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

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: …….

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.

However, I’m not doing any of those things. Here’s what’s up:

After self-publishing an eBook, I made more money in one month than in three plus years of blogging. You do the math. The eBook sales were and are not spectacular, but  are decent. They continue to flow. Thus, take heart: I will continue to write about soccer. I play the sport. I watch the sport. I eat the sport. I dream the sport. I am not burned out either in terms of writing or content – but I am interested in seeing my efforts rewarded. I have some eBook ideas. I also will probably do some paid freelance at cool sites. However, the unpaid blogger chapter has come to a close.

So, the spirit floats away but what happens to the body? Cremation is a definite option. I am sad to stare at the deceased carcasses of past great blogs.  I will probably do anthology eBooks for my favorite posts from 2010, just like I did for 2009 and for 2011. However, in all reality, I will probably sell this domain. I’d rather exercise a modicum of control and make some cash than the alternative – one day not pay server or domain fees, and some (didn’t pay me) crappy site takes over.

And, no, I shall not remain on twitter as Futfanatico. I believe that many of my favorite blogs have bit the dust because the writers have “twitter-sourced” the goal of all writing: intelligent, insightful, and fun interactions with like-minded people. I will not twitter-source any of you, and you shall not twitter-source me. The twitter handle, the Fake Futfanaticos, the Pusky hauntings, they all grew from this blog. I will not halt the beating heart and then leave a hand floating about in formaldehyde. I’ve decided to rage quit….and not even stick around in voice chat. Pwnd.

So, alas, the blog & twitter will cease to exist, but the memories shall carry on in all of us. Every time a dead Hungarian footballer drinks goat’s blood, this blog lives. Each time a 4 year old soccer prodigy sips leche con chocolate and proclaims Madrid es de oro, Barca de inodoro, this blog lives. Every time the Puffington Host crams five sentences with twenty links between thirty five banner ads, this blog lives. Long live the blog. The blog is dead. Long live the blog.

Somebody inevitably was going to open the hatch and end this. I just wanted to pull the lever while the view was nice.

Video Credit: Dr. Strangelove

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.

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.

The Frank Lampard Appreciation Society proudly presents yet another chapter in the unedited, uncut version a of Frank Lampard’s diary from this season. Read at your own risk. Warning – this content may not be suitable for mature adults.

NOVEMBER 1, 2011

Genk. The word will forever haunt my nightmares. It seems like just yesterday JT was missing penalty kicks in finals and I was hugging him and reminding him that there would always be a tomorrow. That tomorrow is today. And I can look back at a long line of unhappy yesterdays. We tied Genk in the Champions League. And I didn’t start.

The manager continues to play tricks with my mind, what with the not starting me every game and not playing me every minute. In this game, Ramires scored an early goal, just as I told him to before the match, but then tragedy struck. We won a penalty kick, but our designated penalty kick taker was not on the field. Me. I did shout from the bench for David Luiz to take it, but I specifically instructed him to score. He did not. Then Genk scored. And then, surprise surprise, Mr. Gofer, our “manager,” subbed me in. Super Frank to the rescue. All I needed was a cape!

But even Super Frank needs more than a half hour to create magic. You can’t just grab David Copperfield out of a bus, hand him a hat and wand, and expect him to make the Statute of Liberty instantly disappear. That young Sturridge chap did well, though, and sent me a decent cross. However, he sent me a cross to my feet, not to my head as instructed. If he can just improve that and place a ball on my noggin, I harbor the hope we can turn things around. Assuming I start matches, that is.

COMMENT ADDED BY FRANK ON NOVEMBER 2, 2011

I am ever so upset. On the charter back from the Genk game, I wrote a nice note to Sturridge to compliment his performance, especially the part about passing the ball to me. I sat at the front of the charter, so I passed the note backwards in the hopes it would reach Sturridge at the back. And guess who intercepted it – KALOU. He grabbed it and opened it and read it to everybody. He even imitated my voice and sang “Danny & Frankie sitting in a tree.” I was so angry and also so embarrassed and so sad. Doesn’t he realize that people write and pass notes because they want to say something in private? I really hope we don’t re-sign him at the end of the year. He upsets team chemistry. And me.

NOVEMBER 5, 2011

I am ever so elated! I haven’t much to say because I normally only write in you when things go poorly, but today was marvelous. I started the game, played 90 minutes, and scored the winning goal! I vividly recall the moment. Ivanovic sent me a pass which made me happy, but then I realized the pass would be too low and miss my head, the fool! Instinctively, I closed my eyes, attempted to re-enter the womb, curled into the fetal position, tripped over my own shoes, and headed the ball into the net. It was glorious. I just hope Manager Gopher saw it and learned his lesson.

NOVEMBER 12, 2011

The good times keep rolling and I feel like nothing can stop me, not even Mr. Manager Gopher buzzkill. Well, you can’t stop true genius – you can only hope to not-start it. Or un-start it. Regardless, I am elated yet again! I captained England and we beat Spain! Scott Parker was man of the match, but many journalists overlooked a simple fact – he was only running to where I was pointing. Regardless, I also scored the goal, once again using my patented “no movement /ball bounces invitingly to forehead” approach. I am so so happy! Nothing could go wrong!

COMMENT ADDED BY FRANK ON NOVEMBER 22, 2011

I’m sorry if you think that I’ve been avoiding you, but I’m really really sad. I’ve been too depressed to even pick up a pen. I was scoring goals and starting and the world was wonderful, but then the carpet got yanked form under my feet. We lost to Liverpool at home. I didn’t score a goal and my teammates didn’t give me good passes. It was miserable. Glen Johnson scored a late winner and I sprinted over to John Terry to tell him to not call Glen a black cunt. JT agreed, but asked if he could call him a brown cunt. I don’t think JT quite gets the point at times.

Sometimes I feel like all I have is you. And it breaks my heart.

NOVEMBER 23, 2011

Guten morgen! Even though my team’s season is in a tailspin, I am ever so happy. Why? Well, today I get to see my old friend, Michael, from Germany. We still talk from time-to-time by telephone about the good old days, back when we could stand in front of Essien, walk around, take speculative shots from distance, and occasionally head corner kicks. Michael is liking Germany and even sent me some lederhosen. He said that lots of teams in the bundesliga would love to sign me, and that in Germany, my first name would be “Fran”, not “Frank.” I am not making that last part up!

COMMENT ADDED BY FRANK ON NOVEMBER 24, 2011

I am sad. It was great to see Michael again, but we lost to his team, Barnyard Leavercusack, on another last second goal. The worst part is that I specifically told each defender not to give up a goal in the last ten minutes of the game! And what did they do? Yep. I also tried on the lederhosen, took a pic, and put it on my Google Plus profile for a spell as a joke. And guess who printed out a picture and taped it all over the locker room? KALOU. I hate him.

Worst yet, management got wind and I had to meet with the coach and GM. I had to profess my “commitment” to Chelsea, but nobody had to commit to me. I’ve really started to lose patience with Mr. Gopher Manager. I tried to talk tactics and drew a chalkboard of our team with lots of arrows pointing to my forehead and me standing near goal, but it was lost on him. Simpleton. I actually miss Avram Grant. And Gus Hiddink. And Carlos.

NOVEMBER 27, 2011

The downward spiral continues. I didn’t start yesterday and the manager told me the night before. I slept with the window open and a cold chill awoke me around 3am. I closed the window. I put on an extra layer of sailor pajamas. I got out a second comforter from the closet. I still felt a cold chill. I put on the lederhosen my friend Michael had sent me, but nothing worked. I lay awake, freezing. The day of the game, the team won 3-0, but I only played the last 20 minutes. In that time, I walked, I pointed, and I panted, but I felt the world spinning around me. I was lost in my own jersey, in my own stadium, and playing in the stadium I’ve called home for a decade.

I really hope I get an iPad 2 for Christmas to cheer me up. And a Bentley.

Digital image impression by Erik Ebeling. Check out his other artwork at ErikEbelingArt.com. He also did the excellent illustrations for our soccer eBook “An Illustrated Guide to Soccer & Spanish.”

Even if they don’t really clarify much of anything.

Editor: Ayn, few people know that before becoming a philosopher, you were actually a screenwriter in LA and playwright in New York. As such, MLS fans obviously want to know – were you secretly hoping for a LA Galaxy vs. NY Red Bulls final?

Ayn Rand: Everybody always wants to see the most productive geniuses at the highest level and to achieve greatness we must create systems that do not reward mediocrity. My attachment to those two clubs, though, comes purely from reason and the reason that the strongest, fastest, and swiftest must prevail or we as a society are collectively strangling them in the worst ways imaginable. The fact that I geographically occupied the same region should not be read as some sort of moral or emotional attachment. Only reason must drive the individual, and the individual’s attachment, or success will be unattainable.

Editor: So, um, with that in mind, do you think the MLS playoffs are okay? Should we just disregard geography entirely like they already sorta do? Or do you think the playoffs need to be tweaked? New York playing LA early on and in a Western conference game is kinda weird, right? But at least you must love the fact that both teams have lots of designated players and therefore have put serous pressure on the concept of a salary cap. Do objectivists dig the direction of the league? Do the “haves” in MLS not “have” enough?

Ayn Rand: The “haves” never “have” enough. The Beckham Rule was just the beginning of the inevitable – be it in Russia, or even now in Cuba. The strong will not be shackled for eternity by the mediocre demands of a weakly collective. The runts of the litter will enjoy their teet of milk for only so long, but they will die as the stronger thrive.

Editor: So you think eventually the designated player rule will swallow the salary cap and the Columbus Crew will cease to exist? Interesting. Now, changing gears, your philosophy of ‘objectivism” was pretty popular stateside but largely ignored by the intellectual elite as stubbornly nativist. The basic problem was that you just kinda assumed an objective reality existed free of language, and then built a philosophy on that. Similarly, MLS has arguably built a single entity-franchise model built on Wal-Mart principles that has failed to attract a whole lot of international attention. What do you have to say for you and MLS’ detractors?

Ayn Rand: Philosophers have always lashed out at me for a simple reason – science and technology have supplanted their importance and threatened their livelihood. The old guard of philosophy was built upon mysticism and faith, yet the industrial revolution improved medicine and extended the length and quality of life. Capitalism has rendered the average man incredibly intelligent and self-sufficient. The 21st century man and I have no time to squabble with ivory tower academics that preach blindness to an objective reality everybody can see but them. And as for MLS, the proper laissez-faire policies could allow the producers of greatness to do what they do best – produce greatness. Attention will then follow greatness – it always does.

Editor: Wow, so you’re for no salary cap? Then more international eyeballs will catch an MLS Game? But surely European debt problems at major clubs show that without any check on competition, the owners will spend themselves to death, right? Surely sport is distinct from other enterprises – in PCs, if we are left with only Microsoft, we’ll survive, but if we are left with only Manchester United in soccer, who the hell will they play?

Ayn Rand: I find your lack of faith disturbing. Where you see a monopoly, I see greatness personified atop a mountain’s peak. Do you really enjoy watching Manchester United play against Norwich on a cold Saturday morning? Regardless, you sound like the most cynical of social workers. Even mid-table teams don’t need coddling. The opposite is in order. For example, in terms of MLS, the elimination of a salary cap would allow the teams to recruit top players to then obtain more profit from people paying to see the improved product that they produce. How would that spell a death knoll? Your condescension and lack of faith in the producers belies your cynicism and is a self-fulfilling prophecy.

Editor: Um, what about the NASL? But that debate is beyond the scope of this interview and you sound like Data from TNG anytime somebody pokes a hole in your libertarian ideals. Thus, here’s a more practical topic: in terms of the actual MLS Cup Final, who did you expect to win – the LA Galaxy or the Houston Dynamo? Why?

Ayn Rand: Based on the past, often a poor rubric for predicting the future and success, one would think LA was more likely to produce the best product. LA also had a significantly higher investment in assets (players) and was playing the game in the comfort of their own designated industrial production zone (stadium).

Editor: Speaking of that “zone”, Los Angeles, I know that you have long argued that air pollution is a “scientific” problem, not a “political” one. However, anybody who’s flown to LAX can see the cloud of smog. I was in LA for a week and didn’t realize there were surrounding mountains. Surely Chad Barrett would be a step faster if he could breath during games, right?

Ayn Rand: Yet Chad Barrett had a good season and has never doubled over from a coughing attack. I do not blame you for imposing your-concerned-social-worker values upon a professional athlete, yet the freedom of labor and movement offer the solution. If one is not happy in their wonderful industrial metropolis, then the world offers many others full of fruitful occupations.

Editor: On that topic, in terms of the mobility of labor, MLS has continued to rely on the college draft to pick-up talent. However, in Europe, they usually sign teenagers and then send them to elite soccer-focused academies. You’ve come down pretty hard on American high schools and colleges – you believe they only confuse young minds and leave them in a state of disbelief. However, many professional athletes who have avoided this “land of disillusion and poor education” and made mad bank are poor within a few years of retirement. Can we agree that education at least teaches people to not be total idiots with their money?

Ayn Rand: No. Once again, your narrow-mindedness attempts to cleverly graft a sense of value upon flawed institutions. Who are you to judge the spending of another? Who are you to say that Mario Balotelli’s iPad does not bring him immeasurable joy? He has worked hard for his wages and has an objective right to spend them as he sees fit. The individual’s right to autonomous decisions, including the spending of wages acquired for production of soccer playing, should never been subject to such naive “altruistic” and “collective” considerations.

Editor: Alright, I figured you’d say as much. Now, and lastly, this is the most important question – now that his contract is up, will David Beckham re-sign with the LA Galaxy?

Ayn Rand: Maybe.

We at the Frank-Lampard Appreciation Society knew that releasing his diary, the uncut version a, would ruffle some feathers. Nevertheless, we remain firmly committed to shedding light on the player’s life, thoughts, and ruminations during this darkest of winters at the twilight of his career. This historical document will continue to be released, unedited, for the sake of the world’s heritage.

SEPTEMBER 29, 2011

Yesterday was bittersweet. I smiled. I cried. I was exhausted. The manager told me the morning of the game that I was going to start against Valencia (no relation to David), and I was excited. I put on one of my classic performances where I control the game with as little leg movement as possible – a metronome if you will- and I scored my first goal of the season from open play!

However, then the manager got fickle. He subbed me out with seven minutes left. As if I couldn’t have walked another seven minutes! Did he not hear the traveling fans’ applause for my goal? Now, I realize I don’t gallop with the ball like I used to, but class and pedigree are eternal in a thorough-bred. And the worst part is that Kalou, the little runt with the big mouth who came on for me, struck the ball with his hand like a volleyball. Valencia scored on the penalty kick. And we only got a draw.

COMMENT ADDED BY FRANK ON OCTOBER 1, 2011

I must admit I thought of you while I was in Spain. The joy, the sadness, the anger – it all got pent up. I do ever enjoy so much writing in you. You really are my dearest friend. I shall make sure you come with me on my next travels, so that we shan’t be apart for so long.

OCTOBER 15, 2011

Another one of those days. Today I started, played the full 90 minutes, and really feel that the manager is starting to trust me. I make mistakes. He makes mistakes. We all make mistakes. I can forgive him for not starting me in the past so long as he keeps starting me in the present and also the future (which is important). I think he’s finally began to realize that my exceptional leadership qualities continue to shine even when my legs tire. Nobody on this team, not Mikel, not Ramires, not Mata, not Droba, can point to a teammate and tell them to run like me. With my years of experience and the lessons my footballer father taught me, I know where my mates should run before they even know, and I’m not afraid to let them know. So, I didn’t score today, but we won. And my finger pointing played a big part I’d like to think.

COMMENT ADDED BY FRANK ON OCTOBER 20, 2011

I know I said that I wouldn’t ever trust that blabber Kalou again, but I mistakenly mentioned you to him. And, of course, within days, Terry and Drogba were making fun of me. Terry brought a pink and heart shaped diary into the locker room and asked me to sign it after training. I tried to fight back the tears, but when he threw it at my face and then Drogba pulled down my shorts, and then every body laughed, I just wanted to curl up in a ball and cry and cry.

OCTOBER 29, 2011

Yesterday was another bittersweet day. It’s an odd thing. As I’ve gotten older, I’ve started thinking more about my legacy, but also my younger years. When I was a lad, I used to love to go to museums and stare at statues. I idolized them. I wanted to be them. I’d stare and stare and always promised myself – someday I”ll stand around, hardly move, be looked at, and be really really heavy. Here I am, close to the pinnacle of my childhood dream, yet now my legacy worries me. We lost to Arsenal.

Of course, I scored a goal. But as the game wore on, my mates really stopped listening to my instructions. I pointed at Cole at least five times and told him not to get dribbled around by Walcott. And what did he do? He got dribbled around. I pointed at Terry and told him not to trip when trying to receive a hospital ball, and what did he do? Yep. I don’t know if they couldn’t hear me because of the noise at the Bridge, but I clearly pointed at them. I was also standing center circle, so they couldn’t have missed me.

As I sit in my study at my loft, I’d like to think that I can pen the last chapter of my career as simply as I write these very words. Yet a tear runs down my cheek. I’ve never much cared for twist endings, especially when my ex-wife made me see The Notebook and it turned out that old ugly hag was crazy the whole time. I hope my time at Chelsea doesn’t end like that.

When ESPN debuted their new red-own-goal icon a few weeks back, it was one of those moments. Since then it has proliferated, appearing in both the Ireland European Cup qualifying game and the Brazil-Mexico friendly. But what does this little red soccer ball say about us?

Since the Roman empire, red has always been associated with Mars, the planet and God. That is to say, red can mean love and war, peace and hate. Red represents two sides of the same passionate emotional coin. Red provokes rage in bulls but also taints the blood that flows from our body. Red is a powerful color. Red is destruction, but destruction due to our own human frailty. Soeth is they Own-Goal Icon.

Not convinced? Well, let’s take a glance at some other places where we’ve seen this ESPN Own-Goal Icon or similar images before…

Hal from 2001: A Space Odyssey
Did you find Hal from 2001 kinda creepy? Even before he killed a few of the astronauts and tried to lock out another? Why? Well, he definitely had a Microsoft Mr. Paperclip vibe about him. And you got the feeling that perfection could run into a perfect loop of a shit storm. Just as defenders fight to get a foot or head to every cross in the name of the defensive mission, Hal took any means necessary to advance his own shuttle. Yet perfection applied to an imperfect world is a recipe for self-destruction.

A brief transcript of the Ireland-Armenian game:

-Open the Armenian goal, Hal. OPEN THE GODDAMN ARMENIAN GOAL!

-I’m sorry, Robbie Keane. You got injured playing for the LA Galaxy. I’m afraid this mission is too important to….
Creepy Verizon Droid Bionic Ads
Nowadays, the young people like to trot about with super computers in their pocket. They play Angry Birds instead of paying attention to adults, but rest easy at night – the radiation will hopefully render their genders a mutilated mess by their mid-forties. Assuming the brain cancer doesn’t kill them.

What has led them to hold small beeping cancer boxes so closer to their ear? This.

Yes. I don’t get it either. This is the future, what the world will look like when our bodies have long been frozen next to Joe Dimaggio’s. The winking red eye seduces them, the promise of instant gratification too great. If David Luiz spent a bit less time texting, perhaps his vision would be clearer when trying to cut out crosses. We all see Death before he takes us; some just stare at him cross-eyed.

The Eye of Sauron

I’m not a big fan of Hobbits or three hour movies or trilogies when the second film just kinda repeats the first one. Yet, as painful as those films were, nothing quite burns the eye like watching 90 minutes of effort evaporate due to a defensive miscue. Was Sauron worse than Morgoth? Is an early own-goal worse than a late own-goal? These are the riddles that puzzle philosophers and ate away most of your youth spent sifting through used fantasy graphic novel bins and comicons.

Sauron’s eye was emblazoned on his warrior orc’s shields and helmets because his own sentry dared not utter his accursed name. Even to this day, Colombians tremble at the mere mention of the term autogol. Brutal images of US ’94 snap into mind. When Frodo saw the eye, it was a yellow slit and the pupil was a window into nothingness. Yet in soccer, the red eye of the Gamecast Icon is a window into eternal sporting damnation. Ye dare not stareth too long….

The Masque of the Red Death

In Edgar Allen Poe’s short story, the rich protect themselves as best they know how – cloistering themselves far away from the poor and hollowly paying lip service to the conventional god of the day. Yet, despite their efforts, one by one, the Red Death comes to them as a stranger and leaves them as a killer. Similarly, no matter how many times a team practices set pieces or defending crosses, the prospect of self-destruction lingers.

As you watch the game, probably from work, you flinch as you click re-fresh. You immerse yourself in the match to forget the toils of the day. Yet, deep down in your heart of hearts, you dread and fear and anticipate that little red ball appearing. Then, horror of horrors. The Gamecast play-by-play is a few minutes behind, but you already have seen the red writing on the wall. The dot of Mars sears your eyes and leaves a profound mark on all it touches.

Less they be damned….or own a smartphone.

Elliott’s soccer eBook, An Illustrated Guide to Soccer & Spanish, is available on the Amazon Kindle for only $5.99. Check out a free preview here.