul play and lamented on England’s World Cup title chances, few in the media called for the French lingerie model to be stripped of the captaincy of the French lingerie team. Few reflected upon the implications of the affair for the French lingerie team’s chances at the coming World Cup of lingerie.

Granted, no such events exist. But, but, but….

If it takes two to tango, then why is only the man taking the blame? If Susan B. Anthony and other female pioneers in the workplace have fought for suffrage and equal pay and equal opportunity, then why does society fall into the same “players playing the part of player” discourse and narrative?

Let’s take a somber look at reality.

John Terry, for all his headed goals, missed penalty kicks, million pound wages, terrifying familial relations, and million pound wages, still looks like…John Terry. Is no female embarrassed that this French lingerie model has to wake up in the morning, look herself in the mirror, and accept that she had relations with a man named John Terry and looks like John Terry? Should they be?

Sepp Blatter, of course, played the old Latino “boys will be mischievous boys” card. In some part, the two cultures do speak differently about marital vowels. However, social science research indicates that infidelity does not vary greatly between the two. His talk is the lion’s roar masking a nail-less claw. El perro que ladra nunca muerde.

Still, how a society views the genders is important. And the English press’s obsession with WAGS and women as receivers-of-nice-cars certainly does little to dispel the impression that despite suffrage, equal university enrollment, and almost equal workpay, the male as infidelit-ious/breadwinner mentality pervades.

So try not to get caught up in the gossip rag hype. Try not to overreact to Blatter’s prudent observation with shallow statistical support. Just thank yourself that tomorrow morning, no one will strip you of the captaincy of any team. And most likely, you will not have to live with the simple fact that the previous night, you had relations with a man named John Terry that looks like…John Terry.

Still, the discourse turns to England and the World Cup. And my gaze turns to the UK media. The chicken and egg rears it’s ugly head – do the tabloids feed our prurient interest, or vice versa? More importantly, how does the UK tabloid machine magnify the minutiae of details of personal lives, yet always end with a weak relation to the prospects of England winning a World Cup. In the case of Bridge, who today said adios to Capello’s plans, one has to wonder – had this matter stayed private, could the two have worked it out for the sake of the Three Lions?

More disturbingly, the England “excuse magnet” now has its focus – leftback. With Cole injured and Bridge excused, all of England’s wins, losses, goals, and goals conceded shall gyrate around that single position on the field. “Heskey lays off for Rooney who shoots, its blocked, but Gerrard scores off the rebound. BUT WHY didn’t the leftback overlap five minutes earlier? By the way, England is winning 4-1.”

Never mind the fact that leftback is the problem position for every other national team. Never mind the peripheral role that position plays. I feel sorry for the Three Lions and Fabio Capello because no team has ever or ever will win a World Cup without at least 5 world class leftbacks waiting neatly in line and getting along well.

So, in summation, John Terry is a bad person but so is that French model, and none of that matters much to England’s prospects. They are a good bet at the quarterfinals, but anything after that is just gravy on the mashed potatoes.

For a balanced appraisal, check out Tom Dunmore’s insight on “wag culture” at Pitchinvasion and Kira Cochrane’s wag interviews at the Guardian