In Search of Lost Time: MLS All-Star Game Edition

For a long time, I wanted to go home early… But we were stuck in frickin’ Harrison, Frickin’ New Jersey, where the bloat of people pooling outside the narrow gate to the NYC-bound Path train rivals only that of the state’s mucilaginous governor.

Takes my breath away, this one.

What had we just seen? Fuck if I knew, what with all the $13 beer (for a “large”) and the liquor beforehand. I’m mostly in the habit of keeping on the straight and narrow for this kind of affair, but outside circumstance made that impossible last night. If you want a sober and stupid account, check out Flipper Bondy in the NY Daily News. For stupid and browned out, please carry on here.

And so with a bite of the madeleine my fourth lunch taco and a spoonful of tea slurp of Vitamin Water, here are my remembrances…

…getting called out for a super slo-mo move to my pocket after the boss ordered a round of shots at the function that preceded our trip to Red Bull Arena.

Boss: “[Likely Lad!] No! I’ve got it!

TLL: “Oh, really, thanks [Boss!]

Other guy: “Nice one. You might’ve reached that pocket by the weekend.”

…on the Path, shit, it’s already 8 o’clock and Spectator has my ticket and he’s going in. And shit, he’s left the ticket in a very open, easy-to-spot-out spot in the parking lot. Do they not have Will Call?

…still on the Path, shit, look at all these United kits! I start singing for Spurs just to be a jerk and of course some dude with a shtetl face (I can say that, I’m Jewish) wheels around to proclaim his shared devotion and that Bentley got a raw deal. I’ll say it again, because this is something I say to people: WE are not “in this together” because we root for the same team. I’d rather chat with a knowledgeable Gooner than a Spurs fan who says Korlooka.

This happened, I guess

…I’m a bit ornery tonight. The Path has that effect. I don’t understand how you build a 20+-thousand seat stadium and put absolutely no thought into how people are going to get here. The entry from the street is about three bodies-wide, which might’ve worked when no one got off at this stop but drug dealers and drug buyers, but with a sell-out crowd it turns into a sludgy horror funnel of humanity.

…Cosmos!

…In the stadium and into a deluge of red. For United, for the NJ Energy Drinks (H/T James T), for Arsenal. The kits I see most are Chicharito (“concussed” no doubt by the all those bottles of champagne he and the hombres had been tapping home in the days before) and Park. You know what? Fine! You’re Mexican, Mexican-American or whatever, wear your Little Pea shirt with pride. Or you’re Korean? Fly your fleet forward flag. Revel! Everyone else can fuck off. That includes you, kid in the Berbatov shirt sitting behind us. I’m going to BOO him and Carrick all night. Deal with it!

…Oh wait, the guy with the vuvuzela. On the death march from the Path to RBA a guy is blowing one of those wicked instruments right in my ear. I remark, loud enough, to my friend that vuvuzelas are rotten indeed, sir! Horatio takes exception to my critique and begins with the chest-puffery and leading questions: “You have something to say to me?” I turn on the Ninja Logic and talk him off the edge. I’m no brawler, but it’s hard to fear a man gripping so desperately to his plastic horn.

…Kick-off (things are happening out of order now, acknowledged.)

…Beckham makes some kicks and United has the ball the rest of the time.

…Rooney runs right into our corner flag. I though he got hair plugs? How does that work? I thought he’d have a big ol’ rug by now. Alas, he’s still a bald vanilla ape. But graceful, in his way.

Enjoy Macca's sly review of the monitor

…We’re 15 yards or so, diagonally and up (fuck a trigonometry), from the ESPN gang. Taylor Twellman, in gray pants and white shoes, leads the charge along with usual suspects Lalas and Bretos, who deserve each other as much as any two humans, ever. But wait! There’s Steve McManaman looking back studiously at the replay monitor after a botched MLS set piece. The others are on their phones. They’re all bored as piss.

…Now Norfolk Ned has gotten Twellman’s attention. Of course he has!

…Now they’re tweeting at one another.

Transcript:

@NYCanaries: United one up and @taylortwellman missed it because he was looking at his laptop.

(Ned yells and gets Twellman’s attention, and a “this guy!” wave. Ned melts before his gaze.)

@NYCanaries: @Taylortwellman love the sneaker/suit combo! Give us another wave!

@NYCanaries: @taylortwellman you are a good sport, fair play! #mlslegends

So the next time the Ned/the Canary disses an ESPN commentator, remember how easily he’s converted. To be fair, it was pointed out to me that Twellman has been a tit for so long that you just have to think, well, he’s a tit and kind of love him for it. And I kind of agree. What a tit, that Taylor Twellman.

…Bla Bla Bla with James T and Spectator. For the entire second half. Don’t remember a word of it. Do recall howling some nonsense about Berbatov and “going back to Transylvania.” Perhaps, in his recap, Mr. T will recall more bons mots from that chat. That’s about when the brown haze got me.

(Addendum: Rode back with Spectator, who’s now dating an actress with an IMDB page, but nothing on it. Sweet.)

(Post Addendum: Holy Gravy Balls, Gulati has burnt the Track Suit! Awayyyyyy!)