Waiting for Manzano?

When Sevilla manager Antonio Alvarez was sacked earlier this week following a 2-0 away defeat to Hércules at the weekend, surely few supporters’ eyebrows were raised. Although he steered the Rojiblancos to a Copa del Rey victory and Champions League berth last season after taking over with just ten games remaining, the disappointments were starting to accumulate well above the brim for the recently deposed Alvarez.

The first omen came back in August in the playoff round of the Champions League, when Sevilla failed to return to the group stages following a 5-3 aggregate loss to Portuguese debutants Braga, which included an embarrassing 4-3 defeat at home.

The second portent must have been their sheer inability to bedazzle the home crowd this season, as the club is still winless (0-2-2) in four games in all competitions at the Estadio Ramón Sánchez Pizjuán, which includes a controversial 1-0 defeat against visiting Paris Saint-Germain two weeks ago.

And the third and final straw surely was Sunday’s loss in Alicante, courtesy of two David Trezeguet goals, that saw Sevilla go winless for the sixth time in eight games in all competitions this season.

Having been in Sevilla last week, I decided to pay a visit to the Estadio Ramón Sánchez Pizjuán on a Thursday night to see if I couldn’t gauge the vibe surrounding Andalusia’s second-oldest club as they prepared for battle against visiting Racing Santander.

A few blocks from the stadium I caught up with an enthusiastic Sevillista named Viktor who helped set the record straight.

“Sevilla is one of the greatest teams in Spain,” he began in Spanish, bee-lining it across the crosswalk, “But right now, things are not good.”

He took a moment to sigh, then continued on.

“We have the players (Luis Fabiano, Freddie Kanouté, Jesús Navas, etc.) to take us far each and every year, it’s just a matter of whether or not they have the heart to finish.”

I then asked him to opine about Sevilla’s untimely exit from the Champions League at the hands of lowly Braga.

“I have nothing to say,” he told me solemnly as the two of us advanced toward the gates of the stadium.

Viktor still shook hands with me and gave me a friendly grin as we parted ways, but I realized that I had struck a concealed chord of chagrin within his Sevilla-loving heart, and my mere mentioning of the Braga debacle had visibly agitated him. It was similar to an episode I had shared with my cab driver—another rabid Sevilla fan—en route from the airport to my hotel.

When I had asked him to comment on the Braga collapse, he looked at me resentfully in the reflection of his rearview mirror and told me sternly, “We don’t talk about that here.”

As the match finally went underway, I could see why.

Sevilla looked lackluster at best against an inferior Racing Santander side, whose greatest claim to fame—19-year-old hotshot Sergio Canales—wasn’t even playing for them anymore, having been purchased last year by Real Madrid. Admittedly, the home side was without their usual big three of Fabiano, Kanouté, and Navas, all of whom were out with injuries. But besides one spot kick that was duly converted by Álvaro Negredo, there wasn’t even a hint of another goal from the outfit donned in all-white for the duration of the evening, and Racing equalized just after halftime with an impressive strike from a former bricklayer, defender Pablo Pinillos, to secure a point for Los Racinguistas in a 1-1 draw.

Just before the game’s conclusion, I ventured to the upper confines of the Estadio Ramón Sánchez Pizjuán and struck up a conversation with two other Sevillistas named Antonio and José. I asked them their thoughts so far on the night’s fixture against Racing, and they expectedly shook their heads.

“They are not playing well right now,” started Antonio alluding to Sevilla, “and that is not surprising given their recent run of form.”

Daring not to bring up Braga one more time during my brief stay in the city, I wondered aloud if Sevilla might ever be able to compete with habitual Liga giants Barcelona and Real Madrid.

They both laughed.

“No. There’s just no way,” José conceded ultimately. “Barcelona and Real Madrid are here,” he told me moving both his hands well above his head, “And [Sevilla] is here,” he said, dropping them back to eyelevel.

When the match finally ended, Antonio tapped my arm to get my attention.

“Watch this,” he informed me in Spanish.

The two of them, and almost everyone else in the stadium, reached into their respective pockets and removed a white plastic bag, which they then began to brandish in the general direction of Alvarez while a cacophony of boos rained down upon the under-fire boss. It was to be his last home match as manager.

Sevilla have since replaced Alvarez with Gregorio Manzano, who guided Mallorca to a fifth-place finish in La Liga last year and near Champions League qualification tantalizingly out of reach, in the hopes that the incumbent manager can turn things around in southern Spain’s largest metropolis. But with no Champions League fixtures in the near future, one dismal home performance after another, and the brightest event on the horizon being that of the less glamorous Europa League, Manzano will have to do it in front of an ardent soccer city that nowadays feels more like a production of Samuel Beckett’s Waiting for Godot.

As Sevilla’s players departed the pitch after the monotonous draw versus Racing, José continued to wave his white bag emphatically.

“This is a disappointing result,” he told me, “but this is what you sign up for when you root for Sevilla.”

Only time will tell as to whether Manzano has what it takes to revive Sevilla and its contingent of disillusioned followers, and after a Europe League clash away to in-form Borussia Dortmund tomorrow, it will all start this weekend at home to high-flying Atlético Madrid. Though it’s obvious that it will take much more than just victories to change the mentality of this club and its supporters seemingly stuck in purgatory.

The Northern Sights

If you happened to be watching ESPN, any soccer highlight shows, or browsing random clips on YouTube at any point during the past two weeks, chances are you’ve seen one of the strangest, most creative, and dare I say, more impressive goal celebrations in recent memory.

After finding the back of the net in a recent match, Stjarnan FC striker Thorvaldur Árnason ran towards his jubilant teammates who celebrated with him in typical soccer fashion, wrapping their arms around their colleague and embracing the euphoric goal-scorer. It was natural, basic, and expected. But Árnason and his crew were far from finished.

As the crowd applauded their side’s strike, Árnason raised an index figure to the supporters, signaling for them to wait. Seconds later, three other members of Stjarnan assembled behind Árnason forming what has quickly come to be known as the Human Toilet. The 30-year-old forward then took a seat, skimmed over his imaginary newspaper, and took care of business—at least in simulation—much to the raucous incredulity of those in attendance. Oh, and not only did Árnason have the courtesy to flush, but he remembered to put the seat down, too.

Stjarnan (pronounced SHTAIRT-nahn), who play in Iceland’s top-flight division, Pepsi-deildin, have become major celebrities in the soccer world almost overnight for their unique choreographed goal-scoring celebrations like the aforementioned Árnason’s, whose shenanigans made number one on SportsCenter’s Not Top Ten just two Fridays ago.

The lavish celebrations, which, in addition to the Human Toilet include a Rambo shooting spree, a human bicycle, and an exceptionally realistic depiction of reeling in a fish, have become a hit on the Internet and soccer television shows around world in recent months. And while each possesses its own peculiar blend of novelty, cleverness, and imagination, an onlooker witnessing these extravagant celebrations for the first time might think them all to be just a tad out of the ordinary. But they would be right, for in a land where puffin and fermented shark meat are considered delicacies, where all children are named after their fathers, and where everyone—even the Prime Minister—is listed in the country’s solitary telephone book, it’s best to expect the unexpected.

Having traveled to Iceland this past weekend, I sought out after the natives of Reykjavik to see if they might be able to explain to me this bizarre on-going phenomenon from the club that makes its home just down the road from the capital in the municipality of Garðabær. And I didn’t have to stray far, as two managers—Ingi and Svavar—working the front desk at my hostel proved not only to be rabid soccer enthusiasts, but de facto authorities on all-things Stjarnan.

“There was a tradition of strange celebrations in Pepsi-deildin (then known as Úrvalsdeild) that began in 1999 when club ÍBV performed a version of human bowling after scoring a goal, “ started Svavar. “Ten players lined up as pins, while the goal-scorer ran into them as the ball, knocking them down in a perfect strike. It is this mantle of odd celebrating that Stjarnan have now taken up, and theirs are pretty ingenious,” he admitted.

Entertaining they may be, however, the celebrations can only carry the intrigue of an entire league so far.

“I cannot stand watching Icelandic soccer,” conceded an honest Ingi, “it just doesn’t have anything exciting to offer.”

“So how does a team like Stjarnan and the rest of the teams in Pepsi-deildin compare to those big clubs on the continent like Real Madrid,” I inquired.

Ingi just stared at me blankly.

Okay, so it was a silly question, and of course I had known the answer well before asking it (surely anyone who follows soccer even a little bit would): the gap between the two in terms of talent was wide. Very wide. Just to give you a reference point, of the 53 top-flight divisions in all of Europe, Spain is currently 2nd in the UEFA coefficient rankings, while Iceland, clocking in just above Kazakhstan’s Premier League and just below Macedonia’s Prva Liga, is a measly 40th.

“The Icelandic people have never regarded Pepsi-deildin as being a professional soccer league, but instead as a step between amateur and professional, and it starts and ends with the Icelandic National team“ said Ingi.

To be sure, Iceland has produced a handful of notable soccer players, perhaps most famously that of current Stoke City striker Eiður Guðjohnsen, whose illustrious career has included successful spells at Chelsea and Barcelona, among others. However, at least for these Iceland fans, the amount of stars that have emanated from this tiny island in the north Atlantic seem insignificant in the grand scheme of things.

“Our country’s National team has never qualified for a major tournament (such as the World Cup or European Championship), they have never gotten anything done as a team, and they constantly give up,” continued Ingi, “which is why I have a difficult time supporting them and our country’s club teams. Liverpool is my true club.”

One need only take a stroll down Reykjavik’s main drag Laugavegur to confirm his latter statement. With several sports bars advertising match times for English Premier League fixtures featuring Manchester United, Chelsea, Arsenal, and Liverpool, it’s obvious that Icelandic soccer, like a little brother, will always succumb to the big boys and take the back seat.

Curious as to how Pepsi-deildin compared in play to England’s Premiership, a friend of mine and I journeyed southward on foot to Vodafonevöllurinn, the home stadium of the Reykjavik-based club Valur, who were fortuitously playing, yup, you guessed it: Stjarnan. Maybe I would get a chance to witness one of these ridiculous celebrations after all, and in the process, dispel Ingi’s accusations of Iceland’s top-flight division being unwatchable.

I was wrong.

Even for its wealth of collective goals scored (6), Valur’s 5-1 drubbing of the web’s most athletic goof troop was a paltry, shambolic affair to feast one’s eyes on. Throughout the entire match both teams were devoid of organization, creativity, and rhythm: three ingredients whose lack thereof inevitably lead to appallingly ugly performances. And the one glimmer of hope for seeing a new outrageous celebration vanished as quickly as it had arrived when a Stjarnan penalty (duly converted by Halldór Björnsson) came late after halftime when they were trailing 3-0; certainly not an appropriate time for such aforementioned antics.

But the fans were there—the visiting Stjarnan contingent in blue, the home supporters of Valur in red—cheering back in forth, singing their club’s songs in vociferous, yet indecipherable Icelandic expression. The fervor for clubs in Pepsi-deildin, which I had been told was nonexistent, was instead abundantly palpable. Even when a young fan ran past me in the stands wearing a Manchester United cap and a Stjarnan sweatshirt, it was evident which team had taken priority for this youth at this particular moment. And the soccer wasn’t that bad either. In fact, the sheer strength and physicality being displayed on the pitch might have rivaled some of the top leagues in Europe.

We returned to the hostel to be informed by one of the managers that a player from UMF Selfoss, another club from Pepsi-deildin, was staying in our room that night. The player, Martin Dohlsten, is the lone Swede on a team predominated by Icelandics, and when asked what he thought of Stjarnan’s unique style of celebrating goals, the 24-year-old defender just laughed.

“They are really funny,” he says with a grin, “I think our league needs something like that; they’re brilliant.”

As evidenced from Sunday’s match, Stjarnan don’t unleash their trademark histrionics after every goal they score, and playing in a country whose volcanoes are unpredictably active, that seems rather appropriate. We soccer fans have no way of knowing when the next epochal Stjarnan celebration will surface, but I have no doubt that it will catch us all by surprise and entertain as much as, if not more than the club’s previous on-field theatrics.

When asked what he thought the celebrations and their global publicity meant for Icelandic soccer and its country in general, Ingi was unexpectedly earnest:

“I honestly can see nothing bad coming from it. I’ve seen all the celebrations and they’re really cool. If [Stjarnan] continue to do them, and people see them on the Internet and identify the club as being from Iceland, that can only be seen as a positive thing for our league and for our country.”

Iceland’s national team and top-flight soccer league may be far from the best, but as long as the country and its most popular sport are getting worldwide attention from this tiny club made up of all but one home-grown player, it would appear that these unique celebrations have no end in sight. We just can’t wait to see what Stjarnan is cooking up next.

UCL Preview to come...

What's in a Name? Italy's Rescue Plan Maybe

In the wake of Sampdoria’s untimely crashing out of the UEFA Champions League to Werder Bremen last week, there must have been few supporters of the Italian game who were left scratching their heads, flabbergasted as to exactly what had gone wrong for the Genoa outfit.

Up 3-0 and 4-3 on aggregate over the German outfit, the Blucerchiati looked to be headed for the group stage as Serie A’s fourth and final representative in 2010, when a last gasp Markus Rosenberg strike in the 93rd minute changed everything. Level on aggregate, the match headed into extra time where Claudio Pizarro found the score-sheet and silenced the home crowd, effectively sealing Werder Bremen’s progress to the group stage, and giving the German Bundesliga the upper hand over Italy’s top flight in the two leagues’ on-going UEFA coefficient battle.

No, for Serie A fans—and neutrals, for that matter—Sampdoria’s disheartening collapse could not have evoked sentiments of much shock or surprise. In fact, it is specifically these kinds of disappointing performances and uninspiring runs of play that supporters of the Italian game have come to expect over the past few years, as the erstwhile verve and charm of Serie A seemingly continues to wane.

It is true that Inter completed an historic treble-winning season last year, which culminated in May with the hoisting of their third European crown. But one club’s unprecedented capturing of a triad of trophies isn’t enough to conceal or make up for the innumerable defects of an entire league.

Gone is the exciting, zesty style of play of yesteryear, the previously evident level of unwavering competitiveness, and perhaps most crucially, the highly coveted third UEFA coefficient spot currently and tantalizingly out of reach. Though the real crux of these issues plaguing Italy’s top flight division can be traced back to what its league and every other league like it on this planet is most fundamentally based on: its players. Simply put, Serie A’s fall from grace can best be attributed to its lack of marquee talent.

But that was last Tuesday. My how things can change in just a week.

While pundits in the UK have lamented a rather uneventful transfer window for their top division, what with Tottenham’s coup in swooping up Dutch midfielder Rafael van der Vaart from Real Madrid for a cool £8m being deemed the most high-profiled move of any English club, it has been quite the antithesis in Italy, whose clubs have been involved in a flurry of deals. There were last season’s runners-up Roma who secured the services of the reportedly rejuvenated Brazilian Adriano, as well as Marco Borriello in a loan deal from Milan. There were Juventus who, following an abysmal campaign last term, have added a trio of loanees to their ranks in Alberto Aquilani (Liverpool), Armand Traoré (Arsenal), and Fabio Quagliarella (Napoli), not to mention the plucking of enigmatic Serbian midfielder Miloš Krasić from CSKA Moscow. Even Genoa managed to make a splash in the transfer market agreeing to terms with Portuguese starting goalkeeper Eduardo from Braga, Brazilian right back Rafinha from Schalke, and mercurial front man Luca Toni from Bayern Munich.

So…where are the big names again? Oh, that’s right. Excuse me—for those we need not travel far from the home ground of the reigning champions. Actually, they can be found playing for an opposing club that shares the same building.

AC Milan. The most successful club in Europe this side of Real Madrid having won seven European Cups, no outfit represents Serie A quite like the Rossoneri. Milan begin each and every season with the onerous task of upholding the club’s legacy in continuing to reassert their dominance over the rest of Europe as one of the world’s most prosperous outfits. But times of late have been tough on owner Silvio Berlusconi’s side, their last major trophy coming in the 2007 Champions League Final victory over Liverpool, and before that, a solitary Scudetto for the decade back in 2004. The club’s struggles have become even more apparent these past few years, with a fifth place league finish in 2008 and a 7-2 aggregate mauling courtesy of Manchester United in the round of sixteen of last year’s Champions League being its too most glaringly egregious shortcomings (I need not even mention that the club hasn’t finished higher than third in the Italian table since 2005, but I did it anyway).

However, nowadays there is a new scent emanating from the Rossoneri side of the San Siro, and, like their Milanese rivals, it is one that reeks of both freshness and promise (one need only examine Milan’s new kits to see that). Newly appointed manager Massimiliano Allegri has brought in versatile Greek defender Sokratis Papastathopoulos, Ghanian marksman Kevin-Prince Boateng, and perhaps the signing of the summer in Swedish striker Zlatan Ibrahimović, who arrives at the Giuseppe Meazza on loan from Barcelona. But the former Cagliari boss wasn’t finished.

Allegri finally put an end to Robinho’s tumultuous relationship with Manchester City when the manager roped in the glittering Brazilian forward, who was desperately seeking a change of scenery from Eastlands, for a bargain price of just over £18m. The move now gives Allegri the option of deploying a potentially menacing lozenge of attackers in Alexandre Pato, Ibrahimović, Ronaldinho, and now Robinho. And amazingly, none of the newcomers—with the exception of Boateng, who made a late cameo as a substitute—even featured in the 4-0 thrashing of newly-promoted Lecce at the weekend that saw goals from Thiago Silva, Fiippo Inzaghi, and a brace Pato. Though it is unlikely that he will employ the attacking diamond up front, the newly-acquired weapons and reinforcements at Allegri’s disposal are significant to say the least, and in due time, the rest of the league will be forced to take note (if nothing else, it makes an already mouthwatering handful of fixtures in Group G of the Champions League featuring Milan, Real Madrid, Ajax, and Auxerre look even tastier).

Not since Kaká departed the Rossoneri for Real Madrid in June of 2009 have Serie A fans had an elite superstar to call their own. Just over a year later, and the monikers of several world-class performers have flocked to, and now make their new homes in, the unpredictable world of Italian football. At Inter, there are the ever-bourgeoning cognomens of Milito, Eto’o, Sneijder, and Maicon, and on the other side of the San Siro, the new front four of Pato, Ibrahimović, Ronaldinho, and Robinho, not to mention the aforementioned newcomers at Roma, Juve, and Genoa among others. They may not have a Ronaldo, a Rooney, or a Messi patrolling their pitches on a weekly basis, but Serie A fans can have both confidence and pride in their new imports, who could not have arrived at a better time. After all, each of them now belongs to Italian football, and in their hands—at their feet, really—they hold the ability to rescue, restore and revitalize a decaying league. As always though, it is the results, and not the names themselves, that will do the talking, and we can’t wait to watch all of it unfold.

The Strike(s) that Shook Italy

If this is finally the year that the German Bundesliga wrests third place in the UEFA Coefficient rankings away from Italy’s Serie A, it’ll have Markus Rosenberg to thank. Down 3-0 and 4-3 on aggregate at Sampdoria with only minutes to spare, the 27-year-old Werder Bremen forward found the back of the net with a low, angled shot from outside the area that leveled the score on aggregate and breathed new life into the northern German outfit, and potentially, into all of German football itself.

The UEFA Coefficients, which determine the amount of European places each domestic league gets, fluctuate annually in correlation with each club’s performance in the Champions League, and are then recalculated and reattributed to those leagues from which those specific clubs hail. Simply put, the better the performances of a league’s clubs in the Champions League, the higher that league’s UEFA coefficient. England’s Premier League currently has the highest coefficient of all European domestic leagues, and Spain’s Primera Division is a close second, each of them able to send their best four teams to the Champions League. It is the third spot in the coefficient rankings that remains so volatile and unpredictable with two powerhouse countries in Germany and Italy jostling for the position.

It was only last year when the whisperings of a changing of the guard in third place suddenly morphed into shouts, made audible most notably in Bayern Munich’s come-from-behind 4-1 thrashing of Juventus in Turin in the final game of the group stage that sent the Old Lady packing for the Europa League, and the Bavarians on to the knockout stages, where they deposed another Italian side in Fiorentina, Manchester United, and Lyon en route to the Final. Juventus’ inability to reach the knockout rounds coupled with both Fiorentina and Milan’s ignominious departures at the round of sixteen (that included an alarmingly lopsided 7-2 aggregate drubbing courtesy of Manchester United for the Rossoneri) was manifesting what pundits abroad had already begun to suspect: that Italian clubs could no longer hack it in the Champions League.

Enter Mourinho. In just his second season in charge at Internazionale, the Portuguese mastermind guided the Nerazzurri to their first European crown in 45 years and third overall, disposing of former employers Chelsea, a tricky CSKA Moscow side, and reigning champions Barcelona, before putting Bayern Munich to the sword in the Final to claim the title. It was a result that not only brought the European Cup back to an Italian club for the first time since 2007, but also reasserted Serie A as the third best league, and therefore, as having the third best UEFA coefficient. Italian football was safe. At least it was then.

Flash forward almost three months and fate offered its football fans another intriguing German/Italian tilt, this time between Werder Bremen and Sampdoria. The German outfit, who just recently sold their most dynamic asset in Mesut Özil (ironically to Mourinho) to Real Madrid, had finished third in the Bundesliga the previous season, which was good enough to land them a date on the Non-Champions Path of the Play-off round of the Champions League with Sampdoria, who finished fourth in Serie A last term.

Werder Bremen were in the driver’s seat, too, after last week’s first leg saw them overwhelm a rather underwhelming Sampdoria side who managed to tally a last-minute away goal in a 3-1 defeat at the Weserstadion in northwest Germany. Then came this evening when the prolific Giampaolo Pazzini ignited the jubilant home crowd of just over 28,000 at the Stadio Luigi Ferraris with two awe-inspiring finishes, the first with his head, the second on a right-footed volley of sumptuous quality that sent the supporters into an uncontrolled frenzy. Progression to the group stage was all but certain when in the second half Pazzini’s forward companion Antonio Cassano cheekily sneaked the ball past Werder Bremen keeper Tim Wiese on a back-heel to make it 3-0 Sampdoria who now led 4-3 on aggregate.

It was a curious affair. The first leg had been dominated outright by the German outfit, the second by their Italian adversaries, whose league, just as they had at the end of last year’s Final, once again looked in position to reign supreme over the Bundesliga for that third coefficient spot. Then came Rosenberg’s strike.

Just like Pazzini’s late away goal in the first leg in Germany, it must have caught Sampdoria and its rampant fans completely off guard. The seemingly impenetrable and elating feeling of safety and progression had suddenly been breached, and in extra time, a blast of admirable technique and quality from visitor Claudio Pizarro ensured that dream of playing in the group stage of the Champions League was quashed completely as Werder Bremen boasted the superior away goal tally and won comfortably 5-4 on aggregate, undoubtedly leaving the home supporters stunned and in a state of serious disrepair.

If one were to examine the UEFA coefficients today, they would see that the Bundesliga has leapfrogged Serie A into third place, and Rosenberg and then Pizarro’s strikes are big reasons why. The Werder Bremen triumph ensures that the group stage will feature the same amount of German sides (three: Bremen, Bayern, Schalke) as Italian sides (Inter, Milan, Roma), as opposed to two and four, had Sampdoria hung on. What’s more is that with Sevilla bowing out to Braga, the Bundesliga will boast the same amount of clubs at this year’s group stage as La Liga, and the same will be said about the Premier League should Tottenham fail tomorrow against Young Boys. If the Bundesliga does usurp Serie A for the third-best coefficient at the end of 2011, then the fourth European spot for German clubs won’t be allocated until the 2012-13 Champions League campaign. However, the coefficient will ultimately and inexorably be determined by the performances of German clubs and Italian clubs, and nothing more. But it would appear that at the moment the Bundesliga has a leg up over Italy’s top-flight division after Bremen’s never-say-die effort in Genoa this evening.

Last year’s Final saw a cosmopolitan Italian side defeat a somewhat-homegrown German side that temporarily rescued Serie A from falling to fourth in UEFA coefficients thanks to a pair of goals by Argentine striker Diego Milito. On this night in Genoa, I found it all too fitting that this German outfit’s two goals that made the Bundesliga’s strongest case yet for claiming the third-best UEFA coefficient came from a Swede (Rosenberg) and a Peruvian (Pizarro). And just like Milito’s, theirs may yet prove to be two of the most important strikes for their domestic league’s history. That is, of course, if the German sides can sustain these kinds of performances.

The New Big Three? Let’s Wait and See

I’m done fuming about LeBron. (Maybe). It has now been eleven days since LBJ’s fateful life-altering, mind-blowing, landscape-revamping, earth-shattering, loyalty-combusting, legacy-tarnishing, self-indulgent-exuding decision (what has come to be known ironically as…“The Decision”) that saw him sit in front of a camera and reveal to the world that he would be “taking his talents to South Beach and play with the Miami Heat,” and honestly, I’m through griping about it. (Maybe). In the past, whenever I’ve learned a new piece of valuable sports information—most notably that of a blockbuster trade or significant free agent signing—my typical reaction has been instinctive, impulsive, and right to the point, as I often have found myself arriving at a bold conclusion within the first few seconds of pondering the new information at hand.

For example, I remember when I was a sophomore in high school napping on a bus back to campus from a JV Basketball game, when I was rudely awoken by a friend who informed me that the Yankees had just traded for Alex Rodriguez. As a Yankee fan, I was ecstatic. And, as myself, I was predictably extemporaneous: “We’re going to win the World Series!” I blurted out mere moments later. The disgusted looks of my teammates, the majority of whom who were ardent Red Sox fans, will forever be tattooed on the annals of my memory. For there I was, my countenance and emotions in diametric contradiction to the sullen expressions plastered across their faces, a supporter of the baseball club that now could claim ownership for the best player in the game.

There was a silence, and a gloomy one at that, as my fellow teammates sat behind me facing forward, their dejectedness palpable as the A-Rod news percolated throughout the vehicle. I was smug, but had been with good reason. The Red Sox had been the favorites to land Rodriguez throughout the entire winter, but a seemingly imminent exchange with Texas for Manny Ramirez never materialized, and the Evil Empire had reigned supreme once again, just as they had a thousand times before. I was about to turn around and for the first time in my life truly enjoy a bus ride, when one of my teammates spoke up, and I’ll never forget the words that came out of his mouth: “I still think the Red Sox are a better team.” Damn you.

In hindsight, I was right. The Yankees did win a World Series, and Alex Rodriguez was a big reason why. It just didn’t occur until six years after I made my definitive forecast. Boston, of course, won the World Series in A-Rod’s first season with New York and did so in fairytale manner beating the Yankees in the 2004 ALCS after being down in the series three games to zero…blah blah blah blah blah. Where was I going with this again?

Oh yeah. LeBron. That’s right. It was on the 8th of July when I watched “The Decision,” when I was reminded of my impulsive nature of yesteryear and presented a rare opportunity for reflection and redemption. When James made the announcement, the initial sentiment I felt was disappointment. Having suffered through a tumultuous decade of ineptitude as a Knicks fan, it was this summer—this moment actually—that was supposed to change one sphere of my life drastically. I had already envisioned it: I would move to New York, work at some awesome job, and in the evenings attend MSG to watch the one and only LeBron James throw up his chalk and do his thing on the court for the orange and blue, and eventually lead them to one of multiple championships that I could tell my children and then my children’s children about.

Thanks a lot.

My disappointment then morphed into anger. So he was going to Miami to join forces with Dwyane Wade and Chris Bosh. Yeah, that seemed fair: two of the league’s top three players on the same team with a five-time All-Star power forward to boot (and this was still days before it was suggested that Pat Riley might have been orchestrating this coup years ago from the time when there was even a sniff of the three starlets teaming up together). On top of that, the Knicks’ master plan to clear cap space (which began in November 2008 with the trading of Jamal Crawford and Zach Randolph...on the same day) and use that and the majestic amenities of New York City as a selling point to lure big name free agents—no, sorry, exclusively LeBron James, Dwyane Wade, and Chris Bosh—to MSG had failed, and the one guy they obtained— Amar'e Stoudemire—has feeble knees and doesn’t even get along with head coach Mike D’Antoni. Excuse me, the two have since “cleared the air” over a plate of truffles and scones, I forgot. Oh, and Crawford won sixth man of the year last season and Randolph was an All-Star in the WESTERN CONFERENCE. My anger gradually turned into an overwhelming fervent rage.


I had loathed the Heat before, having grown up during the Tim Hardaway-Alonzo Mourning-P.J. Brown era, but this was a new kind of abhorrence. Miami, at least on paper, had the most talented roster in the NBA, and that was evident looking only at three players. They have since added savvy veterans Žydrūnas Ilgauskas and Mike Miller to bolster the new big three’s supporting cast, but it really won’t matter who they sign to fill their roster’s quota. In a league whose exuberant youth is more prevalent than ever, in those brief moments following “The Decision,” I likened the rest of the NBA’s hopes when compared to those of the Miami Heat to some lyrics off of one of B.o.B’s latest tracks: the kids don’t stand a chance.

But then I remembered the words of my teammate on that bus ride more than half a decade ago. When word broke the Yankees had added the most gifted baseball player on the planet to an already star-studded roster, my friend still felt the Red Sox had the better club. He was right. So the Miami Heat has LeBron, D-Wade, and Bosh. So what. Will it work? What’s the team chemistry going to be like? Who’s going to take the final shot? And is Chris Bosh really that good (to this day, I have yet to meet anyone who has watched a Toronto Raptors game in its entirety)? We don’t know…yet. But one thing is for sure: a new era, for better or worse, has dawned on the NBA, and the rest of the league will be forced to take note whether they like it or not. But unless your from Miami, or just a fan of Wade, Bosh, or James (though he’s losing fans faster than BP at this point), I think it’s safe to say you’ll be rooting against them (Welcome, the Yankees of basketball). And even if LBJ isn’t okay with that, it’s exactly what he signed up for when he made his—eh-hem, “THE Decision.”

Hitting the Same Löw

The first two lines of Germany’s National Anthem read: Deutschland, Deutschland über alles,/Über alles in der Welt, which translated means: Germany, Germany above all,/ Above all in the world. Prior to tonight’s match against Spain, these words rang true within the hearts and minds of Germans across the globe, their native contingent of footballers having advanced to yet another World Cup semifinal, their confidence level through the roof. They had won with both patience and panache, exerting their dominance over their opponents with incisive passing and timely shooting, slotting four goals per game past Australia, England, and Argentina, respectively, in the run-up to their showdown with Vicente del Bosque’s La Roja. Save a 1-0 slipup against Serbia in the group stage, Joachim Löw’s squad was, in fact, living up to Hoffmann von Fallersleben’s lauding poetry, at least from a football standpoint, especially with Spain’s recent run of atypical unconvincing play: Germany, Germany above all,/Above all in the world. Then came this evening in Durban.

Whether it was the absence of the suspended Thomas Müller, Bayern Munich’s enterprising young forward who blossomed vigorously in South Africa tallying a quartet of goals, Löw’s inability to make tactical adjustments at halftime to disrupt Spain’s methodical means of moving the ball forward, or simply Deutschland’s opponents themselves, tonight will go down as one of the more pallid German performances in recent memory. The contagious influences of Miroslav Klose and Lukas Podolski that had become so second nature this tournament had conspicuously evaporated, and while Müller’s replacement Piotr Trochowski initially provided a spark, it came in the form of a blistering shot that Iker Casillas had little trouble turning away, the lone, innocuous imprint the Hamburg winger made all match. Even the normally reliable Mesut Özil—who still should receive consideration for player of the tournament—whose passes were expectedly crisp and precise, was a salient nonfactor, Sergio Ramos’ tackling of the 21-year-old inside the box being the most memorable moment of the match containing the Werder Bremen midfielder. So just how was this train that had gained so much momentum, that been accelerating at a seemingly unstoppable rate, halted so sharply?

It seems ages ago when German captain Michael Ballack was ruled out of South Africa having sustained an injury from Portsmouth’s Kevin-Prince Boateng in May’s FA Cup Final at London’s Wembley Stadium. To be sure, it was a blow to the squad that had grown so accustomed to Ballack’s efficacious presence and pull in the center of the midfield the majority of this decade, but as the group stage progressed, the pundits began to surmise that this nascent, free-flowing fast-paced attack was coming as a result of the former Chelsea star’s absence, a notion that became more and more believable after the 4-1 deposing of England and the 4-0 drubbing of Argentina. It was the latter match in which a FIFA camera spotted the Matt Damon lookalike near the German tunnel, revealing a radiant, and purportedly genuine, smile after teammate Arne Friderich netted his first international goal to make it 3-0. But one couldn’t help wonder if his beaming wasn’t somehow belying his true sentiments, especially if he had heard Martin Tyler coronate Müller as this German generation’s number thirteen, the 20-year-old having sported Ballack’s usual kit number this tournament.

In my opinion, Ballack’s presence in the lineup this evening in Durban would have made a difference, and one for the better I might add. It’s true that a cabal of youngsters—most notably Müller and Özil—had been largely responsible for Germany’s progression this tournament, the injection of youth critical to the team’s success. But this evening, when Spain effectively subdued the infectious exuberance that had encapsulated the German camp all World Cup, the lack of an authoritative leader became glaringly apparent, and Ballack might have filled those shoes (he would have succeeded where Podolski failed in notching the game-tying penalty against Serbia in the group stage, at least). They may not have scored as many goals with their captain patrolling in the middle, but they certainly would have had more direction (and they might have scored more goals, who knows), an area where the Spanish thrive.

Wednesday night’s 1-0 defeat was the German’s second consecutive semifinal loss at the World Cup, and the second consecutive time they have been ousted by Spain in major tournaments, having lost to La Roja in the final of Euro 2008 two summers ago, also by a 1-0 score. Undoubtedly, after a relatively meaningless clash with Uruguay for third place on Saturday, the flight back home to Berlin will be a long one for Joachim Löw and his men. And Lord knows the manager will have to answer for much more than his prominent robins egg blue v-neck he was sporting on the sideline in Durban. But where did they go wrong? And more importantly, how can they fix it? It’s now been twenty years since the Germans last hoisted football’s holy grail, it won’t be for another four years until they’ll be given a chance to break the ongoing drought in Brazil. There will be a lot on the players’ minds as well as Löw’s and his adjutants as they begin to prepare for Euro 2012 qualification next month, but if one thing will stand out the most it will almost definitely be that of the current state of German football: good, but not good enough.