Leather and Glass

As Juan mentioned earlier, we passed TLOCA's three-year anniversary last month (January 15th, to be exact). According to this website, the traditional anniversary gift for the third year is leather, and the modern gift is crystal/glass. So if anyone would like to send us a pair of the pants that David Bentley undoubtedly wears around his house and any part of Robin van Persie's body, that should satisfy both the traditional and the modern gift requirements.

To business. First, regarding Liverpool's two new strikers: (1) I'm excited to see this play out, and (2) how on earth is Andy Carroll worth 12.5 million pounds more than Luis Suarez? I mean, I understand the whole "he's English and he's really tall" argument, but so is Peter Crouch. I also recognize that they have extremely different playing styles, but I would take Suarez over Carroll any day. Eighty-one goals in 110 appearances for Ajax? Sure, it's the Dutch league, but throw a fine World Cup performance on top of that, and he's worth twice as much as Carroll in my view. It's just too bad that Arsenal would never spend that. Or maybe it's for the best because it would have caused Juan to immediately buy that jersey and have a heart attack from excitement after putting it on.

Rio Ferdinand is definitely growing on me. Don't get me wrong, I still desperately need to see United lose a game, and if he were the one to score a shocking own goal to make it so, I would laugh loud and uncontrollably. But I enjoy him telling it like it is. Opining that Lord Samir of Nasri has been the player of the season thus far (get well soon, Samir of). Calling out Andy Gray and Richard Keys as "dinosaurs." Well done, England captain.

A quick jaunt around Europe: Barca greatest team ever, etc. Even Jose may want out because he's run up against a juggernaut - we'll see him at United in two seasons max. Maybe even next year, if, gulp, United continue on like this. Don't look now, but Roma are fifth in the Serie A with two games in hand on Milan. After starting the season looking like relegation fodder, they're once again proving that their masters of the creep. Slowly, quietly creeping up the table. Sunday's clash with Inter should be good viewing.

Speaking of Sunday, what are the odds on Torres scoring? Let's take a little video recap, shall we?


First Liverpool goal.


Or this.


Yep.


Remember these?

And I know there are a couple more out there. In fact, I'm a little surprised that Chelsea didn't spend all that money just to break his legs out of bitterness and spite. But I guess they were just as curious as the rest of us to see what would happen if they put the best two strikers of the past few seasons (apologies to David Villa, he's up there, too) on the same front line. Of course, they waited until after one got malaria and the other effed his hamstring. But hey, you can't have everything.

A Dispatch from the Emirates

"There's only one team in Russia." This was the chant we were greeted with as we exited the tube at the appropriately named "Arsenal" stop. From the other end of the platform came a surprisingly loud response: "Five years, and you've won f*ckall." Hello there, Chelsea supporters. I guess it wasn't a huge surprise - after all, our train had originated in blue territory.

The walk inside the tube station seems to last forever. It's a crush of people, and you walk up a long incline to reach the actual exit. Frequently, an Arsenal or Chelsea shout rises above the throng, and depending on the song and the receptiveness of the crowd, either immediately dies out or ignites like flame to newspaper. I want to join in, especially with the more obscene chants - my time with the gooners at Nevada Smith's taught me well - but I'm with my dad and my younger brother. Propriety wins out for the time being.

Once outside the tube station, it's still several blocks to the stadium. It's a chilly, damp evening with a very light drizzle that occasionally looks and feels as though snow is falling. The weather has been like this for two days, and it will persist until we leave. England is nothing if not predictable in this way. Like the most important and enormous U.S. sporting events, almost all the roads around the area have been closed for pedestrian-use only. Shops and carts hawking knockoff jerseys, scarves, and grub line the streets. I see some amazing t-shirts that would either cost $40+ after shipping to the U.S. or that would be simply unavailable. But the throng is moving too fast, and I insist on being inside the stadium to see the players warm up. Next time.


The first few minutes of this video give a good idea of that walk.

The Emirates is large, and it is impressive. I doubt it has the same grandeur as Milan's San Siro, Barca's Nou Camp (Juan, I'll have to come over and find out soon), or Madrid's Bernabeu. Heck, Old Trafford is supposed to be pretty impressive. But I'm sufficiently awed. I'm not sure if they're planning on adding more, but the murals are pretty awesome, and appear at random intervals around the stadium. These murals depict the backs of Arsenal legends, arm in arm, transcending their individual eras, teammates forever. It's fair to say that I'm getting pretty amped at this point.

When we get inside, I can't believe where we're sitting. Without going into too much detail, the seats that I thought were upper-deckers turned out to be just the opposite. The numbers I thought referred to a section actually referred to a luxury box almost directly above the corner flag. I was surprised when we initially got tickets, because the game was an obvious sell-out. But this is crazy. We're in the front row of the section. The view of the field is sublime. I grab my free match program and lineup card. The only drawback: directly below us, a high-spirited group of blue-clad individuals produces a tremendous amount of noise and directs a few choice hand gestures at the surrounding sections. Hello again, Chelsea supporters.

During warmups, my brother and I spend a few minutes just identifying the key players for our father. Kickoff approaches rapidly. Elvis Presley's "The Wonder of You" floats through the misty night air and lingers above the rapidly growing crowd. We're getting close. The music from Requiem for a Dream (the English really love that soundtrack) blasts as the jumbotron shows highlights from past Arsenal-Chelsea clashes and great Arsenal goals. I think about one of the last emails I received before I left the hotel. My fellow TLOCA correspondent sent me instructions to take pictures and video and concluded with a prediction: "3-1 Arsenal. Write it down." Given the recent history between the sides, my hopes are more modest. A 1-1 draw. And maybe, just maybe, a 2-1 victory. Kickoff.

The game starts at a frantic pace. I'm struggling to take it all in. Stream of consciousness time. Good chances for both teams. RVP should do better with an incredibly good chipped pass from Song. Song has obviously been hanging out with Cesc and Wilshere a lot. Cesc and Nasri have fantastic close control. If they want it to be, the ball is dead the instant it touches their feet. Drogba may have been sick, but he's still a physical presence that causes problems. Fail to deal with him at your peril. He sends a torpedo just wide of the post. Theo is FAST. Like, unbelievably fast. Like Mike Vick fast. He gives Ashley a hell of a time, and we eat it up.

BOOOOO. We hate Ashley Cole. Oh yes, indeed. We also consistently express our dislike for the classy, and not at all terrible person known as John Terry. (Drogba also gets booed, but it's a respectful boo. It's the kind of boo that non-Cardinals fans give Albert Pujols.) But we really save it for Ca$hley. Over the course of warm-ups, he was booed. During the game, he was booed literally every time he came near the ball, let alone touched it. When he so much as appeared to move his mouth or talk to the referee or an Arsenal player, he was booed mercilessly. The crowd never got tired of it. Other than the goals and the final whistle, the biggest cheer of the night came when Theo cleverly got himself fouled by A. Cole. Yellow card. Humongous din.

Meanwhile, another battle is taking place. The song wars began before kickoff, and they persist throughout the first half. I do my part. But for the majority of the first half, the Chelsea supporters give a very good account of themselves. For one, Arsenal isn't known for being the loudest venue (after all, Highbury was nicknamed "the library" by opposing fans), and because of the self-selection involved, these Chelsea fans are the craziest die-hards. They're loud, fearless, and inebriated. But now and then, they get riled up when "Sh*t Club, No History" rings out across the remainder of the stadium. It's fun to see them collectively bristle.



"Super Frankie Lampard" Wasn't So Super That Night

Arsenal's ticky-tacky and insistence on walking it into the net is even more frustrating in person. And when you're surrounded by 55,000 other people that are screaming for someone to shoot, it's even more magnified. Even my father, a self-proclaimed neutral (mostly for the benefit of my brother, a Chelsea fan), begins yelling out that familiar blend of encouragement and frustration. Nasri finally obliges with a beautiful and skillful shot. Top corner... until Cech answers with a poster-worthy save. Crap. Back to ticky-tacky. How many times, in how many pubs, have we felt this? You get worked up into a frenzy that has no signs of being released. Of course, that is, until the ticky-tacky actually works, and in the span of maybe 1.5 seconds your brain has to process: oh great pass by Wilshere, is that a penalty on Cesc, and OH IT DOESN'T MATTER ALEX SONG JUST SCORED RIGHT IN FRONT OF ME. Oh my God. Cue insanity on all sides except directly below. The self-restraint I was exercising on behalf of my father and brother vanishes in an instant.

"One Nil to the Arsenal." "Ashley, what's the score? Ashley, Ashley, what's the score?" "Who Are Ya?" "There's only one team in London." "You can stick your Russian rubles up your Arse!" "We've only got one Song!" The Chelsea fans have no response. They're shell-shocked. The referee blows for halftime. More cheering. I investigate what the good people of Goldman Sachs (yeah...) have provided in the way of food and drink. Roast beef and beer. Yes, please. I also leave the box and go into the hallway that leads to the bathroom. I walk past a young man who looks strong and athletic and who bears more than a passing resemblance to Jude Law. He's wearing well tailored jeans that probably cost upwards of $1,000. I do my best to keep my jaw from actually dropping. It's Thomas Vermaelen. I nod at him and smile. He nods back. When I return to my seat, the guy behind me shows me a picture on his camera. It's him and Vermaelen. Why the hell didn't I think to do that? Err... next time?

Second half. Just hold on, baby. My brother insists that Chelsea will score. He repeatedly insists that it will be Ivanovic with a header. He (rightfully) points out that Arsenal can't defend players like that during set pieces. I laugh him off and tell him that, if anything, it'll be Drogba and he'll score two. The Chelsea fans have found their voices again. They're feeling good. But suddenly, the ball breaks lose from a tackle. Chelsea are caught playing a line that's way too high. Theo is on the ball - he's faster than everyone else on the pitch. He squares it - of course he squares it - for El Capitan. Holy crap. It's two. What next?

I barely have time to process this information. I turn to my dad, and just as I'm telling him "this is not what I expected," Malouda dallies on the ball for a split second too long and Theo picks his pocket. Cesc and Theo are running free again how on earth oh my god what a pass please just shoot Theo he actually shot AND WOW WHAT A GOAL THAT IS. From our angle, you could see the ball leave his foot and travel along its perfectly straight trajectory into the corner. I knew immediately that Cech had absolutely no chance at saving it. Amazing. The cheering didn't stop for about five minutes.



We tell Ancelotti he's being sacked in the morning. We remind Chelsea that we have Cesc Fabregas. We shamelessly declare our love for Arsenal. We announce that this is, in fact, by far the greatest team the world has ever seen. It's an overpowering feeling. My brother is a good sport. Especially after Ivanovic scores what turns out to be a consolation header. I immediately regret not placing a bet on his prediction during half time. Especially because in the luxury boxes, pretty girls circulate around both before the match and during halftime to take your bets. I'm not even joking. (The lesson, as always, is to listen when Juan and Sam give you predictions.) The Chelsea fans are briefly invigorated by Ivanovic's goal, but their team simply cannot get ahold of the ball. We are Ole-ing like there's no tomorrow. There's one move that probably had nearly 40 passes in it. We should score at least three or four more. My father is screaming at Nasri and Diaby when they fail to take their chances. I think he may be on board the Gunner Express at this point. And in an atmosphere like this, how could you not be?



Indeed, we find ourselves on our feet, screaming encouragement with thousands of others as Song and Rosicky break towards the Chelsea goal right at the end. Final whistle. A mighty roar. Huge applause for the gunners. To their credit, the Chelsea players are gracious in defeat. Lampard, Terry, Drogba and Essien apologetically applaud the ten masochistic Chelsea fans that stayed to the end. "Movin' On Up" on the speakers. To quote the great Jack Buck, "I don't believe what I just saw."

We stop outside the stadium to take a few pictures. As you can see, it's dark and drizzly and the shots aren't great, but all I need is confirmation. I was here. This happened. "Please don't climb on the cannons." With this crowd, feeling the way it does, that's a joke. The walk back to the Tube takes a long time, but once we're at the station, the London Tube is efficient. Along the way, we pass pubs full of red and white. Everyone ecstatic. Some of my favorite songs from the evening were heard during this walk: "We beat the scum 3-1!" "La la la let's get f*ckin' wasted." And so on. Straight to the point.

When we get back to Victoria, I sleep for ten hours. The next morning, I'm still on a high. I get dressed and go down to the lobby. The hotel always has copies of the Guardian ("Ruthless Arsenal Come of Age to Turn Chelsea's Slump into a Crisis") and the Daily Telegraph ("The Real Deal: Arsenal Show Title Class with 3-1 Win Over Chelsea"). I grab one of each and walk down the street to a little Lebanese cafe/restaurant. It's Lebanese, but the cook fries up a mean English breakfast. I'm the only person in the place, and he sees what I'm reading. "Ah, Arsenal," he says. "Good result yesterday." "Yes it was," I say. Yes it was.

Arsenal vs Ipswich and Our Messy Divorce

Before I get into Arsenal and the Carling Cup I wanted to mention that Jim and I are currently in counseling. I may have sent him a threatening email and he responded by continuing to ignore me. Allusions to What's Beef were flying, some of them direct quotes, and we were about to file for divorce when our counselor mentioned that we had missed our 3 year blog anniversary. We admitted we're both bad parents and decided to continue therapy. We're taking it day by day from here.

Arsenal 3, Ipswich 0

Timing is everything. I think it was around the 55th minute when I started writing a depressing, gloomy blog update. It included several snarky references to Manchester United (oh for f#^ks sake Blackpool!) and a barely coherent rant on Emmanuel Adebayor. Meanwhile my Russian Sopcast feed hummed along smoothly and I tried to cheer myself up with the thought of boo'ing Adebayor in person. Yes, that will be nice...

Hey there Bendtner, nice cutback. And what a sublime finish. It was the sort of build-up that makes you feel silly for feeling frustrated earlier. I think, as fans, we're all a bit on edge with Arsenal.

Here's an example: Criticism of Arshavin started 3 months ago, in October. This was so odd that Arsene Wenger, for probably the first time, alluded to advanced metrics to protect him. I won't contend that Arshavin is at his peak, however, how many more times can he play a vital roll in a victory (2 more assists tonight) before we consider his slump over? He may not be smashing four ludicrous goals in against Liverpool as of late, but I still want him on the side. Passing completion and "work rate" arguments don't hold water; let's just admit we're all a little antsy, so as Andy Gray might advise, keep your top on honey.

Don't get me wrong, the first hour of this game felt like a visit to the DMV. And anyone who seriously refers to Ipswich as The Tractor Boys is probably married to their first cousin. So when Koscielny scored, right before I could fully envision a late Ipswich goal, it was just what we needed. By "we", I am actually referring to me.

I guess I don't know why exactly I'm so on edge. Maybe it's the fact that Diego Forlan is coming to town and I want him to play well. Perhaps it's the thought of Luis Suarez on Liverpool. Or maybe it's the fact that Carlos Vela might be joining me in Spain; oh how bittersweet.

I'm trying to calm my nerves, but no matter what I refuse to get sucked back in to Robin Van Persie. I consider him on loan from Injurytown with no option to buy. The elephant in the room is February 16th. Try as I might to locate Lionel Messi and kidnap him, I feel helpless. No, officer, I don't care where Sergio Busquets lives. I asked for Leo... and stop looking at my sledgehammer!

We're headed to Wembley, as favorites. Arsenal should be headed for the 5th round of the FA cup and we're 2nd in the table. There's no reason to panic, and no reason to look ahead. Just like my marriage counselor said, one day at a time.

Andres Iniesta Seduced By a Bear and David Villa's Head Product

"A little back-rub, some neck keesses, then I'll go in for the kil, er, I mean, the sex."

- Inside the mind of a Grizzly Bear as he seduces Andres Iniesta

Here's the ad, if you want to know how this relationship got started.

And here's an advertisement from David Villa. According to David, only use Giorgi, "if your game lasts 24 hours."
_________

Jim was at the Emirates last night and witnessed an event as rare aurora borealis during the total eclipse of the sun - Arsenal beat Chelsea.

More from him as soon as he returns.

Until then.

"Xavi is the Best Player in the World", Said the Bored Catalan

"Wait what?? Is Xavi even the 3rd best player on Barcelona FC?" responded the surly Uruguayan born American. The party seemed to freeze in time momentarily; I would take some convincing.

Little do they know I have Xavi as the 5th best player on Barcelona, behind Messi, Iniesta, Villa, and Pique, and probably in that order.

Before we begin
I am not suggesting that Xavi is a bad soccer player. Capiche? Mr. Hernandez is obviously talented, just not better than four of his teammates.

And I must demand that we agree on one premise before beginning, because if we can't agree that Messi is the best player on Barcelona, we're shouting from different planets.

Messi
The Messiah is the best player on Barcelona FC; it's not close. If it's an argument at all, it's born from extreme boredom or a blood-alcohol level of .24. It's fit for Around the Horn in June.

Since 2007, in all Barcelona FC competitions, Messi and Xavi have appeared in 137 and 156 games respectively. Messi has 124 goals and 48 assists; Xavi has 25 goals and 65 assists. That's 500% more goals for 25% less assists.
Standardizing the numbers for "games played" adds a little to Messi's resume, and adjusting for age is when things get absurd.
25-year-old-Messi had 45 goals and 10 assists (46 games played) and 25-year-old-Xavi had 3 goals and 0 assists (44 games played). Re-read that last sentence one more time.

But I don't need to use statistics; Messi passes the eye-test as well. I'm not talking about the flash (thanks Arabic announcer), I'm talking about impact. If Xavi is the one pulling the strings of the puppet - as my friend Carlos emphasized by putting his hand out as if he were holding a marionette - then Messi chokes you with the strings, robs you, and bangs your wife on the way out the door.

Neither of the two play defense (no, they don't, squash that thought), and although they play different roles for their teams, I'm still taking Messi. And I'm offended you even asked. I'll humor any argument, because I love talking soccer and I hate Argentinian players, but I need to know you're joking before we have the discussion, that's all.

In twenty-five years, hardly anyone that isn't pining for Catalan independence will remember the name Xavi Hernandez, but I can guarantee they'll know the name Lionel Messi.
Ugh, that hurt to write. Moving along, in summary:
Messi > Xavi. Agreed? Agreed. Now, let's begin.

Iniesta
"I'd rather have Xavi than Iniesta." I get that a fair amount here in Barcelona. Here is how the argument typically plays out:

I'd rather have Xavi than Iniesta.
- Why is that?
(Begins gesticulating with arms) Because Xavi is Barcelona FC. He controls the tempo of the game. He is... the system.
- Can you name me an important goal Xavi has scored?
Xavi doesn't really score goals.
- Iniesta doesn't "really" score goals either, but I can name you three. His goal to win the World Cup, of course, his goal to beat Chelsea in the Champions League, and he scored the winner against Chile, a game Spain needed to win so badly they subbed off Xavi in the 66th minute.

Sounds like you looked up that last one dude.
- Maybe I did, but if you can find me an "important" goal Xavi scored in less than 10 minutes, then maybe we can talk. But let's ignore goals for a moment. Can you remember an important assist Xavi had?
Not really.
- I agree, that's because assists aren't really remembered, unless you're Theo Walcott. But fine, give me a game of significance in which Xavi clearly wow'd. If we're putting Xavi in the company of Player-of-the-Year winners like Zidane, Figo, Ronaldinho, surely you can think of one game when Xavi blew the lid off the stadium and announced his presence.
(Struggles to think of one) But dude, he's still good.
- I agree, I'm not saying he's bad. I just don't think he's better than Iniesta. They play the same role. They are almost literally asked to do the same thing and their stats are not significantly different from one another; Iniesta has a few more goals, Xavi has a few more assists. But for some reason, I can remember the times when Iniesta has impacted a meaningful game, whether it be for Spain or FC, but I can't remember a single instance when that was Xavi.

But Xavi the other day completed 112 of his 115 passes!
- That's a phenomenally useless statistic. It's about as useful as all of Arsenal's possession when they lose as well. Stat's don't really have a place in soccer. Put me in a plaid blazer with leather elbow pads and give me a corn-cob pipe, but it's true, statistics do a mostly horrible job explaining soccer. This isn't baseball, or even the NFL where people talk of "skill positions" and don't realize they are mocking the game.
Jose Mourinho's Inter was very successful, and they never beat Barcelona in any stats. Well, just one, the final score. And I could go on and on about how Arsenal wins the stat-battle every week. Yet no team seems to befuddle the stat argument better than Arsenal.
"What a beautiful game. We won five-nil and completed 430 of our 442 passes! And we had 65% of the possession!"
That's great. But what about the time when Arsenal had 65% of the possession, completed 90% of their hundreds of passes, gave up 2 shots on goal and still lost 1-nil to Newcastle.
(Jim sighs).

Of course statistics tell some of the story. A neutral Barcelona observer wouldn't be surprised to see that the Blaugrana control a majority of the possession. Nor would it be a surprise that they touch the ball around more than their opponents. Completed passes, however, are mostly useless. For example:

In the game in which Messi destroyed Arsenal in the Champions League, he attempted half as many passes as Xavi and completed a lower percentage of them. He even "covered" less distance.

It's not just about goals. One should appreciate players like Xavi, and I do. Just give me Andres Iniesta, who over the past 3 years has proved his impact on the big stage over and over again, and I'll let you have the invisible puppet-master.

David Villa
Speaking of impact. Is there a better player that is more under-the-radar right now than David Villa? ¡Madre mia!

He scored the most goals in the Euro 2008 - two of which were game winners - and Spain won. He tied for the most goals in the World Cup 2010 - three of which were game winners - and Spain won.

He was "slumping" for Barcelona FC, yet somehow he has 11 goals and 7 assists in 20 appearances. This was only after never having scored less than 20 goals a season, for five consecutive seasons at Valencia.

The man is on fire, literally shooting flames from every orifice. If I can only have one player in a big game, Mara-Villa is on the short-list of names. Again, it's not just about goals, but it goes without saying how important they are in order to, you know, win games. So if you need at least 20 goals during a season, several of them winners and several of them against your biggest opponents, David Villa is your guy. If you need someone who will complete 90% of his passes, take Xavi.

Gerald Pique
Consider that Gerald Pique is one of the best central defenders in the world. Then consider that Pique is 23 years old. Instead of entering into the nebulous arguments of why defense is important, I'd rather point out that a great center-back is harder to find than a great striker.

McCallan Top Tier Center-Backs:
Pique, Puyol (sigh), Carvalho, Chiellini, Lucio, Vidic, John Terry, and let's assume 1 more I'm forgetting. Total = 8

Grey Goose Top Tier Strikers:
Villa, Cristiano Ronaldo, Forlan, Llorente, Eto'o, Ibrahimovic, Tevez, Van Persie (stop laughing), Rooney, Drogba, Torres (I'm not ready to drop him yet, in fact, this makes me sad), Thomas Muller. Total = 12

Well that wasn't very convincing. This would be alot easier if VP and Torres would stop sucking so much, but still, I think I might have a point.

*Aside - after doing this exercise I wonder if we're a few years away from an odd dearth of great central-backs. Puyol and Carvalho are past prime, so is Chiellini and perhaps John Terry. Maybe I just don't know enough young central defenders - they're late bloomers I suppose - but it seems like holding midfielders and oustanding fullbacks are in fashion. Or maybe it's getting harder and harder to find a great central defender with the current outrageously talented crop of attacking midfielders and strikers.

Irregardless, I comfortably put a 23-year-old central defender like Pique ahead of a 30-year-old Xavi. And even if you don't buy Pique over Xavi, that still means Mr. Hernandez is 4th best on his own team. Why oh why is he in the running for player of the year? Please explain that to me. No seriously, the comments are open.

Pictures that shouldn't be lost in the grind

Notice how Forlan looks surprise. Come on Doug, this happens all the time! (Photo-find courtesy of ESA)

El Clasico

I must have looked out of place. With nearly one hundred thousand people screaming and jumping around, there I was silent and relatively still. It was Xavi's goal in the 10th minute, and if you didn't know any better you would have thought I was catatonic.


The guy to my left, probably confused by my reaction, grabbed me and shook my shoulders as if to wake me up. I gave him a high-five so that he would stop bothering me and I continued to soak in the scene.

The truth is that it didn't work. I was as capable of absorbing the moment as a deer is capable of absorbing an F150.

There was so much uncertainty leading up to El Clasico that I wasn't prepared for a goal that quickly. My body was in the Camp Nou, but my brain was still on the metro, wondering if I would even get a ticket.

My journey to find a way inside the Camp Nou for El Clasico began two weeks ago. Well, technically it began within three hours of finding out I had been accepted to The University of Barcelona five months ago, but realistically it began two weeks ago. I talked with season ticket holders, friends, locals, friends of friends, and the response was always the same - a laugh, a shake of the head, and the obligatory "don't count it on it kid" speech.

In short, I blame them for my reaction. I blame the whole city in fact. The tension and anxiety for this game reached tangible levels three weeks ago. Did you know that the game was originally scheduled for Sunday? The same Sunday as the - depending on who you ask - local elections of Catalunia. Perhaps it was the surgeon general that realized you can't have 5 million people finding out the result for both El Clasico and the "Presidential" election on the same night.

I rent my apartment from a wonderful Catalan couple who would tell you that the election was "national" rather than "local". The husband is a life-long season ticket holder and a Barça aficionado, though that's an understatement. He told me once with a straight face that his All World Starting 11 would include Eric Abidal at right back. I hadn't signed the lease yet so I thought it would be impolite to storm out.

In the first week of November, I was at their house to pick up an extension cord and El Clasico came up. Ten seconds into the conversation the wife stormed into the room saying, "No no no! No more talk about football! I've had it up to here(!) with this damn football match!!" So, yes, the tension was building.

Fast forward three weeks and there I was, 100 dollars poorer with 98 thousand people singing the hymn; it's no wonder why I was so overwhelmed.



You can hear me singing in this one.



I think it's important to note that neither manager had an incentive to go out and win 2 or 3-nil. This game had zero-zero or 1-1 draw written all over it, and both managers would be delighted with one point each, considering the stakes. The managers before the game (I'm paraphrasing):

"If we win, tomorrow will be Tuesday. If we lose, tomorrow will also be Tuesday." - Jose Mourinho.

"Win or lose it will be 1 match of 38." - Pep Guardiola


So with a pleasant 1-1 draw looming over El Clasico, you can imagine my surprise when Iker Casillas blew this game wide open, fudging a routine cross from David Villa, and defrauding Madrid fans everywhere to allow a 2-nil lead within 20 minutes of the kickoff. Yikes.

I would be lying if I said Sara Carbonero didn't cross my mind:

"What happen honey? Why you ruin Mourinho's day?... Were you cold?"

Fine. Two-nil. Remember, we're still only 20 minutes into this game.

Both goals had a very real element of fortune about them, but all the same, this just got more interesting. Phrases that don't really make sense but are cool to say come up at times like these -- The next goal will be the most important one. (Yeah totally!!... ...wait what?)

After two-nil and before halftime, Madrid fans could claim there was a moment of controversy when Cristiano Ronaldo was brought down in the box by Victor Valdez. The reason it was not a penalty, not in Barcelona or in Madrid, was because the original burst by Cristi to get into position was a reaction play. Moments before the ball squirmed free, Cristiano was standing, or relatively still. Once he saw the opportunity present itself, only then did he fly in front of Valdez. The ref noticed this as well and I'm of the firm belief that if Cristiano, by chance, had been running or sprinting from the outset, as if trying to get on to a through-ball, it would have been called. But since it was a broken play, and the intent to beat Valdez to the position was fairly transparent, the referee didn't buy it. I'm not blaming Cristi at all, or the referee since I think it was the correct decision... if that makes any sense at all.

Cue halftime. Cue the sandwiches I mentioned before. I took a picture to not only prove the culture, but to also show you how in 50 degree weather these spoiled Mediterraneans dress like they're about to ski the Pyrenees.

The second half begins and throughout the intermission I'm secretly wishing this turns into a classic for the ages. I would be right, but not the way I imagined.

Nobody expected five-nil. Nobody. Not Pep, not Puyol, not even my landlord. They are lying if they did, or disingenuous at best. What happened was that David Villa had other intentions. The man feasts on big games. It's amazing that people rave about Messi, Xavi, even Iniesta, when on the front page of every newspaper should be David Villa. It was his cross that Pedro tapped in, and his cold-blooded, world class, enter-hyperbole-here finishes that put this game to bed. If Real Madrid were a beautiful 12-point buck, Xavi shot it in the leg while David Villa calmly walked over with a chainsaw and cut it to bits.

I barely heard a peep about Villa during Spain's World Cup run and nothing has changed during the aftermath of this blowout. I'll air my gripes at another time, because right now it's still 4-nil, there are 30 minutes left in El Clasico, and the match has yet to reach it's highest level of absurdity.



For a ten minute span starting at the hour mark, Barcelona FC decided to cash in on their bets of who could nutmeg the most Real Madrid players. No joke, Xavi had 2 megs, Iniesta had 2, Alves may have had 3 (the winner), Boooosie with 1, Messi with 1... you get the picture. Ticky-tack champagne soccer had begun, egged on by the crowd who were chanting:

Hey-o hey-o hey-o.
Esto es un chorreo.

Chorreo = blowout. Ouch.

That wasn't even my favorite song. To the tune of Guantanamera, the masses hilariously begged Jose Mourinho to, "come out of the dugout":

Sal del banquillo... Mourinho sal del banquillo... Saal del banquiiiiiiiiillooooo, Mourinho sal del banquiiillooo.

The banquillo (ban-key-yo) is the pyrex bubble Mourinho hid inside, with reason, for most of the game. In fact, talking about it afterward with a friend who watched at home, we agreed there was really only one time when Mourinho stood near the sideline. Anyway, they're a clever bunch, the fans, when winning 4-nil.

The greatest insult, and this was a doozey, came via Pep Guardiola when he substituted for Bojan Krkic. Make no mistake, Guardiola was insulting Los Merengues. I'll let my Read Madrid friend explain, (I'm paraphrasing):

"When Pep says, hey, you know what will be great (mock laugh), I'm gonna put in the retard - you know it's humiliating.
[And if he had scored that break-away?, I asked]
God I don't want to talk about this anymore. If Bojan had scored I would have died. That's the only thing I left with man, at least Bojan didn't score. We got spanked and it was terrible, but if that hack Bojan scores it would have been worse."

It sounds harsh but any Barcelona supporter would agree. Half my section encouraged Bojan with, "run Bojan, run!!" sarcastically as if they were mocking Forest Gump. Send the boy out on loan, please; but I digress.

The culmination, besides Jeffren's completion of la manita (pictured here, holding up your mano to indicate exactly how many goals have been scored), was when Jorge Ramos decided he had had enough.


From the moment Messi took off it looked like a bunch of piranhas chasing after a minnow. I started cringing and just about everyone knew what was coming. What happened after the mass of Merengues converged and left Messi in a heap was a blur. A flash of red, Puyol hits the deck, mayhem, Ramos storms off, hits Xavi in the face, the crowd is incensed, thousands of whistles, more mayhem. It all converged into this:

Madrid!
Cabrón!
Saludo al campeon!

Madrid!
Cabrón!
Saludo al campeon!

(repeat 10x)

The final whistle sounds and the crowd celebrates as if the result were a surprise. The hymn immediately blasts from the speakers and it isn't for another 10 minutes when the majority of fans head for the exit.

The tunnels bottleneck with fans, factions of songs break out, smiles abound. Just another Monday night in Barcelona.