New Year’s Eve, Galway-style

The blustery, cold weather continued through the day on New Year’s Eve, the atmosphere itself a participant in the festivities. When we left the haven of the café, our plan was to go to one of the more popular pubs with live music, to establish a beachhead early before the crowds started to gather.

I’m not sure of the definition of early required to pull this off, but mid-afternoon wasn’t it. The place was packed, the music was already going, and the chances of sitting within the next few hours was next to zero. On to the next place. And the next. There were two sorts of pubs in that area: ones that were overflowing with humanity and ones that would not be having music that night. A couple of smaller, local pubs were inviting, but we’re in Ireland, dammit, and we wanted music. Our quest continued.

We ventured back to the square and up a different road, into a less pedestrian-friendly but consequently less crowded neighborhood. We tried a couple of places, then a bartender in one told us that the next pub up the road would probably have live music. The place was not crowded, rugby was on the projection screen, and the bartender confirmed that there would in fact be live music. While fuego and MaK took our excess electronic gear back to the hotel for safety, I settled in and scratched out a few passages in my notebook. The bartender was a personable guy; he had lived in New York for a while and so when I mentioned that I was from San Diego he asked if I was a Chargers fan and what I thought of their chances this year. I didn’t mention that the fate of that team rests almost entirely in my hands.

Eventually the others returned and we relaxed and tried to figure out the nuances of rugby by watching the games. It was a good way to spend some time after fuego’s birthday celebrations the night before. More people arrived, and after a while two girls and an older man started setting up their instruments. The band, at a guess a father and his two daughters. Before long they began to play, exhibiting not a shred of joy as they executed the songs. The first time the girls broke a smile was when one of them had a hard time with the words to a song. They loosened up a bit as the gig progressed, but they never stopped giving the impression they wished they were somewhere else. Still, it was music, Irish music by Irish people, and the pub was pleasant enough.

The band wrapped up at 9 pm, leaving us once more with the choice of crowds with music or comfort with none. We began to tromp around once more, heading back to a place we knew that was a bit off the main drag but would have music. We went in and I was surprised that the place was less crowded than it had been on previous visits. We easily found a place to sit and ordered drinks. Then the band started.

They were horrible.

Soon we were on the street once more, the wind throwing the light rain at is from random directions, and we followed a similar course, wandering through the streets, asking the police where they thought the best place to go was on New Year’s Eve. The King’s Head, the cops agreed, but the party there was spilling far out on into the pedestrian mall and I knew at a glance that that would not be the place for me. We wandered some more, my companions produced a bottle of Becherovka, fuego scored plastic cups from one of the clubs, and it slowly became clear that we would be celebrating the new year outside.

We made our way to a more sheltered street where there were other revelers under the awnings of the bars. fuego frightened some of the locals with his exuberance — one Irishman, in particular, responded with the typical passive-aggressive “I’m backing away from you slowly, but not without judging you first” attitude when my brother asked him why no one had fireworks. Of course, that just added fuel to the fuego and he spent the next few minutes explaining to the guy why fireworks were a good idea. I spent the time talking to a girl that was in the group with them, enjoying the contrast in style of the two main characters in the little drama.

Midnight came, midnight went, the year was new, the bottle spent. We made our way back to our B&B, to peaceful slumber.

Focussed Marketing

Tonight I was watching the Finns skate against the Czechs. It was a decent contest, but Finns had my boys pretty much outclassed. My Bili Tigri goaltender gave up three, but that doesn’t reflect the chances the Finns had. None of that matters.

I have noticed in a few international matches that Garnier Fructis, the shampoo, is a major sponsor. At first this struck me as odd. In general, hockey fans are not the crowd I’d be selling fancy shampoo to.

Unless…

Fructis Mullet formula.

Pay dirt, baby.

Breaking the Curse

I’m heading out in a few minutes to watch the Charger game. This week, I just feel like the curse will be broken. I’m not sure why after three years that this will be the week, but there you go.

Edited to add: Just for the record, I ended up not watching the game after all. I did listen to it, however.

I guess Internet Radio counts as well

For the record, I just stopped listening to the Charger game on Internet radio. I turned it off with about two minutes to go in the third quarter, right after the Raiders intercepted.

The Chargers only score happened during a server timeout.

Follow-up:
Apparently it was at about one minute to go in the third quarter that the interception occurred, at which point the Raiders had the ball deep in San Diego territory. I turned off the game, deciding at that point that sleep would be more fun. I awoke the next morning to discover that soon after I turned off the game, San Diego had intercepted the ball right back. They went on to score two touchdowns (benefitting from a bizarre rules interpretation by the referees) and won the game.

I now attribute the server error that prevented me from hearing their first score to “curse interference” — it was such a slam dunk for them to score that the universe had to stop me from listening for a moment to allow it to happen without inviting untold destruction.

Gambler’s Alert

Tomorrow the San Diego Chargers play in what looks to be a good matchup, and it’s one of the few early games they play this season, which means it’s also on at a good time for me to watch. The oddsmakers are giving the Bolts the thinnest of margins as they travel to Cincinnati, but you may want to think twice about where to put your money this time around. If possible, I will try to alert you ahead of time whether I’m watching the game, the better to document my curse.

Sorry about that.

I was in the Little Café Near Home when I got the call. “Come on! Let’s go watch some football!” I would have said no, but I realized I did not have my AC adapter with me. My time there was limited anyway.

I went to the bar. When I got there, San Diego and Kansas City were knotted at zeroes. We worked our way into one end of a table, and I talked to the guy next to me, then I looked up to see Kansas City score their second touchdown. I hadn’t been there very long at all. I laughed and rocked back in my seat, and reminded myself that this is just statistics. It’s got to happen to someone. Which just proves that I am someone.

Should have issued a gambler’s alert

Right now the Charger-Baltimore game is at the 2 minute warning. I popped over to an Internet sports site to follow the game. When I remembered to look, there was about seven minutes left, the Chargers were up by six, and had the ball within field goal range. A quick glance at the stats showed that they were playing a good game. The first play that came over the ticker: 15-yard penalty. Now, four or five penalties and what appears to be two botched punts later (info is sketchy on these web update things), baltimore is within four and just completed a long pass. I have turned off the game tracker now.

I used to think that my San Diego Team curse was a joke, until last year when I issued this alert. The Chargers were expected to completely crush Miami. Note that the Padres have gone to the playoffs two years in a row for the first time in franchise history — the two years I’ve lived nine time zones away. The Chargers went to the playoffs last year, and are contenders again this year. They may have just played the lousiest five (game clock) minutes of football this season, and it was the five minutes I was paying attention to the game.

I’ll let you know ahead of time if I try that again, or (God forbid) go to one of the bars in town that shows American Football.

Meanwhile my eyes are clenched tightly shut until the game is over. I hope that’s enough.

A morning of tough women

I’m sitting at a café/pizza joint in my neighborhood that I have long been meaning to drop in on, but until now I never have. Today was the day, though, as it had one key attribute that no other place had. It was open. It’s a pleasant place indeed, with nice music playing, good ventilation, and a very pleasant staff. My pesto was yummy and reasonably cheap, as well. Overall, a nice place to be on a Saturday morning.

There is a television in here, and I made the mistake of sitting facing it. Yesterday I had had an urge to watch sports on TV, and here was a TV playing sports. On first was the Women’s Field Hockey World Cup match between Germany and India. It was fun to watch, and I can say that field hockey does indeed qualify as a real sport. India led 1-0 at the half, but Germany’s better ball control carried the day, and a goal with little time left on the clock gave them a 3-2 victory. It was a scrappy game, and hard-fought. I haven’t the slightest idea whether I was watching contenders or also-rans.

Next up, and playing right now, are the wrestling world championships. It took me a match or two before I realized that I was watching the women’s matches, but there you have it. I can now offer expert gambling advice for anyone out there looking to wager on women’s wrestling: bet on the woman in red. I’ve seen perhaps ten matches, and blue has emerged victorious exactly once.

It was interesting to watch as the Japanese 51kg contestant beat the crap out of her Canadian opponent for the gold and then cried like a schoolgirl. She is a schoolgirl, so it shouldn’t be too shocking, but the transition from killer athlete to human was fun to watch. During the medals ceremony (US took bronze, along with a Russian — they give away bronzes like candy at this event) the award-hander-outer approached, followed by a train of silk-clad bearers. Hander-outer put the tournament medal around her neck, then awarded her the world championship belt. Then he gave her a leather folder with a certificate of some sort, and a box with an unknown object. While she was juggling these things he handed her a bouquet of flowers and to top it off a crystal vase. Then the award-hander-outer offered his hand in congratulations. This girl, overcome with emotion, who had bowed politely and humbly with each and every trophy presented her, managed to find a hand for this guy to shake. This is a time when you would think that a Chinese man congratulating a Japanese with her hands completely full would recognize that a sincere bow might be a better gesture.

Ah, well. Today’s action is over, I believe, a sweep by the Japanese (the only blue-clad winner was Japanese). By the time they got to the 59kg class, there was definitely a few wrestlers whose gender was by no means obvious. The hander-outer shook the hands of the other winners before loading them down with trinkets, and tonight the twenty-seven Japanese who follow women’s wrestling will be celebrating. And I? I will be repairing to another venue, one with electricity readily available and no sports on television.

Looks like I’ve got me a date!

I’m not used to getting hit on. Sometimes, after a conversation that in retrospect seemed flirtatious, I’ve spoken with friends and asked, “So was she…?” only to be smacked upside the head. “Yes, you moron, she was interested in you.” These conversations occur, of course, long after the fact.

So tonight I was in the Little Café Near Home, and I had an interesting conversation with another patron whom I had met once before. We talked about all kinds of stuff. It was when he paid for my drinks and waited for me to saddle up and leave that the alarm bells went off. I reviewed our previous conversation. Plenty of things that could be misinterpreted. For instance, while we were talking I got a message about a possible gathering on Thursday. I mentioned it, and he asked if he could come along. “Sure, sure, the more the merrier,” I said.

“We’ll have to think of a story for me, to explain why I’m there,” he said. Now, sitting here, it’s obvious, although maybe tomorrow it won’t be again. I did not stop to think why he would want a cover story. A friend joining me at a gathering seemed perfectly natural. I didn’t think past that, I thought it would be fun to invent a completely fictitious background for him. It was a creative writing exercise. I ran with it. My story involved prison.

There were other questions he asked, mildly personal ones, that had I caught on I could have answered with equally innocuous but meaningful answers.

So now I’m contemplating what to tell him and how. It’s my own fault; if I had a clue I would have read the signs long before and not allowed this situation to develop. On the plus side there is the fact that I carry around me an aura of remoteness carefully crafted keep people from getting too close. It should work on anyone, I figure, as long as I remember to use it. But I am classically clueless, unable to recognize even the most obvious of come-ons. Mostly I think it’s because I can’t imagine why anyone would hit on me in the first place.

Note to all and everyone. Hints don’t work on me. I can sit in the corner and watch the subtle nuances of a conversation and tell you things the participants themselves don’t know, but make me part of the interaction and whatever observational or analytical skills I have vanish in a haze of self-delusion.

* * *

Time has passed, and now I find myself in the Budvar Bar, the closest drinkery to my house. Hockey is on, Czech Republic hosting Finland, and it’s Thursday, so the waitress has no shirt on. Old men are playing cards for money, and one of them has no nose. Generally I avoid this place on Thursdays, but, well, I know that no one will talk to me here, and right now I don’t want to talk to anyone. I have a lot of work to do. I am conspicuously the one of these things that is not like the others.

I have mentioned in the past that it is a peculiar Czech talent to turn a woman serving beer with no shirt on into an oddly unsexy event. Tonight, however, if you will allow my Y-chromosome to speak for a moment, we have the exception that proves the rule. The difference: her smile. Rare enough among waitresses throughout the land, waitresses without shirts wrap themselves instead in a wall of studied disinterest, boredom, and downright disdain. I can’t blame them. Tonight, however, the waitress has a pretty smile, and that makes all the difference. (“You’re the best”, I just heard from the table next to mine. “Thank you,” she said, blushing a little, proving it. She is much more comfortable with the arrangement than I am.)

It still bothers me when she stands in front of the hockey game, though. I haven’t seen hockey for quite some time. (Now that I think of it, I haven’t seen breasts either, but somehow boobs seem subordinate to hockey in August.) And now a little more time has passed, The Czechs beat the Fins in a shootout, the crowd (and the smoke) is thinning, the Partial People (one with no nose, one with no larynx) are playing cards, and the only topless woman who has ever tweaked my imagination has gone home early. Obviously, I did not have the same affect on her. But…

It was a good night.

Germany 3, Portugal 1, Stretchers 0

To the best of my (limited) knowledge, there were no stretchers brought out onto the field for last night’s world cup game. This is what happens when a media empire starts naming names, calling supposedly grown men to task for being babies. Let us all hope the Zero Baby Tolerance policy continues. Italy’s playing in the final, though, so that’s asking a lot. They are, by my reckoning, the third most shameless team of the world cup. And that’s saying a lot.

My own World Cup scorekeeping system shows that Argentina is a bunch of babies

Just so you know, I use a bit of strong language in this episode. If the use of the word ‘pussy’ to denote ‘someone lacking the personal fortitude to participate in a physical contest of sport’ offends you, well, uh… too late, but maybe you should stop now. I’m going to use it again.

It’s halftime in the game between Norway and Argentina, and I care not at all who wins. But it’s on the TV here in the Little Café Near Home, and I am watching the game because the box with moving colors and sound controls me with substantially more power than it seems to have over other people. I decided as this match started, though, that I would put on my journalist hat and cover this game for you from my own personal angle.

I mentioned in a previous episode that Argentina was a bunch of ankle-grabbing, whining wimps. Tonight I decided to keep score.

Minute 12: The first Argentina player went down. Oh! The agony! Judging by the pain etched into his face, I thought we were facing a career-ending tragedy. Such promise! Such talent! Wasted, years of productive ball-kicking cruelly wrested from this young lion by a horrible injury to… well, that wasn’t exactly clear. While he gasped in pain, the team captain went over to consult with the coach, discussing strategy, I assume. The stretcher came out (more on that later), and after more delay (not sure, but I think he eschewed the stretcher so he could walk to the sidelines much more slowly than the stretcher would have done) he was on the sidelines, standing, while a trainer sprayed chilly stuff on his knee. Oh, man, the knee. That’s the absolute last place you would want to have an injury like that.

Thirty seconds of playing time later, he was back in the match.

Minute uh, let’s call it 15: Another terrifically painful injury, this time to an Argentine wrist, maybe. Not sure, but too horrible to allow the poor guy to stand, at least for a bit. No stretcher was required; play resumed eventually.

Minute 18: Argentine player Rodriguez was tackled hard but cleanly. He went down and rolled over, holding his ankle. No whistle. He looked around and hopped back up to his feet. Whew! Another horrible injury narrowly averted. (As I edit this at minute 55 the exact same thing happened again.)

And so it went. Twice a Netherlands player took all of five seconds to get up after a rough tackle. There were more Argentine-on-the-grass incidents as the half progressed, but in documenting the first ones I managed to forget the rest I had carefully catalogued in my sieve-like brain. It doesn’t matter; you get the idea.

Argentina may be the best team in this tournament, but they are also the perfect example of why this game will not work in the US as it’s currently played. For the Argentines, being a little pussy and rolling on the grass, crying to the ref for redress, is good strategy. For Americans, it’s just acting like a pussy. In hockey, you don’t have stretchers coming out just so players can’t delay the game as much by grabbing a body part and crying like babies. In hockey, the harder someone hits you, the more important it is to get up and skate like nothing happened. I haven’t watched that many games this cup, but I’ve only seen one player bleeding. He kept playing, got stitches at the half, and came right back out. He was on the US team. (In hockey, they do the sutures on the bench, between shifts.)

Soccer is the ball sport with no balls, at least when Argentina is playing. It’s crazy, because they really might be the most skilled team in the cup. They don’t need to pull this kind of crap. But they do. You know why? It’s who they are.

***
As a coda to this, I have to add that I have seen an increasing tendency in American sport for the players to go begging to the refs for a call. — this just in! Minute 61: Man, I think that guy is done for. He’s in agony! Oh, wait. He’s OK. Back to the diatribe — They don’t pretend to be hurt, it’s more of a big-mouth self-advocacy thing. Still thoroughly distasteful. These little prima donna bitches that play sports for big money seem to think they are entitled to a call, especially in the US — so don’t for a minute think I’m letting the American Whiners off with this assessment of soccer. My heroes are the ones who are a solid bruise the day after the game, but during the contest they gave nothing away. I like the guys who get their uniforms dirty during warmup.

Minute 66: A Nederlander took 15 seconds to rise from the turf. I think his thigh was stepped on, but I’m not sure.

Distasteful. I was disappointed to see players in the world cup (somehow I still associate soccer with class) performing premeditated ceremonies after a goal. Tacky, tacky. tacky. Class players cheer — they have every right to be happy, and I wouldn’t take that from them — they hug the guys who all helped create the opportunity, they thank the fans, and they go back to doing their jobs. Now, doing one’s job in sports has become a marketing opportunity, and you have elementary school kids working on their touchdown dances. Crass, lame, and shameful. My message to the kid wearing pads for the first time is the same as my message to the members of perhaps the best side in soccer. Play the game.

Play the game.

The quiet between games

It is quiet in the LIttle Café Near Home right now. Franta has thankfully hung the horn back up on the wall, the music is peaceful, and most of the patrons have gone home. Clouds in the west have hastened twilight, and the weekend streets are quiet. There is a hint of rain in the air, just a little extra something on the breeze that steals in through the open window from time to time. Pretty girls come in, buy cigarettes, and leave again.

Ghana beat the Czechs. The US team is about to play Italy. As you read this, you already know what happened (assuming you care at all). Consider this a message from the past, when things known to you were still mysteries. It is a naive message from an innocent time, a time when we suspected the US team was a joke, but we weren’t completely sure yet.

Ghana beat the Czechs. Italy must be celebrating as they prepare to meet their North American adversaries. If Italy beats the Americans, they advance. The Czechs will play Italy next, but they will play a man short due to a senseless red card in today’s game. If the US loses to both Italy and Ghana, the Czechs could very easily be eliminated, and Ghana would advance to the next round instead. Now the Czechs really, really need the US to win at least one of their games. That may be asking too much of the Americans.

It is game time, but the music plays on.

By request, my analysis of US v CZ

Before the game, it was generally agreed by the people around me that the Czechs were fielding a better team. There was one ding against the local favorites, however: they don’t play well until their backs are against the wall.

Brief game analysis: The US held the ball much of the time; the Czechs were content to let the Americans dick around at midfield all they wanted. When the US boys actually tried to move the ball forward, that was a different story. A very short story, with an unhappy ending.

It may be that the Czechs tried to play down to the US level, but no! The Unites States had the last laugh. Ha ha! No one was going to reach their level, no siree bob! The US team dove so hard for the depths of suck that even Jaques Cousteau blanched (and he’s dead). The US team was hopeless, ineffective, and just plain lame. They sucked so bad the Czechs around me didn’t even bother to taunt me. I think they even felt a little bad for me.

Any questions?

World Cup Opening Day

Don’t worry, kids, I’m not going to give a rundown of all sixty-four games of the tournament. I did watch the first two, however, and the game between Poland and Ecuador held my attention (although by then my laptop battery was dead). Also remember that I don’t know crap about this game. My observations could be so far off base that soccer (they call it fotbal here) fans will laugh uproariously.

The difference in style between the two teams was apparent from the beginning, and is what made the game interesting to me. Poland’s snappy short passes and ball-control philosophy were effective early on in each period, and at first I thought the game was going to be lopsided. Somehow, though, one of the Ecuadorians managed to get back in time to break up the opportunity every time. The Ecuadorians, meanwhile, were playing a flow game, with big, looping passes that their teammates would leg out. The tactics seemed to give the cameramen difficulty as well; many times I could not tell what was happening where the ball was going to land, until at the last inistant a player would come into the frame. Perhaps European-style cameramen are not well-suited for the South American-style game.

As the game progressed, Ecuador looked more and more in control. The difference, I think, was conditioning. Once Ecuador established the open running game Poland couldn’t keep up. Ecuador held off a charge late in the game to win, 2-0.

Poland had the feet, but Ecuador had the legs.

Edited to add impression from day two: Argentina is a bunch of whiny dive artists. Get up and play, you babies!

Hockey night at the Little Café

A year ago I sat here at the Little Café Near Home to watch the Czechs skate against Canada for the world championship. All the tables were reserved last year, but there was room for me and my guests at the bar.

A year has passed, and the puck will drop in fifteen more minutes as the Czechs defend their title against the Swedes. The Café is surprisingly empty tonight; there are a couple more options in the neighborhood now, but more important is that the NHL was on strike last year. Last year the rosters for the various nations reflected the best those countries had to offer (with a couple of notable exceptions); it was like several dream teams playing against one another.

Even the czech regular season was something special last year, as the best of the local boys got to play for their home towns rather than for some city across the Atlantic. (On a side note, the NHL would do well to play more games earlier in the day; there are a lot of people over here jonesing for a chance to see their local heroes play, but when games start at 3 am, the audience is limited.)

This year the NHL playoffs are still going, so the talent available for the IIHF championship is diluted, but there is still something special about this tournament in the hearts of every Czech.

***

The first period is over and the Little Café is pretty full now; the only empty table is the one directly under the television. Alas, the Czechs gave up two goals in the first twenty minutes, and Sweden is very hard to play catch-up against. The good guys had their chances, but never put the puck in the net.

***

Oh, the second period. Oh, the horror. The Swedes owned the Czechs at both ends of the ice. The Czech passing in particular was poor — it seemed like the Swedes knew where the Czechs were going to send the puck before they did. As the period progressed the Swedes got more and more uneven chances. In the period the Czechs had four shots on goal, all from the outside.

There was one point where the crowd here got excited. The cameras found the Czech Prime Minister in the crowd, and the entire bar started jeering. Something about politicians using their positions to enrich their friends. Good thing that could never happen in the US.

***

There’s still quite a bit of time on the clock, but the game is over. The Swedes are playing protect the puck, while the Czechs are playing miss the opportunity. (I was typing while watching the game and looked down to see that I had written pooprtunity. I almost left it in.) It looks like the Swedes will add a world championship to their Olympic gold. Oh, well. There’s no denying that they brought the better team to the game tonight.