However, just like with Alan Thicke, jealousy, suspicion, and incredulity cloud the public’s image of Manager W. So, we humbly ask you, please leave him alone.

Gerard Depardieu. Scott Baio. Society gobbles and spits out our TV and sport celebrities whole. When Growing Pains first aired, nobody knew what to make of this dashing Jason Seaver. Was he really a hard-ass? Or a softy on the inside? For a so called psychologist, he used some pretty stern words with his three mischievous kids. And his alleged journalist wife really didn’t seem to travel all that much to cover major stories. Even in the pre-internet days, fictional TV show newsroom budgets were tight. Still, Dr. Seaver soon found himself thick in the heart of a prosperous TV series run – lasting a glorious seven years. Yes, the 2004 Return of the Seavers disappointed, but they at least killed the series before Ben or Mike Seaver had to ride a surfboard and jump over a shark.

Sadly, though, not everybody recalls fondly Dr. Seaver. The vitriol for Alan, though, pails to the verbal assaults launched at Manager W.

Foreign dandy? Not quite. Yes, Manager W has enjoyed his share of time on the continent. In fact, he’s hauled a few trophies from the land of land-locked and multilingual mini-countries. On the Isles, not so much. Still, far away from the UK press and the gossip hounds, Manager W placidly led teams to championships in various different countries. ‘Tis a renaissance man in every respect of the word. Yet still you don’t respect him.

Sure, Manager W coached a mid-tier team to unreached heights. Manager W acquits himself publicly quite well and never seems to ruffle his players’ feathers. However, Manager W gets alot of flak for his brief stint at troubled & past its prime big club. The weight of history. Unrealistic expectations. Uncertain ownership. Aging roster. Manager W’s only mistake was accepting the job. He didn’t see the iceberg before buying his Titanic ticket. Still, that’s not exactly a mortal sin.

Now Manager W finds himself in an odd place: where he wants to be. Near the end of his managerial prime, he must grasp at half-chances to coach major teams. Nobody pities him. Big club fans merely point to his lack of “big club” experience, whatever that means. Pep Guardiola had reserve team experience before taking over Barcelona. Should Manager W wear more dapper outfits? Probably. Should he also take a serious look at rosters before signing a deal? Maybe. However, the clock is ticking on Manager W’s legacy. He knows it. He may never get another half-chance. One fell on his plate, and he’s taking a bite. Much to your dismay.

Manager W’s greatest crime is probably his manner of speaking. At every press conference, he provokes the 2nd grade bully in all of us. Some find his spoken word endearing, like an under-oiled engine trying to start really really hard. Others, of course, prey on his words in an infantile manner. They write blog posts and Guardian comments that would make a kindergartner blush. The internet’s anonymity brings out the worst in them.

Yet Manager W tries to stay above the slings of his managerial career. And we, the Alan Thicke Historical Legacy Society, ask you to be less of a d-bag. At least for the next three months.

Want an advanced copy of Elliott’s 2nd eBook, “Real Madrid & Barcelona: the Making of a Rivalry”? There’s only 1 way to make it happen: go here.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I ask a simple question. Did anybody ever truly love Fabio Capello? Yes. I did. And here’s why:

Yes, some will point to his marginally better winning percentage to defend him. Others will point to a simple fact: Capello has been fired/resigned from more jobs than most of us will ever have in our lifetimes. His skin is so thick it would make a decent soccer boot. If you seek job security, the coaching carousel is not the ride for you. Don Fabio does it with a smile on his face. However, I will miss Capello more for his personal touches than his professional qualifications. He was an eccentric. He was courageous. He was an innovator. Examples of his ingenuity and bravery abound.

First, Don Fabio had the courage to draw first blood against the liberal media conspiracy that forces ankle socks upon skanky young men the world over. For years, men of loose morals have paraded around parks, beaches, cantinas, and speak-easies, and showed off enough ankle to cover the continent of Africa five times over. Us regular Joes pulled up our dress socks, lowered our heads, and muttered to ourselves in disgust. Who am I to lift my hand and stop a hurricane? But Don Fabio, from his place of privilege, used his celebrity to support our cause. No more leg hair glare! Save it for Spring Break! Calves are baby cows, not body parts mean to be shown off every passing hour at work!

I still get goosebumps.

Second, Don Fabio displayed a knack for new age meeting structures. In Silicon Valley, the plague of lazy & unskilled brogrammers has led to daily morning meetings where folks have to give a one sentence project update & daily productivity goal. At many offices around the US, standing up while meeting is the norm, not the exception. Don Fabio implemented similar efficiency procedures. For example, at an emergency team meeting during World Cup 2010, Capello eliminated a major drag on all business meetings: the speaking of idiots. The meeting went swimmingly, John Terry said nothing, and England advanced out of the group stages. Here’s to England NT Meetings 2.0!

Third, and I don’t want to stereotype, but, ahem, many of my Italian guy friends can be quite assertive when attempting to attract the attention of a lovely lady. Whistling. Piropos. Stares. Heaven hath no fury like a Continental European man in love. Fabio knows a thing or two about the full court press, especially when it comes to players. Still, he also realizes that subtlety goes a long way – everybody loved getting “crush notes” in middle school, especially when delivered by a third party. Thus, when Fabio had his assistant Baldini call Paul Scholes, ask him to come out of retirement, and gave him only two hours to decide, it was the perfect mix of Continental aggression and subtlety. Scholes declined, but later admitted to regretting his poor decision. Wouldn’t you?

Fourth, Fabio knew fashion. The utterances on ankle socks, the cardigan sweaters, the Buddy Holly glasses – we saw the smoke before the fire. Still, nothing could have prepared us for these pictures. Confidence is comfort, and comfort is confidence. Capello always exuded a brash flavor of arrogance with a unique ability to withstand heat. He was a lion of a coach, and pretty well suited for the Three Lions. The English media tried to grill him alive, but, like a martyred Saint, he stripped down to a speedo and defiantly exclaimed without words: “Here I am. Are you not entertained? Are you not ashamed? [Coughs] Be sure to get a closeup of the shaved, hairless calves.”

He will be missed.

Photo Credit: AP

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But strike three has no similar excuse. John Terry gave his solemn word to attend a pet shop opening in Surbiton. And what happened in Surbiton? Hundreds of kids had their heart broken. Why? Cold-blooded John Terry didn’t show up.

Take a deep breath and picture all those little eyes, full of tears. Envision little Luke, eagerly getting up and waiting in line all day in the hopes that his purchase of a lizard would be blessed by John Terry. Imagine sprightly Elizabeth, spending all week dreaming of John Terry being present for her first ever Iguana spending spree. But there would be no lizard purchase blessed by John Terry. Elizabeth would get her Iguana a hot rock, but it would somehow seem cold and not plugged in. But that freezing feeling was John Terry’s own heart, not the not plugged in and recently purchased hot rock.

Of course, John Terry has categorically denied any commitment on his part to be in attendance. Newsflash – when you are accused of such a serious offense as failing to attend a pet shop opening, 100% of accused folk deny guilt. Who would want their good name to be stained by such an accusation? Instead, these despicable slums twist the truth and try to tip the scales of justice into a game of he-said and pet shop event coordinator-said. It’s a classic failure-to-attend-petshop-opening defense tactic. Thank you, Johnny Cochran. If the pet shop coordinator event date and your personal calendar don’t fit, you must acquit. Balderdash!

I can just hear the criminal-loving, armchair sociologists regurgitating their “blame the family, not the individual” argument. Yes, John Terry’s parents had some run-ins with the law. Yes, his dad may be a drug-dealer. But even drug-dealers have a shred of honor. If they didn’t, then they’d lose business or probably get killed. Or at least that’s what happened in that Denzel Washington film about the ghetto I once saw. So, conclusively, stop faulting John Terry’s family for his own failings. These pet store attendance issues must be chalked up to Terry and Terry alone.

And I don’t even want to speculate on how his non-appearance has hurt the actual pets themselves. My heart is too weak. Do you know how many baby turtles are born to hideous baby turtle-mills and must either be sold within weeks or sold as food to gourmet restaurants? No. Really. Do you? Because I would like to know. And because John Terry’s non-appearance has probably indirectly led to a decrease in foot traffic and therefore baby turtle sales at this Surbiton store.

And the real victim is little Raphael Donatello Leonardo, the baby turtle who just wanted a loving home, but instead will find himself in a boiling pot of water…

Sleep well tonight, John Terry. Look at the face of the real victims. Do their frigid reptilian eyes mirror your own? MURDERER……..

First things first, EMEYAE has led to a reform of the EPPP and we’ve pulled the weed up by the root. Basically, capitalism as a system pits individuals against one another, leading to collective action problems whereby our rational self-interests aggregate to global catastrophes. For example, let’s assume I’m a Manchester City fan. I buy a ticket to a game. No worries, right? I watch a game, I enjoy myself, end of story. But, what happens when I buy a season ticket? Or, worse, when my neighbor also buys a ticket? Well, then, collectively, unknowingly, we’ve financed a lovely local club for the plucking by Qatari oligarchs. And it gets worse – these foreigners then buy foreign talent to populate the team and also to attract foreigners watching on TV! What could be worse?

The only way to stop this rock from rolling down the hill is to eliminate individual autonomy. The old English Youth Academy geographic limit kinda served this purpose – players under a certain age had to train at an academy close to home. However, this limit didn’t go far enough. Thus, EMEYAE has inspired a revision of the EPPP that bans transfers of individual players. Yep. Big clubs will have to either buy entire academies or nobody. No more cherry-picking, God be praised! Now, just to answer any lingering doubts, yes the Professional Player Agents’ Association did propose this rule change. However, no money or lobbying per se occurred. This rule was amended in the interests of the players, academies, and local communities. If the agents happen to get a windfall, so be it.

EMEYAE, though, has personally guaranteed a windfall for affected local communities in the most entertaining way possible. With live camera footage, of course. That’s right – for every mega-club that buys an entire academy and plucks that town or city’s talented youth from their roots, that mega-club must….send their first team to the town to paint, remodel, and convert the youth academy into an orphanage, animal shelter, or youth crisis center!

What could be better? Mega-clubs get their superstar, mid level players get to train with the best coaches, and local communities get refurbished orphanages, animal shelters, or youth crisis centers. And TV audiences get wonderful prime time entertainment! It’s win-win-win-win. Only rival networks lose, ziiiinggg! And I can think of quite a few orphans that would love to live at the freshly painted Ipswich Center for Runaway Youth. Did I mention that Michael Carrick himself personally rolled up his sleeves and sanded the trim around the new front door? He certainly has a promising handyman career after football! I hope Fabio Capello was watching!

Of course, thus far EMEYAE has not been all smooth sailing. Nani did hurt himself with a hammer, confusing it for a cosmetic enhancement device. However, Ryan Giggs enthusiastically screwed just about anything in sight, even if Rooney couldn’t keep a grip on his nuts. The initial screen tests show that TV audiences truly & fully appreciate the efforts put forth by Manchester United to compensate for the tiny fixed monetary payment United exchanged to the academy to kidnap a big chunk of the town’s youth. And the Ipswich Center absolutely screams re-birth with those lovely new curtains!

Like all great television series, EMEYAE has its boo birds. Many of these folks want the most talented members of their community to be shackled by the lottery of birth. In a nutshell, they feel that other members of the community benefit from regularly interacting with these “shooting stars.” What they don’t realize is that these shooting stars have dreams, dreams of being an astro or maybe some day a comet. And only by shooting alongside other shooting stars can they become an astro and maybe one day a comet. And to the shooting stars, the surrounding community feels like a buzz killing black hole at times.

EMEYAE would never want to say anything decisive that may offend potential viewers or sponsors. However, surely we can agree that it is visually pleasant to see a shooting star shoot alongside other shooting stars.EMEYAE allows this to happen, but only if astros come and moderately improve the shooting star’s original galaxy. And those astros also take care of all the shooting stars from that galaxy, not just the star that shoots the best at a particular moment. To sum things up – EMEYAE is pro shooting star, pro galaxy, pro astro, and pro comet. And pro TV ratings.

Be sure to catch the next episode when Didier Drogba and his power drill turn a “f’ing disgrace” of a youth academy into a lovely volunteer-ran Goodwill store!

(H/T to Terry Duffelen)

Here’s a quick rundown of how the teams fared in their own leagues last year:

• Manchester City-3rd place EPL,
• Villareal-4th place La Liga,
• Napoli-3rd place Serie A,
• Bayern Munich-3rd place Bundesliga,
• CSKA Moscow-2nd Place Russian Premier,
• Trabzonspor-2nd Place Turkish Super Lig,
• Lille-1st Place France Ligue 1,
• Inter-2nd Place Serie A,
• FC Basel-1st Swiss Super League,
• Otolul Galati-1st Place Romanian Liga I,
• Benfica-2nd Place Portuguese Primeira Liga,
• Manchester United, 1st Place, English Premiership
• Dinamo Zagreb-1st Place Croatian Prva HNL,
• Ajax-1st Place Dutch Eredivisie,
• Real Madrid – 2nd Place La Liga, and
• Lyon-3rd Place France Ligue 1.

Did you notice the distinct lack of first places? Only 6 of those 16 teams were “Champions” of their domestic league. We can surely agree that fact is problematic. Well, I have a few ideas on how to solve that problem.

First, and easiest, we could always just simply re-name the “Champions League.” For example, the “Champions, near Champions, and friends of Champions League” has a nice ring to it. We could even stretch the definition of the term “Champion” to include teams that have won domestic cups, like Real Madrid and Manchester City last year. However, I argue against this on practical grounds and in principle.

In a nutshell, coming off a recent global economic recession, it’s simply a waste of money to ask the proud and dignified Champions of Romania, Otolul Galati, to, for example, fly a team to Madrid to play a group game against a second place team. The carbon footprint from European competitions has got to be horrific. If anything, the true Champions, Otolul Galati, Lille, Ajax, Dinamo Zagreb, Manchester United, and FC Basel, should have a month long spa resort/futsal kick about in a Swiss Alps resort town. Champions deserve rest. And coddling.

This is the point where you scream about European integration and economic redistribution. Blah. Blah. Blah. If you want to run an elite club competition, you have to exclude the riff-raff. Augusta National does not have blank membership applications in the lobby. I understand that trimming the fat may hurt the perpetual third and fourth place teams, but will anybody really miss watching Robin Van Persie getting injured in the quarterfinals? And I’m sure, even without the Champions League TV money, Arsenal can milk some new real estate deal to make ends meet.

And here’s an even crazier idea. What if, to protect players’ health by reducing games, the Champions League was truly only champions and went straight to an NCAA style home-and-away elimination tournament? The mouth waters at the prospect of a heated, passionate, do or die clash between FC Basel and Dinamo Zagreb as early as October! The TV ratings would surely shoot through the roof. And Barack Obama’s bracket could be the PR olive branch to finally re-energize Nuclear disarmament talks with Russia.

Now, I know your response. Even the Olympics has a pity-party at the end and allows 2nd & 3rd place to stand on a podium with the Champion and show off their ugly-colored medals. We could easily arrange a similar event in this “True Champions League.” At the closing ceremony after the very last game, the second and third place teams could have their own exploding ticker tape/photo-shoot op. Granted, the ticker tape color would vary based on placement. For the Champions, they’d get a proud color like purple or gold. For the other places, they’d receive something hideous like magenta or fuchsia.

Of course, I wouldn’t watch the losers flaunt their not 1st place medals, but I’m sure somebody would.

However, the US vs. Honduras game presented a related & pressing topic not addressed in those posts. I speak, of course, about the banter about “Can the US play a home game at home?” Basically, how should we deal with complaints that the stadium composition for US games against Latin teams is “too ethnic” and there’s no “home field advantage.” Is it true? Is it a genuine problem? Or does the framing of this “problem” reveal deep-rooted prejudices?

I’m really just gonna shoot from the hip on this topic because 1) I’m still deciding myself how I feel, and 2) Your input & perspective have just as much to teach me. Please comment. Unless, of course, you hate America. Which you say you don’t but your frequent trips to go shopping in Europe suggest otherwise. Buckle up & here we go.

I’ve always objected to US “B team” friendlies against Central American teams on one simple ground: we are prostituting the team or, in marketing parlance, diluting the brand. Yes, it’s good to give some up-and-comers a few games, but ultimately many of these games are to fill US Soccer coffers and little else. My friend Tahir has pointed out that making a buck is not a crime. True. But soccer is more than a business. At least it should and can be.

Other people, who I shan’t name because I don’t believe in shaming, voice concerns about the lack of “home field advantage.” Simply put, lots of ethnic (read: brown) people show up and speak in “foreign” languages (read: Spanish). Ironically, this very discourse and its premise form a part of the prejudicial cycle. By categorizing these fans as “the other”, we as Americans force them to cling ever closer to their country of their birth. And I have to ask – is it just a coincidence that there are only white stars on the American flag?

On the other hand, it would be nice for Brek Shea to be able to take a corner kick without being called hijo de puta and getting pelted by packets of urine. When you play at home, you expect some love. I can understand this. This is a valid immediate concern. The only problem is that this situation springs from a fundamentally flawed view of America as English-only and white ran, with bountiful professional athlete jobs for blacks, engineering gigs for Asians, and some janitorial positions for Hispanics. Does that caricature offend you? Or resonate? Or both?

In sum, is America a caste society? Should it be? If it is – how did we get here? Is American identity static and forever tied to English, the language of our Constitution? Should the US only play home games in Columbus, Ohio or, better yet, ban brown people from USMNT home games? I hate to lump soccer fans whom I respect into the same mental box as segregationists from the 1950′s, but separate-but-equal feelings of uneasiness pervade the American soccerscape. Hell, they pervade America.

Short-term, Jason Davis and J Rodius of the Best Soccer Show have echoed my calls for people to go out to US games and support the team – fill the stands with your concept of America if you are really worried about fans from El Salvador. If dual citizens are taking over the stadium, buy more tickets! More importantly, and mid-term, glance at the stand-shots in Miami of the fan celebrations after that sweet Dempsey goal. How many Hispanic faces do you see in red US shirts? Quite a few, actually. If you want to see more, then try not to subtly push people into boxes.

Chew on those thoughts, please comment openly & honestly, but don’t spoon feed any of that PC white shame nonsense. Contemporary structures of exclusion require willing participation by all parties. A few years ago, I saw a prominent African-American professor speak about “racialism” and “racialist speak.” Basically, today, for the most part, the vestiges of prejudice lurk in our subconscious, and only by openly acknowledging them and articulating them can we hope to conquer them.

I tried that in my Balotelli post in January. And now it’s time for US soccer.

Then, divorce hits. But the team marches on, usually with a new stadium, logo, and name. From a business standpoint, it’s a helluva model. But as already duly noted, the nomadic qualities appear more vulture than trees. And surely things with roots, like trees, have value?

At the opposite end of the spectrum lies the fan-controlled and operated club. In Spain, both Real Madrid and Barcelona technically fit this bill. Fans vote for the President of the club. Last year, my “FC Distrust Supporters’ Trusts Trust” series mocked folks who believed that more fan-ownership in England would be a panacea to rampant debt problems: hello, Barca and Madrid wage tabs, I argued.

But there lies a weird and winding path between. Let us venture to this nether realm.

Despite trophy-filled years, many local (read: English) Manchester United fans hate their clubs’ American owners, the Glazers. Why? Well, the form of their takeover, a leveraged buyout, hinted at corporate raiders gone wild. The personal loans indicated that the club was more of a piggybank than a long-term investment. Ominously at the onset, they de-listed the club from the London Stone Exchange (LSE), presumably to keep the club’s books away from regulatory disclosure requirements.  The green-and-gold campaign clamored for a solution: more fan ownership.

And what has happened? Ironically, more public ownership: United appears on the verge of filing an IPO, ie, selling stock to the public. Of course, they are not re-listing on the London Stock Exchange, but rather at that bastion of transparency, the Singapore Stock Exchange. The rationale: tapping into the growing Asian market. The reality: a quick cash injection with a quite light regulatory burden.

Yet the ownership style which angers opposing teams’ fans is at the other side of town: City. The great risk for the Blues is that their Sheik owner will get bored, sell the club at a loss, and leave behind huge debts and crazy wage bills. Unlike the risk of corporate raiders at United, City poses a different situation: the owner as a transient consumer, rather than a fan. In American baseball, George Steinbruner shelled out tons of cash to turn the Yankees into contenders, yet nobody doubted his dedication or commitment – he was competitive as hell and had an emotional investment in the club. The Sheik has no such credibility.

The EPL has also shown that globalization is not necessarily a race to the bottom. Yes, a fan in London can buy a cheaper Chelsea kit because it’s made in Bangladesh. However, for intangible, unique and limited products, like viewing a concert or soccer game in person, the entrance of millions of new hungry consumers has pushed up prices. Just as the Chinese middle class has kept American soy farmers busy and profitable for the last decade, new Manchester United fans from abroad have pushed up ticket prices almost beyond an average UK income. This is not a race to the bottom, but a race at the top which squeezes out the middle class.

And the parties responsible, you ask? Well, Financial Fair Play and the Premier League’s “Fit and Proper” ownership test have failed to turn the tide in the Americanization of the EPL. Billionaires have really good accountants, businesses all over, and will report losses and profits in the country of choice. UEFA has…Michel Platini, the protege of Sepp Blatter. Sadly, everyday the EPL looks more and more franchised, more commercial, and has not strayed from its amateur roots, but now inhabits a different planet. What could be worse?

Well, the vulture global elites playing with our clubs is disheartening, but the populist duopoly in Spain could collapse the clubs like the Soviet Union at any moment. Hiding debt in Spain is very fashionable at the moment, which is terrifying – because the debt on the books at Barcelona and Real Madrid is staggering. But wait, these clubs are democratic, right? Shouldn’t their fans have the clubs’ long-term interest at heart? Well, let’s take a test – read a couple forums. Count how many people complain about not winning the most recent game. Now count how many people worry about long-term financial stability. Question answered. Pure populism is not the answer.

Which, of course, brings us to the Bundesliga. The league has great attendance, is highly profitable, and has a combination of populist/elitist elements. As Terry “Duffman” explained for Pitchinvasion, clubs must be owned by the fans in a 51% share. This gives enough discretion to the elite (managers, owners, players) to do their job, but is not a carte blanche that would allow corporate raiders or international playboys to do too much damage. How did this system develop? Corporate benevolence? Ha. Rather, the cable TV collapse hit the Bundesliga before anyone else.

Survival is the greatest motivator of all. Which is why you should expect nothing to happen for now. In the near future, the EPL can allure investors with neat powerpoint global revenue growth projection presentations based on some infamous and eternally untapped Asian population. Real Madrid and Barcelona have extraordinary cash flow and debt that, while large, is mostly unsecured/passive. What does that mean, “passive”? In a nutshell, no used car dealer is about to take back the team bus. At worst, some bank CEOs who signed promissory notes may get pissy and not invite Perez’s daughter to their own daughters’ cotillion ball. With unsecured debt, the cancer dies with the patient. Hence, the cancer wants a long and painful period of terminal illness.

Thus, there is no loaded gun pointed at soccer’s head. However, clubs are slowly digging their own graves. From an ethical perspective, fans must decide if clubs are a tree with roots that have spread the branches too far, or accept the reality that our clubs are fish that have sprung legs and left the ocean of our love. Practically, the Germans offer hope in a mixture of populism and elitism. But the path is uphill for now.

However, these criticisms overlook a simple truth behind transfer rumors: people gobble them up. In troves. Why? I speculated that the transfer rumor succeeds because of human beings’ optimism – all fans want to hear about a big signing by their beloved club. Like an unopened gift, within the box of poorly timed press releases lurks the occasional fantastic find. Also, the dubious proof lends itself to intrigue of its own making – who are these almost mythical behind-the-scenes actors who truly control our clubs’ destiny? Anticipation. Unexpected surprises. Intrigue. These draw the public eye to transfer rumors.

The Cesc-to-Barca transfer has no such defense. Why? Because it is a transfer reality. A plodding transfer reality worse than any rumor.

It didn’t have to be this way- so ugly, so exposed. Roughly 15 months ago, triumphant homecoming headlines could have carried Cesc to Catalunya. Barcelona had just lost to Mourinho’s Inter in the Champions League and barely nicked Real Madrid to La Liga. They looked quasi-vulnerable, at least by their standards. Conversely, the Gunners did not win a title. Whispers turned to words turned to shouts. Could Fabregas be Barcelona’s answer? Was he a want-away star on a team lacking supporting talent?. We will never know, because that that moment in time, Arsenal held firm to their star prize.

Since then, some stuff has happened. Spanish teammates forced Cesc into a Barcelona t-shirt after the World Cup. The Gunners actually competed quite well until late February, and managed to beat Barcelona in one leg of their Champions League draw. And Barcelona quasi-comfortably pipped Madrid to the La Liga crown. They also thrashed Manchester United in the Champions League final. In sum, every conceivable positive spin headline for this transfer has been tossed out the window. Months ago. Yet the show went on, to our disgust, like a low budget straight-to-video edition of Halloween XXVI.

Why the disgust? Why the aversion to reality? Simply put, entertainment must contain at least a hint of unreality to keep interest. Cesc-to-Barca was as plain as Grandma’s jam. Barcelona spent big bucks on David Villa and Dani Alves. They also bought back Pique from United. Arsenal, under Arsene Wenger, loves to sell talent at a profit. They did sell Henry to Barcelona after all. Thus, unlike other fantastic transfer rumors, the Cesc-to-Barca reality made too much sense. Like a poorly written detective novel where the reader realizes the killer’s identity at the halfway point, we’ve watched this deal unfold with the anticipation of a route canal.

And that’s another major criticism: the rhythm of this transfer reality. A great transfer rumor will materialize instantly, the product of pixie dust and an unverified source. The Cesc deal has drawn out over a year for an all too practical and not preposterous-enough reason: money. Yet, to our disgust, the difference in asking and offering price was small by European club soccer standards. Neither side budged an inch as they wasted possibly hundreds of thousands of dollars on jet airfare to negotiate in person, hoping to pinch a million.

Of course, not only the neutrals are aghast. My sincerest apologies to Arsenal nation. Arsene Wenger’s remarks about “cemeteries” and “feeder club” mask over a sad 21st century fact: a financially prudent club will struggle to win titles against over-leveraged or oil rich adversaries. And I wouldn’t hold my breath on UEFA’s financial fair play sorting things out anytime soon. Still, at least Ramsey and Wilshere have gained a year of experience.

And, of course, truth is relative. Real Madrid pursued Cristiano Ronaldo over two summers. However, unlike the oddly penny-pinching Cules, Perez took out a loan and paid a record for CRon. The first summer was painful, but  the second time around, the deal was consummated with speed and cash, like a respectable drug deal. At least Arsenal got several productive years out of Cesc, unlike Samir Nasri – whose pending transfer to City is a ‘transfer reality” disgusting for other reasons.

So there you have it – transfer rumors excite the senses with fantasy, but the reality of the Cesc-to-Barca deal slowly ground the fun out of life. At least it’s over. Cesc le vie.