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.

The temptation for Barcelona and Arsenal encounters is to focus on the sacrifice of theory meeting practice, to lament the inherent loss when ideas manifest in material form. Both sides purport to aspire to more than winning soccer games – their ethos and ethics drape every aspect of their game. But…..Pep gets back spasms. Xavi’s tendons wear down. Eric Abidal is….Eric Abidal. Thus, we easily get caught up in the narrative of the canvas’s harsh reality – how tragic  that players must exist to unsuccessfully complete a ten yard pass, those infidels!

But, sigh, ho-hum, we’ve already explored that topic.

So here’s another idea that bounced around my head during yesterday’s game – how would all these characters fit into a cable TV series on vampires in high school? Easily. That’s how.

Lou Messi would be the protagonist, obviously. He would arrive at La Magia with a duffel bag on his shoulder, fresh from his native Argentina. He would be impressed by the mad flowing foot-skills and camaraderie of his new classmates, Andres-Dre and Flava-Xav. But something about them would creep him out. He would only see them training at night. He would invite them to lunch, maybe some late afternoon tapas, but no dice. And they would detest playing under those accursed floodlights.

Messi would have a love interest. And that dastardly Jerry Pique would steal her from under his nose. With his broad shoulders, affable grin, and, gasp, facial hair, Pique and the rest of his jock buddies would make Messi’s arrival a living heck. Until, of course, one night Pique would fall prey to a bite from a vampire bat. Then, realizing only Messi could save him and his friends, he would become an undercover vampire agent, infiltrating the seedy underground of Catalonia. Nightclubs under Stamford Bridge would seem tame by comparison.

As for Arsenal, Cesc and Tomas Rosicky would be torn between the sinful urges of Lestat and self-immolation. They would raise profound philosophical questions such as – why do handsome and talented vampires experience even a shred of self-doubt? Is it hormones? Peer pressure? Both? Neither? Regardless, at the end of season one, they would both go the way of Luke Perry & get axed, heroically (or perhaps shamefully) tossing themselves them under the sun’s destructive rays. Then disappearing in a cloud of dust.

Manny Fulmunia would be the creepy groundskeeper with the lazy eye, disheveled hair, and permanent tint of Scotch on his breath. One day, the sophomore Davey Hampton Villa-Inn would ask him: “Manny, is it true you live in a haunted mansion?” With a shy grin on his face, Manny would reply: “Why don’t you spend the night to find out for yourself?” Creeped out for all the right reasons, Davey would always get the eerie sensation that Manny kept an eye on him, hiding in his blind spot, waiting to pounce.

And the werewolves? You know who the werewolves are. Nicklash Bendzer, from a long and twisted genealogy of great Dane wilder-beasts, would scowl and howl at the moons and curse Andres-Dre and Flava-Xav. Damn the pass to feet! Damn the first touch! Tied invariably and inexplicably to the forest, to the dark, haunted forest, his ferocity would be his greatest weapon and weakness. Yet Andres-Dre and Flava-Xav would prey on the divisions among the werewolves. And ultimately Nicklash Bendzer would get stabbed dramatically in the back by none other than….fellow werewolf Java Masterahn!!!

Questions abound at the end of season two. Have the werewolves been defeated? Or are they licking their wounds? And who truly runs the vampire ring – does Andres-Dre really only carry out the surgical hits? Flava-Xav appears to call the shots, but what about….Lord Pep Guardamort? If they discover the secret horicrux to slot his lower back disc into place, things may never be the same at Transylvania High.

Stay tuned for Season Three!

The universe works in mysteriously hysterical ways. Sometimes, the pains of the past form a large pair of obnoxious aviator sunglasses, blinding us to how ridiculous we look despite the prevalence of mirrors and our unmistakable reflection. The Shevchenko-affair at Chelsea scarred Jose Mourinho. Jose detests pressure from owners to play certain players. Jose detests forwards that only “score goals.”

Thus, it is only fitting that Karim Benzema scored in last night’s game after a few seconds. While Jose can point to the incredible form of Di Maria, a goal is a goal is not a non-goal. And an away goal in the Champions League is almost worth two. Almost. Karim’s strike clearly impressed Perez, but the question remains: will molehills become mountains? Or will mountains move?

I am waging on neither.

Jose’s CV reveals the “talented turnover dilemma.” As a prospective employer, you can’t help but be impressed by the titles won and the teams coached. However, a pattern emerges. A routine raises red flags. Mourinho the genius suffers from eternal and inevitable…wanderlust. He may build a beautiful and trophy-winning squad, but how long will he stick around?

I know your reaction – Ha ha Ha ha. Madrid worried about coach turnover? They might as well install a carousel in the sala de prensa and give popcorn to the journalists. I’ve never seen the business card for the Real Madrid manager, but I imagine it has all the details of the job sans one: the name of the current manager. Instead, a blank space allows each successive manager to pencil in his or her name. Props to Madrid for going green. But…but….

In England, my team is Manchester United. However, I respect Arsenal. What do they have in common? Stability. Managerial stability. In professional sports, turnover is inevitable. Players get old. New players jump into the picture from out of nowhere. Still, coaching consistency can help to assure smooth transitions in the personnel department. Maybe, just maybe, no team on Earth should have four holding midfielders at one time (Diarra-Khedira-Diarra II-Gago).

Especially after letting Cambiasso and Makelele slip through our grips!

However, consistency and successive waves would challenge Mourinho as much as Madrid. Could he establish roots in the capital? Could he learn to blood rookies only to later cut the same player when they become veterans? Jose loves the sport and his tears for Schneijder showed his strong bond with certain players. At what point can that bond be severed? At what point would he himself sever it?

The temptation is to view this as the “hook-up” of the decade. Jose has the attention span of a fly and wants to win titles in Spain, just because he got bored in Portugal, England and Italy. Madrid just wants some trophies. Perhaps I’m naive to think either will change.

But if Benzema does not drive a wedge between the two, the black sheep of the family could very well be its unifying force.

So, I had this great idea for a post about Arsenal and Barcelona fans, and how to distinguish them. An Arsenal fan will feel good about him or herself for entering a Starbucks and buying coffee imported from Nicaragua or some other third world country. A Barcelona fan? He or she will turn over the coffee package and scowl in disgust. No fair trade sticker of approval?!?! Thus, from soccer to coffee consumption, moral one-up-manship pervades the relationship, with Pep donning design cardigans handmade by monks in Tibet (and the profits support the cause) and Wenger unabashedly asking him the price tag.

But it dawned on me that, after taking a “personal day” at work, I had just seen a great soccer game. It also occurred to me that the “Barca-backlash” had reached its saturation point – cynical minds in North America have grown to detest Barca not for their style of play or debt-driven-spending, but because they inspired mainstream and popular interest in the sport. I can imagine these same counter-culture-elitist dumping soccer in a few years at the drop of a hat, turning to cricket, badminton, or hurling.

But not me. I saw a great game. And here’s why it was great.

First, certain truths about Barca became evident. David Villa was exposed for the fraud he really is. We all love the chin stubble and faux-hawk, but he truly has the easiest job in all of soccer. He basically gets paid to stand between two central defenders for 90 minutes and wait for a) Xavi’s inch perfect pass, or b) Messi to draw a triple team and then slot him an inch perfect pass. If Barca was a post office and Villa was a mail man, he would be paid to stand on the client’s front porch until his supervisor arrived with the mail, handed him the mail, and then rang the doorbell of the client’s house for him.

Still, he delivered a goal. And a crucial away goal. Even if he just lingers on doorsteps these days.

Second, Arsenal has officially transitioned from “transition team” to “teething Tiger.” Several years back, Manchester United lost 1-0 to AC Milan at home & away in the Champions League. The boo birds complained about the young Ronaldo and Rooney, but the canny eye saw a talented team ready to turn a corner. Last year, Barcelona bled Arsenal like a sheep. This year, Arsenal has shown its new-found claws.

Third, Barcelona depends on two things: sublime finishing from Messi & clockwork passing by Xavi. The universe does deserve criticism for fawning over Barcelona’s La Masia because Xavi is the key to Barca’s style, not some magical assembly line of instruction and talent-hoarding. In the few games where Barca has had to play sans Xavi, they look a normal side without him running every which way & completing more passes in a game than Ruud Van Nistelrooy completed in his entire career. Barca will never be the same sans Xavi. And neither will Spain.

Last night, Xavi completed a lot of passes. But Messi’s early & errant chip set the tone for the night: the mythical and magical mini-goal. For 90 minutes, the goal shrunk to a five foot by five foot box and Messi could only muster the precision to shake side-netting. Of course, Arsenal did limit his chances. Djorou provided the muscle and Koscielny the pace. If the two of them can just stay away from transmogrification machines & not turn into William Gallas, the Gunners have a chance. Albeit a slight one.

Finally, for all the love sprinkled on Jack Wilshere, Andrei Arshavin did score the game winning goal. Yes, he had a comical defensive header, but at least he was defending, no? Time has finally caught up with the Russian, as his explosive first step now packs the punch of a blackcat. His lungs of steel have gotten rust, but class is eternal – his touch & timing on the first time strike were effortlessly wondrous.

Or wondrously effortless.

As an American fan of Manchester United, I am a fake. I was neither born near the city of Manchester nor lived during the time of Busby’s boys. The Munich disaster is a black and white picture on a wall in a museum, right next to the Big Bopper and Amelia Earhart. When opposing fans sing songs that pry on the lingering wounds of veteran followers, I plop in the ipod earbuds and listen to Kanye.

So I am the perfect person to examine the recent relationship between our changed, corrupted society and this duel of Gunners and Red Devils.

I begin, of course, by the obvious. As a fake shell of a fan, I am drawn to United in large part by their success. If they had not had a dominant reign under Sir Alex, I very well may be wearing the colors of another team. In fact, I may very well be a fan of cricket, not soccer, blasting forums about wickets and whatnot. But they have. And I’m not. And since when has being a fan of a winner been a crime against humanity? You can cast your lot with David, but my fiver’s on the Goliath that wins 90% of the time.

Given this backdrop, I and United get painted in utilitarian shades of black and white. United won the game today 1-0, ergo, United know how to win a game 1-0. United must win a game 1-0, therefore they find a way to win the game 1-0. Holding a slim lead with twenty minutes left, the Red Devils packed bodies behind the ball and waited to counter. Ergo, the world hates them for being so catenaccio despite only having one misfiring Italian striker on the bench. Yes, I’m convinced that in a past life Vidic was an Italian centerback with a last name ending in “ini,” but the present and now version is Serbian. So not even close.

The world forgets about the thrilling comeback victories. Instead, they point to the watch and yell about “Sir Alex injury time.’ Of course, five minutes of added time means nothing without clutch goals. Ten minutes of added time means zilch if your team lacks outstanding fitness levels. How much time did Arsenal need to score the equalizer?

If United beat their chest beforehand by Evra comments and Ferdinand tweets, then Arsenal must be the Kantian and soft spoken alternative. In terms of personal lives, Rooney shags hookers while Cesc tweetpics himself on a couch with a cat, watching the game and presumably cuddling with Ms. Whiskers. In terms of style, before this game, the forecast called for a chilling 35 degrees Fahrenheit. Yet no United player would dare don a neck-warming snood. Giving Sir Alex another object to throw in your face at halftime is rarely advisable – better leave those sharp-as-dagger earrings in your mangbag also.

Despite the cold necks, Park Ji Sung managed to score off a nice Nani cross. The Red Devils pushed forward for a second goal, but came up short. Nani’s finishing resembled a colorblind person playing snood “the video game” – erratic at worst, inefficient at best. Ferdinand struggled to fend with the happy feet of Sami Nasri, yet Vidic’s lunging legs saved the day on various occassions.

In a game devoid of space behind the opposition’s back line, Arshavin looked ordinary and Song looked annoyed. The Red Devils’ diligent defense prevented any of the intricate Arsenal build-up play we all love, forcing Wenger to throw on the one trick horse-English hope known as Theo Walcott. Dr. Seuss deftly declared: “See Theo. See Theo run. See Theo run fast. See Theo cross. What a f’ing disgrace of a cross.”

So, United won 1-0. Rooney missed a penalty kick that was unjustly earned by Nani’s novel idea – kick the ball at the defender’s hand. Granted, the idea ranks just below Chelsea’s frequent “run into the keeper” tactic, but you get the picture. Few can argue against the cosmic justice implications of Rooney’s miss, including his missus. And perhaps his mistress.

In summation, despite the coldness of these winter months, Arsenal look forward to another eternal Indian summer where the youthful squad lacks only a signing or two to compete. Meanwhile, United will continue to cart Paul Scholes and Ryan Giggs onto the field, walkers in hand and IV firmly attached. From a utilitarian standpoint, age is just a number. Knowing how to win is all that matters.

To say Barcelona deserved to win would be cliche. To write it would be redundant for any human being with a set of eyes or pair of ears. I will leave tactics to the masters, but the Madrid defensive line was far too high, the space between the midfield and defense too great, and the midfield really looked like a crowded mass, not a straight line of four. We all knew that neither Xabi nor Khedira was fast. We also knew that Marcelo was not a world class leftback. But to craft a strategy which turns a blind eye to these truths was suicide.

Still, I am optimistic. Even with these failings, the defense improved by one goal from the game two years ago last spring at the Bernabeu. Huzzah! I am convinced that only Junito can save Madrid form this current malaise. Mourinho is just a stop-gap measure for the next five or ten years. Hopefully the bleeding will stop by then. Because the hurt won’t.

Madrid has started off well under Mourinho, but the even the Speical One can turn a goalfest into boredom. The last few matches have had the suspense and drama of an episode of Sesame Street. The plot got more redundant than Heroes. Real scores early. Before halftime, Real scores to ice the game. 45 minutes later, victory. However, unlike Racing Sandblaster and Murky Murcia, Hercules offered a different type of threat: competent forwards.

Nelson Valdez and David Trezeguet present a contrast in World class talents. While Valdez is the sprightly rising talent that never got his due in German football, Trezeguet was released by the Old Lady as part of their “youth movement.” Forced to languish in the shadow of Tiki for Les Bleus, the Frenchman has been the quintessential forward who does nothing but score goals. And in the first half he did very little. Except score a goal. And Hercules led at home, 1-0, at halftime.

Shortly after the break, an opportunistic Di Maria scored off a rebound from a classic Cristiano Ronaldo long distance strike, the kind that drops like Greg Luganis, swivels like Enrigue Iglesias’ hips, and gives keepers the fits. Then, to nobody’s shock, the merengues slowly grabbed hold of the game. Khedira did his best impression of robocop, policing the midfielder with slow steps but a bulletproof body. While his Brazilian jujitsu may fly in stateside Ultimate Fighting Arenas, he did earn a yellow card for his efforts. A deserved yellow card. Still, level 1:1, Mourinho smelled blood and took off Pepe for Karim Benzema. Caution to the wind?

Perhaps, though, the substitution had another explanation. Any experienced Madrid fan knows the eery power Pereze subtly exercises over managers. At first, I suspected the worst – Benzema had morphed into Madrid’s Shevchenko, an owner’s pick that could spell an early coaching exit ala Chelsea.

On the other hand, as a longtime close listener to Mourinho’s press conference double speak, I had the hunch Karim was due for some minutes. Players would be dead to Mou based on a game against Murcia? Ha. He cared about the Copa del Rey? Ha-ha! Besides, Mesut has performed brilliantly early on, but remains a few years too young to physically & mentally handle so many games in so little time. Decisive attacking flair lacking? Enter Karim.

Within minutes of his arrival, the game had been won. Benzema’s cheeky heel unleashed Marcelo, who then squared for the young French forward to blast into the keeper’s palms and then Ronaldo tapped home the rebound. Exactly as Mourinho drew it up on the chalkboard. Minutes later, Benzema then tee’d up Ronaldo for a rocket from six yards, and the route was on. But for an errant chip, CRon could have had a hat trick within fifteen minutes. Is it the shoes?

Still, the Mourinho double speak has set off subtle alarm bells only dogs or people with great hearing can hear. He has spoken of perhaps someday leaving Madrid, a sure sign that he really enjoys his job but fears Perez may twist his arm. Always full of pride, Mou has seldom stuck around town to get ran off.

In a few years, when the Man City millions butt heads with the UEFA debt rules, only one can emerge victorious. But by then, after spending so much time watching our atrocious cantera, Mou’s next gig is anyone’s best guess. For the time being, we savor the flavor and start the clasico countdown….

With several matches played, the dark haze clouding our view of football in England has finally started to disperse. Now, with the crystal clear light of the holiest of truths, we set upon the most divine of inquisitive expeditions. We turn a deciphering eye upon the UK, helping you to distinguish the verdad santisima from the deceptive half-truths mulling about. Let us begin.

First, it is never fair to single out a single player for a loss. In a game of 22 moving players, the sum must be greater than the parts. Teammates must compensate for individual lapses. But still, the statistics do not lie – Manchester City with David Silva in the lineup has never beaten Arsenal. True, Botaya’s red card in the opening ten minutes tilted the field towards the Gunners, but…City with Silva in the starting eleven has never defeated the Gunners. Stats never lie – you just don’t read them right.

Second, some players prefer frolicking and rolling about on the ground to playing football. And that is okay. Cesc Fabregas started the game against City with one goal: ensure that his jersey and shorts be crystal clean afterward. Arsenal’s talisman absolutely abhors green grass stains and allegedly does not trust anyone to wash his uniform other than a collection of specially trained North African eunuchs. Yet throughout the match, Cesc couldn’t resist the temptation to roll about the field, closing his eyes and laughing in delight. In fact, such bemusement distracted him from his penalty kick.

Third, Chelsea are a machine of brutal destruction. Everybody got giddy after the Blues lost to City 1-0, but we deluded ourselves. The Premiership is not decided by the high octane top-five encounters, but rather who can put the hurt on Blackpool. Chelsea, despite their status as title bearing shark, never cease to feast on minnows. Or guppies. Or West Brom.

Fourth, Liverpool wins and Fernando Torres scores goals. I know that recent history begs to differ, and Anfield still sorely misses Aquilani Teen Hunger Force, but surely Carra’s remarks about the depths of the Houlier era were overreaching. After all, Houlier doesn’t even coach in the EPL any…Oh. Wait. Well, still expect Torres to score against bottom feeders and Liverpool to avoid relegation! Is a Europe league berth in the cards? Uh. When someone writes “only time will tell”, that’s a vaguely subtle way of saying I don’t want to take the heart for saying no. Only time will tell.

Fifth, strikers only start to mature around 25. Sir Alex really hit the nail on the head. Wayne Rooney has only just started to mature, in both his personal and professional life. Luckily, he has the wage bump to afford professional assistance from a collection of social workers, psychiatrists, and German therapists. Meanwhile, that totally young, immature, and adorable Chicharito continues to save United’s bacon. Let’s hope he never ages.

Sixth, the Big Friendly Giant is more important than the Keebler Elf. In Spurs v. Everton, ‘Arry fielded an attacking formation that relied on the pace, movement, dribbling, and guile of Peter Crouch. The result? A 1-1 draw at home. Not exactly the rebound the Spurs desired after their loss to Inter at midweek. However, not conceding four goals is a major positive step in the right direction. Once Jermaine Defore returns from injury, expect similarly fantabulous performances.

Seventh, a new haircut can supplant the good luck of an unseasonable scarf. Robert Mancini’s current hairdo brings to mind the cosmetic daring of a middle aged Pee Wee Herman. Yet everyone demands to know – when will the blue scarf grace his neck again? In fact, many schoolchildren were terrified to see him sans scarf – Manchester legend held that the scarf was the only thing keeping his head attached to his body. Did this change cause the recent drop in form? Is that why City lost to Arsenal? Ha!

Of course, such superstitions can be cast aside in the face of unbeatable statistical proof: David Silva started for City vs. Arsenal. And we all know what happens when that happens….