The Real Fans?

It's easier being a fan on days like this.

My grandfather was stationed in England, just outside London, during the Vietnam War. Unbeknownst to him this would lead, some 40 plus years later, to me being a diehard and fanatic Manchester United supporter. See, my grandfather was able to witness the historic mid-60’s triumvirate of George Best, Bobby Charlton, and Denis Law and was enthralled by the style with which they played the game. As a kid I found a packet of holographic player cards that my grandfather had collected. The long hair and ridiculous short shorts, the logo, the cool nickname, everything looked so interestingly foreign to my 10 year old self.

Little did I know that 10 years later I would start playing soccer thanks to a college girlfriend and a co-ed indoor league in Warwick that would be my Sunday (and sometimes Tuesday/Wednesday/Thursday) refuge for over a decade. Once I started playing the game it was inevitable that I would be enthralled by the sport and I had to seek it out at the highest level (sorry MLS but not quite). Thanks to my grandfather’s stories and collectibles there was only one team that I could support.

No one roots for this team but we don't care.

(Now this is a far-cry from the love affair that I have developed with the team in the present day , which includes following every soccer writer I can find on Twitter, keeping the transfer blog bookmarked, and watching any game that might be on TV including the Spanish-language telecasts of the Copa America or under-20 World Cup. Incidentally, though I don’t understand a word that they’re saying I still think the announcers were much better than those on Fox Soccer. I even had my girlfriend read Fever Pitch to get a better understanding of my mentality, then told her to read Juliet Naked as well just to show that I wasn’t just a troglodyte sports fan. Not sure it worked.)

Following Manchester United, and European soccer in general, has taken its place alongside the Red Sox and Celtics and I consider my knowledge of the subjects to be well-above the common fan. (This is when we get to the actual point of the blog, by the way.)

Why do I always consider myself a “better” fan than everyone else? Why do the “pink hats”, the people singing “Sweet Caroline” (singing it karaoke-style while wasted in Vegas doesn't count), or people who don’t know where we picked up Mike Aviles bother me? Why should I care? Why does it have to be a competition? Shouldn't being a fan be about the communion of fun and common interest, not about the depth of feeling that any interest might arouse?

The other night at Good Times (which is ironically never a good time) I kept shaking my head, laughing, and/or getting actually upset at the ill-informed comments of the drunks at the bar. I don’t know why the random Tigers fan who seemed to know nothing about the Tigers other than that they don’t serve Bud at Tigers Stadium (he was old but I assumed he was talking about Comerica Park not flashing back to the ’84 World Series) upset me. I can’t get upset because he works all day and doesn’t spend every waking hour studying the ticker on ESPN.com or watching Baseball Tonight.

There isn’t a single person in Manchester (England not New Hampshire) who would think that I was anything but a carpet-bagging Yankee pink hat for Man U just because I live in the US. I wasn’t brought up with stories of Busby’s Babes and I didn’t get to see the ’99 Champions League win as it was happening so I don’t count as a “real” Manc. That’s basic English elitism about US soccer fans but aren’t I (and a lot of Red Sox writers too, I’m looking at you Pete Abraham and Bob Ryan) being just as elitist about people who aren’t fanatics about the teams we hold dear?

Here's to you John  Lackey!

While I’m slamming my fist down, having my night ruined, and getting pissed every time that John Lackey pitches most fans are going to be grabbing a beer and talking with the people near them about how great it is to be out watching the game. It’s time to grow up and stop giving a shit about how little most people know about the Red Sox or baseball history. It’s time to embrace the “pink hats” as all part of the game, just as it’s time to stop holding a grudge because people are ignorant. Fine, you might not be the same type of fan as me (you probably have a lot more fun being a fan) but if you have any questions feel free to ask.

In the end, I’m the one with the answers and the issues.

Heartbreak

I wish people would stop saying, “Everything happens for a reason. It’s for the best.” It’s categorically not for the best. Eventually time will ease the pain, the failure, but nothing will change the fact that I didn’t want this. I couldn’t imagine this happening. I’m embarrassed, ashamed, devastated…

You know when you’re driving to school or to work or to any place that you’ve been a million times and suddenly out of nowhere you realize that you’ve arrived but can’t remember the drive at all? We’ve all done it. The body goes into autopilot, muscle memory pushing you forward down a very familiar path. The same happened on my trip back to the East Coast.

It was five days of staring straight ahead, the road endlessly stretched out in between markers that seemed more real on a map than when driving through them. Gallup, Amarillo, Oklahoma City, Indianapolis then….home. It was five days of heartbreak, painful acceptance of blame, and regret.

Some people say they have no regrets. I am not one of those people. I have plenty of them but never has something left me this empty because I regret not MY unhappiness but that of the person who I loved. When you do something supremely stupid you feel bad because it hurts your family but their love is eternal and not only will they forgive you but they will try to support you. A relationship (she would want me to call it a domestic partnership) even one filled with love, is far more fragile than that.

My friends like to joke about how I think everything sucks, that I am always miserable, and I can’t have a good time. I wish there was no truth to the gag. Until I know how to make myself happy how can someone possibly be happy with me? I don’t have any answers and right now under a cloud of depression I’m having a hard time focusing on the future, just the sadness.

All of this depressing, desperate whining is the explanation for why this Adele song, which I heard probably 3092 times on the way home, is so powerful to me and came out at exactly the wrong time. Listening to any emotional song during a break-up is a bad idea, but this is striking because rather than an image of clothes strewn about on the ground outside, broken picture frames, and lots of heavy drinking, this song inspires just a deep longing for a return to the status quo. It is rationale anger and true sadness, not of HOW it ended but rather that it ended at all. Anyway, make fun of me if you like but each time this came on the radio the waterworks were soon to follow…

Thompson Chemical

Happy looking crew

The documentary that I helped produce has recently won another award. "Thompson Chemical" was awarded 1st Place in the documentary category of the Alliance for Community Media's National Hometown Movie Awards. This is a great honor for all who worked on the project, most notably the lead producer Roger Mulcahy. It was a lot of hard work particularly since it was a project that had to be completed concurrently with the day-to-day responsibilities of working at DoubleACS.

I wrote a piece for the playbill that was handed out at the premiere of "Thompson" and it explains the origins of the project and what it meant to those of us who worked on it:

The Making of “Thompson Chemical”

We initially received 2 16mm film reels from the Fire Department with the intention of trying to convert them into a DVD for Chief Churchill. When we first saw some of the footage it was shocking as much because we had never heard of Thompson Chemical as for the actual scenes we were seeing. It seemed strange that such a tragic and important event could have passed one or two generations, albeit over 40 years, without it ever being mentioned.

Documentaries had been a topic of discussion around the studio for several years and we had been searching for a topic that would pique our interest while at the same time providing a benefit to the community as a whole. The idea was floated that this footage could provide the jumping off point for a worthwhile project. It would be fair to say we never anticipated the scope of what this project would become.

With permission from Chief Churchill to use the footage and from The Sun Chronicle to scour their archives from 1963-4 we started to develop a story of what happened at Thompson Chemical that night and in the months that followed. We then began the search for interview subjects and just as quickly realized that the story we thought we were creating was nothing like the reality for the people who lived through it.

A project that we hoped would take a few months stretched out over a year involving 15 taped interviews and countless more discussions with neighbors, workers, firefighters, police officers, historians, and family members that all had different perspectives on that horrible night.

The story of Thompson Chemical is not a single strand that runs in a simple, straight line from beginning to end because the story of Thompson Chemical is not about an event, but rather it’s about people and their individual reactions to tragedy. The one common factor throughout the story is a generation of people in Attleboro, raised through a world war, awakening from a great depression into a suddenly promising future that showed a remarkable ability to cope. That stoicism, that ability to manage a difficult situation, while still having the remarkable clarity of memory that all who we interviewed had, turned out to be far more dramatic than the event on its own.

Hopefully, after a year’s worth of work we have been able to properly document a slice of the history of Attleboro to ensure future generations remember Thompson Chemical but also, and perhaps more importantly, remember the people whose lives were affected by it. 

The Long and Winding Road

Tornado sirens are the scariest sounds that I will ever hear in my life. Until recently, tornados were as foreign to the Northeast as tsunamis and I had never heard that particular combination of screeching fear, anger, violence, and despair. I’m not positive that the tornado itself would be as terrifying than the heart stopping unknown of hearing those sirens for the first time.

Walking across the street to get dinner was surreal as no one was reacting to the banshee noises emanating from seemingly everywhere. The bar patrons were sitting calmly laughing about the slim chances of a tornado actually touching down (“Never in my lifetime…except that one time”) getting angry when the bartender told them they were closing early and they had to head home (after buying another round, of course). After a day of weather in Pennsylvania that would seem over the top for a horror flick, the Gods were apparently no happier when I arrived in Ohio.

Good time to stop and take a picture

Heading back to the hotel I saw my first funnel that wasn’t on the Weather Channel. I could’ve sworn that I was standing in the middle of it and I immediately started looking for something that I could tie my $10 belt to like I was Bill Paxton (or Pullman, whichever one was in Twister). In reality it was miles away and I was actually standing in a group of gawkers all with our phones out to record the experience and make sure everyone saw it on Facebook. The sirens stopped 30 minutes later but I sat awake all night in a cold sweat waiting to be carried away to Oz (the Technicolor version, not the HBO version).

I couldn’t leave Youngstown fast enough.

Day 2 was beautiful. Despite warnings to the contrary, Ohio and Indiana were beautiful to drive through. Farmland as far as you could see but with houses, hills, and wooded areas mingled together that made for a serene trip, which was amplified by the welcome sunshine (Illinois on the other hand is boring as hell). Making great time I raced through into Missouri and crossed the Mississippi in St. Louis.

Crossing the Mississippi should be the seminal moment of the trip. It should be a clear marker that you are no longer in the East but now out into the wilds of the western USA. It should give you the feeling that you are Kerouac On the Road taking part in some great adventure. In reality the Mississippi River smelled like sewage and while driving past The Arch was cool I never felt as though I wanted to stop.

Traveling cross country on your own can be an experience akin to Yoga meditation. Alone with your thoughts (and your Ipod) you get to delve into the reasons behind your journey and the destination that you are racing towards and can come to some clarity about who you are and who you want to be. Of course, I experienced it more akin to a war between me and the miles ahead. I was more like Odysseus trying to get to his Penelope as quickly as possible and I was battling against the sheer immensity of the Midwest. In my Calvinist New England mindset it was the struggle I needed to overcome to achieve true happiness at the end. Damn Puritans ruining everyone's fun.

I flew past St. Louis thinking nothing about storms or trouble ahead. Meanwhile, unbeknownst to me, Oklahoma was being ravaged by a series of powerful thunderstorms that lay straight across my path. I was also headed towards Joplin, Missouri that only a few days earlier was almost completely destroyed by a twister that no special effects could equal. I only became aware of this when I decided to put an end to Day 2.

My second night on the road was no less terrifying and stressful than the first. Stopped an hour north of Springfield, MO I watched the news to see that my road ahead was directly through Mother Nature’s killing fields and was constantly reminded by the very serious weatherman that this was the worst tornado season in years. The stress of knowing that I would have to drive through Oklahoma was quickly set aside when I was woken up at 4:30am by that now familiar screeching wail that sent me scrambling to the bathroom wrapped in blankets and sweat.

The hotel called everyone into the lobby and away from the windows until the sirens stopped. Turns out the tornado landed a few miles away. (“No big deal” according to the hotel employees. I had a different opinion.) The next morning I drove by Joplin and I saw trees sawed in half, guardrails tossed aside and, even from the highway, I witnessed pure evil  and thought of what could have been. It was impossible not to shake…

From Oklahoma City to New Mexico each mile looks as ugly as the next and yet, that doesn't make it any less impressive. Staring into the largest sky I've ever seen, at least while my feet were on the ground, I felt as though I could see all the way back home and see Phoenix forward in the distance. The world seemed compacted as though everything was just around the corner but at the same time I finally appreciated the vastness of the country. Like I was reading a Steinbeck novel the world opened up in front of me and everything was a reminder of the Dust Bowl and the Great Depression. I quickly turned the Ipod to “The Ghost of Tom Joad” set the cruise control and tried to imagine what it would be like to live in a region where Amarillo is a big city.

West Texas is dull (no offense to the people living there but it really is a whole lot of nothing) but for the sky. New Mexico added the element of colorful mountains, massive plateaus, and majestic desert scenes to the ever present wind that pushes from Missouri through to the Pacific. Making the final push to Phoenix, hands at 10 and 2 just like Driver’s Ed taught me, I tried to keep the car from being blown off the road and avoid the inevitable Dust Storms I could see in the distance stalking my path.

Driving in the West is a sad experience. I felt isolated and transported back in time. Wind, dust, and brown were the only sensory inputs for over a thousand miles. When I saw a group of cowboys riding the fences it dawned on me how tough and bleak an existence it must be in the middle of nowhere. Of course they all probably went home to their satellite dishes and broadband internet, but seeing them in Marlboro Man pose made them all seem like John Wayne taming a new land. I’ve never been more aware of my city slicker-ness. Albuquerque, Gallup, and Flagstaff might as well have been New York City the way they rose out of the nowhere haze.

Everything about the West is trapped in nostalgia. Every sign tried to pull me off the highway to the history and drama of Route 66. You get the sensation that you are traveling through a memory of a glorious past. The small town oasis eroding in diesel exhaust. An America trudging wearily day after day, pleading to be heard over the air conditioner, desperate for us to roll down our tinted windows and believe that it was once great. Even if, in truth, it never was.

One more road to Phoenix and it was just as overwhelming as all the rest. I-17 is 2 hours of downhill skiing. Long slopes matched by sharp turns that had me on the edge of my seat (an uncomfortable way to drive by the way), all the while dodging trucks and trying not to get pushed off the road by cars pretending they were on the Autobahn.  At the end of the road the Valley of the Sun awaited and with a grateful sigh and a long stretch I had made it to the end.

My new home (Chase Field top left)

P.S.- I apologize. I never meant for this post to be this long. If you made it all the way to the end I appreciate your effort and the fact that you didn’t have anything better to do. 

From One Home to Another

Joe Posnanski wrote a great, and long, blog post about what defines “Home” and it seemed poignant to me as I made the biggest decision of my life. I was about to move away from the only place I’ve ever known, the people I’ve spent so many years getting in and out of trouble with, having good times, great times, and tough times. I was leaving my actual family and all of the people who had become family.

I heard my grandmother cry and say this might be the last time we ever see each other. I watched my grandfather rush back into the house rather than cry in front of me. I tried to hold back tears watching my sister leave walk away wiping tears off her cheek. I cried and held my mother in the kitchen grateful that she wasn’t able to see me off because I didn’t know if I would actually be able get on the road.

Good byes have never been so tough.

I will never forget my last night with my friends. Finally understanding how close we had all become and how important they all were to me. But even more shocking was how much they were going to miss me. I never really appreciated my own place in the group dynamic and that the emotions I was feeling were shared by so many other people in my life. Every moment of that night was an awakening and an emotional struggle.

I hate good byes.

But…there are things that happen in your life that are completely unexpected and force you out of your comfort zone. Circumstances push you to grow as person, to experience a part of yourself that you might not have realized existed. The most obvious of these is falling in love and, being a romantic, once that happened to me there was only one goal in my mind. I had to be with the person I love, any place without her would feel incomplete.

I miss everyone back East and that will never change. Yet, as I drove 2600 miles through the heart of this immense country racing to be with the woman I love, I realized I was carrying my friends, my family, and my Home with me. I will always be a Mass-hole, New England will always be at the essence of who I am no matter where I live, and nothing that happens in the future will change that.

So…When I finally pulled into the driveway in Phoenix, grateful to be off the long road (I’ll have more about the actual trip itself in a later post), and I wrapped my arms around the reason for my move there was only one thing I could think to say,

“Hey beautiful, I’m home.”

RSL Come up Short

Real Salt Lake is the best team in MLS. Their record is impeccable (such as knocking off the Revolution with a ‘B’ squad) and they play with a style that Real Madrid could take a few lessons from. There is no question they are the favorites to win MLS Cup this season along with New York and LA.

Unfortunately that wasn’t an MLS team on the field with them last night and when Jamison Olave fell asleep for just a minute and allowed Humberto Suazo to sneak past him the dream of every MLS fan died a painful 45-minute death. The goal started after another giveaway by star forward Alvaro Saborio who had an absolute shocker and made some touches that I would be mad about my Indoor Co-ed Rec League teammates making.

As much fun as it is to watch Will Johnson play there is a streak of Sunday morning Rec League about him too. He never stops working and he can pop up anywhere, but he has no sense of position. He and Robbie Russell made great plays throughout the first half but always looked as though they would follow the ball into the bathroom if that’s where a Monterrey player took it. How many times did Andy Williams and Will Johnson streak across your screen as they tried desperately to get back into position?

This is where RSL missed Kyle Beckerman. They missed his positional sense, his calmness, and his ability to move the ball forward without losing the initial midfield shape. He finds the forwards, Javier Morales, and whoever starts on the right wing without leaving big gaps anywhere on the field. Last night the opposite was true and despite heroic effort RSL never really got themselves in spots to put the ball into the box to someone’s foot. Everything looked congested and mostly lost.

Taylor Twellman made essentially the same point last night when he argued that RSL missed the chance to play the ball out wide and to attack a massed defense, especially in the 2^nd half, at their weakest point. I wonder if this was something Jason Kreis planned or if it was just the style that Williams and Johnson chose. Either way, until late in the game when Monterrey parked the bus, it pinned the 2 outside backs in their own half because there was no cover if they charged forward.

RSL showed unbelievable stores of energy, strength, and talent but they picked the wrong day for some of their stars to have horrible performances (Saborio, Williams, and Alvarez most notably). Monterrey defended well and played as everyone expected with the diving, the time wasting, and the theatrics, but in the end they took their one chance and, as seems to always be the case with American soccer teams, RSL missed.

After last night my disappointment level with American soccer is at an all-time high (Clint Dempsey’s great but 2 goals in a meaningless game don’t take the bitter taste out of my mouth). Judging by an SI article from Grant Wahl and the general response on Twitter to last night’s game I’m not alone.

Real Salt Lake was so close. On the verge of sending an MLS team to Japan for the FIFA Club World Cup, on the verge of beating a Mexican team over two legs to win an important regional title, and on the verge of giving MLS fans the opportunity to watch them take on Manchester United or Barcelona but they came up short.

It feels as though we’ve read this script before at the World Cup, Copa America, and Confederations Cup (except for the big win over Spain which will always make that tournament a mostly happy memory). There are always opportunities for American soccer to push themselves to the next level, the international level, the “You have to pay attention to me now!” level, and unlike Americans in just about every other sport, our soccer teams always disappoint (see Freddy Adu and 2011 U-20’s).

I am furious that I have to watch the most important MLS game in history on an international feed that chooses important goal-mouth chances to go to replay. I am furious that I don’t see even a mention of the game on SportsCenter other than as a passing comment to close the show followed by a lame-ass joke about “needing Kevin Durant”.  I am furious that before El Clasico we get a brand new Fox set and the same old tired clichés and lack of knowledge from the commentary.

Yet until one of our teams exceeds expectations there won’t be the effort on the part of the “Worldwide Leader” to air the games, show the highlights, or treat it with any more respect than they treat curling. But... rather than just being mad at the lack of coverage it’s time for our teams to DEMAND it. The only way to demand it?

Winning.

Willing the Team to Victory

When I’m watching a Man U game on TV I like to be alone in my room where I can yell and gesticulate and generally be as obnoxious as possible without worrying about aggravating anyone (or embarrassing myself). Otherwise I want to be with other Man U fans who feel the same way I do when everything is going to hell.

So…suffice it to say that watching a game on mute while lying next to a sleeping girlfriend in a Boston hotel room isn’t the ideal atmosphere. Especially when Sir Alex insists on sending out a team that would struggle in a Carling Cup game (I’m looking at you Gibson) let alone an important early April game against a team that has had our number the past few seasons and while all of our title challengers are nipping at our heels.

(Please excuse the use of “our” or “we” as though wearing my replica Rooney jersey somehow puts me on the Man U payroll, but I am one of those kind of fans. I am also on the Red Sox and the Celtics and University of Michigan football team if you’re wondering.)

After the 2^nd Noble penalty found its way to the back of the net my frustration was at an all-time high and all I could do was silently curse the world, curse the fact that I really like Green Street Hooligans, that I bought my dad that West Ham jersey and that I was stuck in that room. So I gave up. I shut the game off and rolled over and put my arm around my girlfriend and tried to go back to sleep and forget about those damn Hammers fans singing that stupid song. 

This might seem like maturity. I could’ve (and have in the past) started throwing things and ranting and raving and let my whole day be ruined by the bad bounces and pre-Champions League stumbles of the “most hated team in Britain”.

But it wasn’t maturity. It was petulance. I was being a spoiled brat who gives up as soon as my team comes under pressure. Instead of hanging around to watch another fantastic Man U comeback (3^rd time this season they have comeback from 2-0 down at half) and a hat trick from my favorite, vocabulary-challenged, player I quit Instead of having faith in a team that is renowned for its ability to overcome adversity and the likelihood for relegation-threatened West Ham to collapse, I stopped believing.

Part of me is superstitious enough that I actually thought if I just shut off the TV then it would increase the chances of something amazing happening, simply because I wasn’t watching. But I would be lying if I claimed it was anything other than I just didn’t believe.

I don’t know where the skepticism comes from although maybe rooting for the Red Sox my whole life hasn’t helped. Maybe New Englanders with our Calvinist love of struggle, hardship, and Blue Laws makes us all overly negative? The inferiority complex of Bostonians trickling down into my fandom? Or maybe I’m just a miserable bastard, who knows? My girlfriend will watch her team right to the end believing they will make the miracle comeback, my team gives up a goal 1 minute in to the season and I’ve just given up all title hopes.

When the game was over and I was walking across the street to get some breakfast I couldn’t help but look at the results and fist-pump my way through an intersection (getting a few strange looks in the process) and believed that my decision to shut off the TV had been the impetus for my team to push on and get the win. Such is being a fickle fan, we all have our ways to influence the games, even if mine is simply to lack faith and give up. We all have to do our part! 

Glory, Glory Man United!