MAY 5, 2012

It’s funny how, as we age, the words of our parents echo in our ears louder and louder. My father was  footballer, and he taught me a lot of tricks of the game, but also many life lessons. As a wee lad, he told me over and over again the key to success is not lying in your bed and visualizing success, but getting up each morning and looking at yourself in the mirror and asking: do I have the heart of a champion? Since I was little, I’ve done so. I like to think that I can answer “yes, daddy.” Or “yes, father.”

Of course, as a young boy, the message was a bit confused. I took things a bit too literal. I thought, well, I’m little and haven’t won anything yet, but there’s lots of other champions’ hearts that I could get. Me and a childhood friend, let’s call him Tommy, hatched a plan. We gathered a list of deceased Westminster dog show winners of UK descent and, one night, with shovel in hand, set out to find the nice posh pet cemetery in Hyde Park. We wanted to excavate some champion dog remains and see if we couldn’t find a decent heart to have as keepsake for good luck charm.

Sadly, most affluent owners cremate their pets. We sneaked into Hyde Park and snooped about with our flashlights, but only encountered elaborate mausoleums dedicated to championship terriers. You’d think they’d have been pharaohs with some of the fine marble used! After a few hours, we finally found a tombstone for legendary Fox Terrier “Warren Remedy”, unearthed the casket, but only found bones and a really nice diamond dollar. No heart. Not even the ashes of a heart.

I returned home empty-handed and heartbroken. However, it then dawned on me – my father was not asking me to exhume and collect the hearts of dead show dogs, but rather to mold myself into a champion. He wanted me to create a heart of a champion within my own chest and with little to no necrophilia involved. Since then, I’ve done my best day after day after day. I’ve done millions of reps of curls to ensure that my forearms will never be out-flexed and will be able to point for over 90 minutes. And today, the work paid off. We beat Liverpool to lift the FA Cup!

Afterwards, Drogba led an impromptu dance session and many of the lads sprayed each other with champagne. I posed shirtless for a few pics, chatted up JT, and sipped on a long-necked Pilsner. However, like any good Englishman, I didn’t read too much into winning the FA Cup. Instead, I immediately started to worry about the tax implications of my FA Cup bonus, the looming Champions League final, and the announcement in two weeks of the English national team roster. Who wouldn’t?

Still, later that night, I looked into the mirror and grinned. I pointed to my heart and nodded smugly to myself. I was no three-time Westminster winning Warren Remedy, but I was a champion. And a double this season remained a distinct possibility.

NOTE ADDED MAY 8, 2012

Today our B team lost to Liverpool 4:1. The manager decided to rest me and some of the other top players in anticipation of the Champions League final. However, the loss puts more pressure on us to perform: we now have no shot at placing fourth in the league. If’s win the Champions League or UEFA Cup football next season. Ugghh. Do I mind the added weight to my broad shoulders? Maybe a bit. However, I have you, lovely diary, to vent to. I feel you’ve been a blessing. You helped me through the Mr. Gopher Manager nightmare, and even that meanie Kalou has come to respect you. I can’t imagine this season without you, even if I feel, day by day, that I may not need you as much as I used to. 

I still dislike David Luiz, though. His hard-on for the former Porto Gopher has not softened. The other day, a few of us went swimming to work on cardio. Drogba called Luiz a “perm whale” and I just about pissed my pants from laughter. I really hope that Drogba stays on at Chelsea. I can’t imagine life without him. However, the money in China is quite good and Drog’s already given his heart and soul to the Blues. I’d miss him more than anything.

MAY 13, 2012

Once again, the manager astutely saved me from possible injury in a worthless game against Blackburn. I didn’t start or play a single minute. Despite my catastrophic absence, the team still won, with goals from JT and Meireles. I was sad that JT’s season came to an end and he can’t feature in the Champions League final, but that’s life. Sometimes things go your way, and other times you elbow a small Chilean man and get banned from participating in the subsequent professional soccer matches. Sale vi.

NOTE ADDED MAY 17, 2012

I’m ever so excited! Roy Hogson, the new manager of England, has named me AND Steven Gerrard in the team! The dynamic duo ride again! We’re for sure a lock for the round of sixteen now! Maybe even the quarterfinals if we’re lucky! I also fancy my chances of starting. No offense to Downing and Henderson, but my big game experience speaks for itself. After all, if my goal against Germany had been correctly allowed at the last World Cup, we’d have rode the momentum to a win and at least a third place finish. An eventual semi-final against Spain would’ve been tough, but a certain somebody we’ll call Rankfay Ampardlay nicked a winning goal against them at Wembley, didn’t he?

Regardless, the past is the past is not the present, but the present is exciting and so’s the future! I’m keeping my focus on the upcoming Champions League final, but my heart skips a beat each time the Three Lions call my name.

MAY 20, 2012

The tears. The cheers. Even the jeers. Today was unforgettable. After years of training and games and more training and more games, I’ve climbed the mountain. Chelsea FC won the Champions League! And the view from up top is magnificent. Of course, the ascent wasn’t easy.

For starters, we lost John Terry and that Serbian guy to suspension. Thus, David Luiz-er started in defense. I pulled him aside and I said, “Perm-whale, don’t go floating about back there, munching on plankton or whatever. We need you to be a shark.” My words mattered little. Luiz-er put in a typically bad performance. Luckily, Gary Cahill played marvelously. Even Bosingwa channeled the spirit of Paolo Ferreira and looked competent. Who knew that he was defender? I was my usual brilliant “regista” self. I followed Di Matteo’s orders to the t: I rarely walked past the halfway line and used my finally sculpted forearms to tug the jerseys of Kroos and Schweinsteger all over the pitch. Still, despite amazing me, this night belonged to Petr Cech. He influenced the match in obvious and not so obvious ways.

Yes, he saved some penalties. However, he also calmed me down before my essential-even-if-not-winning penalty. Before I lined up to take my perfect shot, Cech came to me and he said in his broken English, “time to pile on the ma-Neur.” At first, I was confused. Surely there was no horse manure to be found at the lovely Allianz Arena. Germans aren’t known to be friends of horses or horse-racing. I also didn’t have the proper gloves nor wheelbarrow to properly load and transport horse shit. Then, I got it. He was joking about the Bayern goalie with the last name “Neur.” He was insinuating the Neur was in fact ma-Neur, aka, poop. I chuckled and relaxed.

Then I blasted home my penalty kick, a Bayern player hit the post, and Drogba really piled on the ma-Neur!!!!!! LMAO!!! ROFL !!!!

I have never been so proud to wear the captain’s armband for Chelsea. Normally, at the end of a game, a player is gassed and tries to pass around the trophy due to fatigue. Who has the strength to lift a trophy after 90 minutes, extra time, and penalty kicks? A certain Rankfay Ampardlay, that’s who! Thanks to Di Matteo’s emphasis on jersey clutching and strength training, my forearms flexed with ease and comfort while I held up the trophy. No risk of a Sergio Ramos “cup dropping” due to inferior diet or exercise regimen. No sir. I could have held that trophy for at least another twenty minutes, if not a half hour.

Immediately after the win, I went out with the lads and enjoyed myself handsomely. The next day, we flew back to London and I scurried home to open you up. However, I paused. You’ve been so good to me, diary. You’ve been my outlet all season, a place to express my feelings as they ebbed and flowed. But I couldn’t quite think of a thing to say. For the first time in ages, I’m just blissful. No need to vent. No need to rant. Blissful. I appreciate all you’ve done, but I think this is my last entry. Assuming, of course, we don’t re-hire Andres Villas-Boas. Ugggh.

I don’t want to think about that. I just want to bask in the moment and sip my long-neck beer with JT and stuff my face a bit.

So, I guess it’s like my father said when I was a lad. For my birthday, he’d buy a nice cake and he’d tell me “Frankie, close your eyes, make a wish, and then blow out the candles as quickly as you can.” Life is a series of moments. For some of these moments, we close and open our eyes, aka blink. But in the blink of an eye, a blink of an eye passes. Never stop blinking. Ever.

AL FIN

Elliott is kickstartering for his second book, “Real Madrid & Barcelona: the Making of a Rivalry.” Check out the project and how you can help here.

Image: Luigi

We also would like to take the time to reflect upon the oft overlooked underdog story at City. We speak, of course, about Sheikh Mansour.

Make no bones about it – before buying Manchester City, the Sheikh was an unknown quantity in the EPL and the world of soccer. His proper name is Mansour bin Zayed Al Nahyan, and his past guaranteed no success for City. Yes, he was born into the ruling family of Abu Dhabi, but he was the fifth son of Emir Zayed II and Fatima. Fifth. Not first. Not eldest. Fifth. A baby of the bunch. Last in line at the family dinner table. His huckleberry hound face left City fans skeptical – could this equestrian even do the minimum amount of pushups to pass the incredibly demanding EPL ownership “fit & proper” test?

Neutrals were even more doubtful. Few expected this Arabian stallion to be little more than a dark horse. We scoffed at his emaciated wrists, more befitting a heroin addicted ballerina. Gary Neville rightly asked: did he have the hand stamina to cut enough checks? Could his middle school girl thumbs grip the pen as he signed off on million dollar transfers? Yeah, he’d cut some serious checks while Head of I.P.I.C. and Chairman of the Emirates Investment Authority, but those for-profits ostensibly produced returns & results. Could he send check after check into a black hole? Would he have the courage to sign Sergio Aguero and Samir Nasri after signing both Emmanuel Adebayor and Roque Santa Cruz?

In sum, did City have at the helm a MANsour Sheikh or a Sheikh-boy that would sour after a year or two?

That question has been answered. We cynics must now shut up. Pundits point to the consistency of Nasri and the goalscoring reliability of Aguero. However, few forget the untested boy from the Emirates. Despite rumors of carpal tunnel syndrome and endless speculation in regards to his two (!) wives, the Sheikh has overcome physical limitations and the English tabloids to consistently cut checks that would make Roman Abramovich revise his monthly bank statement. Before our eyes, Sheikh Mansour has grown into the Kobe Bryant of EPL owners – only a stray bullet could take him down. He has earned the right to wear the smug grin of a champion.

Of course, the boo birds grasp at straws and paint a different picture. They believe Financial Fair Play will reign in the Sheikh’s all mighty power. Me? Ha. A man who is the head, CEO, President, and board member of several billion dollar businesses and million dollar charities can find a way, nay, will find a way to fudge five figures in the half-assed UEFA audit. Expect lots of gulf-tied sponsorships. I doubted the Sheikh before, and I won’t make the same mistake twice. The fifth son has finally made good, and made a lot of Eastlands fans happy.

So, congrats City. Me, like many others, lacked faith in your untested and underdog owner. We doubted he could adapt to the Isles’ unique rough-and-tumble league of owners, but Mr. Mansour laughs last. And he may laugh a long time, barring no wrist injury or dislocated fingers.

Elliott is kickstartering for his 2nd eBook- “Real Madrid & Barcelona: the Making of a Rivalry.” Snag an advanced copy and help him raise $1,000 by June 6 by clicking here

And you? Well, North American ostrich, I have bad news. You belong to a very confused, defensive, and at times reprehensible nativist community. Allow me to explain why myself and European soccer are better than you and MLS. The evidence will astound you.

Most European soccer snobs never give MLS a chance. I acknowledge this. Those folks are either total fools or have incredibly good supernatural instincts. However, I have given MLS more than a hundred chances to win over my heart. I have gone to games. I have followed teams. I have followed entire seasons. However, every time MLS starts to find a place in my heart, it trips over its own two feet. Each time MLS approaches respectability, a hideous adolescent error undoes all the prior smoothness.

For example, about a year ago, I took my son to see a Sporting KC game at the new Livestrong Park. Without a doubt, the accommodations were quite posh. However, about ten minutes into the game, a serious snafu happened. I called over the roaming vendor and asked for a simple food item that is a staple in all world class European venues: a banana. To my shock, he said: “Sorry sir, we don’t sell bananas.” I was flabbergasted. Pretzels. Peanuts. Popcorn. Hotdogs. Hamburgers. They were all for sale. But no bananas.

“What are we supposed to throw at the minority players when they touch the ball,” I inquired. He offered no response. Red-faced, I insisted on speaking with his manager. I tried to give Sporting KC the benefit of the doubt: perhaps a supplier had played hardball on banana prices in the offseason. Maybe they had freezer problems and the recent batch went bad. None. Of. The. Above. The manager said Sporting KC never offered bananas, but he would take our suggestion into account. Tsk tsk.

I’m still shocked that they simply do not sell bananas at Sporting KC games. However, Sporting KC is not alone. I did some digging, and I’ve heard they don’t sell any bananas at any MLS games. Not even the stray plantain or two. Nor much fruit for that matter. No wonder childhood obesity ravages North America. This would never happen in Europe, were ultras basically place a banana in your hand and guide you arm as you throw it at a player. So much for “credibility.”

Slightly changing topics to atrocities of the beverage kind, I did like the variety of beers being sold at the Livestrong Park. However, the wine offered was appalling both in terms of quantity and quality. Based on a sniff test, the house wine was a Merlot of the cheap Australian variety (not even California!). I dared not take a sip, and the vendor couldn’t even tell me the year of the Cabernet Sauvignon. Sacre bleu! In the apparel store, they did offer a nice range of scarves, but had no size small berets. Can you believe it? As if all fans of soccer had Neanderthal-sized North American skulls. Uff. The fabric also felt of cheap acrylic fiber, not crocheted cotton (as used in berets sold at most upper tier European grounds).

However, none of these sins stack up to the worst stadium experience yet. The restrooms. At halftime, my young son had to go to the bathroom. However, he had the urge for number two, so naturally we looked for a properly equipped restroom. We walked the entire length of the stadium, but did not find a single bathroom…with a properly enclosed bidet. Not one.Granted, I understand that bidets are a bit expensive. However, surely one or two wouldn’t break the bank. Thus, my little boy had to resort to cleaning himself with paper like an orphan. Shameful.

To make matters worse, we soon thereafter did find a most unusual bidet. It was elevated much too high, even for an adult! It also shot out cold water with no handle to adjust the temperature! And, the worst part, it was very much in the public. Still, I tried to stay positive. My little boy dropped his strousers, I lifted him up with one arm and turned on the bidet with the other, and….the police arrived. Stadium security tried to tell me that the bidet was actually a fountain! A fountain? Where’s the statute of Adonis or at least Ananke? This a Dikembe Mutombo vanity bidet that needs a layer of paint, I protested. Eventually, my little boy and I returned to our seats. I promised that as soon as we got home, he could sit on the bidet as long as he wanted. Still, the little bugger squirmed in his seat uncomfortably. I can’t blame him.

So, there you have it. MLS is the total backwaters of the soccer world. It certainly has its charms, just as the Congo River offers brilliant panoramic views when guerrilla forces aren’t shooting AK-47′s at one another. I could definitely see myself watching and enjoying some sort of “MLS: Survivor” TV program, at least for a half a season. However, until they provide nutritious projectiles and resolve the outstanding issues with the beret, cabernet, and bidet, don’t expect to see me or my son at a game anytime soon. I’ll just stick to Piers Morgan most Saturday mornings, thank you very much.

Thus, we’ve sifted through a few key historical and Manchester-related alleged “signs of weakness.” Some are obvious. Some, not so much. Please keep them in mind as you watch Mario Balotelli either score a winner or get red carded during the derby.

 1184 BC: The Trojan Horse & The Glorious Defeat of the Greeks!

After ten years of fighting, the Greeks had little to show for their efforts. The City of Troy remained well-fortified and well supplied. Basically, the Greeks attempted a siege but left their siege tanks at home. Definitely not a bright idea. So, the Greeks devised a plan. They pretended to retreat, but left the gift of a wooden horse to the Trojans. Inside that horse, soldiers carefully hid and hoped the ruse would work. Despite warnings from the priest Laocoon, the Trojans saw this really large wooden horse and thought, cool, bastards left town and aren’t sore losers. Smell ya later Greek geeks!

We all know what happened. The hidden Greek soldiers came out at night and and sacked Troy. Pwnage. Instead of being a conciliiatory gift or sign of weakness, the horse was a trap. The Trojans’ hubris betrayed them. Today, many people hear the word “Trojan” and think of either family planning or nasty computer viruses. Yet we should always keep in mind this false portent. Beware gifts of thy enemy.

June 18, 1815 AD – Napoleon Totally Has This One In the Bag

Napoleon did more for little dudes than the entire cast of Pit Boss combined. He forever lowered the height requirement for emperors of Western European nations, won some battles, and showed great things come in small packages. In fact, his own “package” has been the subject of considerable debate & is a highly sought private auction item. At his peak, nobody dissed Napoleon, nobody.

By the time 1815 rolled around, all the pundits picked Napoleon for some serious decisive conquest. The Anglo-Allied army? Ha. Everybody heard the name “Gebhard von Blucher” and just kinda giggled quietly to themselves. Still, the Seventh Coalition featured some typically ferocious tackling from the Duke of Wellington’s forces, and Gary Neville would probably have picked them to overpower Napoleon’s continental dandycakes. And, just like with the EPL, Neville would have disagreed with you, ended up being right, and caused some major consternation and self-doubt. Napoleon lost. But why?

Bottom line: Napoleon’s own confidence was his sign of strength and he only saw signs of weakness in his foes. Hubris clouded his judgment. He initiated the Battle of Waterloo to try and strike early before the Seventh Coalition formed, but, on game day, he waited until midday for the fields to fully dry. For the first but not last time in history, a shitty pitch and questionable match scheduling contributed to the fall of a continental power. Napoleon lost and resigned himself to being the Pep Guardiola that never was. What-er-looser!

March 21, 2012 – Vieira Totally Predicts Paul Scholes to Flop

During Christmas break, Sir Alex found himself short on midfielders: Anderson was either partying or “recuperating” in Brazil, depending on which of his drunk bodyguards you asked. Tom Cleverly was also crocked. Manchester United needed help in the center. Thus, Sir Alex convinced Paul Scholes to come out of retirement. Manchester City’s director of dumb remarks, Patrick Vieira, immediately seized on the action and declared it a “sign of weakness.” What happened next?

Since then, Scholes and Carrick have rekindled their midfield bromance and United are level with City on points. Scholesy has even scored one of his trademark “how the hell did this happen” header goals. Thus, Vieira saw the recruiting of a veteran player as a sign of weakness. However, the Frenchman failed to realize that class is eternal, especially when you never really tackled all that much as a youth. Scholes’ game centers on snap decisions and precision passing – neither of which has atrophied with time. And the ginger just may be essential in the game vs. City.

March 23, 2012 – Sir Alex Calls out City Desperation Over Tevez Return

You didn’t think SAF would let another coach or media figure get the last word, did you? Thus, mere days later, in the heat of the Premiership title race, Sir Alex pointed out that Carlos Tevez had basically blown off Mancini for half a year yet now the Italian caved & took him back. Surely, Sir Alex stated, this reeked of desperation. Eastlands fans asked: could the calmer heads in the City locker room, like Mario “veteran presence” Balotelli, cancel out Carlitos’ antics & petulance?

Thus far, Sir Alex looks wrong. In addition to increasing City’s sex appeal quotient, Tevez has combined well with Sergio Aguero and scored goals by the bucket load. In a bizarre twist, his six months of golf only marginally improved his handicap, yet left him with fresh legs for the stretch run. In the upcoming Manchester derby, Tevez is a key player/heartthrob. His smile may show weakness in the Eastlands’ players dental plan, but nobody can deny his goalscoring & dribbling exploits. He’s the poor man’s “post-car accident” George Best that can’t afford facial surgery. Tevez has returned as a spark plug, not a weak point.

From the Trojan horse to Tevez’s teeth, so called signs of weakness dot the landscape. However, beware the hubris of the speaker. If he says that “X is a sign of weakness,” then….that statement is probably itself a sign of weakness.

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The Frank Lampard preservation society offers another glance into the complicated mind of Chelsea’s aging midfield genius. In this chapter, Frank teeters between depression and elation. He also re-brands himself as the walking man’s player, not to be confused with the thinking man’s player.

APRIL 7, 2012

It’s been less than a month since Mr. Manager Gopher left, yet the clouds have parted and the attitude at training has totally changed in Chelseaville. For example, before, the younger players would gather in a circle around that Villas-Boas turd and listen to him. Meanwhile, we the veterans would just kinda roll our eyes and make faces. Now, however, the young players gather in a circle around the veterans. JT and me will lead them in stretching and then tell them what to do. Then, Di Matteo, the “coach”, will repeat what we say verbatim. It’s a lot less confusing this way.

And our league form has improved for it. Today we beat Wigan 2:1 and now lurk super close to the top four. I didn’t play or make the bench for obvious tactical reasons: Wigan is a bottom club and not worthy of kissing the mud off my boots. I also was still exhausted from orchestrating our 4:2 demolition of Aston Villa a week earlier. I didn’t play, we won, but more interestingly, I’ve really taken to this “regista” role that Di Matteo has me playing. Basically, I walk around next to a midfielder that tackles, wins the ball, and then passes to me, and then I pass to an open teammate. I definitely miss my dashing box-to-box walks of years past, but I always welcome a new challenge, especially when it sounds foreign and exotic and Italian. I’m no native speaker, but I believe “regista” translates to the present tense of “he who stands still.”

So, yeah, no “regista” for Wigan, but that little Juan Mata scored a screamer, so all’s well. I’m even getting along well with Ka-loser!

APRIL 15, 2012

Ahh Spurs. What can I say about Spurs that is not immediately communicated by saying very slowly the word “Spurs”? We won today at Wembley and I, of course, scored a goal. Granted, Juan Mata scored a non-goal, but when you win 5:1, you can’t really go complaining about phantom goals and whatnot. It’s not like Juan Mata is Luis Garcia and that errant call decided an important Champions League semifinal. Although, it is kinda odd that Spaniards do that. Very unsporting, if you ask me, like how Barcelona just pass the ball to teammates instead of trying to dribble and score goals. Regardless, little harm, no foul.

The big news, of course, is our looming date with Barcelona. We’ve beaten them a few times before, but they look really really tough. A glance at the roster shows why: Thiago Alcantara, Victor Valdes, Cristiano Tello, Something Cuenca, the list goes on and on. It’s basically like they have a magical factory inside La Masia that produces world class talent each and every single year since the dawn of time and until the end of time. However, if La Masia is Willy Wonka’s wonderful chocolate factory, then Di Matteo has shown us a plan to break open that glass elevator (apologies for the crappy sequel reference).

Basically, our game plan is to defend with 10 and hoof the ball to Drogba. During practice sessions, we all stand around in our own box and practice booting it to Drogba. Then, Didier tries to trap the ball, falls down, and rolls around for a few minutes. Repeat: Boot. Trap. Drop. Repea:. Huff. Touch. Fall. Repeat. It’s mentally exhausting, yet also takes advantage of my unique ability to stand in pretty much the same place for 90 minutes straight. Now, I don’t want to say that I’m the greatest “standing” midfielder that England has produced in the last decade, but a glance around shows I just may be. Scholes is a quick walker and Gerrard runs (ran) well enough, but standing? Everybody imitates my posture, but few can match my erectness.

If I have to stand for 180 minutes straight without even blinking to beat Barcelona, then so be it.

NOTE ADDED APRIL 18, 2012

 I am ever so elated! We beat Barcelona 1:0 on a glorious goal by Drogba today! I was so happy that I couldn’t even wait to get home so I pulled you out in the locker room and started journaling immediately! Kalou saw me writing in you and didn’t even make a joke – I think losing that African Cup of Nations on penalties and having been a shitty human being for every prior year of his life really changed him. He’s much more mellow, and there’s even talk that we may be friends on Facebook. And no, not my “public image” account, but my real life personal Facebook account for my friends and acquaintances. 

However, David Luiz still sucks at life and even still exchanges texts with that Villas-Boas turdbag. However, Luiz-er didn’t even make the bench for the Barca game. Whew. I even helped with the goal – from my deep lying “regista” position, I picked Messi’s pocket, fed Ramires into space, and he crossed for Drogs. It was gorgeous. Plus, the best part is that I didn’t even have to do any of the running. This Di Matteo guy really knows what he’s doing. Watch out Camp Nou!

APRIL 24, 2012

It’s funny how much has changed so quickly. Last November, I was talking to my friend Michael Ballack about life in Germany. A move seemed inevitable. My agent fielded a call from Bayern or Borussia Something-ichzen. I even bought myself some lederhosen! In December, I heard a few offers from Major League Soccer of America. I thought for a moment that my time was ending. I was wrong. If I have one flaw, it is those milliseconds of insecurity that sometimes break through my titanium shield of confidence. I listened too much to the Luso-idiot. He said I was old. Now I realize that age is just a number, and a number is really just a letter that isn’t a part of the alphabet. Yes, the number would like to be a part of the alphabet, who wouldn’t? But the important thing is for that number to train hard every day and not listen to idiot letters that look down their nose and say the number is old and washed up and will never be a part of the alphabet.

In case you didn’t follow, we tied Chelsea today at the Nou Camp! Things started a bit poor – Gary got crocked, JT knee’d that little Chilean dude and got a red card (perhaps deserved), and then Barcelona scored two goals. Granted, we got a bit of luck when Messi missed a penalty, but I can understand why a weaker and inferior player could miss a penalty in such an important situation. I myself used to miss penalty kicks like that back when I was weaker and inferior. Today, though, I was my normally brilliant myself. Why, you ask, you inquisitive diary, you?

At 2:0, most teams give up. Not Lampard. I turned my walking into speed walking overdrive. Just before the half, I got a bit of the ball and saw Javier Mascherano running at me. Before I could say “didn’t you play for scousers,” I instinctively used every pound of my massive frame to hip check him to the ground, and then my Ramires radar reached red alert. I, of course, saw him making a run, served him on a platter, and that crafty little Brazilian chipped Victor Valdes! I was so shocked to see Valdes come off his line indecisively. Normally he does not do that and does not allow soft goals. Regardless, they made a mistake, and we capitalized. Ice. Cold.

In the second half, we defended bravely. I stood in our own box and used every ounce of my remaining strength to point at teammates and tell them to tackle. My voice got hoarse by the 70 minute mark! By the 80 minute mark, I had to ice down my forearms during breaks. But we held on. And Fernando Torres scored to seal the game! Once again, Victor Valdes oddly came off his line indecisively and Torres rounded him with ease. It was so odd, to see Valdes off his line. But, that’s life.

And now we have a major super big important date in May! No, not Mayday silly diary. Something even more special. Rest assured, I will be hitting the elliptical and doing one thousand curls a day to be ready to walk and point us to victory!

 Elliott’s eBook, An Illustrated Guide to Soccer & Spanish, is available via iTunes on your iPad, iPhone, and iPod touch for only $5.99 right here.

My search yielded little fruit, but a bigger question lingered: what does this production and exchange of information say about our society? And what does that mean for the bad celebrity of today, Mario Balotelli?

Mario Balotelli is a month away from his best season yet as a professional athlete. He has scored eleven goals as a winger/striker. His team is in the hunt for the EPL title for the first time in decades. Yet, everybody hates him. In the game against Arsenal, his late lunge earned him a red card. Did he deserve a straight red for his tackle? Maybe. He did nick a bit of ball, and, GIFs aside, in real time it didn’t look like malice aforethought. Still, he left his studs up and the ref, soundly within his discretion, gave Mario his marching orders. Mancini issued his oft-spoken “will never play again” threat. The Balotelli effigies quickly burnt into flames. Yet have we overdone it?

Mario exemplifies the bipolar relationship of the “bad boy” athlete with his infatuated public. We, the viewer, view him in two lights: as person and as professional. If he performs well as a professional, like, say, Dennis Rodman grabbing fifteen rebounds in a playoff game, then he can blow all the coke he wants and we’ll eagerly form a line around Borders to get his signature on our copy of his ghostwritten autobiography. For Mario, his fireworks and strip clubs are mirthful episodes of “boys being boys” so long as he scores on Sunday. Yet when his professional exploits dip, the magnifying glass hones in on his personal life. Pepe can stamp every single finger on Messi’s two hands for the next five clasicos, yet he won’t get half the ink as Super Mario’s next personal life misstep because he’s been red-carded in the past week.

How did we get here? Why do we love to hate to love Balotelli? On the one hand, the easy thinkpiece goes like this: yellow journalism has existed since the days of William Randolph Hearst. The adoring public wants all the seedy dirty it can get. We wanted to know Clark Gable’s underwear, and now we want to know Balotelli’s post 11pm club preferences. However, so the argument continues, celebratory worship is vile and, allegedly, the internet has worsened it. Today, twitter has opened up a new portal between fans and players – we see them valiantly struggle to fill 140 characters coherently in real time. We also get first dibs in gossip when they go off the rocker or drink a bit too much. We’ve always had good access to their professional exploits: TV telecasts and history books. Now, thanks to social media, we like to think we can keep decent dibs on them as persons. And, as the argument goes, this is misguided.

On a general level, the internet has superficially expanded information and access. However, hierarchies have developed to deal with info overload. Folk follow certain blogs or twitterers because the internet demi-gods help us sort through the crap. Some are glorified librarians, but paid even worse. Also and often overlooked, the internet has created a variety of information consumption options. For folks that want a full meal, read some long-form journalism. Just want a snack? Try a tumblr. Dessert? Perhaps a blog post, a cappuccino, and a cigarette. Those who criticize celebrity worship (and the internet’s role in promoting it) often confuse dinner for dessert. We don’t read about Maradona or Mario to be enlightened like a 10 page NYT article on women in Iraq post-invasion – we read to be amused for a few minutes. They are small injections of humor, consumed with the care of a hurriedly shaken whip it.

However, my question and concern is this – what does that desire for a two minute chuckle say about us?

Well, some degree of celebrity worship is inevitable in an atheist society. With no stars to gaze upon, we project greatness onto the best of the species. Yet why we worship is an important question. If we worship because we confuse wealth, comfort, and success for happiness, then we are wrong. Don’t let MTV cribs fool you. However, I assert that many folks enjoy celebrity anecdotes for another reason: they are a mirror into our own flawed selves. If this was a magazine article, then this is where the sentence about “frail and inner humanity” would be used. In their own ways, whizzinator meme and soccer icon Diego Maradona and Mario Balotelli reflect their respective generations.

Diego Maradona was and is the baby boomer that lives beyond his means. Granted, his means were and are exorbitant. Still, the last time he went to Napoli, he had his jewelery confiscated by the tax man, and what baby boomer doesn’t secretly fear a phone call from the IRS and a few questions about foreign trusts? If Diego had not lived in Cuba during his extended rehab, you know he would have re-financed every inch of worth out of his Argentine estate.

Importantly, Diego did not use the fake penis to conceal performance enhancing drugs (Oh so 90′s), but rather to hide that ubiquitous party dust known as blow. And we all know that the only folks who didn’t use coke in the 80′s were and still are cryogenically frozen. Maradona and the baby boomers are not malicious financial wizards, they just lack the capacity to balance a daily checkbook. Diego reminds them of themselves every time he pops up on Dirty Tackle.

Jump a few decades forward, and Mario Balotelli is the disinterested exurban youth of the new millenia. Supreme talent cased in a Faberge egg, his spurts of genius alternate with bouts of boredom. For example, Mario’s cousin’s friend allegedly set off fireworks in his house. Would you expect nothing less from kids who grew up listening to Prodigy’s “Fire Starter”? Mario dressed up as Santa Clause and handed out money. The media disregarded the historical first Black Santa angle and criticized his immaturity instead of praising his charity. Fools. If Mario was not a super star athlete, he would be a disgruntled Ivy League reject that graduated in five years from a prestigious state school, currently lives in his parents’ house, and alternates between emailing resumes to jobs he is not qualified for and playing Angry Birds on his iPad. In sum, he is you.

Mancini attempted to harness his talent by recognizing the medicine needed for all millenials: a legitimate kick in the ass. Still, we millenials smirk and label his shoulder goal “condescending” in our latest condescending blogpost. If you dare to disagree, we delete your comment and cry ourselves to sleep. In the best light, Mario is just misunderstood. People rush to judge him because of his poor taste in ice and lack of punctuality (especially to Inter press conferences). Deep down, he’s all right. Just like us. Or so we say.

The stark reality: to our eyes, celebrities are and probably always will be caricatures of persons. And we have created this caricature. A lack of solid evidence taints our impressions as we evaluate the moral failings of athletes. Yes, we feel close to Dwayne Wade because we can read his 140 character brain farts on twitter, but that closeness is superficial. Twitter, blog posts, newspaper interviews, and the rest show us a fraction of a frasction of the picture as to who they really are. Technology now feeds our instant gratification yearnings and the press rushes to dig up dirt, but always remember – how many news stories run ads on simple acts of human decency? Will the Daily Mail run a headline that “Balotelli loans spoonful of sugar to needy neighbor” anytime soon? Maybe, but unlikely.

We worship celebrity athletes to compensate for the lack of (or dwindling belief in) a divine other and also because we can relate to them. However, we’ve let technology and the yellow press deceive us into believing that the superficial snapshot we receive is who they really are. Yet we continue to ask for and crave more snippets. We continue to pass judgment on suspect and circumstantial evidence. We also forgive any and all discrepancies if they “perform on Sunday.” Case in point: Carlos Tevez’s golf swing celebration. John Terry still playing for and probably captaining England a few more times in his life.

The current athlete celebrity information complex is neither neutral nor objective – it reflects our preferences. And that includes a desire to pass snap judgments. So yes, Super Mario got a red card and suspension for a studs up tackle on Alex Song. However, don’t go all Mancini on him just yet. Filter through the fog of celebrity worship to see the pains of adolescence and the steps toward professional competence. And yourself.

Mario crybaby pic by Luigi of Squareroot of Cruyff. Follow him on twitter or check out his tumblr.

Why Always Meme by the supremely talented Erik Ebeling. Check out his mad skills at ErikEbelingArt.com

Brian Phillips has the scoop on all the leading Chelsea manager candidates and the betmakers’ odds for each one. NOT. Seriously, doesn’t everybody realize that the Blues manager is an on call/seasonal position, like farm work picking citrus in a field? Of course, if you pick enough oranges, you have a chance of being retained full time. Not so with Chelsea. And people are sick of the carousel. (Grantland)

Clint Dempsey has had a monster season for Fulham and Clint-sanity has replaced Lin-sanity this side of the pond. Luigi has penned an amazingly cool pic of Deuce that you must see. Seriously. (Squareroot of Cruyff)

In case you missed yesterday’s game, Cristiano Ronaldo bagged a hat trick and Real Madrid beat Atletico 4-1. The best goal of the bunch was his wicked free kick that managed to bend, dip, and then dip and bend. The shot flatflooted Atletico’s goalie, who could only hear the ting of his left hand post as the ball entered the net. Check out a GIF. (101 Great Goals)

Racism and ethnic tensions have almost always simmered below the surface of soccer. However, the popular “death to Arabs” chant in Israeli soccer games is both disturbing and needs to be stamped out. For the curious, I recommend this read on the history of this popular yet poisonous anthem. (Turbulent World of Middle Eastern Soccer)

Messi has scored a ton of goals, and his individual brilliance has left us all with shaking pens and mouths agape. Can we even hope to describe his continual brilliance? Luckily, at around age 27 he will start to descend and appear a homo sapien. Until then, enjoy this glossary of Messi terms. (Catch 22 Soccer)

FEBRUARY 26, 2012

Yes, I have kept my New Year’s Resolution to not speak poorly of Mr. Manager. Sometimes, it’s pretty easy. A friend will call and ask how work is going, and I will just mumble and change the subject. Other times, I’ll just remain silent until he or she gets the hint. However, sometimes it’s hard. There’s this class of people called journalists. They ask questions. I give answers. Then, they ask even more questions. So, I’m sad to say, I recently got cornered and quasi-broke my resolution.

I gave an interview. I did my best to tactfully avoid the loaded subject of me and Mr. Manager, but a remark about “watching us lose from the bench” escaped my lips. Still, even after hearing it a few times, I thought it sounded tasteful. I also tiptoed around the recent visit of Jose Mourinho to London. Did I send smiley faced texts to Jose? Yes. I’m still new at emoticons, but Jose will always make me feel I can’t help it, I’m only human.

During his trip, I did ring him and remind him about the good old days at the Bridge. I even told him that Paolo Ferreira is still around, and that we’ve gotten some really nice and new elliptical machines in the fitness center. I invited him for a walk, but he declined. And that just made me want to walk beside him on an elliptical machine in the Bridge fitness center even more. Jose has a way with people, what can I say? Still, as long as Mr. Manager is my manager, I shall try to respect him.

NOTE ADDED March 2, 2012

David Luiz-er just maybe has replaced that mean-spirited Kalou as my least favorite teammate. Yes, his hair is cool, but he kinda sorta loves the current coach. He also talked some smack about my tactful interview. I honestly remarked that Mr. Manager and I were not on the best of terms, but David said that everybody needs to respect the manager. I do respect managers. Gus Hiddink is amazing. Avram Grant was decent. Big Phil was excellent at darts. Carlo earned my esteem after a double winning season. From those examples, you can see my long history of respecting lots of managers.

I’m not the one with the respect problem. And I am so mad I could pull out David’s hair at the next training session, but he’ll probably be injured and puttering on an elliptical next to Paolo Ferreira. If David is the future and I am a relic from the past, then I hope the present never ends. I hope the present goes back in time to the past, so that I can be the present and the future is not needed. The future sucks.

MARCH 4, 2012

Parting is such sweet sorrow. Today, Roman Abramovich decided to fire Andre Villas-Boas. Thus, my New Year’s resolution to not speak poorly about my manager no longer applies – he is no longer my manager. I am ecstatic that Abramovich finally listened to me, Terry, and Drogba. After all, many villages in ancient times relied on the wisdom of wise village elders. If you look around the locker room, Juan Mata isn’t old enough to shave and David Luiz may or may not be old enough to vote. He’s also an idiot. JT, Drogs, and I are the village elders. And Mr. Gopher had to go.

Why? Because we simply couldn’t win. We were frequently out-managed during key games. We tried to help him manage, but he wouldn’t listen. He insisted on under-managing and not starting me every single game. He even refused to play me when I was injured. It was tactical suicide. So adios Senor Gopher. Don’t let the door hit you on your way back to Portugal.

The best news is that the caretaker manager is an assistant who really gets along well with us, and by us, I mean JT, Drogs and me. I smell a major turn-around in the works. Roberto Di Matteo is “da man.” Mark my words.

MARCH 7, 2012

I didn’t play today, but it didn’t matter. Di Matteo talked to Drogs and me apart, and he said “The FA Cup is worthless. I want you fit for the Champions League tie.” I was shocked. The past manager, Mr. Gopher, would normally keep his lineups a secret up until before kick-off. Then, if you were mad at not getting picked and tried to approach him, he would shriek like a banshee and shrug his shoulders. This “talking to players” tactic seems pretty solid, and I seem to recall Carlo and Gus doing similar things.

I recall one particular time when Carlo didn’t pick me for an FA Cup game and I got really mad. He put his arm around my shoulder, and he said “I know you’re mad, I know you bleed Chelsea blue, but I can’t risk your phenomenal talent in a game this unimportant. After all, you are the greatest English midfielder of all time and this lowly team will probably try to injure you. We need you in a safe place, like sitting on a wood bench or maybe in a comfy queen-sized water bed in a padded room.”

Well, Carlo didn’t use those exact words, but the message was clear: I am not playing, but still important. That’s much better than “F you, go sign somewhere in China.” Speaking of which -I still have no clue where Anelka is. And he owes me five quid for a bet we made in November!

MARCH 15, 2012

I need to learn a “super happy” emoticon to describe what I feel right now. The caretaker manager started JT, Drogba, Essien, and me against Napoli, and it was just like old times: we won 4:1, and we advanced! I even managed to flex my forearms and point at places for teammates to run for 90 minutes plus additional time. I’m still icing my forearms, especially after celebrating my amazing penalty kick goal. It was a Lampard special. Usually, goalies pick a side and dive before I hit the ball, so I’ve been powering them down the middle for a few years. And it worked like a charm.

I did get a bit tired and dizzy from walking for that long a period of time, but my forearms were too weak to even make that “please sub me out” gesture. Instead, I did my best to use my intimidating glare to melt the will of the other team. Tackling with your feet is nice, but tackling with your mind is the mark of greatness. My brain went in studs up from the opening whistle and never let up.

NOTE ADDED MARCH 16, 2012

David Luiz-er strikes again. I don’t get the guy – who is foolish enough to support a sacked manager? It’s like voting for Caesar in the 43 BC Roman elections. Hello, newsflash – stabbed, dead, and long gone! Get on with it already! I don’t know why, but I do remember he and Villas-Boas always speaking in Portuguese, even though both are conversant in English. I was suspicious, and distinctly recall hearing them say “Bo Say” several times. I don’t know who this Bo character is, but I never got on well with AVB and am starting to dislike Luiz even more so. Kalou-ser may steal my diary at inopportune times, but he doesn’t brown-nose fired coaches. Respect.

MARCH 18, 2012

I didn’t play today, but it doesn’t matter. Fernando Torres bagged a brace and we advanced in the FA Cup. The caretaker coach also picked the scrubs, err subs, err “secondary” players. I was so happy for them! Plus, if we make the final, then I will probably get to play despite not contributing to reaching the final. And who doesn’t like a free ride?

The sky is the limit with this side, and I feel light as a thirty year old whenever I take to the field. Not even painful memories of Mr. Manager can stop me! The future for Chelsea couldn’t be brighter!

However, some businesses practices draw criticism but deserve a closer look for two reasons. First, these practices show that sometimes a “loan” can be superior to equity from a business perspective. Second, and more importantly, these practices highlight perhaps the greatest structural conundrum of our time: how tax rates and corporate law have joined to favor debt over ownership.

The first and sometimes critiqued practice is that an owner will loan a sum of money to a club, rather than just pump cash directly into the coffers. On the club’s balance sheets, this loan shows up as a liability, not equity. Of course, if the majority owner of your club aka “sugar daddy” is the person that floats you cash at a reasonable interest rate, then you wouldn’t be as worried as, say, taking out a loan from the Royal Bank of Scotland to make payroll. Having a creditor with an emotional investment in your club can be a plus. Also, numerous potential tax consequences may make a loan superior to outright equity, depending on the structure of the club and the investment.

Here’s an example. Mike owns 95% (95 shares) of the 100 shares of Oldcastle United. Oldcastle United is a privately held company that is not publicly traded. We’ll also assume that there are 5 other shareholders that each own 1% (1 share) of Oldcastle United. Mike really wants to pour $100 million dollars into Oldcastle United, so that this summer they can buy Fernando Torres, Andy Carroll, and David Luiz.

The first option is that Oldcastle United can issue new shares of stock and Mike can then buy those shares. Assume Oldcastle will issue 100 shares valued at $1 million dollars in total. Also assume Mike is able to fend off other investors and buy the 100 shares (or they are preferred shares only sold to existing shareholders). In the UK, Mike now has to pay a Stamp Duty Reserve Tax of 0.5 percent of what he paid. Thus, at the end of the year, Mike has to pay the tax man $5,000 dollars. This seems like a pretty quaint sum. However, the real world of football involves bigger figures.

For example, in 2007, Mike Ashley eventually bought all the available shares for Newcastle and fully owned the club for a total of 135 million pounds. His end of the year Stamp Duty Reserve Tax was 675,000 pounds. This figure is certainly not jaw-dropping, but pretty close to the annual wage for a decent player. Also, the timing of this tax is poor – the new, club-0wning sugar daddy (or mommy) has to pony up serious cash at the same time he or she is most excited about the club. Total buzzkill.

Potential investors also may accrue capital gains tax liability in a few years if the stocks they purchase increase in value. For a high worth individual, in the UK this can mean a rate of 28%. For example, if Mike bought Newcastle for 140 million pounds and then sells it for 300 million pounds, then he would end up paying 28% that year for the 160 million pounds his shares gained in value. This adds up to 44.8 million pounds in taxes. That is more than Newcastle sold Andy Carroll for. This would be a disincentive for an owner who already has shares to try and get even more shares (unless they wanted to really water down the stock).

Tax consequences also would preclude an owner like Mike from the second option: simply plopping a lot of new cash into the company. Yes, the new cash would raise the value of his shares, a plus, but also raise his capital gains liability if he ever sold his stock a few years down the line. Plus, Newcastle would have to pay taxes that year on all profits, so that cash would be taxed in part immediately against Newcastle. The UK corporate rate is around 20%. Thus, the tax system creates a disincentive for an owner to simply inject cash into their business. The business must pay tax on profits at the end of the year, and the owner may pay a large chunk if he or she leaves.

So, you own a club and want to invest even more money into it. What do you do? Loans are an option. Yes, they do create a liability that reflects poorly on the club’s balance sheet. However, tax incentives favor this option as compared to others. The tax rate for an interest free loan is around 2.5% in the UK. In case you need a refresher on math, 2.5% is less than 20%. A lot less.

Here’s a hypothetical. Mike pops 10 million pounds in Newcastle for last year. The club goes from a loss of 3.7 million pounds to a profit of 5.3 million pounds. At 20%, the tax man now walks away with 1.06 million pounds. That’s easily the annual salary of a decent player. And how much would the loan cost in taxes? Well, 2.5% of 10 million pounds is 250,000 pounds.  If you were Newcastle, what is better – a 1.06 million pound tax bill or a 250,000 pound tax bill? Neither is great, but one is four times as large.

An alternative approach would be to only inject enough cash to cover debts, so that the club never runs an operating profit and corporate taxes don’t apply. For example: the Newcastle owner could only invests 3.7 million pounds. Thus, Newcastle would not pay any corporate profits (Marcotti). This situation is ideal from the clubs’ perspective, but many owners also have other businesses and use net operating losses on clubs as tax deductions for their other profitable businesses. In this sense, our corporate and tax structures can drive a wedge and also create a disincentive for owners to ever get a club out of debt. (Elliott)

Owners can also sweeten the pot by floating an interest free loan to their club. Creditors have the right to set their own interest rate. Mike has done this at Newcastle. Thus, a club can avoid a huge tax hike and also get a loan that is at an interest rate below inflation (5% normally). Many speculate that club owners concoct structures to put themselves first and clubs second, but our tax structures & related incentives can’t be underestimated. We raise a stink about equity, but we don’t have to pay the tax bill at the end of the year.

The double-edged sword is that the club owner can also forgive the debt, just as any creditor can. Thus, this interest-free loan could be converted into de facto income for a fraction of the tax consequences. Of course, on the other hand, if the interests of the owner and club cease to align, then that debt can become a sticking point. Depending on the agreement, the interest rate may go up. The owner, as a creditor, also holds leverage over the club that he wouldn’t if he had just pumped in some cash.

Bored yet? Me too. Anytime somebody says the acronym EBITDA I think of a sweet raspberry beer brewed in New Orleans. Here’s the good part:

Everybody complains about the debt at football clubs. Supporters form trusts. A club falls into administration and everybody can’t wait to sift through the dirt, i.e., tax returns, accounting reports. On the plus side, debt can force prudent clubs to examine & maybe change questionable business practices: ratio of wages paid to overall earnings, weird payments in asset acquisition (transfers), etc. However, we tend to miss the bigger picture: we’ve created political and taxation structures that invite debt. Why? Well, a cynic would argue that banks like debt and thus pay lobbyists to preserve the status quo. An optimist would point out that debt engenders risk, and we must take risks to succeed.

Both explanations carry some weight. Regardless, the system as is currently favors debt. We can always play pin the tail of the donkey and complain about X owner or Y club for their debt problems. However, each person only has one vote. We’ve elected the power-wielders that write the laws and the tax code. A club can’t vote. An owner can only vote once. The law is neither objective nor static – it can be changed. Until these systems are altered, expect football clubs to carry debt. And expect owners to float their beloved clubs some interest free cash from time to time. Wouldn’t you?

Please, if you are a corporate or tax attorney with some more detailed insight, contribute and correct me in the comments! This is a basic explanation for general interest readers by a guy who owns a WP blog and once stayed at a Holiday Inn.

(H/T to Marcotti & David Conn for 140 characters of fiery debate)

Elliott’s eBook, An Illustrated Guide to Soccer & Spanish, is available on your iPhone, iPad, and iPhone Touch by clicking here.

We have a lot to learn from footballers about sins and forgiveness. In particular, we have a lot to learn from their super sincere apologies. Here are a few key tips will help us all in the future should we need to beg for pardon.

1) An apology is really important. Thus, take several months off to think about it. Be sure to play lots of golf. Only when you are fully relaxed can you then communicate a heartfelt request for pardon. Be sure to have your third party owner/faux agent revise your apology draft numerous times.

2) Don’t get cheap. Be sure to apologize to other people that “may have been offended.” People make the mistake of only apologizing to the harmed party, normally the person with the stomped on hand. However, a true gentleman always apologizes to the entire world. It’s more sincere that way.

3) Lighten the mood first. Before apologizing for something really truly bad, like using a racist epithet, do something only kinda bad, like not shaking somebody’s hand before a game. This will butter up the audience. By the time you actually apologize for the lesser incident, they hopefully will have forgotten about the prior & more serious incident.

4) Be sure to not entirely absolve others of some guilt. Pull a page from the Fox News playbook and also blame a media conspiracy. Then, refuse to explain the nature or actors behind this conspiracy. Why? Well, the more details, the easier the theory is to poke apart. In fact, when asked to clarify the conspiracy, rock the ad hominem and suggest that the questioner is a member of the conspiracy. Check. Mate.

5) Lower the expectations a bit. Do not admit guilt up until the very last minute. I call this the “Santa Clause Died Yesterday in a 10 Sleigh Pileup on the Sky Highway” principle. When I was young, my parents would occasionally toss me and my brother and sister a curve ball on Christmas Eve – they’d feed us a fake news report that Santa had died, and thus we wouldn’t be getting any gifts. Crestfallen, we’d cry ourselves to sleep. Then, Christmas morning, we’d see the gifts and cheer for joy at the news – Santa is only in intensive care, and Mrs. Clause, Rudolph, and Grumpstein, the hardworking elf with poor interpersonal skills, pulled an all-nighter and delivered the toys! Huzzah!

The lesson is easy: delay the gratification. Tease the audience. Everybody likes to hear that they’re right, but don’t give it up so easily. Instead, insist on a full hearing, threaten to file an appeal, and contest punishments. Only then, when you finally apologize, will it really go down super well. You tactful apology tactician you!

Elliott’s football eBook, An Illustrated Guide to Soccer & Spanish, is available in the UK at Amazon for only £3.82. Check out a free preview here.