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

Hopefully.

Q: Habermaster, you’ve written extensively about the concept of “communicative rationalty.” Basically, you posit that human rationality is the fruit of successful communication. You take a microscope to the norms of argumentation and focus on the phenomena communicated between entities capable of speech and action. Thus, we have to ask – was Jose just being irrational when he stopped communicating with the press? What was up with that?

A: Perhaps the greatest challenge of any philosophy is escaping the pull of relativity on the one hand and indeterminate deconstruction on the other. My theory rests on the concept of reconstructive science – namely, that reason itself is malleable, and thus in constant flux. It is not relative, but rather evolving. Thus, Jose evolved from the big mouthed and arrogant “Special One” to the quiet yet successful La Liga champion. While his capacity for speech disappeared, his actions spoke as loud as words.

Q. Habity-hab-hab, if I may be so informal, you are well known as the last voice of the Enlightenment, the only philosopher left who is willing to spar with postmodern critics. Just as the PoMos love to poopoo John Dewey, it seems that everybody smokes effeminate cigarettes, wears tight jeans, and dumps on Real Madrid because they are successful, popular, and arguably profitable. At least according to Cristiano Ronaldo. Are they just a bunch of designer v neck sweater Foucault acolytes that are also sore losers?

A: Well, my first and foremost criticism of postmodernity is that their scholars’ works of literature and art are equivocal as to the seriousness of their enterprise – we must ask, do they take their philosophy serious, or is it simply a wink & nod attempt to deconstruct with no desire to reconstruct? While Barcelona has long espoused a theory of “possession soccer”, they recently have started to play a traditional run-and-cross winger in Cristian Tello. Also, two years ago, they signed Zlatan Ibrahimovic, a target forward. This year, they lost and many ascribe the failure to the lack of a “direct Plan B.” Thus, is their attempt to deconstruct the run-and-kick approach a genuine endeavor, or will they try to sign Fernando Llorente in the off-season?  I do not describe them as sore losers, but rather believe they are in the midst of an existential metaphysical identity crisis.

Q: Haber-master of the universe, one of your most famous historical debates revolved around revisionist German historians. To make a long story short, some academics tried to recast the Nazis as an isolated and elitist element, detached from the German public and thus, in your opinion, those historians tried to shift the moral blame from the public to an amorphous fringe. In terms of guilt-shifting and Madrid, should anybody be blamed for the loss to Bayern in the Champions League semi-finals? The defense? Mourinho? Pepe? Can Madrid even dream of winning that trophy if they can’t keep a clean sheet at home? In sum, would a Modernist moral scholar impose an imperative on Real Madrid to sign a real center back?

A: Society always seeks to narrow the scope and range of guilty individuals in past atrocities. The familiar “I was only following orders” helps the accomplices sleep at night. However, society must accept responsibility in various layers and at all layers. For example, Pepe stamped on Messi’s hand. However, Mourinho played Pepe. And Perez hired Mourinho. And Real Madrid’s socios voted to elect Perez. In that sense, every Madrid socio was guilty of stamping on Messi’s hand. They should all apologize. Immediately. And stop trying to just blame Pepe.

Q: Now Habercrombie & Fitch, you and Jacques Derrida engaged in a series of heated debates in which you questioned whether he had reduced philosophy to little more than literature and logic. You boldly asked whether Derrida’s thoughts could even provide a foundation for social critique, or if it was just a temporal philosophy of origins with the lasting power of a mayfly. In La Liga last season, Pep Guardiola called Jose Mourinho his puto amo (f’ing master). Jose Mourinho also wetwillied the assistant coach for Barcelona during a SuperCup brawl. What causes grown men, either philosophers or football managers, to act like petty children?

A: One of the most fundamental questions in our life is morality. We must always ask – is something immoral or moral? For me, the relativists such as Derrida manipulate reason to tear down societal structures, but leave us with no house, no roof, no basement, just a crater of uncertainty. Hence, for me, reason is both context-dependent and must be evaluated alongside history. Only by looking at the validity of everyday communication and presuppositions can we both analyze, criticize, and still have a framework from which to make moral conclusions. Jose and Pep had a serious breakdown in communication, and indirectly mocking one another via press conferences is probably not the healthiest way to form a bond.

Q: Habermastercard, you must either have a bulletproof vest or an iron cast of confidence. By that, I mean you take slug after slug after slug in the academic world. Foucault criticized your theory as utopian, Cohen criticized it as not including the lens of oppressed minorities, and Kompridis says its too procedural. Do you ever get tired of being attacked? Are you exhausted? Do you think Mou feels the same way with Marca and Jorge Valdano spitting bs his way once a day? If Foucault was still alive, would you feel the urge to wet-willy him out of anger? Should you?

A: It is standard for postmodernists to claim that any theory resting on the enlightenment is utopian – they’re a bunch of cynical downers, buzzkills, and rarely get invited to any of the good post-academic conference parties or happy hours. Cohen and Kompridis just don’t get my theory – minorities are definitely one of the specific contexts of reason. However, something universal can and does unite the oppression of say, females by males, and the oppression of say, blacks by white. The relativists, however, can’t even get close to this question because the very foundation of “oppression” is deconstructed. So yes, it gets tiring and I’m sure Mou is exhausted. However, if he reads Marca and actually cares then it’s his own fault. Most of their articles would not pass peer-review academic journal muster.

Q: We appreciate your time, and now we’ll cut to the chase: nobody likes Richard Rorty, he’s just this little wiener that runs around, starts debates, and then cites you when things heat up. What happens when you’re not around? Who will put him in timeout? On a related note, we’re also worried about succession at Madrid. If Mou goes, who could replace him? Is there another Special One somewhere? If not, then can we ethically clone Jose? What if we promise to really really carefully and morally handle the situation?

A: Postmodernists often attempt to paint technological change as novel and the impetus for a rejection of modernity and its notion of categorical morality. However, technology has always changed. Since Frankenstein and before, we have grappled with the notions of science, life, and values. I am flattered by Mr. Rorty’s citations to my works, even if he sometimes twists my theories in unexpected ways. I’d really advise against cloning Jose just for one simple reason: both the real life Jose and the clone would probably become restless and stop at nothing to try and kill one another. And this would distract them from coaching.

Q: Lastly, and perhaps a little off topic, if your last name was not Habermas, but rather Kopf, do you think children would have mocked you incessantly during middle school and well into high school for the name Jurgen Kopf? What if your name had been Jurgen Kopf N. Klosit?

A: …….

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!

More importantly, I have documented a few memorable hipster quotes relating to the footy interwebs. Of course, names, dates, and locations are not revealed to protect the innocent. Enjoy!

“Yeah, I’m just glad his tumblr is getting more views. I’ve been following it since, like 2009.”

“Messi will break the guy’s record, but could he do it while studying medicine? That’s the  question.”

“I liked Napoli when they were in Serie C1, but they lost that spark in Serie B.”

“Better team to never win anything of import: the 2006 Villareal team that lost to Arsenal in the CL semifinals on a saved Riquelme penalty kick, or every single Arsenal team since?”

“Cristiano Ronaldo. Cristiano Ronaldo?”

“He’s delving into some weird literary bullshit for a soccer blog. Too much Finnegan, not enough wake.”

“You like Marcelo Bielsa? How original.”

“I felt the song selection for the podcast opening sequence screamed ‘trying too hard.’”

“Manchester United….Manchester City. The Europa league has lost all credibility.”

“Me? Follow the Bundesliga? Maybe two years ago.”

“How can you not love Stoke???!!! OMG we’re not having this conversation! SMH.”

“Cristiano Ronaldo. Cristiano Ronaldo.”

“Naw man, I didn’t catch the game. I’ve kinda been getting into cricket.”

“The constant 404 errors are part of the charm. ”

“Dude, where’d you find an azulgrana colored fedora? Rockin!”

“I miss the undiscovered cave feel of the MLS games at football stadia.”

“I liked Messi pre-growth hormone at Newell’s. Now he’ s tastelessly 1st World.”

“If you just give the Singapore First Division the devotion of a Sigur Ros album, you’ll never go back to the EPL.”

“I prefer his stuff at blogspot. I lost interest after the wordpress upgrade.”

“I want to like Borussia Dortmund, but I heard a rumor that the club doesn’t pay their graphic design summer interns.”

“Cristiano Ronaldo. Cristiano. Ronaldo.”

Get Elliott’s eBook, An Illustrated Guide to Soccer & Spanish, for your iPad, iPhone, and iPod Touch by clicking here.

February 5, 2012

This is the season that can do neither wrong nor right by me. One minute, I’m scoring important goals against important clubs in an important league, and the next minute I’m nursing an incredibly serious and debilitating calf injury. It’s so odd how exactly one year after sustaining the same injury, those Norwich City goons went straight for the hack-a-calf approach. Mere coincidence? I’m not sure.

Now, I don’t want to assume dirty play, but if you were fighting Achilles, would you strike his bulging biceps or exposed tendon? 90% of my body is a fortress. It may not look it but I’m covered in skin-colored steel that turns a menacing pink while on vacation in the Bahamas. Tackles. Elbows. Kicks. They bounce off me like an elbow off a 90% invincible Frank Lampard robo-clone. You could even take a two by four to my forehead and I probably wouldn’t notice. But not that lump of flesh behind the shins. It is Super Frank’s kryptonite. And Norwich City knew it. And now I’m stuck with boring old rehab.

Oh well, at least Kalou isn’t around to tease me. He’s still in Africa or something. In fact, I keep you (my beloved diary) in my Stamford Bridge locker right next to my physio workout book. I write in you right after watching TV for an hour while standing on an elliptical & chatting up Paolo Ferreira. That clown always makes me laugh! I do kinda miss Drogba farting in the whirlpool and then trying to blame somebody else, but I’m a professional, I’ll adapt. I really just want my fitness back. It seems like just yesterday I was playing two, sometimes three weeks straight without injury. Fickle father time.

NOTE ADDED BY FRANK ON FEBRUARY 6, 2012

I’m so sad, I could typo a sad face emoticon. We couldn’t even hold on to a 3-1 lead vs. United without me in the lineup. I don’t blame Meireles and Malouda for not being me, but they noticeably were not me. Malouda doesn’t really speak enough English to yell at teammates, and Meireles is too busy gelling his mohawk to properly focus and use his forearms to point at teammates for a full 90 minutes. Sigh.

February 12, 2012

I’ve been ever so good about my New Year’s resolution to not say or write bad things about Mr. Manager. In fact, the other day, a few of the lads were playing pin the tail on the donkey on the locker room. However, instead of a donkey, JT had posted a picture of the Manager on a locker. Instead of a tail, it was another body party. Everybody pointed and laughed as Sturridge stumbled around the room with a blindfold on. He is such a good-natured lad, that one. I’m injured, but Danny even listens to my shouts from the stands during games, and sometimes instinctively runs where I point with my eyes. In soccer as in life, some people must lead, some must follow. Sturridge has a bright future running where I point and doing what I shout, unlike some of the others.

Yes, we lost away to Everton, but the mood remains light among the squad. Rumors swirl that Mr. Manager may soon head for the exit. I’m also nearing full fitness. The other day, I was able to walk, shout, and point for over half an hour before I doubled over in pain. I’ve also been curling 40 pound weights, and my forearms have never been meatier. I’m optimistic about starting next weekend.

NOTE ADDED BY FRANK ON FEBRUARY 19, 2012

The shouts. The songs. The applause. Just when you think you’ve hit a dead end, the supporters remind you what a legend you truly are. Mr. Manager didn’t start me against Birmingham, but I refuse to be petty. I try to understand him for the frail, cornered, under pressure, unsuccessful creature he is. He’s like a gerbil that has lived in a really small plastic cage where he was king of small gerbils, and now has moved to Hamster city with lots of big long tubes full of big and smart hamsters. If I was a gerbil from small gerbil town, I’d also have my head a mess and not start my best player.

And besides, he finally bowed to the glorious Stamford Bridge crowd and subbed me in. Cries of “Super Frank” echoed about, gloriously. I recorded it on my cell, and plan on playing it at my loft on surround sound. Few people realize that Super is actually an acronym – the “S” stands for “Seriously Super”, the “U” stands for “Ulra-Super”, the “P” means “Pretty Super”, the “E” is for “Extremely Super”, and the “R” stands for “Radically Super.” I felt great playing and pointing. I didn’t even need to ice my forearm afterwards, although my throat hurt from yelling at Ivanovic. Granted, seven minutes wasn’t enough time to grab a winner, but it’s a start.

February 26, 2012

Another game, another Frank substitute role, and another embarrassing result, this time in the Champions League. I’m no scientist, but I’ve spotted a correlation. I sit on bench. Team gets early lead. Team gives up three goals. We lose or draw. Of course, as long as Mr. Manager is the manager, I will respect his authority as Mr. Manager. He did play me for a glorious twenty minutes, after all.

I also started the Premiership game against Bolton, along with Drogba and Essien. It was just like old times. The goals flowed like the flowing goals of the prior goal flowing era a few years back. Last year, to be exact. Of course, I scored the third and crucial to goal to put the game to bed. However, most fans didn’t notice my even more important actions earlier – I pointed at Mata and said, Hey, short dude, run and dribble and cross. Leadership. Anybody can arrive at the perfect moment and sweetly volley a cross home. Not everybody can point and shout.

Things got so good, even Kalou came on for some token minutes. And I didn’t complain. I didn’t pass him the ball, of course. But the endorphins overcame my lingering resentment, if only for a few minutes.

Things aren’t all rosy, though. I did get dropped by the caretaker England manager for the upcoming friendlies, but I’ll survive. I know who scored in the glorious victory over Spain. And I know that nobody can not work well alongside Steven Gerrard like I can not work well alongside Stevie. My body of work speaks for itself.

Elliott’s eBook, An Illustrated Guide to Soccer & Spanish, is available to read on your iPod, iPhone, and iPad for only $5.99 at the iTunes store. Check it out here.

I decided to fill that hole in the best way possible.

Of course, I wasn’t going to just recycle the same old WAG-of-the-week filth. Rather, I took a step back in history. I asked myself – where I can find a vein of that raging NSFW pre-suffrage wanker underground river? The 19th century. That’s where. And the early 20th century. That’s right. This is some pre-WAG flapper hotness. So, if you’re at work, I suggest you continue reading this post on your phone. I’d hate for you to be fired for downloading some of the hottest and steamiest 20th century Footy Flapper Pics on these here interwebs. You have been warned.

Now, let the tour begin.

Is it just me, or where things so much simpler in the 19th century and pre-World War I? Archdukes traveled without fear of assassination. The telegraph had not yet been invented to ruin Christmas vacations by making work from home possible. Electricity and running water were the next big thing, but hadn’t gone all mainstream and corporate and shit. Horseless carriages were not called horseless carriages. They didn’t even exist. They were just carriages. And they were pulled by horses.

Things may have been simpler, but they were just as sexy, if not more so. Soccer had recently made the jump from amateurism to professionalism in the UK. In the 1890′s, Notts County FC reached various FA Cup finals and won it all in 1894 thanks to a hat trick by Jimmy Logan in the final. However, I want to draw your attention to his lovely acquaintance, Lisa Logan, a rapacious social climber that bathed in the spotlight like an alligator under the midday sun.

If you stare close enough and long enough, you can see a sliver of ankle that would make an 18th century nun blush. Sinful! Her hair, a tasteful pre-Princess Leah Princess Leah bun, only serves to distract from the fact that her skin-colored under-dress dress is quite form-fitting (as I’m sure you already noticed). Now, I’m not one to make up historical individuals or fake celebrity scuttlebutt, but rumor has it that Lisa Logan is the great great aunt’s nephew’s neighbor of none other than Lindsay Lohan! Just goes to show you that the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree. It falls very far. Yet remains similar. Somehow.

On a fashionista note, the historians consulted in researching this piece were unable to reach agreement as to whether the item on her left forearm is an a) timepiece, b) wristband, or c) scrufflenurg. For those not in the know, a scrufflenurg is like a scrunchy, but was actually used at the time to fend off yellow fever, the plague, smallpox, and scurvy. In that order. Those silly & superstitious fashionistas of old, no? The safe money is on timepiece.

Historical debates aside, we now jump forward a few decades to the land of Charlie Parker, jazz, and the Football Flapper proper. World War I came and went. But that was the last Great War, so everybody just wanted to forget about it, drink contraband (in the US) alcohol, and pay minorities to play improvisational music in back alley speakeasies. I hope your eyeballs are nice and warmed up, and you don’t plan on blinking for the next twenty minutes, because the pics are about to go from incredibly hot and steamy to really truly incredibly hot and steamy.

We again turn out attention to Notts County, who were sadly relegated from the top flight of English Football in 1926. However, don’t shed too many tears – they will cloud your view of Margaret Iremonger, the apple of the eye of legendary goalie Albert Iremonger. Before you scream “hussy”, recall that her and Al had a lovely son, Al Jr., who served for the Royal Air Force and made the ultimate sacrifice for his country at age 23. So don’t get too dirty nor too judgmental while gawking at this Footy Flapper mamacita.

If you stare long enough and hard enough, you can see a freckle just above her right knee. Skirtdancer! A true feast for the eyes, no? The slanted cap tactfully covers her carefully plucked right eyebrow, while exposing the raw, un-plucked left eyebrow. Highkicker! Mrs. Iremonger was truly the Medusa of her era and, rumor has it, while walking through the town square, would leave many a young man stuck standing to the ground and staring in awe like a statue of stone. Go ahead, take another gander, I’ll wait, I understand. Breathtaking.

Yet Mrs. Iremonger was not the only hen of the early 1900′s making the cocks crow before sunrise. Now, I just want to issue a very very stern warning: the following picture is immediately post-women-suffrage in the US. The emancipation, the experience of freedom, the liberty of it all, the writing of candidates’ names with quill pens on parched paper and then depositing said paper into leather boxes – you can see it in every inch of the following flapper. And it is hypnotizing.

Bethlehem Football Club, later known as Bethlehem Steel Football Club (BSFC), was the cream of the US soccer playing crop in the early 1900′s. They did lots of very important historical stuff that probably distracted you from the hot wife of one of their star players. I don’t want to dwell too much on the history crap, but BSFC was owned by Charles Schwab, he had money, he turned the team pro, they won titles, and….one of their key players was Harry Ratican. Yes, that’s right, the husband of none other than famed speakeasy singer Mary Jo Ratican!

Soak it in. Eyes are made to look, aren’t they? Still, like a solar eclipse, don’t stare directly at the mink scarf or you may go blind. And remember, the next time some other site spits a misogynist WAG picfest your way, the ladies of today have nothing on the Footy Flappers of yesteryear.

Get the Best of Futfanatico 2011 for only $1 for your Kindle here.

Thus, enjoy this special 23 under 23 edition.

23 Under 23 Q & A: Brek Shea

When were you born?

February 28, 1990.

Where?

College Station, Texas.

Where do you live now?

Dallas, Texas.

What was the first piece of fiction that you read and that had an impact on you?

“To The Lighthouse” by Virginia Woolf.

How long did it take to write your first book?

About three months.

Did you ever consider not becoming writer?

Absolutely positively never. Professional soccer pays the bills, but I want to be remembered for my darkly introspective poems. Once they get published, that is.

What are you working on now?

This off-season has been a bit more hectic than most because I’ve been training to stay fit for the US camp. Thus, I’ve been strapped for time but have sketched out an idea about a guy who looks for a lost cat in a well. I’m also looking at a potential move to Europe.

Who are your favorite writers over 40?

Haruki Murakami. Virginia Woolf. Sylvia Plath. Emily Dickinson. 

23 Under 23 Q & A: Juan Agudelo

When were you born?

November 23, 1992.

Where?

Manzinales, Colombia.

Where do you live now?

New York, New York.

What was the first piece of fiction that you read and that had an impact on you?

“The Aleph” by Jorge Luis Borges.

How long did it take to write your first book?

I’ve never written a book. I prefer short stories.

Did you ever consider not becoming writer?

At times, I’ve struggled to establish myself professionally. One day, I wake up and am sure I am who I should be. Other days, not so much. 

What are you working on now?

A series of short stories about a fictitious Colombian town called Macondito. Establishing myself as a starter at New York Red Bulls.

Who are your favorite writers over 40?

Gabriel Garcia Marquez. Carlos Fuentes. Mario Vargas Llosa.

23 Under 23 Q & A: Freddy Adu

When were you born?

June 2, 1989.

Where?

Ghana.

Where do you live now?

Philadelphia, Pennsylvania.

What was the first piece of fiction that you read and that had an impact on you?

“The Alchemist” by Paulo Coehlo.

How long did it take to write your first book?

I’ve never written a book.

Did you ever consider not becoming writer?

Yes. That’s why I’m now a professional soccer player.

What are you working on now?

I’m trying to move to Spain or even Holland. Not much time to write, but I sometimes spill some thoughts on twitter.

Who are your favorite writers over 40?

Paulo Coehlo. Ernest Hemingway. Shel Silverstein.

23 Under 23 Q & A: Alfredo Morales

When were you born?

May 12, 1990.

Where?

Berlin, Germany.

Where do you live now?

Berlin, Germany.

What was the first piece of fiction that you read and that had an impact on you?

“Llama el telefono, Delia” by Julio Cortazar.

How long did it take to write your first book?

About a year.

Did you ever consider not becoming writer?

The more relevant question is – did I ever consider becoming a writer? No. It just happened.

What are you working on now?

A revisionist piece of historical fiction about the Sendero Luminoso.

Who are your favorite writers over 40?

Mario Vargas Llosa. Julio Cortazar. Carlos Ruis Zafon.

23 Under 23 Q & A: Joe Gyau

When were you born?

September 16, 1992.

Where?

Silver Spring, Maryland.

Where do you live now?

Hoffenheim, Germany.

What was the first piece of fiction that you read and that had an impact on you?

“The Invisible Man” by Ralph Ellison.

How long did it take to write your first book?

Three years and counting.

Did you ever consider not becoming writer?

Your dreams have got to be lived and worked on every day. I don’t ever wake up and slap a label like “writer” on myself, because then you grow complacent. 

What are you working on now?

A series of essays about some of the disenchanting aspects of Bararck Obama’s first term as President of the US.

Who are your favorite writers over 40?

T.S. Eliot. Richard Wright. Ralph Ellison.

Image credit: New Yorker

Elliott’s eBook, An Illustrated Guide to Soccer & Spanish, is available for under $5 at Amazon. Check out a free preview here.

UEFA’s Financial Fair Play is no different. A recent report shows over half of European soccer clubs uncomfortably in the red. What’s worse is that the “Jones effect” is in full swing – like an obnoxiously new rich gated community in a tax haven exurb, the top clubs spend and abuse credit to compete with one another to win. Obviously, not all debt is bad. To use a person analogy, many professionals rely on student loans to advance themselves and their families. However, the UEFA report shows more shady car dealers than doctors. More disparagingly, Platini, the lapboy of Blatter, does not instill fear. Imagine him in a batsuit, leaping from a rooftop into a dark alleyway to punch a mugger. However, after landing a dainty single blow, he buckles over and is gassed for air.

We tried a special Supporters’ Trust (FCDSTT) to stem debt, but it failed. UEFA needs a hero. Justice needs a face. And I believe it should be Pepe.

I start with two ironclad premises: (1) that justice requires force and (2) Pepe would easily defeat Bane, the antagonist in Batman comics and the forthcoming DKR film. I say both with certainty. As background, in the comics, Bane frees prior bad guys from jail that then battle and tire down Batman, and then Bane breaks Batman’s back. Pepe, however, would cut through Arkham Asylum like Azrael with a lightsaber. The Scrarecrow needs special gas to drive victims crazy. Pepe, from the long and proud line of f’ugly Brazilian born soccer players, needs only to smile & wink in order to melt your eyes to their sockets. The Joker would try to trap Pepe in a prisoner’s dilemma between saving one innocent or another, but halfway through the dialogue Pepe would probably stamp the Joker’s hand, face, and crotch, and then sarcastically applaud the real life police force.

In sum, Pepe is the perfect tool of force to enforce UEFA Financial Fair Play.

Of course, this begs the question – does UEFA really want to enforce these rules?

Logistics would also be a dilemma. Obviously, as the anti-hero who enforces the law but does not abide by “due process” or “arrest warrants” or other major inconveniences for police, Pepe couldn’t be on the UEFA payroll per se. They could probably spare for a Pepe symbol, but may need to channel some funds via an offshore trust or Cayman bank account. They couldn’t give him any awards, but they could half-assed attempt to catch him but look the other way if they ever got close.

The results would be terrific. If anybody can bring an end to the coming backdoor old boys bogus business deals that will soon eviscerate Financial Fair Play, it’s Pepe. Did the Sheik’s Uncle’s business just agree to sponsor City in a record deal? Oh. Wait. Pepe dangled him from the top of the Burj Khalifa until he agreed to tear up the contract. Did City just agree to sign your club’s favorite player? Not so fast. Pepe broke his ACL, MCL, and even a metatarsl for good measure (while he lay prone on the camilla and was being carried off the field).

Of course, the boo birds will blow out of proportion Pepe’s pasts indiscretions. If anything, the time he’s sitting out and serving a suspension would be ideally utilized to enforce FFP provisions. Pepe would bring some needed sharp edges to the corners of the FFP paper tiger. Sure, once Pepe attains perfect 100% compliance then the absence of credit will dry up opportunities for advancement by middle class clubs, but that’s a problem for another day. For now, the bane of football’s existence is debt.

Granted, the greatest problem with European soccer clubs is preposterous labor costs. However, this may actually play to Pepe’s advantage. If he can just end the career of 3-4 players per team, then he could dramatically reduce payroll costs around La Liga and in the Champions League. There are less violent means, such as a salary cap and luxury tax, but that’s stuff for the UEFA folk, not the caped Pepe crusader. Like a heat-sinking missile, he will seek and destroy all potential debt and future FFP problems.

There are two simple facts: FFP needs teeth. And nobody can stamp out free-wheelers like Pepe. Thus, in our darkest hour, we should follow Alfred’s advice and turn to a man that we don’t fully understand.

“Take that, hand that was about to sign a contract at unsustainable wages! Justice!”

DECEMBER 6, 2011

It’s funny how the clothes we wear reflect who we are, and I don’t mean those t-shirts that the mentally handicapped wear and include the person’s name, number, and address. I mean something more meaningful. I’ve worn the blue of Chelsea for several years. It has become a part not just of my repertoire, but of my essence. So it was blue tears that streamed down my cheeks when Mr. Manager Gopher called me into into his office and explained I would not start against Valencia.

Yes, the team won. But that notoriously obnoxious Kalou came on before me. He even stuck out his tongue at me when Manager Gopher called his name before mine. Obviously, as a professional, I did not immediately retaliate but definitely thought about writing him a really nasty note. Still, sitting on the bench and watching the team win without me hurt. A lot. I didn’t cry, but I didn’t not cry. Replays are inconclusive, but a series of mini-tears may or may have not formed and scampered down my face. Hmph.

DECEMBER 12, 2011

Another meeting with Manager Gopher, another dose of bad news – not starting vs. City either. This whole not starting thing has really started to take a toll. I know that, at age 34, walking an hour and a half twice per week is a daunting physical task, but Chelsea has top rate cardios. I feel just as slow at 34 as I did at 24, yet something has changed. My blue kit used to fill me with pride and put a spring in my step, now I feel a great weight. I yearn to wear it, yet also dread to wear it.

The other day, while going through an old trunk full of family stuff, I found the sailor boy costume that my mother used to dress me up in when I was in my late teens. I recalled my childhood, when I would spend countless hours in that sailor boy outfit and even attend special sailor boy galas with my mum. Times were so much simpler then. I didn’t actually sail a boat or anything, but I loved that outfit. I felt like Popeye and mum was my Olive Oil. All I needed was some spinach and anything was possible! Now, I can’t walk half a game without needing an ice bath. Sigh. Maybe Mr. Gopher has a point after all…..

COMMENT ADDED BY FRANK ON DECEMBER 15, 2011

The funny thing about always being right is that you never get sick of not being wrong. Ever. Manager Gopher subbed me in, and whala, within a few minutes, I’d pointed at Sturridge, a good lad, and told him to score a goal or get an assist. He did the next best thing: he won a penalty kick. And guess who converted it? A hint: he looks quite dapper in a custom made sailor suit & cap for a teenage boy. Me!

It’s not all good news, though. Naturally, at my young age and with only two years left on my contract, I thought it prudent to renegotiate an extension at Chelsea just in case some really large club decides to try and buy me in a year’s time based on this single game. I don’t want to play games with Blues fans in 365 days time, and I don’t want to tempt myself either. Just as Ulysses tied himself to a mast before hearing the sirens’ call, I wanted to lock in my time with Chelsea before other big clubs realize my enormous talent and value.

Mr. Vile Boa Constrictor, the master of condescending and dismissive shoo-aways, just smirked and said he’d talk to Roman and the Sporting Director. Yet I haven’t received a text since. I’m really worried some big club scout will have seen my winning PK and make me a huge offer in 56 weeks, but I guess I’m the only prudent one rowing on this ship. Sigh.

DECEMBER 17, 2011

I’m really trying to change and be a better person and player. I had a dream where I cut off all of Mr. Vile Boa Constrictor’s body parts and fed them to my pet snake, Valdemorkandmindy. It was then that I realized I had a problem: a hate problem. I read up on it, talked to a shrink, and am now trying to embrace and respect the manager. Less hate. Less hate-filled dreams. More deep breaths. Some light yoga. And lots of pringles. In that regard, I am embracing Mr. Manager and my new role at Chelsea. I am a chameleon, and alternate between a starter, a super sub, awesome benchwarmer, and fantastic watcher-from-stands-or-tv-in-living-room.

I psychologically prepared myself to sit for 90 minutes, as opposed to walking for 90 minutes, and then life tossed me a curve. Against Wigan, I got the start! I also played a key role in our single goal that gave us the lead! Indirectly, at least. I cleverly and intentionally left the field to get treatment for a mouth injury (WINK WINK). Half the Wigan players stared at me, recognizing that even from a touchline I can cause havoc with the flex of a single forearm. The other players foolishly let their guard down, assuming Chelsea’s impotence in my absence.

Sure enough, Danny took advantage of the half-distracted and half-conceited defense to perfection and scored a goal. I don’t want to take all the credit, but even my absence is a positive for Chelsea. Some days, you walk on waters I swear! Granted, our defense caved and let in a late equalizer, but the important thing is I started. And was influential.

COMMENT ADDED BY FRANK ON DECEMBER 18, 2011

I am ever so upset. Right after the game, we joked around in the locker room and gave Danny a bit of a ribbing. JT called him a “talented black cunt,” and I stepped in and said to JT “JT, you really need to expand your vocab. What will the police say?” He just paused, then smiled, and called Danny “A gifted footballing black cunt. An exceptional black cunt.”

I was about to give JT my two cents when that meany Kalou stepped in. He asked me what I was going to do about it, and I told him I was going to tell JT’s parents about his potty-mouth. Kalou then, to my horror, pulled you out of his Nike gear bag and tossed you to David Luzer. Kalou asked me if my Sailor Boy costume would save me, and I said I didn’t know because it was an outfit, not a costume. Kalou called me a sissy and I tried not to cry and I don’t remember crying but I may have cried a little bit. And a lot afterwards.

At least David Luzer gave me you back and didn’t speak enough English to understand most of what people said, aside from JT and the “black cunt” stuff. I fear I shouldn’t leave you around the locker room anymore. In fact, I am writing in you right now while I sit in the locker room, and Didier is giving me odd looks.

JANUARY 2, 2012

I am ever so exuberant! Call me the Captain of the SS Happiness! Today I started against Wolves, played the full 90, and scored the game-winning goal off an Ashley Cole cross! Obviously, given my recent run of form against top quality opposition like Wolves, I am 100% sure that Mr. Manager will start me for equally important matches in the Champions League and whatnot. It just goes to show you about that old saying – it’s better to have worn a sailor outfit as a teenager and then signed and played for Chelsea, then never to have worn a sailor outfit as a teenager nor played for Chelsea. I of course rang my mum to tell her about the goal and emailed her a link to it on Dailymotion.

JANUARY 14 2012

I have been told of emoticons. They are combined images from my keyboard that form faces on the computer to reflect emotions. This one, , means happy. I make it with : plus – plus ). And I am very happy, err, , today. Why? Well, I started and scored another goal in a super important game vs. Sunderland! I feel sorry for Torres that he can’t direct a simple bicycle kick on frame, but nobody can deny my raccoon-near-trashcan-at-night instincts. The defense even kept a clean sheet, we won, and nobody called anybody a black cunt!

NOTE ADDED BY FRANK ON JANUARY 15, 2012

I forgot to mention the other great news – Kalouey is off in Africa for some games blah blah and nowhere near Chelsea. In fact, I can write in you at the locker room, in the ice bath, and even in the shower if I’m careful enough! I hope those games in Africa last forever and then we don’t re-sign Kalou. I’m so joyous that I could wriggle into my sailor boy outfit and waltz all by myself all night, but that wouldn’t be fair to mum.

JANUARY 21, 2012

So, the last week has been a major buzz. Yes, I can confirm that MLS Champion and Megaclub the LA Galaxy have expressed an interest in me JUST AS I PREDICTED. I tried to warn Chelsea to sign me a month ago, but no, they had none of it. I’ve talked a bit with Becks, and he says the MLS is topflight and regularly pays the coach airfare for 18 hour flights to Southeast Asia for friendlies immediately after the end of the season. Here in Europe, we normally take  a break after the end of the season, but not those hardworking Americans! I was ever so impressed.

Still, am I ready to just discard my Chelsea Blue and don my Sailor Boy Outfit while hopping around the glitzy streets of LA? Truth be told, it is tempting. However, from a sporting perspective, I still feel I have much to give. In case you hadn’t noticed, I’ve scored goals in some pretty important games against Sunderland and Wolves. I still feel that Chelsea need me, even if I also feel hurt at times.

Against Norwich City, I once again pulled off my famous “injured to distract other team” tactic, the same one that led to a goal by Danny vs. Wigan. Still, while I distracted Norwich, I also took the wind out of Chelsea’s sails. After I left, we looked rudderless, deflated, defeated. I’ve always believed that only the rats flee the sinking ship – the Sailor Boy stays until all else have reached safety. But I increasingly feel Mr. Manager pushing me into a lifetime and telling me to row.

So, will I hop the pond and don my Sailor Boy outfit on Manhattan Beach? Only time will tell. But my heart still beats Chelsea Blue blood.

Digital Image Impression: the wildly talented Erik Ebeling.

Get the best of Futfanatico 2011 for only a buck here.

And now we must take this logic to its rightful conclusion.

First, the opening argument is weak. Basically, it mixes circumstantial evidence and character defense. Scousers claim that Suarez has a black grandpa and therefore cannot be racist. In sum, blacks can’t be racist. This is preposterous. Prejudices lurk deep inside all of us. Once prominent African American activist Jesse Jackson said that his greatest shame was hearing youth behind him in a dark alleyway, turning around, and being relieved to see they were white. We can all be prejudiced against our own race. But the debate doesn’t end there.

Second, and more subtly, there exists an ingenious & unassailable formula of an argument. Liverpool pointed out that Suarez had black teammates and black friends. Concisely put, the equation appears to be Luis Suarez + black friends = not racist = did not make racist remark. However, Liverpool argued that the word “negro” was not racist in Spanish-speaking countries. Thus, they admitted to him using that word. The equation is more nuanced.

Therefore, the actual formula is: Luis Suarez + black friend = okay to make racist remark. The underlying logic is that one cancels out the other. If you are nice to a black person one day, then that cancels out being racist the other. From a utilitarian perspective, this makes perfect sense. In fact, in cost/benefits analysis, this would make the world a much better place. I can dig this. In fact, I will now expound on this equation for the benefit of all humanity.

Let’s take a totally wild example. Let’s assume that John Terry, captain of England and upstanding human being, utters a racial epithet during a game. I know, I know, it’s preposterous but bear with me. So, JT makes a racist comment. BUT, what if JT invites Ashley Cole over to his house for dinner? What if JT invites Ashley Cole and Bosingwa and Drogba over to his house for dinner? From a global societal perspective, he has lowered the quality of life of one black person, the victim of the racial epithet, but also improved the lives of three other black people. Now imagine if every racist did this. Black people would have countless dinner invitations and be really happy. What a wonderful world it would be!

Just to clarify, I’m not saying that Suarez can just invite over Glenn Johnson to play XBox for 12 hours and all’s well. No no no. It must be somewhat sincere. Still, if society is ever to conquer racism, then we must accept the Liverpool formula and try to rehab the racists. We must oblige them to form superficial friendships and acquaintances so as to cancel out their deeply held racist thoughts and prejudices. If Suarez goes to the mall right now, this very minute, and meets and befriends two black guys, then I just may be able to forgive him. And isn’t that what stereotypical tokenism is all about?

Now, some cynics will say this logic is a “get out of jail free” card. They are wrong. You can’t go to jail for making a racist remark in a soccer game. You just get suspended and fined. Case closed!