I was going to write a bitter essay on how Bradley needs to show more faith in our creative centermids, like Feilhaber and Torres, who are capable of reading a game and dictating the pace of play. But I didn’t. I didn’t because I am still licking my wounds, still frustrated, still…melancholy.

I thought of writing a poem, but then I realized that T.S. Eliot beat me to the scoop. No, not the Wasteland. Not that harsh. Rather, “the hollow men.”

When TS wrote “the stuffed men…leaning together” could he have foreseen mini-Bradley and Ricardo holding hands on their own boxes edge, fending off Mexican attacks but rarely trotting to the center line?

When TS wrote “Shape without form…Paralysed force” did he see the anemic US attack? The inability to string together passing sequences? The lack of offensive cohesion?

When TS wrote of “the dead land…the cactus land” could he have predicted the afternoon kick in Mexico City? Could he smell the smog-infested armpit of North America?

When TS wrote of “empty men” and “dying stars,” did he gaze into the future and see a gassed Landon Donovan, a supposed star that got burned for Mexico’s go ahead goal?

When TS wrote of “The Shadow” between “the idea and the reality”, was he calling out all the commentators predicting a US victory?

Or was he just depressed about his wife’s nocturnal visits to Bertrand Russell’s estate?

August 12, 2009, a honest family of hardworking Americans set forth on a hard and arduous journey, in search of a better life. They headed Southwest, following the Mormon trail before heading South.

What followed was a tragedy, a tragic turn of events that tore a family apart, some never to return. Futfanatico proudly presents the surviving diary of one Landy Donovan (pronounced Donnervan). Please note, names have been changed at the request of the families.

August 10th – We depart from Fort Bend…

I’m excited and nervous ’cause Pa Bradley finally decided we shudda get a goin down south. He and ma fought like dogs- she said that we shudda left earlier. She said ‘a snows ‘a gonna fall or somethin. Pa didn’t listen nothin. We left and my little brother, Jay, dat little guy stole my ‘coon skin cap and Pa didn’t do nuthin!

August 11 – We Get into Meheeco

We gots into Mexeeco but nobody knowz a word of whad I’m sayin. Still, the local indians are friendly and smile and point a lot. The chief, a balding white guy they call Blanco, seems to speak a bit of English and seems a bit friendly. I think he lived up north, but somethin ’bout him bugs me. It sure is hot down here and I have trouble with breathin, but Pa just tells me to keep on keep’in on.

August 12th- the Smoke before the…

Me and Charlie had some fun huntin, but we get back to the wagons and Pa ain’t none too happy. Says food is scarce. Worst yet, the Indians got a new chief, Vela, and he don’t take kindly to us. Due to the weather we can’t move for a bit, and the food is scarcer and we’re hungrier than the dickens.

August 13th – the Rescue For Some…

Them darn Indians waited til dark and set fire to our camp. Pa….Pa didn’t make it out so well. We held’em off long as we could, but ended up runnings away to save our skin. They got two scalps and one of’em hided me good, but I ain’t complainin I got my two legs and the digits still work. Luckily some other trains saw the smoke, or… or… I dunna know what would’ve happened.

I just never want to go back to Mexeeco never ‘gain.