Greetings fellow Tsar-subscribers. It’s your lovable pal Devin, back to give you more reasons to hate Europeans! Well, not really but it’s another one of those soccer posts that you probably skimmed last time.

If you read my previous post, then you know I’m an out-and-out footy fanatic. You must also, by the transitive property, therefore be aware of the fact that I’m full-fledged supporter of the Chelsea Blues. And thanks to ‘The SportsTsar’, we’ve all been informed that said Blues were done-in by the awful yet incredibly talented Manchester United Reds last Wednesday in Moscow.

This, lads, was not simply a match won by the best team. It’s bigger than that. This was without a doubt the best display of European football that the world has seen in years. The match was hyped beyond belief and somehow lived up to every single expectation. The match ended in regular time as a 1-1 draw, survived two ‘extra time’ (overtime) periods, before culminating in the ultimate showdown, the penalty shootout. Needless to say, the Reds prevailed, but not before a few of us bit some fingernails to shreds.

I vividly recall the palate of emotions preceding and following John Terry’s biffed game-winning penalty shot. It got worse when ‘Le Sulk’ Nicolas Anelka stepped up and did his best to gift the title to the Reds by demonstrating that his nickname is not for want of trying. All-told, this was classic English football and all of these players deserve high praise.

But you’ll have to forgive me for being somewhat of a Debbie-Downer these days. Its been a rough week for Blues fans stateside, and obviously its been increasingly worse for those lads on foreign soil. And I should know all about it. Yes, as I type I am sitting in Central London and surrounded by Arab children in Cristiano Ronaldo kits. The whole visual is terribly upsetting and I might have to excuse myself from this Starbucks for a reprieve…..

<15 minutes later…>

I’m back. A quick check of the news reveals that Avram Grant, Chelski’s manager has been fired (no surprise there) in the wake of our recent defeat. It’s also been speculated loudly that there is a mass-exodus of talent brimming for a departure to all points of the Continent. Furthermore, out billionaire oligarch owner has his sights set on the purchase of more superstar talent to thicken what might soon become a depleted squadron. All told, these are not stable days on Fulham Broadway. 

But I’ve lost the plot. I wanted to write today to remind everyone stateside that here, football is a way of life. I cannot tell you how many times I’ve peeked out the window to see children from the ages of 2 to 22 scrambling across the streets with balls at their feet, rain or shine, winter-coats be damned. When I arrived at Heathrow, I took the tube into the city. It’s approximately an hour’s trip, so I had plenty of time for people-watching. At the first stop, a father and his two sons boarded my cart. This triumverate had travelled to Moscow to watch the match in person, and obviously were disappointed with the outcome. While the father quietly sat reading the morning-after Sun newspaper, the two brothers, who were no older than 6 and 8, recited significant statistics, discussed open/closed formations, debated the attacking prowess of assistant coaches, and speculated on summer transfers for the Blues.

I sat there with my mouth agape for good reason. I wish I was one of those kids. Over here, football is a bonding experience between father’s and sons, not dissimilar to Baseball or the NFL. But it seems to run much deeper here, clearly more tangible than supporting the Yankees. In England, soccer is a way of life, and the color you wear is the one you bleed. These children knew very well that they were born into an extended family of supporters and fanatics, and have embraced the essence of the sport to their respective cores. While most American fans of the sport support the upper-crest and highly marketed teams with superstar talent (myself included) the broad majority of denizens here do not.

Generally speaking, the town you’re born in has a team. Now, that team may not participate in the highest and classiest league, but nevertheless, all teams play matches at varying levels of difficulty. Consequently, most people support their local club, no matter how shitty the stadiums or how little fanfare they receive. Its something akin to pride, but again, something far more significant. The fans feel a bond with the players on the pitch, and the players derive an unquestionable amount of strength from the cheering sections. The lower division squads, referred to as ‘pub teams’, will literally head to the local watering hole after matches and down pints with their fans. They’ll most likely buy groceries from the same Tesco you visit, send their children to the same public school, and buy underwear from Marks and Spencer, just like you. This is the accessibility of English football. The players are not demi-gods. They are regular folk like you and me, and it serves as a humbling reminder that any bloke with enough passion and the right amount of intensity could one day take the pitch.

So when I watch fathers and sons debate the merits of Avram’s resume, or whether or not Frank Lampard deserves a new contract (he does), I feel a certain attachment to them. There’s no doubt I could have jumped right into their conversation and been included as a member of their community without disrupting the flow. Sure we aren’t related, and physically we have different DNA, but theoretically we all bleed Blue. That right there is enough to include anyone into your extended family. Football is more than a game, its a way of life that’s bringing families closer together than ever before, and I cannot help but marvel at the footprint its leaving on a new generation of father’s and sons.

Here’s to the game, and its continued growth in the UK and beyond. 

You’ve seen one French striker, you’ve seen them all. Moments ago, Nicolas Anelka, a reserve striker for Chelsea biffed the final penalty kick in the Champions League Final to hand over the top prize to Manchester United.

As soon as he stepped into the box, it looked like trouble, although the Frenchman was probably the most offensively gifted player left to take a shot. Eerily reminiscent of the World Cup Final where French striker David Trezeguet, one of the most qualified and dependable to score a goal, was the lone player to miss his mark as Italy beat France after the Zidane incident.

Sure, Didier Drogba got himself red carded out of the game for a bitchslap, but with Wayne Rooney out as well, that was pretty much a wash.

Yes, captain John Terry had his chance to end it, but can you really blame the guy all that much after he saved the game with his head late in extra time?

So once again, it makes sense to go back and place blame on the man who failed in the end. The man known as Le Sulk. For all his potential and talents, Anelka has never truly proved himself. Inversely, he has flat out looked disinterested. If you’re just looking for a paycheck, buddy, go record an instructional video or something. Otherwise, prepare for this world of hurt trying to live in the limelight.

It was to be a storybook ending, Roman Abramovich’s powerhouse taking home the greatest glory possible for a club team, and in his native land at that. Instead, Le Sulk puts up a goose egg.

Greetings fellow Tsarists. My name is Devin and I, like many of you, am a sports freak. Unlike you, however, I’ve been granted diplomatic immunity (and a 10-year student visa), paving the way for my inaugural post on Russian “web-soil”. What will come to follow over the next few months will be a marginally incoherent yet altogether enjoyable blast of obscure yet pertinent sports jabber. Pleasantries aside…

I count myself as a select member of the American population that gives a damn about ‘futbol’. Yes I said ‘futbol’ and not soccer. You can snicker all you want at me in the supermarket while I wheel my cart down Aisle 6, rocking a vintage Djibril Cisse kit (in the UK, they’re affectionately referred to as kits and not jerseys). You might have been subjected to a slurred yet impassioned defense of Major League Soccer when David Beckham opted to ply the twilight of his career in Los Angeles. It’s also plausible that you, like the majority of this fabled nation, give don’t two shits about anything not involving a wooden bat, LeBron James, or BCS shenanigans. All told, I’m not here to judge.

But for the few out there that care, May 21st can’t come soon enough. That day, my friends, will live in infamy. Allow me a brief side-bar…

I’ve supported one club my entire life. Since I was 13 and stumbled across the beautiful game, I’ve lived by the Chelsea Blues from Fulham London. The Pensioners, as they were once called, were a lovable band of misfits that never quite put it together for an entire season. Each year, the club would come out of the gates roaring, roll off some impressive streak of 9 or 10 wins, and then succumb to a dreaded injury here, or lack of motivation there. For us fans, and there weren’t many then, we became accustomed to the idea of never winning the big one. In our minds, a good year was not getting relegated (more on that in due course).

So just like the ugly chick that buys her own ticket to the prom, we kept our heads down and did our damn thing, until luck would have it we were bought by Roman Abramovich, a Russian oligarch with a penchant for waving at the crowd during home games like a delirious Caesar. Anyhow, he brought his billions with him and overnight, the club became a home to some of the biggest names in the sport. Roman would dole cash out left and right, picking up record transfer fees and securing the services of veritable Hall of Fame talent. It was like winning the lottery. We had the owner, the coach (Jose Mourinho), and the personnel to qualify for the biggest stage of them all, the Champions League.

The Champions League, in essence, is a tournament designed to take the best clubs from each European country and pit them in a elimination-style bracket until two are left standing. For three consecutive years, the boys in blue flamed out in the semi-finals. We were beginning to wonder if there was some sort of hex on us; as if we were destined to be second-best forever. But things have a funny way of working themselves out…

This season hasn’t been pretty. We fired out manager, survived a near-mutiny, replaced key personnel, and somehow, we’re fighting for first place in the league. On top of that, we’ve finally arrived at the mecca. The team itself has banded together behind inspirational skipper (not captain) John Terry, and sensational performances by Michael Essien, Michael Ballack, Frank Lampard, and Joe Cole. We, my friends, have at long last booked a place at the final round and a date with, of all clubs, our bitterest rival, Manchester United. I’ll spare you the venom now, but just know that if you pull for the Blues, you can, under no circumstance, support any and all things Reds.

The date is set for May 21st. The time is to be determined. The location is your local British pub. The offing? An opportunity to witness some of the most inventive, attacking futbol the world can surmise. My reason? Plain and simple joy. Being privy to history as it unfolds. Unrivaled competition, players fighting with everything in their bodies to push their clubs over the top. Two teams enter, one leaves victorious. 9 months of battling culminates in the ultimate orgy of futbol glory.

The love of the game, its everything. Always.