Celebrating No.18 with Houston's Red Army

This article first appeared in Aberdeen Football Club's RedMatchday Magazine on May 24, 2009.

Most people look forward to setting their alarm clock back a few hours at weekends, but long lie-ins are not a luxury enjoyed by devoted football fans across the United States. Instead, millions of hardy souls gather in expatriate haunts from Santa Monica to Massachusetts every week to cheer on their favourite English Premiership teams.

As expected, the “Big Three” of Manchester United, Liverpool, and Arsenal garner most support, while Fulham attract a healthy following thanks to their recent penchant for American players. Though modern-day fixture scheduling can be unsympathetic—brutal for those on the Pacific coast—there is a sadistic pleasure attached to following European football from North America.

Sure, there are occasions when you seriously question your sanity as you drive, half-asleep, down a deserted freeway at 5.30am on a Sunday morning, praying that the bar staff will arrive in time for kick-off. But then comes the flip side—that euphoric, energising feeling as you tentatively emerge from a darkened tavern into blinding sunshine, realising that most of the day still lies ahead.

America’s Eastern and Central time zones benefit from this appeal save for the occasional inconvenience presented by Setanta’s lunchtime starts, as was the case last weekend when Manchester United sought one point against Arsenal to clinch a third successive Premiership title.

Not being a Setanta subscriber, I opted for the popular British-themed Richmond Arms in Houston’s Galleria district. Doors opened at 6am to welcome the first punters arriving for the anticipated title party. Those quick enough to commandeer tables ordered traditional English breakfasts washed down with a refreshing first beer of the day.

A mixed crowd of Brits (the odd authentic Mancunian among them), Africans, and Americans—predominantly clad in United merchandise bearing the names of Ronaldo, Rooney, and Tevez—briefly found their voices as the teams took to the field. A cluster of Arsenal fans kept their counsel away from the main crowd, hovering around one of the smaller televisions, as the Gunners made a positive start.

Pub landlords can probably guarantee one inevitable outcome when broadcasting a game of this magnitude—satellite problems. The United fans’ angst was exacerbated by a number of pauses in the action as the main screen failed to perform under the pressure of the big occasion. Thankfully the assembled patrons refrained from trashing the joint, as follow followers of another team once associated with Sir Alex Ferguson might have done.

As our host worked diligently to remediate the technical difficulties, a menu appeared listing obscure alternative channels like Belarus TV. I doubt residents of the former Soviet state were displaying similar nervousness toward the game’s outcome—apparently the Manchester United 2009-2010 Season Review DVD has been on sale in Minsk market squares for months, never mind this season’s offering.

Arsenal forward Andrey Arshavin made a promising early foray into the United penalty box, slaloming through a clutch of defenders and taking aim before the transmission froze once again. It seemed an ideal moment for former A Question of Sport host David Coleman to appear, posing the question: “What happened next?”

A nervy first half concluded with restored images but hushed surroundings as this particular Red Army outpost fretted over an uninspired showing by the champions-elect. Still, the job was half-done. Another 45 minutes of defensive fortitude would see Fergie’s men retain their domestic crown regardless of whether his attackers discovered their trademark resplendence. Confidence in the room returned as the second half commenced, helped by the bottles of champagne now littering the tables. It was now 7.45am after all.

A few late stragglers appeared, and the effects of early-morning alcohol consumption created a livelier environment as United’s struggle to find their fluidity continued. One Mancunian named Mike heightened the frequency and volume of singing as the unassailable 87-point mark loomed ever nearer. “U-N-I, T-E-D, United are the team for me”, he bellowed gustily before being joined in a cacophonous choir.

The lack of entertainment from this unusually languid encounter between the Premiership era’s eminent rivals faced competition from a more amusing game—Guess Whether the Song was Learned at Old Trafford or by Surfing the Internet. While Mark and the handful of Lancastrians were indisputably in the former category, the majority clearly were not. Still, the passion and enthusiasm displayed by American fans in their quest to embrace European football culture (brilliantly captured in Chuck Culpepper’s blithesome book “Bloody Confused!”) is to be commended, even if that culture cannot easily be replicated.

In the closing stages, one misguided fellow strayed beyond the comfort of “Glory Glory Man United” and succeeded only in butchering a staple of the Stretford End. “This is what it’s like to be (Manchester) City, this is what it’s like to be small…” he warbled, oblivious to the original Inspiral Carpets classic with slightly differing lyrics. Madchester would be spinning in its grave.

United’s muted performance barely mattered as they held out for a scoreless draw and anxiety turned to elation in the Richmond Arms. The astonishing might of Sky Sports was realised as a pub full of jubilant fans in Houston stood watching a section full of jubilant fans at Old Trafford, while off-camera a squad full of jubilant players paraded around the pitch with the Premiership trophy. It appeared that Setanta’s deal did not include permission to broadcast the award ceremony. Oh well, time or another celebratory tipple.

So the 17th Premiership season concluded with United winning an astounding 11th title. They have equalled Liverpool’s overall record of 18 despite trailing the Anfield club by seven points at New Year. Liverpool have now gone 19 years without a league title…and counting.

These, Mr Benitez, are facts.

Didier Drogba in WWE Switch?

Chelsea's gravitationally challenged striker Didier Drogba is renowned for his comical over-selling of the slightest physical contact, which could explain recent rumours reaching Hawksport that the Ivorian has been plotting an escape to World Wrestling Entertainment.

Drogba has spent much of the last two years pining for a new career venture. His apathy toward life in England first surfaced in the wake of Jose Mourinho's ignominious dismissal by the London superclub following a dismal 1-1 draw with Rosenborg in 2007. Not even the 500 fans in attendance that night could save The Special One from The Oligarch.

Now it appears that the 31-year-old's latest attempt to impress WWE chairman Vince McMahon came during this week's Champions League semi-final tie with Barcelona.

After yet another Swan Lake-inspired tumble failed to con Norwegian referee Tom Henning Ovrebo, Drogba opted to channel his rage by perfecting his Spinaroonie—a move made famous by five time, five time, five time, five time, five time WCW Champion Booker T.

When asked his thoughts about being snubbed from the card at last month's Wrestlemania XXV, Drogba told Sky Sports reporters: "It's a disgrace. It's a disgrace. It's a f*ck*ng disgrace."

Eager to prove his worth, the Ivorian performed another Spinaroonie for the assembled press corps in his post-match interview before aiming a steely message at the megalomaniacal wrestling chairman.

An animated Drogba bellowed: "Can you dig it...SUCKAAAAAAAAAAAA?!?!?"

Following a Minority Sport in NYC

This article first appeared in Aberdeen Football Club's RedMatchday Magazine on May 2, 2009.

Football may be viewed as a minority sport in the U.S., but in a city as multicultural and monolithic as New York there are hundreds of thousands of soccer fans following the action from Europe and South America every week. The problem for Major League Soccer is getting those fans through the gates at New York Red Bulls matches.

The Red Bulls struggle to attract more than 15,000 fans to their home games despite inhabiting a greater metropolitan area of some 19 million people. It is a mark they achieved only six times in 16 fixtures last season. Arena location does not help. Giants Stadium, the current abode shared with the NFL’s Giants and Jets, was built across the Hudson River on the swampy wastelands of East Rutherford, New Jersey. Though only seven miles from Midtown Manhattan, the venue poses transportation challenges for many of the city’s vehicle-less residents…and tourists. Sacrifices are easily made to watch the NFL, but not MLS. Not yet.

Unperturbed, I made the journey a fortnight ago to see the Red Bulls clinch an unflattering 2-0 win over Real Salt Lake—their first victory of the season. I wondered how many others would join me.

I set off from my hotel at 5.15, travel instructions printed from the Red Bulls’ website in hand, allowing plenty of time for a 7.30 kick-off. Steps One and Two were a breeze as I strolled the three blocks to Penn Station and acquired a special $10 roundtrip ticket covering the train and bus rides to the stadium. By contrast, residents of Bronx, Brooklyn, or Queens firstly have to negotiate the city’s extensive transport network to arrive at Manhattan’s major rail hub. But there I was, ticket at the ready, scanning the departures board at 5.29, when major inconvenience reared its head.

Step Three involved taking a New Jersey-bound train to nearby Secaucus Junction. Plenty of trains cross under the river, but only one every hour was identified as stopping at Secaucus. With 42 minutes to fill until the 6.11 to Dover, I wandered the station concourse looking for gathering throngs of exuberant soccer followers heading to the match. None appeared. Instead, the platforms overflowed with New York Mets merchandise as fans returned home from an afternoon watching baseball at Citi Field.

I finally arrived at Secaucus station at 6.20 and embarked upon Stage Four—transferring to one of the buses heading for Giants Stadium. Within ten minutes Stage Five was complete as I alighted in a vast but desolate parking lot. Americans love to tailgate, but I could see no more than a dozen people enjoying a pre-game beer before entering the stadium confines.

Ticket prices are an appealing feature of MLS. I snapped up an excellent seat between the 18-yard and halfway lines—only ten rows from the front—for a mere $32 and settled down to see if Salt Lake could avenge their defeat in last season’s Western Conference Final.

Instead it took the hosts less than 100 seconds to go ahead. Nick Rimando could only parry a cross from Dane Richards and Senegalese striker Macoumba Kandji was on hand to thump the loose ball high beyond the prostrate goalkeeper.

The goal arrived too soon for many in attendance, including the stadium announcer who credited the goal to Richards. Even legendary English commentator John Motson would struggle to confuse this pair given that, at 6”4”, Kandji towers over his diminutive teammate by almost an entire foot.

As regular attendees will testify, there is a level of banter among football crowds which cannot be rivalled at any other sporting event. Not only has this humour survived the gentrification of many stadia—albeit in a watered-down format—but it exists in whichever country you watch the game. The U.S. is no different.

One typically brash New Yorker behind me filled the role of sarcastic, infuriated fan admirably, berating his team to the extent that his larynx risked permanent damage. His shouts increased in frequency and volume after half-time when left-midfielder Khano Smith switched to our side of the field.

Smith, signed from New England in the close season to replace departed Dutchman Dave van den Bergh, has a long way to go to win over the Red Bulls’ support. His every contribution or lack thereof provoked taunts from Mr Infuriated Fan, who questioned everything from Smith’s work ethic to his parentage.

The pessimistic support poured further scorn on their team as Salt Lake seemed primed for an equaliser, with one victim known as “Deadweight” serving as another prime target. The inevitable equaliser looked to have arrived when Yura Movsisyan’s deflected effort looped over Red Bulls’ goalkeeper John Conway toward an empty net, but defender Kevin Goldthwaite raced back to clear acrobatically from his goal-line. My question had been answered.

“Hey, it’s Deadweight!” roared one fan as ironic cheers and chuckles engulfed the disbelieving section.

A moment of brilliance from Kandji on 57 minutes set up Juan Pablo Angel to give New York a two-goal cushion. It was a deficit that Salt Lake failed to reduce despite the 66th minute dismissal of Red Bulls’ defender Jeremy Hall.

By 9.40, five minutes after the full-time whistle, I was back on the shuttle bus to Secaucus, arriving at 10.00 for the 10.20 train back to Penn Station. The slight delay caused my nostrils to fill with the putrid smell of the surrounding swamps as celebratory Red Bulls fans were joined by young revellers seeking the excitement and bright lights of a Saturday night in the Big Apple.

Overall, my journey had been seamlessly convenient. Then I learned that the attendance had been abysmally low—only 8,508 for New York’s second home game of the season. Queuing for trains and buses would be an altogether more unpleasant experience if joined by another 30,000 fans.

For now, following a “minority sport” does have its advantages.