Now if you will briefly indulge me, let’s go hunting for Huntington.

I have two fundamental theses: culture is dynamic and amorphous. And vuvuzelas are annoying. For those unfamiliar with Samuel Huntington’s “Clash of Civilizations” paper, he basically asserted that in the post-Cold War era major conflicts would swell from the clash of 7 or 8 major “cultural identities.” He used this explanation as a call to arms – the Anglo-Saxon liberal capitalist democracy could no longer assume univeralism, but must fight battles and philosophies to justify its existence.

Often, though, the mask of univeralism belies a specific motive. France banned all religious symbols in public schools, but really targeted the hijab. FIFA, though, targeted a specific item, the vuvuzela, and made no attempt to hide its explanation – the preservation of “culture.” What culture?

Platini has failed to adequately describe the European football culture. I’m not so sure the atmosphere at matches in Spain and England can be compared, let alone equated as one collective identity. I also have a problem with the notion of a static identity – thousands of Africans immigrate to Europe each year. Do they not form a part of the European identity?

So, in sum, the culture argument is so amorphous that it can be used to mask underlying racist assumptions and prejudices. In this case, I don’t believe that’s true. However, the arguments we form and adopt should be judged as equally as the goals we hope to achieve.

The vuvuzela annoys me. Uefa should have banned the plastic apparatus because of the public/private nuisance of the noise decibels. While I’m sure culture plays a part in my disdain for the buzzzzzzzz, an example from my daily life comes to mind.

As a Mexican American/Hispanic with neighbors that occasionally blast “Machucando” at 2 in the morning, we should not allow “culture” to be an excuse or explanation for actions that violate certain norms. I do not feel a twinge of Latin solidarity with my Puerto Rican brethren when I have to assist the world’s greatest footballer in going to sleep for a second time.

So, on a certain level, I disagree with Huntingon and Platini for the same reason – the rejection of universalism and acceptance of “culture/relativism” puts us at the whims of sociology professors. Yikes.

The universe has inverted itself. The malcontent souls go to AC Milan, while the bad souls go to Barcelona. As for those in between – the hapless sailors aboard a ship sailed by a ruthless and sinful captain, the ocean opens up its mighty mouth but refuses to swallow them whole. Rather, they float, and they float, and they float. The currents toss them to and fro, the hypnotizing rhythm of the waves lulls them into exhausted slumber until salt water filled lungs choke them awake. Van Der Vaart is one of these souls.
Arry Redknapp is neither wheeler nor dealer, just ask him. However, when Rafael Van Der Vaart became available for less than ten million pounds (roughly one billion ounces), he rang up Real Madrid faster than you can say Football Manager. But Rafael, a hardworking if hapless soul in Madrid would be treated to no decisive ending. Rather, he fell victim to a cruelly relative social construct: time. Spurs may have faxed their paperwork in time, if time were calculated by billions of milliseconds, but by the cut & dry minutes & hours standard of the Premiership, they may have been too late.

Is Rafael the victim in a world of interests dictated by a shady corporate elite? Did the shackles of professional contracts and million-pound wages conspire against his own interest? Or is Rafael the good guy that never wins in the twenty-first century? Is he the good-natured nerd that in real life doesn’t land the beautiful female lead like a romantic comedy? Let us look at the happenings of other antsy footballers….

Robinho, a whole year removed from forcing his way out of Madrid, professed his disdain for Mancini and obtained a loan deal to Santos of Brazil. He then forced a deal to AC Milan. Ibrahimovic, after a single year at everybody’s favorite club, got a transfer to Milan after he revealed he hardly heard a word from Guardiola.

And Javier Mascherano organized a strike in a crucial Liverpool – Manchester City game. The union? La Asociacion de Capitanes de la Seleccion Nacional del Futbol Argentina, a very exclusive and prestigious bunch. The cause? El desagradable clima de Inglaterra. And the result? A fichaje from Barcelona.

Sadly, the moral of the story dissipates into a variety of interpretations. Were those three players self-assertive proletariots who effectively defended their interest and the value of their labor? Were they mere mercenaries, vagabonds of the twenty-first century looking for the next globe-trotting fix? Or were they the decisive angels, picking a side after Satan’s revolt rather than meandering on the fence?

Of course, the Arshavin example shows that the Premiership will sometimes bend its own rules. Will they be saintly and ratify the agreement? And, more importantly, does the word ratify have anything to do with rats, or is it just a three syllable term meant to make the educated liberal elite feel educated? Either way, I do approve and I don’t approve. And I stand by that.

Join us next time for another chapter in “How the Transfer World Turns….”

The new coach, the new wave of roster signings, the merengue fans have seen this film a thousand and one times. I really didn’t expect the offense to gel immediately – Di Maria and Ronaldo played too narrow and the resulting offensive bunch played into the hands of a stacked Mallorcan defense. With neither Lass nor Xabi capable of a pass to switch the fields, one can hardly blame the wingers for venturing inland in search of sustenance.

Mourinho’s substitutes at the sixty minute mark were obvious for the eye to see – Di Maria was gassed and Canales ineffective. Benzema & Oozil did add pace & dynamism to a static attack, but the Mallorcan goalkeeper kept out Cristiano and Higuain’s best efforts. Still, despite a nail biting spurt of 10 minutes, the opening 45 minutes was a wasteland of soccer watching – Real’s future greatest footballer succinctly summed it up with “Papy Elliott me aburrrrrrro.”

While I argued exhaustively that Pellegrini’s run & gun offense was by design, Mourinho’s patient counterattacking pedigree makes my head dizzy with the pace & rhythm of Real’s play. Are the player’s simply incapable of putting a foot to ball and picking a pass once they put on the blanquillo shirt? Can Jose craft one of our flawed holding midfielders into the next Makelele or Cambiasso?

More importantly, the time frame is short. Jose has but a season to win a trophy and show his attacking pedigree. Despite the lack of a target forward, holding midfielder, and proper leftback, Mourinho must make due with Marcelo, Lass, and Higuain. While Pipita did go on a tear last season, he is more of Crespo than Milito on the Argentine-forward-scale. Goalscoring and perpetually off-sides: yes. Physical presence and playing in midfielders: nein.

So 0-0 starts the campaign for Madrid. On the one hand, a clean sheet away at Mallorca, Real’s perpetual house of horrors. On the other hand, the nagging feeling that two points passed us by…..

First, the Guardian reports that Inter faxed an offer for Javier Mascherano to Liverpool. The offer? Sulley Muntari plus 6 million pounds. Now I know your confusion – after reading that sentence, you thought that Inter must have offered to pay Liverpool 6 million pounds to take Muntari’s wages off the book. No. I’m afraid not. Re-read the sentence…. Yep. So here’s my explanation.

Alcohol. Some sneaky intern got a bit tipsy while working late hours and mailed in a preposterous fax to Liverpool. The Guardian article failed to give a date or time for the fax, so this is entirely plausible. Another explanation is that Muntari sent the fax himself, hoping to leave Inter, and wrote it in confusing language in the hopes of confusing Liverpool. Perhaps he wrote “You will not unsign Javier Mascherano in the possible exchange for accepting Sulley Muntari and you don’t not dislike six million pounds DO NOT SIGN HERE IF YOU DON’T ACCEPT.”

In other news, the NYT reports that FIFA’s crack team of investigators confirmed that the North Korean squad was not tortured. How so? Through the number one, most effective, impossible to avoid investigation technique of a letter. FIFA, using proceeds from the World Cup, paid for the envelope, postage, pen, paper, and also the gas to drive the company car to the mailbox. Of course, an unpaid intern drove the car, but Sepp bought that intern a nice coffee at a Starbuck’s on the return trip.

After such heavy investigating, the crack team of FIFA justice league avengers took a mighty rest. After a bit of time, conclusive proof of the innocence of North Korea arrived in the form of another airtight piece of evidence – a letter! Now, I know that some legal types may say “hearsay blah blah inadmissible”, but let’s not confuse the issues. This letter was on very official looking stationary and absolutely positively contained no powder substance that could be confused for a terrorist chemical attack. Thus, the world sleeps easy knowing that justice has been done, and that the wheels of justice turn ever so smoothly and swiftly.

Finally, believe it or not, CNNSI reports that a team and it’s fan base may not like Felix Magath. I have a theory and am prepared to take the heat for it. Despite its popularity, relevance, and simplicity, I follow the simple tenets of the anti-Felix the Cat Defamation League. Observe.

Basically, Felix the coach at Schalke is just feeling the wrath of the tidal wave of anti-Felix the Cat sentiment. At his time, Felix was one of the few black animated protagonists and light years ahead of Garfield both in terms of figure and social commentary. But with his success came a price – just as Barack provoked the Tea Party, Felix’s popularity drew its fair share of haters. And they now hate Felix the coach. If only he’d been named Martin Luther or Malcolm Exe or something not controversial. But no, his parents marked him for life, and….well, he just has to get on with it.

Unlike Raymond Domenech, my aloof and academic demeanor has not led to an explosion of infighting at the household. I have nothing to run from. However, like a certain Capello, my tactics and approach to personnel has been called into question. Basically, am I putting Junito first?

The fruit of temptation came in the form of SoccerPro. Basically, the good folks over there offered me a chance to review some products. I had my run of the store, and, for a moment, I thought about getting Junito a proper pair of boots. There was just one problem – at age three and still confined to playing indoors, I wasn’t sure a small pair of taconcitos were quite right for him. He already had two Real Madrid jerseys, his Ronaldo camiseta mocking my Kaka casaca.

And, more pressingly, my Ronaldinho-era Nike Tiempo soccer cleats have started to decay after three glorious years. Surely a hardworking, thoughtful, and not entirely conceited papy such as me deserved one moment of thoughtless, conceited, materialistic indulgence? Or so I rationalized.

In terms of sports material, I’ve always preferred leather. In that sense, I’m a bit of an S&M leather daddy. In my younger days, as a forward, I did dabble in the weird-plastic stuff, convinced my toe poke got off a half a second quicker. But as I get older and successive coaches place me farther and farther away from goal, trapping and properly weighted passes have become more important. The new Nike Tiempo boots fit the bill in every sporting sense. But in the coaching sense, they’ve opened me up to criticism.

Now, Junito did not pull a John Terry. He did, though, admit that he thought my cleats were bonito. Nice. He also pointed out, annoyed, that he himself did not need such shoes para ganar la copa mundial. True. But I could see the look of disgust in his face and hear the edge in his voice. When I was called aside by my assistant/supervisor/colleague, the morenita bonita of my suenos, I knew I was in for it.

Yet little was said. Sometimes, a look says more than a thousand words. All the years of credibility and confidence building washed down the drain. The cleats are nice and I enjoy them, but the precious team-building must begin anew. Obviously, at the top of the list is player participation in team meetings – from now on, after intense video study sessions, I want the player, Junito, to clearly express his opinions and thoughts. The preferred median being the spoken word, not the face…

“Nuevos zapatos…para un viejote como usted?”

Bader has found an apartment in Madrid, long live Bader. The Real Madrid Talker/Blogger ruminates on the exit of Drenthe and other blanquillo rumors (Real Madrid Talk)

Rob has decided to alienate all of his fellow Liverpool fan friends and a few Englishman by nominating Spanish born, Evertonian playing Arteta for the English national team (LBITCG)

Boca-River is not the only clasico in the Argentine league. Check out highlights from this weekend’s fixtures and also goals from a Buenos Aires derby featuring “la academia” instead of the hated “gallinas.” (HEGS)

Brooks, whose name ends in an S, not brook as in a stream, found some hysterically ironic quotes from Stephen Ireland on his bitter-not-sweet transfer from City to Villa. (Dirty Tackle)

Zonal Marking kinda confuses me – Fulham’s comeback against United to my eyes showed the weakness of the traditional four man midfield. They did not agree, or rather, my point was not of interest. My feelings are hurt, but a good read nevertheless. (ZM)

For sadistic scousers and masochistic Liverpool haters, Unprofessional Foul has the lowdown on how the Huang deal fell apart to break your heart. (Unprofessional Foul)

Remember when Real were kings and Barcelona relied on the aging legs of Patrick Kluivert? Santa takes us to a time when Dinho spoke French, Xavi was a holding midfielder, and Figo turned Puyol with ease. Then, a crafty Dutch coach and some clever signings breathed life into the Cules. (Santa Pelota)

Malouda was at his thoughtful best, anticipating a Lampard shot and pouncing on the rebound. Anelka followed a classy far-post finish with a right-place-at-the-right-time header (read: offside). When Salomon Kalou comes off the bench to score two goals, either a defense has fully capitulated to the superior side, or…a defense has totally capitulated to the superior side. Last season, Chelsea bullied around the EPL minnows on route to the title. And the wheels keep on turning…

Still, plaudits to the Italian manager – Raymond Domenech showed that the wrong coach with the wrong approach can light a fuse under Anelka in the worst way possible and marginalize the lead-footed Malouda. Carlos has shown himself to be a pragmatist, abandoning the methodical 4-4-2 of his old Milan side in favor of a ruthless and counterattacking 4-3-3.

Meanwhile, early in the  season, Manchester United has shown a proclivity for the 4-4-2 formation of yesteryear. Fletcher picks up the trash, Scholes shines in midfield, and the forwards feast on space. Sound like a simple equation? Not so fast. At Craven Cottage, a Fulham team drilled into defensive-possession overran the Red Devils in the second half, starving United of the ball & earning a point. Granted, an away draw was superior to last season’s injury induced capitulation, but neither Berbatov nor the little pea look ready to wear Rooney’s boots.

And, of course, Arsenal. Four years without a title, the Gunners decimated Premiership new boys Blackpool. However, this was a game spun on its head. Blackpool displayed wonderful passing & intricate build-up play – yet Arsenal’s youth & athleticism produced flawless-precision-target counterattacks. One could almost hear a sonic boom when the Gunner’s offense took flight.

Tottenham earned two points thanks to the briliance of Gareth Bale, whose volley evoked images of a younger and slightly less-gray-sideburned Ryan Giggs. Aston Villa sans Milner fell to the resurgent Newcastle in embarrassing fashion. John Carew successfully extended his woeful finishing streak to the penalty spot, but aside from that few individuals shone for the villains. And in the US, the national team coach not so subtly flirted with the quasi-vacant managerial position. With the subtle confidence of a middle school boy, Bradley let it known that his people had talked with Aston Villa’s people. Whether they had passed any handwritten notes in the back of class is still up in the air.

And, as for City vs. Liverpool, the battle of the Have-Mores vs. the Had-But-Now-Have-Lessors, a Monday evening scheduling quirk means no love from me for either team. I hope Adebayor and Carragher cross knees in a corner kick and both get knocked out for the season. Or something like that.

The Interview….

Jose Mourinho had not even finished coaching Inter when he stuck his foot in the door at Real Madrid. Pellegrini Schmellegrini! The offer was too enticing for Perez to turn up, as Mourinho explained “You need a defensive minded & disciplined coach to lead Madrid to a domestic title and thus add credibility to your project. And Fabio Capello is not available.” However, Mourinho’s own confidence blinded him, failing to see the cracks that could never be fully papered over.

The Arrival…

Mourinho’s arrival led to the transfers of Guti & Raul, aging icons from the last Galactico’s era. Despite this gesture, doubts remained. Kaka would play a key role in….being injured for yet another season. Luckily, Van der Vaart is coming off a confidence building substitute appearance in the World Cup final, in which he managed to both fail to clear Torres’ cross and also keep Iniesta onside for the winning goal. All while wearing the captain’s armband. Wait a second….BAH! No time for such details.

Ominous Signs…

Jose Mourinho will sacrifice the King’s Cup competition to prioritize the Champions League and La Liga. Madrid will flame out before the final, but Mourinho will point to the progress as compared to last year. Nobody will listen. Everybody will only point to even further back, when Madrid last won the King’s Cup (1993). The questions & taunts of the press will reverberate throughout the Bernabeu, disrupting his sleep.

The First Encounter…

Mourinho will succeed where Pellegrini failed – delivering Madrid the needed La Liga trophy. While Jose’s Madrid will win by 1-0 margins as compared to the 4-2 attacking affairs of Manuel, Barcelona will get hit by the injury bug and a dose of inconsistency. Pep’s “Coldplay songs” will start to fall on deaf ears. Jose will celebrate the La Liga trophy as if it were his last.

The Madness Begins…

In European play, Jose will quickly realize he lacks a target forward akin to Drogba or Milito. More disturbingly, he will begin to obsess over the left back position. Arbeloa? Marcelo? Arbecelo? Marbeloa? Marbaarbeceloloa? Arbelarcemarcybalboa? All defense and viewing video of opposition make Mourinho…something something. All defense and viewing video of opposition make Mourinho…something something. Where’s my hatchet?

Consumed by Insanity…

The ghosts of past greats will haunt Mourinho. Despite winning La Liga and semi-respectable Champions League run, the rumors will swirl that Perez will axe the Portuguese at season’s end. Jose, affronted by the speculation, will chase Perez through the Bernabeu’s corridors, seeking words, comfort, and assurances. He will find none.

The End

Despite another silver pot in the trophy case, the critics that decry defensive football will win over Perez. The coach will thank Jose for his professionalism and then show him the door less than a week after winning La Liga. Out in the cold, Mourinho will briefly consider the eternally his Portugal manager job before instead deciding to do the honorable thing and freeze to death. Or he will become manager at City.

For those of you not in the know (yes, you), Brian at Run of Play has been holding a special “Pele Week” to celebrate the player who advertised for Viagra but did not use it. Of course, Pele denied needing to use the ED solving drug, but that did not stop an immediate surge in use & eventual government restrictions on ads. O Rei, indeed.

I wrote a guest post for Mr. Phillips’ delightful site, ignoring the ED issues and focusing on the greatest goal never scored and the most overrated goal ever scored. Read here.

Like the IPCC, I may lack some peer-reviewed scientific support for my conclusions, but these monsters are the stuff of fantasy. Despite my insistence that my father inspect the empty suitcases in my closet night after night, no gremlin ever emerged. Yet the fear I felt in my childhood was real; it gripped me.

In Nicaragua, the children fear a more tangible menace. Upon the rat-a-tat of a snare drum, shrieks feel the streets as toddlers run indoor to cower inside locked bathrooms. The drumming reaches a frenetic beat, and then the monster presents him or herself. Adorned in an elaborate mask and 18th century colonial attire, accompanied by a wide headed and body-less monster playing the snare, the dreaded gigantona steps into view.

I fear only for the fear of Junito. And how this fear may affect his career at Real Madrid.

Junito’s response to the gigantona has varied in many respects. When he was around a year old and could only crawl, he would cry upon seeing it. Then, when he learned to walk, he would run and hide under the bed upon hearing the rat-a-tat snare. Now, at age three, Junito can effectively communicate his preoccupation. However, he has showed some bravado. Once, he boasted proudly that he no longer feared the gigantona. But, once the first hit of a snare drum echoed in his ear drums, he scampered to the bathroom and safely out of sight. Fear permeated his being.

The gigantona, in reality, is but a costumed person based in on the gueguense. The gueguense tradition dates back to way-the-fuck back, when the local indigenous peoples found manners to cleverly and subtly mock the fair skinned conquistadores. The modern day reality is a mini-marching group, with two to three people that parade down the street and collect a donation. But they fool no one – the donations are meager. They do it for the fear. And the fear is what bothers me.

Football is no sport for the feint of heart. What if Junito steps up to take a penalty kick, and the rat-a-tat of childhood neurosis rattles his concentration?

A great man once said, “we have nothing to fear but fear itself.” I have to admit – fear gives me the creeps. I flash back to my fleeting high school hockey team, when, between periods in a sudden death overtime playoff game, I felt my stomach churn and could taste spit-up. Granted, Junito has tasted plenty of spit-up in his three years on this planet, but not that kind, the kind that comes from anxiety and nerves, not an age inappropriate formula.

Yet fear is learned. At the age of two, Junito had not yet learned to fear the dark. He would sometimes wake up and bob around the house with the lights turned off, bumping into furniture but utterly impervious to the monsters that taunted my childhood. I hope such confidence can help him to overcome the weight of a million eyes watching him kick a ball.

And fear can be focused for a positive end. Fear can motivate. Junito can channel his insecurities on future arch-nemesis Daniel Maldini. Of course, after Junito is through with him, the Italian defender will be known as Danny “Fall-dini.” I just hope the AC Milan medical staff will have enough bandages to wrap his twisted ankles.

So the rat-a-tat taunts Junito with the coming specter of uncertainty, yet I hope to carve his bravado into courage when facing adversity. The clock is ticking – at age three, Junito is only four years away from his first pre-pre-pre contract. Not that I’m counting on any kickback payments, but. Well. Messi’s family seems to do well for themselves. In the meantime….

-”No tengo miedo Papy Elliott.”

-[Rat-a-tat-tat]

-”Si tengo miedo Papy Elliott!”