I, however, prefer to be a bit more general my blame, so that those accused cannot defend themselves. And the largest group of individuals with the least opportunity to defend themselves is children.

So, yes, I know your immediate reaction. It was mine as well. When Matthew Upson failed to head away a simple long ball, when Jay DeMerit misread a hoofed Hail Mary, before the ball had rippled the back of the net, my mind buzzed…

One simple fact dawned on me – are the English and Americans not doing enough to expose their soccer playing youth to the aerial game? There’s this perpetual myth that our kids don’t play the “continental” way, that if we dress up our six year old boys in leotards and ballet slippers then in ten years time we will dominate the World Cup, crushing the Germans and Brazilians beneath our heels.

First, let’s look at the German’s opening goal – a moment of intricate build-up play and brilliance.

Now, let’s take a brief look at the game winning goal from Ghana.

The delicately weighted passes, the subtle pivots, the heel flicks, is there anything more beautiful and easy on the eye? I thus conclude that there is only one way for England to regain prominent and the US to rise even higher – we must teach our children to hoof the ball 60 yards by instinct, bypass midfield play, and outrun and outmuscle centerbacks.

Because we are not already doing that. And it’s the only explanation, aside from the prospect that the US never had the horses and England’s horses were too old.

The World Cup group stages is an engineer’s delight. After each game, you can pull out your graphing calculator, whip up an excel spreadsheet, and coherently articulate the goals/points/wins necessary for the teams to advance. However, not all of us who follow the game revel in the hegemony of mathematical summation. Despite a very clear system of categorization imposed upon the beautiful game, the human element lends itself to fanciful speculation. And who doesn’t love fanciful speculation?

Uruguay was the consummate partypooper, dashing the host nation’s dreams of advancing. Meanwhile, Mexico played the part of giant killer – putting France to the sword with an impressive 2-0 victory. Granted, at that time nobody realized the full scope of France’s innate problem: consisting of French players. However, after a few news leaks, it dawned on the world that France, composed of French players, inevitably would implode from within. And it did.

But those two victories merely set the table for a prisoner’s dilemma only available in the world of sport. Argentina awaits the team that advances in second place. In 2006, Argentina eliminated Mexico from the World Cup. Last year, Argentina beat Uruguay in Montevideo. Thus, the team that wins avoids this huge risk.

However, the team that loses, in addition to the risk of the albiceleste, also could be eliminated if France or South Africa beat the other by a lot of goals, the sixth leap year has only 366 days, and enough salt is tossed over the shoulder to feed a starving army. So, in the economic sense, how far do Mexico and Uruguay aspire? If they are content to advance, then expect a drab zero-zero draw.

While this may bore the spectator, from a conspiracy theorist perspective, this could be a blessing in disguise. This could be a moment of infamy, like Argentina’s 6-0 drubbing of Peru or the infamous 1-0 West Germany “victory.” After Argentina beat Peru to advance at the expense of Brazil, FIFA changed the timing of the last group games to coincide to cease such antics.

But what could FIFA due in this case? In our era of Fair Play where teams stop play for a fallen comrade or enemy, is the deliberate draw the epitome of juego sucio? And, realistically, what could be done to prevent it? A Sepp Blatter pep talk at halftime to each side? A special Pizza Hut promotion where the winner gets free food for a week?

Nevertheless, any cries of foul play will fall on deaf ears when compared with the other reality. The first round group games are similarly tense affairs where teams of comparable quality willingly play out drab draws. In that sense, the Uruguay-Mexico match may be so painfully akin to what we saw two weeks ago, that the redundancy of it may bore us to sleep. Or watch golf.

Amidst this backdrop, people criticize the selecao for being negative under the Dunga regime. Ironically, this same Brazilian side has produced perhaps my two favorite moments of the tournament: Robinho’s split pass and Maicon’s wonder shot-goal. Let’s enjoy them.

First, Maicon.

I love Maicon’s goal precisely because it has generated such strong debates about “volition” and the nexus between “brilliance” and “intent.” Some people view sport as an escapism, an alternate planet where, upon transportation, the shades of gray of the “real world” melt into a simple and childish black and white. Thus, the Maicon goal is an affront to their understanding and enjoyment of sport. The singular, simple “X hit Y to score in goal Z” equation does not apply. We watch Maicon’s movements before and after the game, but in the moment, in the split second that he strikes the ball, we can’t tell his intent.

This ambiguity provokes the ire of the cynics and the praises of the optimists. Surely nobody could achieve that feat at that speed. Let’s conveniently forget the fact that Roberto Carlos, another famous Brazilian wingback, has done Mr. Maicon one up. Meanwhile, others rush to sing his praises. Maicon used a clever head fake to trick the keeper and shoot shortside! I did the same thing once in a 5 a side game comprised of drunk and out of shape 50 year olds. Therefore, surely a professional athlete could.

But why does any of this matter? Hence the meta-narrative of sport – the individual with fate firmly grasped into his hands. Soccer, to an extent, casts doubt upon this very concept. After all, eleven men must coordinate their actions, so the opportunity for collective blame and abdication of responsibility abounds. Some Americans, with our stop-and-go traffic sporting culture, view soccer as “uncoordinated.” A coach can’t call a timeout? A coach only has three subs? But what if….what if…I have to go to the bathroom and there’s a goal?

So cruelly time marches on as the individual is drowned in the hopeless collective black hole. Then, bing, a moment of individual brilliance. And the debate on intent begins. But here’s the crux of the issue – does Maicon even know his intent? Did he study tape deliberately before the match and decide to head fake a cross and shoot short side based on carefule analysis of videos of the North Korea goalie? Perhaps he was just checking his watch, waiting to do so at exactly the right moment. Perhaps he wanted the floodlights to be behind him in the second half, so as to blind the keeper.

But what if his action was less deliberative, what if it was instinct. What if he had a general intent? What if he wanted merely to put a low box into a dangerous spot of the field in the hopes of either an own goal, a goal, or an assist? Is such general intent deliberate enough? And what if Maicon himself did not know his intent?

Whatever. It was a hell of a goal.

Second, the Robinho banana split pass and Elano’s cherry on top.

There is no underlying philosophical tension in that goal. But watch if again, and hope for more.

Elliott and I have spent much time on the field together.  He and I are different sides of the US soccer fan coin–I started at age 4 and have spent the last 23 years wandering between disinterest and obsession (for the last 3 or 4 years it’s been increasing obsession).  Elliott picked up the game much later in life but, as is only expected of someone like him, grabbed the bull by the longhorns (ooo, a Texas reference!) and hasn’t let go since.  Nonetheless, the two of us have spent a fair amount of time on the pitch and I can personally vouch for the skills of the original futfantico.

On Wednesday at 5:20pm I take off from Dulles Airport on a nonstop trip to Johannesburg, where I will spend the following 19 days in a literal soccer heaven. With tickets to US/England, US/Slovenia, US/Algeria, and a Round of 16 match featuring whoever gets out of our group, there will be quite a bit to share.  And share I shall.

But in the lead-up to the first game, US National Team fans find themselves in a predicament that would have seemed the stuff of pure fantasy just a couple of short weeks ago:  a competitive race for starting striker positions.  And competitive in a good way.

Jozy Altidore still mostly seems a lock, although he’s hobbled by an ankle injury of uncertain severity.  He has the most caps and the most nets, despite what some have described as a disappointing season at Hull (I would personally disagree, by the way).

Edson Buddle is just brimming with confidence.  Naysayers would note that leading the MLS in goals is a tiny bit like being the best basketball player in a room full of pygmies, but the composure he showed over the ball in the fourth minute against Australia as he looked to play to Findley…saw no opening…saw no opening….cut back outside and unleashed a rocket was simply World Class.

Herculez Gomez has been on the field for just 53 minutes for the Yanks, but has scored twice.  Need I say much more?

Robbie Findley hasn’t seen the back of the net yet, but it’s clear his pace and creativity are causing problems for defenders.  After Altidore’s goal against Turkey, he blew a kiss to the crowd and turned and ran straight at Findley to celebrate, knowing his precision chip over the Turk backline had set up Donovan’s assist.

The steadily solid play of this trio of…dare I call them nobodies?…is shaking up the US Soccer establishment.  How did we overlook not one, not two, but three major talents?  The same way we’ve always looked over talents:  politics and reputation.  You see it at every level of soccer in this country, from youth leagues up to the national team.  The only people that get serious looks are those who get the right pedigree…play for the right clubs…know the right people.  Buddle played his college soccer at State Fair Community College.  Gomez never player college soccer, instead working his way up from a number of 2nd division leagues.  Findley had a notable college and youth career, but was never part of the National Circuit.  Compare to multiple opportunities given to the likes of Sacha Kljestan and Kyle Beckerman, who trained at the US National Team Camp in Bradenton after they were identified in high school as emerging talents.

College Football, NFL, and NBA scouts pore over community basketball courts and random high school practices across the country for top flight talent.  Bradley made the right choice in ignoring the political temptation to choose a Kljestan or Beckerman, but until USSF scouts can get past pedigree, we’ll continue to have close battles for roster spots that shouldn’t be battles at all.

Want World Cup liveupdates?  I’ll be tweeting anything and everything South Africa at @TahirDuckett.

Yet, despite this lofty CV and his best years (28-32) still ahead of him, despite being your fellow countrymen, you hate him. Why? Let’s examine…

You are not a douchebag, but rather a gi-normous douchesack. Your overbearing and commanding military father made you run long distance track in high school and refused to pay a cent towards college. As such, the myth of the self-made man is firmly ingrained in your essence. In your mind, attitude can conquer all obstacles and success is measured not by happiness, but rather a black and white staircase. Landon Donovan has yet to reach the top of the top of that staircase, and thus is an abject failure. Second place is the same as last place, but in a way worse – the crushing weight of unrealistic expectations unfulfilled on shoulders not broad enough to carry the load.

You are an eccentric consumer of footballing. You listened to Modest Mouse before “float on.” Under the bed in your old bedroom in your parents’ house, next to the dungeons & dragons board, lay tubs of old Valiant comics, Built to Spill b-sides, and Spoon records. In this land of darkness & DJ Shadow beats, you admit to following Donovan while at San Jose, you know, before he got all big and stuff. You really liked his early work alongside Brian Ching, but his new combo with Edson Buddle just seems hashed and played out. You remember watching him in the pouring rain at a half empty Buck Shaw joint with a chill vibe and killer drink specials. But the Home Depot Center? Sold out? Yuck.

You are a shaking-like-a-chihuahua ball of nerves. You do not disdain commercial success, but rather fear it. The past does not haunt you, but rather looms over your shoulder like the dark August clouds forewarning a summer thunderstorm. Donovan’s 2002 World Cup begged the question – could this teenage phenom top a quarterfinal showing with a nascent national team on the rise? After the disappointment of 06, you mirrored his own anguish by hiding out in your apartment, feverishly deciding whether to remove the Donovan last name on your USMNT jersey.

You are seething with uncontrollable jealousy. Despite only being in his twenties, Landon Donovan has divorced more supermodels than you will ever kiss. One, to be exact. He also scored this clutch penalty kick in the Gold Cup Final of 2008, even if he missed in the last MLS Cup. Do you wish you were captain cool under pressure? Do you wish your receding hairline resembled Pike’s Peak and not an atrocious Rogaine “before” picture? You dislike Donovan because you want to be Donovan.

So while Robinho can return home to Brazil from the EPL to a hero’s welcome, for a variety of complex and not-so-complex motives, you chided Donovan for leaving Everton. But why?….

The first instinct is excitement. Surely Mourinho, the Portuguese genius, can form a winning sculpture out of the blanquillo clay. But I fear for this colossal clash of egos – can Mourinho truly change the Madrid culture? The fact Manuel survived the Alcocorn debacle to season’s end shows signs of improvement, but…but…but…

Sobriety takes over after the initial rush wears off. Your body ceases releasing endorphins and the first rays of dawn tease your weary eyelids. Del Bosque won two Champions Leagues but got sacked. Fabio Capello has twice won La Liga and been fired in the same season. It dawns on you that the days of aristocracy have ended in Madrid. The elite bourgeoisie doesn’t even invite this aging institution to play bridge on Sundays. A glance in the mirror shows an un-tucked tummy tuck and a sagging face lift.

Real Madrid is now in the aging “Paris Hilton” phase of empire.

The Di Stefano daze, Hugol shouts, and Zizou roulettes have exited the stage. With Raul and Guti soon out the door, only Iker remains from the Galacticos era. The dull Dutch counterattack earned Schuster a few trophies but also a pink slip when his lips became unsealed at a press conference. On the eve of a Clasico, he admitted that his depleted Madrid side would not win at the Nou Camp. For this cardinal sin, he was not only excommunicated, he was exorcised.

In a season where Pellegrini imposed an athletic attacking style and obtained a record number of wins and points, only one statistic mattered – how goo was Madrid compared to Barcelona? Not good enough. Not by a long shot. Can Mourinho into this world of moral relativity and forever change the balance? Or will he temporarily tip the scales in Madrid’s favor, winning a few trophies before returning to England for unfinished business?

An optimist would paint the signing of a super coach as the perfect remedy for a team that allegedly “underachieved” (despite a record setting season). A pessimist would point out that Mourinho’s Inter lost at the Nou Camp just as Madrid last November. Also, Jose will want his reinforcements. Although arguing against the replacement of Marcelo, Gago, and other quality but not world class players should cost Perez another small fortune.

Still, a part of me feels dizzy from the coach swap, as if I just got off the carousel and the ground won’t stop spinning. Or perhaps this is the confusion of awaking too early, the darkness of dawn disconcerting but soon dispelled by the first rays of sunlight.

Only three things are certain. Madrid will win. Madrid will win ugly. And those who disliked Madrid but mocked them for their success will now hate them. Jose will paint his million dollar players as victims of a biased press, he will blow smoke at the Catalan castle in the sky.

But how long Perez, or the Madrid media, will put up with Jose is another question. The Italian media, unimpressed by catenaccio lite, grilled him on tactics and refused to laugh at his sophomoric remarks. Will the Spaniards? Should they?

We could resurrect the Mourinho as “dark lord,” a tactician who will win at all costs. But that leads to the next question – where will Mourinho be next summer?

If Perez signed Kaka & Ronaldo in part because their namesake sold jerseys, then what attire would Mourinho promote upon arrival? A dark and long coat? A Russian journalist offered Jose a crown, but the Portuguese astutely refused the obvious photo shoot setup. Still, how would the sly and sarcastic boy from Iberia fare in Madrid?

Well, the negative tactics…the negative tactics just do not fly in Spain. While the Italian media may dissect his every substitution and grant a standing ovation to a 1-0 victory, the cerebral fades into the aesthetic exterior in Spain. To win in Madrid is not enough – just ask Del Bosque and Fabio Capello.

Pellegrini led Madrid to a record breaking season in La Liga. Still, in a sense, his positive football undid the blanquillos in the Champions League. A compact and counterattacking Lyon took advantage of the galloping fullbacks, nicking a counter and then absorbing pressure. The Pellegrini approach can be described as Sven-lite: calm, composed, and always in control. At least of himself.

How would the Madrid press react to a 1-0 loss in the Camp Nou when Barcelona had over 70% of possession? Would Marca and AS take kindly to parking an airplane in front of Casillas? Mourinho’s defensiveness in press conferences belies his disdain for positive futbol purists. But can his ethos of “success at any cost” coexist on the same plan as Perez’s flashy “high costs equal success”?

And then there is the game, of course. Many Azulgrana faithful and PSV fans will recall Mark Van Bommel. The Dutchman is capable of a brilliant through ball spells of sharp possession, and totally disappearing for spells. Schweinsteger, to his credit, has adapted well to playing centrally. But can these two go toe-to-toe with Real rejects Cambiasso and Scheijder?

Robben, of course, has shown why he holds the label as World’s Best Player Made of Paper – when the injections reduce the swelling in his tendinitis ravaged knees, the Dutchman is unstoppable. But if Maicon diligently marked the elusive Messi, one has to wonder if Robben’s bags of tricks can fool the Brazilian.

So as you watch the game and count the players sold by Real Madrid at bargain prices, as you sweat alongside Pellegrini while Mourinho works his magic, just remember…the two teams playing one another are Bayern Munich and Inter. The merengues will have to wait another year.

Everybody, including me, wants to paint Mourinho as the Dark Lord, the scheming scientist locked in a dungeon in a castle atop a mountain. Due to his playful and sarcastic media mind games, his personality gets depicted in a negative light. Accordingly, we transpose this “abrasive” personality onto his team – if Mourinho is such a downer in press conferences, then surely his Inter play negative catenaccio. Right? Wrong.

Mourinho tried hard to instill a 4-3-3 counterattacking ethos at Inter. He purchased Ricardo Quaresma. He purchased Mancini of Roma fame. Both flopped miserably. So instead, Mourinho offloaded the Swedish and moody winger baggage in favor of Schneijder, Diego Milito, and Samuel E’too. The result? Mourinho, the scheming master of the negative, plays a conventional 4-4-2. Does his team hemorrhage early goals? Yes. Both Chelsea and Barcelona scored at the San Siro. But the spirited remontadas have been a feast of attacking menace.

Both Mourinho’s Chelsea and Inter feasted on the high Barcelona back line, springing the off-sides trap with devastating success. They also refused to get sucked into the Barcelona half, collapsing on the midfield maestros near the halfway line, but never a shade sooner. In summation, the game plan was France v. Spain at the the 2006 World Cup, NOT Italy v. Spain at the 2008 European championships.

I have already criticized the monopoly of the Cule, their stranglehold on the soccer media’s collective imagination. Since when did we place such weighty emphasis on total passes? On passes completed? Should the rules of the game be amended to a timed “monkey in the middle”, whereby goals are a secondary consideration to total passes completed times pass completion percentage? I vote an enthusiastic no, in part because I witnessed with horror the pre-shotclock era of basketball. Shudders.

A dictatorship starts with a shot to the adversary, but establishes power by monopolizing the imaginative realm. Journalists must disappear, editors must flee the country, a watchdog media must be converted into a lapdog. The Cule dynasty has fastened its grip on the press and this realm subtly, twisting the sporting values from goals & athleticism to ten foot passes. When the opposition raises its voice, they are painted as the enemy as the pueblo screams in terror. We must be protected from such infidels! Still, one fundamental doubt arises to the guidance of Barcelona’s Kantian moral compass…

While the success of last season in a sense justified the Cruyff-Dutch-Ideal, on the other hand, doesn’t commitment to an ideal entail sacrifice? Wouldn’t Barcelona’s dedication to the principles of Cruyff be more impressive if they continued to play this way with no success? Many a patriot has sacrificed his own life for the abstract concept of liberty – is patient passing more important than winning?

But why concern yourself with such thoughts? Keep things simple, Buy the Hype. Barcelona =’s pretty, Mourinho =’s negative mad scientist. Every time the Cules complete a pass, set your latte down for a brief round of applause. Every time an Inter defender sticks a tackle or lands a block, hiss in derision or nod in disapproval.

In a way, at the Nou Camp, Barcelona cannot lose. Granted, the result depends upon them and is entirely manageable – they have beat Inter 2-0 before. This time, there will be no travel nor dry pitch to subtly blame.

But win or lose, they will nobly carry the torch of the ten-foot-pass to either ecstasy or oblivion….

To say the women’s game rose with the bra of Chastain overlooks a much more critical development decades earlier - Title IX. Title IX required all universities to equally fund male and female sports – a watershed moment for enthusiastic girl deportistas. Just as intended, universities across the nation fretted over the same dilemma – how would to keep their alumni-blood-sucking football and basketball programs, while spending comparable funds on females sports? Soccer, the sport of the collective 60’s parent hippie, with widespread youth participation even in those dark ages, was the shining white knight.

Thus, at the collegiate level, scholarships and programs popped up from East Coast to West Coast. The U.S. middle class obsession with a collegiate education, and  newly available scholarships, presented a tempting carrot for many aspiring high school ladies. Rivalries developed, and the simple act of playing against one’s peers in a consistent and competitive environment spun a wave of super soccer athletes. And they were American.

The Chastain World Cup winning goal in 1999 was a monumental sporting achievement, mind you. The ability to deliver a clutch penalty kick, despite millions of eyes, millions of doubts, belies nerves of steel and impeccable technique. Of course, Brianna Scurry’s save, a rarity by a goalie at the highest level in penalty kicks, was deserving of equal accolades. But the media did not notice Scurry. Why? The sports bra. Brandi Chastain scored a monumental goal and behaved like any male soccer athlete – she took off her shirt. But because she was a female, she attracted a prurient interest. The male gaze, with the maturity of a seventeen year old, latched onto the image of bare skin.

Since that time, both boys and girls have been banned from taking off their shirts in celebration. A yellow card awaits those who would dare display their chest. But such androgynous rules cannot mask the largest difference between the current female and male US national team. Success aside, it’s the style of play. Simply put, the girls share and keep the ball better. On a good day, the US men’s team can counterattack against the top teams in the world, which is a major stepping stone. But the girls….there’s something about these girls. Pretty? Patient? Possessive? Controlling? All of the above – but you can’t keep your eyes off them. For all the right reasons.

The intricate build-up play, the triangles painted on the pitch, the quick first touch passing – excuse my hyperbole, but I could easily confuse the ladies with the boys from across the pond that ply their trade on the continent. The US Women’s National team builds from the back and the offense runs steadily on a diet of team – simmering to a glorious boil. And, of course, in the era of globalization, all good concepts get exported in the blink of an eye. At the last Women’s World Cup, the media latched onto a precociously talented Brazilian with the swagger to match: Marta. And, for our viewing pleasure, she plays in the WPS.

As the WPS enters it’s second season, I plan on attending a few matches. In South Texas, there’s no local team, but I’ll catch some games online. I don’t expect to see any groundbreaking moments, but rather a few more big steps in the steady march of progress. And I won’t cross my fingers in anticipation of penalty kicks and sports bras. No, I’ll be looking for style. And it will be on display.

For an interesting examination of sexuality, femininity, and soccer, check out Fake Sigi on “the fans.” For female written footy blogs, get your fix at Futoblita or Kickette.

Don’t get me wrong – I think MLS is ahead of Europe and other leagues by streaming its own content on the site. I have been an MLSlive subscriber for several years, given my love of the Kansas City Wizards but the nomadic nature of the Native American tribe to which I belong. In this sense, MLS is ahead of the curve. But yes, the use this year of Microsoft Silverlight instead of the industry standard Adobe Flash is a bit troubling, yet manageable.

But what is not manageable is Garber’s apology. I demand more…

Before you think to yourself , oh boy, ” another over-the-top-satire-piece”, trust me – it is not. This time I am serious. Seriously serious. Dead serious. Leadership is more than hollow words to a journalist. Leadership is about setting the example. Leadership is about distrusting everyone, not letting go of anything, and doing every single individual task possible until you wake up one morning with an entirely bald scalp, nubs instead of fingers, and yet another no contest divorce hearing at the end of the month.

Thus, I suggest that the Don must design the website himself. Yep. Himself. And absolutely no help from Brian Phillips at the newly minted Run of Play. Nope, the Don must fly solo. No help from tech savvy KC Wizards defender Jimmy Conrad either. Only then will he learn…

But I will give him a few tips. Here are a few decent intro books on XHTML, Javascript, and even a little PHP. I’m pretty sure AJAX is beyond this edition of the MLS site, unless the Don wants to do some really cracked out, amazing stuff. Oh, and one other thing…

NO DREAMWEAVER. None of that template crap either. I demand the Don make the website from scratch. No, not quite handwritten with paper and ink. But close. Yep, I’m demanding this….

That’s right….Notepad. The best cooking comes from scratch. Would you eat some sort of hormone-injected monster cow hamburger? Maybe. But I wouldn’t. And MLS fans deserve better. Thus, the Don must start anew, the MLS website must begin from genesis, from alpha, from, from, from….le notepad.

I know your thoughts – isn’t this a bit harsh? Wouldn’t his time be better spent negotiating new TV deals and he could just pay some dude in India a few hundred bucks? I’m sorry, but the “pay some dude in India” ship has sailed – the Don must learn the nuts & bolts himself, or who knows what horrors lay in store for any potential official MLS mobile app. I can only imagine trying to check out some live match scores on my MyTouch3 and then, out of nowhere, Jeff Cunningham’s Severed Head floats onto the screen and his eyes pierce the essence of my soul.

I will, however, give the Don some general guidance, free of charge and based on my extensive engineering experience. Here’s the first step…

Now that’s the simple part, the introductory header. Be sure to use the most recent edition of XHTML, don. The next few lines are even more important as they form the “body.” This part is really hard! Trust me, I once thought about buying a book on this but later reneged.  Here’s a sample….

I’m not sure if XHTML relies on semi-colons like past editions, so the Don will have to check up on that. But you get the gist, even if I’m not the queen of the w3 compliance check-ups. And now the most important part, the footer. Please pay very special attention…

This last section must be copied WORD FOR WORD or the website will be plagued by hackers, viruses, and all sorts of DNS attacks. And if you happen to see the website sans that code snippet in your maxi, err, “I”, pad,  then watch out!

Thus, there you have it – a very general blueprint for how the MLS website can improve and how the Don can learn an important lesson in website design and leadership. And we christen this MLS season with it’s first commandment – ALL COMMISSIONERS SHALL HAND CODE THE MLS WEBSITE IF THE INITIAL DESIGN SUCKS