Noventa Minutos con El Diablo (o algo como ese): 2007/08 La Liga Preview

Towards the end of last season, it appeared no one wanted to win the Spanish league. Sevilla, who were admittedly impressive, were punching above their weight, and didn’t have the consistency to take hold of La Liga. Real Madrid were coasting through what seemed like another lost season, losing embarrassingly to teams like Recreativo at home. The airy, drunken bliss of double glory in Europe and at home was still enveloping Barca, who appeared to lack motivation and were just getting Samuel Eto’o and Lionel Messi back from long layoffs. Valencia had settled for Champions League qualification after their squad was decimated by injuries.

But then Real Madrid narrowly failed to beat Barca at the Nou Camp, thanks in part to the individual brilliance of Messi, and the Merengues suddenly looked like a typical Capello squad. This remained true until the end of campaign. They managed to squeeze out tough victories with gritty displays which saw them eventually overhaul Barca and Sevilla and claim the title on the last day. Looking back, Real certainly did not resemble champions for most of the season, but Capello’s touch was unmistakable. The squad finally had something they had lacked for four years: character. In one especially difficult match, they were losing 3-1 to Espanyol at home at halftime, and I just can’t imagine any previous Real Madrid team (after Del Bosque) coming backing from that, but Capello’s men did just that. As Gonzalo Higuain ripped off his jersey after scoring the fourth goal in injury time, giving Real a deserved 4-3 win, I had the sneaking suspicion that the championship was on its way to Madrid.

So what do Real do in the off-season? Yes, you guessed it: they fire Capello. After four years in the wilderness, they’re back right where they started. In 2003, they discarded Vincente Del Bosque after he delivered the Liga title, and proceeded to sign David Beckham, the current host of E! Entertainment News. Now they have replaced Capello with Bernd Schuster. I like Schuster as a coach; he did well with little Getafe, and little Levante before that. And he has an array of new talent at his disposal: Dudek, Pepe, Metzelder, Heinze, Drenthe, Wesley Sneijder, Robben and Saviola. The heart of the team that won last year’s title, namely Iker Casillas, one of the top three keepers in the world, Sergio Ramos and Ruud van Nistelrooy are still around, although Emerson, an over-the-hill Roberto Carlos and David Beckham, who was one of the main contributors to last season’s triumph, are now gone. All in all, Real have a strong, deep squad (although they could use another striker) and a good coach, but I feel that they lack the stability necessary to retain their title. Schuster will need to produce results fast, or the pressure will be intense. Atletico pose a tough opening fixture.

Which brings me to Barca, who I believe will take that title. They suffered from a malaise last year brought on by too much playing and too much winning. They were like a beautiful woman suffering from gastritis: it’s difficult to focus on her stunning physical attributes in the midst of all the flatulence. Eto’o was injured, the defense was disorganized, and Ronaldinho, well… despite his 21 league goals, which included a breathtaking bicycle-kick against Villarreal, Dinho, to stay with the simile, just stunk up the joint. By his own high standards, he seemed lethargic and disinterested. But Barca have responded well in the off-season. The arrivals of Gabriel Milito, Eric Abidal and Yaya Toure (Toure Yaya?) should solve their defensive problems, while Thierry Henry will provide yet another world-class option for Frank Rijkaard in what is undoubtedly the most lethal strikeforce in the world on paper.

There are still some potential problems for Barcelona: Victor Valdes is prone to idiotic gaffes. Frank Rijkaard missed the tactical nous of former assistant coach Henk Ten Cate last season; for all his masterful manipulation of the media and man-management skills, Rijkaard was never a tactical genius. In fact, some of his mistakes over the years have been downright elementary (witness how Jose Mourinho baited him in the CL two years ago). Oleguer, possibly the worst athlete in the history of athletes, is still with the team. Oleguer’s inability to bend his knees is reminiscent of Glenn “Big Dog” Robinson’s failure to ever bend at the waist. In addition, Oleguer’s face looks like a very hairy thumb. Still, if Rijkaard can mold the pieces he has at his disposal into a cohesive unit, they should win La Liga with relative ease. Also, this would help:

http://www.goal.com/en/Articolo.aspx?ContenutoId=392882

In theory, one player should never completely affect the fortunes of a club, but I hesitate to predict how Sevilla’s season will go until Daniel Alves’s situation becomes clear. The marauding right-back was very close to a move to Chelsea, but the two clubs could not agree on a price, and Chelsea subsequently signed the useless Juliano Belletti from Barcelona. I hardly think Belletti is the answer to Mourinho’s right-back problem, so Alves could still move to Stamford Bridge, or, alternatively to Real Madrid, although I see him staying put for one more season at this point. It’s strange to see a team built around a right-back, but that’s what Sevilla were last season, and they produced some devastating football at times. Alves and left-back Adriano provided excellent service from the flanks for Frederic Kanoute, who nearly nabbed the Pichichi award. This season marks Sevilla’s debut in the Champions League, but the back-to-back UEFA Cup champions are used to handling a busy schedule, so if Alves stays, they should threaten the top two and at least secure another top-four finish.

Valencia have been a very dangerous team for almost a decade. David Villa, David Silva, Joaquin and Morientes provide quite a punch, and the arrival of lanky striker Nikola Zigic, who almost single-handedly guided lowly Racing Santander to a best-ever tenth place finish last year, adds to their impressive attack. Steel in midfield is provided by David Albelda, Ruben Baraja and Edu, and the defense has always been strong. But Valencia have not replaced the great Roberto Ayala, the heart of the defense. Helguera, Alexis and Raul Albiol are capable, but Ayala will be sorely missed.

Three clubs look able to capitalize on Valencia’s vulnerability: Zaragoza, Villarreal and Atletico Madrid. Zaragoza have added the defected Ayala to fill the gap left by the Barca-bound Gabriel Milito, so Zaragoza have addressed the loss of one of their best players. Rumors have been circulating about the imminent departure of Diego Milito, Gabriel’s brother, but if Zaragoza manage to keep him, they will be difficult to beat, especially if Pablo Aimar and Andres D’Alessandro continue to impress. Villarreal have a good squad, especially now that Robert Pires and Nihat are healthy, but Diego Forlan will be missed. Forlan has gone to a revamped Atletico side, who have spent the bloated fee they received for Fernando Torres wisely, having recruited Forlan as a direct replacement, as well as Simao Sabrosa, Luis Garcia and Jose Antonio Reyes. Sergio Aguero should develop into a major star, and I think Atletico just might finally qualify for the Champions League.

Predictions:

Best Goalkeeper (Zamora): Roberto Abbondanzieri (Getafe)

Relegated: Almeria, Murcia, Levante

Top Scorer (Pichichi): David Villa (Valencia)

Champions: Barcelona

Champions League Qualifiers: Barcelona, Real Madrid, Sevilla, Atletico Madrid

UEFA Cup: Valencia, Villarreal, Zaragoza

Rememberwhen

The chairs where I live are booby-trapped. Anyone who has lived in Clydesdale Rise will not remember the wooden contraptions students are supposed to recline in with any fondness. Plus, the seat is constructed of flimsy strings which have a quicksand-like effect, causing your posterior to collapse.

This is why I was happy to see that my chair was free at Starbucks this morning. My chair is a little green beauty, a comfy armchair with no wooden parts in sight. So I grabbed my grande vanilla latte and settled in with Philip Roth. But I couldn’t quite concentrate on Mr. Roth’s sunny expositions. The soundtrack Starbucks had chosen to play was seasonal: “Boys of Summer” and “The Summer of ‘69″ were two prominent joints. Nathan Zuckerman gradually faded into temporary oblivion, and I found myself feeling oddly nostalgic for the summer of 1969, which was ten years before my birth.

You know how nostalgia feels: you perceive the faint scent of some delectable confection that remains perpetually out of reach. There is a light sadness to the sensation, mixed with giddy recognition. Marcel Proust got me thinking about it a while ago, and, I must confess, I only read about a hundred pages of “Swann’s Way”, but that did the trick. The guy had me pining like crazy for 19th-century Combray as if I had experienced something there way back when. And this is what confuses me. I can understand nostalgia when it’s related to something that actually happened to me; I remember getting excited about Transformers when I first heard about it last summer because I used to watch the old cartoon as a kid. But 1969?

And then I realized that this happens in sports too. Images of Zico, Socrates, Cerezo and Falcao gliding through 1982, before crashing spectacularly, take me back to that sweltering Spain. The vision of Spud Webb, triumphant in improbable flight, reminds me of something I only saw much later. The Drive. I was crushed when that beautiful Total-football Dutch squad succumbed to Gerd Muller’s ruthless Germany, and recalling that sad day in 1974 makes me smile.

Perhaps that’s why I feel old at 28. I actually remember when Tim Thomas was a promising young buck. It wasn’t too long ago that Slam magazine mocked Eddie Jones for pretending to reminisce at some All-Star game some years ago, because Eddie himself was young then. And Penny was young once. And someday I won’t be. No, not someday…some day. And that day is fast approaching.

The Grand Theivery of Art; or, How an 18th-Century Novel Made Me Think of Pele

If you haven’t read “Breakfast of Champions” yet, you’re dumb, dear reader. Don’t worry, according to the previous conditional clause, I was dumb too until very recently. Then again, I’ve always had clarity of mind and superior intellect, which would have counter-balanced any resulting dumbness. OK, let’s not get too hung up on who’s dumb (perhaps you, dear reader?) and who’s not (me).

Kurt Vonnegut’s playful novel contains very immature illustrations by the author himself, such as this one:

*

That little star is Vonnegut’s rendering of, yes, you guessed it, an a$$hole. He also enlightens us with crudely-drawn beavers and flamingos, among other things. The fact that Vonnegut is considered a master of contemporary American literature may explain why English, and not computer science, which I failed miserably at, is the field for me. How cool is it that reading this stuff counts as work?

As I read more and more of “Breakfast Of Champions”, an activity which usually led to the nasal expulsion of Starbucks coffee and other beverages on my part, I realized that the book reminded me of another novel: “The Life and Opinions of Tristram Shandy, Gentleman” by Laurence Sterne. I read that book for one of my MA classes, and when the professor asked me what I thought of it, this exchange transpired:

“It made me think of a very pertinent thesis question, Dr. Ashley.”

“Very interesting. And what is that, Tariq?”

“Did they have crack in the eighteenth century?”

If they did, it would explain Sterne’s utter, masterful craziness. Up until “Tristram Shandy”, that eighteenth-century-novel course was not very exciting. I mean, “Clarissa”? Seriously? But Laurence Sterne was on some other wavelength.

So, naturally, I had to pit “Breakfast of Champions” and “Tristram Shandy” against each other in a death-match where, to paraphrase Optimus Prime, one don’t-get-high-on-your-own-supply masterpiece would stand, and one would fall. If I could erase one from my memory and read it for the first time all over again, it would probably be “Breakfast of Champions”, simply because Vonnegut is more accessible. But I have to declare Sterne the victor, because without him, I don’t think Vonnegut’s intelligent buffoonery would be possible.

Which brings me to Pele.

A lot of Saudis my age like to describe the player regarded by many experts as the greatest ever as “A one-eyed man in the land of the blind”. Admittedly, I don’t much care for Pele. Maradona is the shiznit, my friend. And while the Argentine frequently, and justifiably, pops up in comparisons with the great Brazilian, there is no denying that Pele is indeed great. Just like all those ancient Celtics probably were. But while I don’t know much about the 60s Celtics outside of Bill Russell and Bob Cousy, I am positive that Pele revolutionized the game.

See, in 1958, the way people played football was a lot like how Samuel Richardson wrote novels: in 1,500-page, epistolary form. Now that, dear reader, is excruciating. So for Pele to come along and play like he did, which wouldn’t look out of place in 2007, is not to be sneezed at. If you want to understand how he changed the game, you only need to look at one clip:

It was against Uruguay, and Pele was running to receive a long pass. The goalkeeper comes out to stop him. The ball is coming from Pele’s left, at a 45-degree angle to the approaching goalie. Pele continues his run, going to the keeper’s right, and the latter dives at Pele’s feet, but there’s only one problem: the ball isn’t there. Pele had continued his run without bothering to take the ball with him, so the keeper was left stranded, having dived at thin air, and Pele was thus free to run AROUND the keeper and meet the ball, which had continued in its path untouched, with only an empty net in front of him. Unfortunately, Pele’s shot was from an acute angle and narrowly missed the target. Still, to beat a keeper like that requires not only cojones the size of summer honeydews, it calls for unparalleled imagination.

So now, whenever I see Ronaldinho do something that makes me go “%#1$$)@!!!” or Messi nonchalantly glide by 17 defenders, I try to imagine what it must have been like to live in a black-and-white world and have someone do something truly youtube -worthy. I’ve finally come around; I confess that Pele is better than Cruyff, Zidane, Beckenbauer, Zico, van Basten, Platini and Ronaldo.

But don’t get me wrong…he’s still not as good as Maradona!

Taxi Driver Confession

My dissertation deadline is on September 14th, which means that I’ve spent a lot of time over the past few months procrastinating. A while back Danielle, one of my flat-mates, declared that Pan’s Labyrinth was a movie everyone should be required to see, so, welcoming the opportunity to avoid work, I did. And she’s right. Pan’s Labyrinth is now in my top 10 all-time list.

As the months wore on, Danielle, her boyfriend Kenny, and I watched many more movies, but I noticed that there was a vast schism between us. For me, Pan’s Labyrinth was a rare foray into the realm of fairytales, but that’s where Danielle and Kenny dwelled. Pan’s Labyrinth was followed by Amelie, which wasn’t bad, but hardly a masterpiece in my book. I received Cinema Paradiso with even less enthusiasm. And what irked me is that whenever we were at the dingy little Blockbuster on Sidwell Street, I would shove flicks like City of God in their faces demanding that they enlighten themselves, but the two of them would just shrug their shoulders and go off in search of things magical and mystical.

I tsked. I pshawed. I shook my head at their boorish movie palettes. They reminded me of Bashar and them, friends of mine who mocked Raging Bull because it was in black and white. Needless to say, I’ve found new friends. And speaking of Scorsese and De Niro, what is the sports equivalent to that pairing? Jordan and Pippen does not apply; there is no hierarchy in the Italian duo’s dynamic. Kobe and Shaq? Not synergetic enough. I thought about a coach/player twosome instead of a player/player one, but Scorsese is too energetic a director to sit on the bench in a tie scribbling Xs and Os.

So, the best I could come up with is Diego Maradona and Dan Marino. The former is a genius, and his flawed persona is just the type of character De Niro excels at portraying. The latter is a great leader who directs traffic and threads passes, but could never win the big one, much like Scorsese pre-Departed. It seems that Di Caprio (the Ronaldinho in this analogy, albeit a good-looking version of the Brazilian) is being groomed to replace De Niro, but I doubt Leo, good as he is, can match De Niro’s mastery. Raging Bull. Casino. GoodFellas is the only film equal to the first two Godfathers in my book. And my book is the only one that matters.

Which brings me to Taxi Driver. This is THE film, right? I mean, this has been named the best film of the seventies, the peak of moviemaking in America. De Niro plays a disturbed character perfectly, and the film contains one of the most memorable scenes ever. You talkin’ to me?

So why do I hate Taxi Driver? I could never figure it out. I can’t stand it. I always thought it was boring and depressing. The scenes towards the end with Harvey Keitel strike me as laughably bad. But it’s the Holy Grail, isn’t it? Is it? Help me out.

For the record, my top 10 is, in no particular order:

1- The Godfather

2- The Godfather Part II

3- GoodFellas

4- City of God

5- One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest

6- Pulp Fiction

7- Raging Bull

8- The Usual Suspects

9- Malcolm X

10- Pan’s Labyrinth

And Half Baked, which was panned by critics, is hilarious. Far superior to Taxi Driver.

When We Were Kings

I hate Michael Jordan.

Well, maybe I don’t hate him. Not exactly. But I never loved him like I love Samuel Eto’o. Michael was always imperial in his processions, but have you seen Eto’o celebrate an important goal? The way his eyes are closed and his limbs flail wildly, the way he screams, the flag of Cameroon on his wrist, even when wearing Barcelona colors, the way he runs with no direction makes it seem like there’s anguish in his ecstasy. Michael, (and, all due respect to Jay-Z, but it’s Michael, not Mike; the latter moniker is far too familiar for a monarch), is not as common as Eto’o, the boy who was too little for Real Madrid. The wiry understudy who played for a club from the islands, who dared to mock the president of Madrid after humiliating his squad. The nobody who had the audacity, the insolence, to declare that he might not be as handsome as Beckham, but was a better footballer. To me, he was, and he was beautiful.

When I was a kid growing up in Saudi Arabia, there were only two football teams people supported in my town: Hilal and Nasr. People didn’t ask “What team do you support?”, they asked “Are you a Hilali or a Nasrawi?”. So when I answered “My team is Shabab,” people laughed until there were tears in their eyes.

The summer of 1994 was the first time I felt like part of the Earth, because Saudi Arabia was in the World Cup. People were expecting heavy defeats, but I told them that we would prevail. Viva la resistance. That’s why when Saeed Owairan, who played for Shabab, scored one of the best individual goals in World Cup history (youtube it), I was pumping my fist, while everyone else was gasping for air. But what made me truly content was not merely the fact that Saudi Arabia was tasting success on the global footballing stage for the first time. What got me excited was the prospect of improving over the years, of joining the ranks of the giants. Of course, that dream is now gone. After years of mismanagement and corruption, the 2002 debacle was the final nail in the coffin. But the summer of 1994 was still a joyous time.

Just like the summer of 2001. After vanquishing Vince (when he was good) and holding his own against three All-Stars, Iverson definitely had my heart. I knew it was improbable, but I wanted him to conquer the Lakers. I was ecstatic when he kicked the monster in the throat. I still remember him sauntering into the dressing room, telling the cameraman that they could all put the brooms away. For some, that was enough, but at that moment, before Game 2, I had just a little bit of belief that he could squash Shaq. But he could only step over Tyronne Lue. Now, Iverson is with the Nuggets, not quite in his golden years, but no longer the fiery freedom fighter who dared to challenge the empire. Someday along the line he may earn a ring as an old man, as a mentor in the dressing room, kind of like a wise version of Gary Payton, who, incidentally, fell eleven years ago to Michael. But he’ll never be as close to revolution as he was that day in L.A.

This is why Kevin Garnett is captivating. Don’t you understand why he was using bellicose vocabulary when he went up against the Kings a few years ago? People criticized him for mentioning his gats and his AK-47s, but he wasn’t talking about violence, he was preaching revolution. By any means necessary. That’s why he got choked up when Coach Thompson interviewed him on TNT. Barkley wasn’t laughing at him. Not really. Sir Charles was there when Michael the Monarch extinguished the Suns. The team of destiny. KG has the pedigree. Now he has the Truth and Jesus Shuttlesworth. He’s the same age as Iverson, but he still has the chance to be fiery. Maybe. Have you seen the Big Ticket scream? Take a look at him after he loses, when he’s frustrated, when he’s banging his head against the mat. He looks like Eto’o celebrating a goal. There’s something primal in that.

OK, so in the grand scheme of things, sports don’t matter. Barkley is not a runaway or a refugee, he’s getting fatter off original glazed. He can live without an oversized piece of jewelry. Michael Jordan never shot anyone. But I need to see it like that. I have to perceive. I have to believe in the revolutionaries.

Before the Seasons

In three days the cherry will pop. There are only four sports I care about: soccer, basketball, football and soccer. Or football, basketball, gridiron and football. Whichever formulation fits your fancy, the fact is that the first and fourth sports in that list are about to kick off. The Premiership begins on Saturday.

Most sports fans hate the off season. After the San Antonio Spurs crushed the hapless Cavs in lifeless fashion and Real Madrid scooped up the title everyone else surrendered, it was time to hibernate for the summer. True, the summer did feature a thrilling Argentine side playing the role of tragic hero in the Copa America, and there was also a surprisingly entertaining Asian Cup, not to mention Team USA tryouts, but nothing really juicy. Nothing like next summer, which boasts Euro 2008. Still, this time of year offers me the chance to daydream like Lupe Fiasco. See, now anything can happen. Kobe might be a Bull tomorrow. Jermaine could be a Laker. Kaka may well leave Milan by the time I wake up. Liverpool still haven’t squandered any realistic chance of winning the title, and the KG experiment in Boston still holds promise. There is something virginal about the off season.

But I still can’t wait to pop that cherry. Arsenal will probably suck without Henry, but I’m really interested to see how the other big three will fare. Liverpool have acquired the two wingers (Ryan Babel and Yossi Benayoun) and striker (Fernando Torres) that they’ve been craving. I have nothing but respect for Rafa Benitez; the man is a tactical genius, as his effective deployment of FOUR full-backs in the victory against Barca last season showed, but I still have my doubts about these signings. Torres is a quality center-forward, but he is not a proven 20-goal-a-season finisher, and Liverpool had to overpay to get him. I also don’t like the fact that they sold Luis Garcia, who has impressed at Anfield in the past.

Chelsea still have Mourinho, whose entertainment value as an interviewee is astronomical, and they still have the spine of the squad that swept all before them up until their dethronement last year, but they’ve had a relatively quiet summer. Claudio Pizarro, Tal Ben Haim, Steve Sidwell and Flourent Malouda add depth and quality, but the Blues haven’t matched Manchester United’s frenzied approach. Also, they need a right-back like Starbury needs a dictionary.

Manchester have bought Nani, who should replace Giggs in the future, and Anderson, who people are comparing to Ronaldinho. Anderson will never be as good as his more celebrated compatriot was from 2004-2006, but he should provide even more flair to a Manchester United who already have it in abundance, with Cristiano Ronaldo and Wayne Rooney playing like what KG and Showbiz should have been, Giggs and Scholes playing like it’s 1999 and Louis Saha offering sporadic brilliance. Not to mention the imminent arrival of the tricky Carlos Tevez. The addition of Owen Hargreaves adds steel to the midfield and allows Michael Carrick more freedom to create. The Red Devils look like a fearful bunch and, barring any major injuries, I see them repeating as Premiership champions and seriously challenging for European honors.

As for the rest of the bunch, Tottenham look good, especially now that they’ve signed Darren Bent and Garreth Bale. They should usurp Arsenal and finally qualify for the Champions League. Sven-Goran Eriksson proceeded to sign 1,713 players since being appointed as manager of Manchester City, a team which reminds me of the 2003 Minnesota Timberwolves without the benefit of retrospect (i.e. a team that could be really good or utter crap). Farmer Jones will keep supporting Everton at all costs, which guarantees their continued mediocrity. Newcastle have plenty of good players, but will again fail to challenge the big four, even with a healthy Michael Owen. Boro have made a very astute signing in the form of Tuncay Sanli, and could challenge for Uefa Cup qualification, but nothing more. Bolton have Nicolas Anelka, one of my favorite players, but they will struggle without Sam Allardyce calling the shots. Reading will do well to match last season’s eighth place finish, and as for Aston Villa, Wigan, Portsmouth, Sunderland, West Ham, Fulham, Blackburn, Derby County and Birmingham, honestly, does anyone care?

Max Airington (If that is his real name, which it isn’t) Got a Column and I Didn’t

As the multitude of readers who have been eagerly anticipating this blog know, I am currently finishing up my MA at the University of Exeter. Loyal would-be readers also surely must be informed of the fact that I cyber-frequent SLAMonline.com, which has just gifted a column to one Max Airington, who apparently shot J.R. back in the day. Although these two facts, common knowledge to all my fans, may not seem connected, they actually are, dumbass. Sorry to insult you, dear reader. I promise I won’t do that from now on. Unless you happen to enjoy the Ike/Tina dynamic.

But I digress. As the pangs of jealousy I felt towards Monsieur Airington threatened to consume my very core, I realized that much of the excess acid produced by the stomachs of graduate students everywhere is the product of envy. Maybe envy is too simple. Envy with a heap of insecurity. Of course, my legions of fans know that I am a writer superior not only to the inconsequential little Airington, and his superiors Sam Rubenstien and Lang Whittaker (that’s how your names SHOULD be spelled, fellas), but also to literary giants such as Miguel de Cervantes, Charles Dickens, Walt Whitman and Stephon Marbury. But not everyone is as self-assured as I.

In any case, dear reader, I hope you enjoy my rage-filled diatribes, infused as they are with humor, fury and gentle wisdom. I swear I love you. Bitch. Sorry, baby.