Roy Hodgson to Bring Back Liverpool Glory Days

Roy Hodgson's mission at Fulham went unfinished. His appointment as manager was Fulham onwer Mohammad Al-Fayed's step towards putting Fulham in the top four of modern English football lore, and Fulham nearly achieved it. Each season under Hodgson got better and better at Craven Cottage, with many players coming into his system and leaving more hardened to the English game. Hodgson is a rare breed of English manager, cut in the light of classic English geniuses who've been classically trained abroad only to return to mother England to gain their share of fame.

Hodgson played non-league in England, but started off managing Swedish teams. In his wild career, he's managed no fewer than 15 teams, including the likes of Malmo, Internazionale, and Switzerland. Some of his experiments resulted in failure. Others, like Inter, were successful in not only turning clubs into sharp institutions with an attitude for winning, but also in winning over the admiration and hearts of supporters. In this way, he emulates the greats, men like Bobby Robson, Terry Venables, and Jimmy Hogan. Other than Harry Redknapp and Steve McClaren, calm and prepared men like Hodgson are a dying breed.

I've long followed Clint Dempsey's acquisition and rise to EPL success. He started off as a young, unpolished kid who was streaky and talented, and Hodgson has transformed him into a magnificent mix of hard-nosed English physicality with pure American athletic ability and determination. There's no question why teams like Milan are wanting Dempsey's number. And Dempsey is not the only gem that Hogdson has worked hard to shine. This past season has been a revelation for Bobby Zamora, who had many clamoring for his spot in South Africa. Other's like substitute weapon Erik Nevland have always seemed to be effective when asked by Roy. Whatever it is he does, Roy gets the best out the individual.

Roy's philosophy is hard nosed and simple. It's English at it's most basic. But leave no doubt about the tactical workings behind his owl-y face. He's got the pedigree to go with his tinkerings of all European systems. So, at the very least we can expect Hodgson to change the way Liverpool play. I'm not a big Liverpool supporter by any means, but the way they've played in the past decade has been very Spanish: lone striker, counter-attacking, and bursts of flair. Fulham under Hodgson were exactly opposite this, and when Fulham and Liverpool met, it was a clash of styles but a beautiful sight for sore eyes. So if Hodgson manages to keep players like Gerrard and Kuyt, he immediately has a backbone that he can rely on, much like the Bullard, Davies and Gera that he's called on most recently.

Liverpool have been spiraling out of control recently, and I think the only one with a less enviable job might just be Laurent Blanc. Finances, image, transfers, and form. It's going to take the classic definition of the complete manager, one who handles everything to spec, to bring Liverpool out of the mess they are in. But, even as many are saying that the "big 4" in England are gone and dead, I'm confident that within a couple of years, Hodgson will have Liverpool back near the top. Maybe then he'll help Liverpool to break their wretched domestic ghost.

Backwards Pass: FIFA, stands for Fucking Idiots Flailing Aimlessly

FIFA pulled out all the stops and went full on rage mode with the recent announcement of their official stance in handling Nigeria. 

Traditionally, FIFA has worked harder to keep politics and soccer separate from eachother than the Southern American states do to keep religion away from the civic sphere. So when Nigerian president Goodluck Jonathon officially disbanded the Nigerian national team from all international competitions after their dismal performance in the finals in South Africa, FIFA responded, albeit slightly delayed, with obvious logic: FIFA has threatened to punish the Nigerian government and football association by... banning the team from all international play.

Recursive cows from Brazil to Montana just face-hooved. Way to go Sepp, you've shocked and awed once again.

Playground Tactics

I figure that if you've clicked your way here, you must've already seen this clip. Juan Manuel "Matador" Mata lays down the best bit of skill in the entire World Cup. Unfortunately (or not?) it was in training. Against his own teammate Raul Albiol. This is playground bullying at it's finest.



I spent a good 10 minutes trying this move out. Brace yourselves as this trick becomes the next elastico.

I cried.

I cried like a god damn little baby. Like a lost child without it's mother. Yes, I was shit faced hammered on the curb outside a bar, but I let it flow. Every single tear of anguished, unabashed agony. I fuzzily remember people in cars wondering what was going on, why some kid with an American flag draped over his shoulders, was sitting alone on a curb. I think I then got carried off by my girlfriend.

The USA are done. Out. World Cup dreams finished and gone. Four years of my life are now a part of history, and can now stay that way for good. In a way, it's somewhat of a relief, but it's nevertheless disappointing. Of all teams we had to bow out to, I did not want it to be Ghana. I wanted the heroics. The epic USA - Brazil semifinal battle, the USA - England rematch, the Uruguay - USA dogfight. But no, we went tamely to Ghana. To a team that made us feel cheap, used, and dumb. They basically said "hey, you guys are idiots. instead of wasting everyone's hearts for 120 minutes, all you guys needed to do was just finish one shot. lolz". Dreamland has shattered, and now I'm forced to come back to reality.

But what hurt so much for me was that this World Cup brought back the feeling of being a fan. Of being a 100% pure and innocent, all or nothing, show up or go home fan. It helped that I was blogging for the first time over at the USA blog, that it sort of gave me an extra incentive to want every push, to dream of tactical substitutions for sleepless nights, and to hope for the best. But it was pure. And I knew what to expect. Which is why it hurts.

And in the dying minutes of the game, no matter how many times I had ordered that one extra beer, no matter the fact that I had bruised myself pounding my sides into the table, I had recognized what was happening.With minutes still to play, I saw it, in the defeated shapes of shoulders and slow movement on the screens. We were done. And I was watching the slow torturous death of it. And just as when someone you know moves on or the certain time has come, you take some time to remember their values, the best of times you had, the shared closeness. Memories of qualification, of Charlie Davies, of fans more emotional than me, of my own  personal drama that intertwined with the team's path to the tournament. It all came rushing at once, and hit me like Heskey to my chest. It hurt.

What's the rule? Denial, anger, bargaining, and depression? And last comes acceptance?  Saturday mid-day, I had moved swiftly through each stage and on to the next. I don't know if it's just my type, or my family history, but I seemed to linger at depression. Because accepting that there was nothing that the team could have done, that starting Findley and Clark would've yielded the same results as starting Gaetjens and Bahr, was not something I could do easily. Blaming Bob Bradley wasn't going to give us three points. It wouldn't remove the sting of the matter of the fact. Trust me. I wanted dearly to be at acceptance, and to be done with the whole mess and to never have to think about it again. But I was caught, somewhere between the ecstasy of seeing a ghost and the alcohol driven sickness of defeat.

Everyone, even non-soccer fans and non-Americans, knew what was on the line. Something much bigger than one person's passion for soccer was visible for an entire world to see. To watch other public luminaries join forces and support the cause was like having physical proof that what you want in the world matters. That the progression of simple game of kickball can be so mindbogglingly epic. For me, it meant a niche part of my life was finally so close the precipice of vindication. I could see the shining sun on the other side, where literally the path was brighter and happier. Instead of being turned around, as would've been the case had this World Cup been an utter disaster, we are all of us caught, in limbo, in a perfect act of balance on the peak, with one way back from where we came from, and the other way towards a brighter future for American sport. Seriously, how much worse can it be. For all of us to know, that we neither failed nor succeeded outright, but instead we have to wait further to decide our path. Honestly, I have neither the heart nor the patience to know the answer. Because so much is on the line, and I proudly see that it's not just in personal terms for me.

The joke for Americans is that in poor countries around the world, children wake up with no food or shelter, little clothing or little schooling, and wander around aimlessly until they find a television in a hut somehow broadcasting a soccer match. However, the child won't be alone, as a small group of hopeless men and women huddle around the TV to warm their bones and souls. Where a win can give a child an incentive to smile, or a draw with political neighbors can create a ceasefire. Where the hopes of a poor nation literally ride the shoulders of 11 men. Yesterday, I was that small child who was searching for hope. In a world where wars exist and oil is spilled uncontrollably, I have yet to learn that life goes on and time does not stop. So living for 90 minutes for something else is the only logical respite I can find. It's unfair that when those 90 minutes are over, I'm forced to suddenly grow twice my age.

I realize I'm probably doing this all wrong. That acceptance doesn't involve writing off the entire tournament. You're supposed to grow. To be able to look back at the history and improve yourself. But this is hollow. And so underwhelming. I wanted something finite, something I could grasp, something that the world could understand. But the sort of questions I'm left with are ones I can't answer. So with helplessness, I say oh well. It's just a game.

The Jay Demerit Story

I love everything about this man's story. So unique, but so refreshing.

I love you!

Wow. So I randomly decided to come back and check in on this blog, just to see if anything new had happened. And low and behold, I was pleasantly surprised to see that people are actually making visits here. Which leaves me feeling horrible, since I've moved onto other outlets with actual audiences (lol, jibe jibe). And even though the idea of managing to some extent three separate soccer blogs is utterly insane, I like the freedom I have on this blog to basically cock about and write whatever I feel like.

So, it definitely won't be near 20 posts a month, but I'll try and make this a regular back scratching post where I can air some dirty... uh, thoughts. Relating to footie. Yeah.

How to Mute Vuvuzelas

The only solution known to man that doesn't involve Sepp Blatter or moving the World Cup to a different continent.