West Ham Match: Tale of Two Halves, Part 2

What a tremendous display, albeit for 45 minutes.

Again, there’s good movement on and off the ball, with Ronaldo and Nani giving width and speed while striking fear into wide defenders. Tevez and Berbatov – oh, the sublime Berbatov – providing menace up the middle, overlapping, and occasionally swinging wide – a sheer joy to watch.

Again, there’s a let-down in the second half, albeit much less stark this time around.

You can definitely forgive United for letting up on the accelerator for this mid-week encounter, to some degree, but the two significant defensive gaffes – poor off-side trap that allows Boa Morte in alone on Kuszczak, for example – seem troubling. Mind you, the fact that any real defensive lapse seems out-of-character points to the solid partnership across the back-four for much of the past two plus seasons. But this season, these sudden and extreme miscues may become more costly, as you can begin to suspect that it will take 90+ points for the Premiership title. Obviously, we’ll see in the days ahead - these are still early days.

Instead of focusing on “possible” issues, I much prefer to play some of the games more delightful moments over and over again in my head… Tevez’ Gazza-like flick over a defender… Ronaldo and Anderson playfully interchanging back-heel moves… and yes, THAT move by Berbatov to set-up the second.

As Fergie said “I'm going to have to see it again to understand how he [Berbatov] did it," the United manager said. "You'd pay double the money to watch that - fantastic imagination, control and balance." [Daniel Taylor’s Berbatov dazzles for United to help Ronaldo strike back, The Guardian, October 30, 2008]

Thank God this Second Edition has a much happier ending and bea-u-ti-ful weather to match. Wonder what the weather will be like for the Hull match? I truly hate three-quells.

Everton Match Report: Tale of Two Halves

6:07 AM. Damn-it, I’m late.

Thankfully, Ms. Reilly, our fox terrier with a psychic connection to Rooney, as confirmed yet again this week, wakes me after over-sleeping kickoff. Apparently, our hound only wakes me annually for Rooney’s Return to Goodison, as she’d never wake me up for another Premiership match. Good dog, I’ve got an extra Milk Bone for you. Now, the coffee pot is on. Game selected on TiVo. Ah, I’m only a few minutes behind a real-time feed and can catch-up at half. Game on.

8:01 AM. Game over. United 1, Everton 1.

What a wasted opportunity. Now I’m wired, frustrated, and feel a certain aimlessness that comes from watching United loose or draw too early and alone in the morning. I don’t feel like doing anything now. Anything. Activities that’d normally seem appealing on a weekend morning, such as reading the paper, are somehow rendered pointless. My day has gone as gray as the fall weather.

Looking historically, you can’t feel hard-done by a draw away to Everton, but the first-half red-domination seemed ever-so-easy, an absolute delight to watch. Passes pinging around the pitch that created lovely scoring opportunities, constant singing from the United away-supporters and nothing beyond the predictable complaints for Alan Wiley’s refereeing from the Stanely Park blues. The Everton back line looking confused, their paper-thin confidence nearing rupture, and the only question that begged asking is “how many?” not if we will win.

What the hell happened?

My only explanation for this match is that some pagan priestess put a hex on the team defending the Gwladys Street End. That must be it. Every single United backline defender gaffed spectacularly in 45 minutes of play – well, maybe Evra’s clearance-header up the right-attacking-channel was in the first half, but the point’s still made. Well after the match, I’m still gob smacked by Rio’s criminally-slow back-pass pick-off by Yakubu, by Vidic out-jumped for a header-goal, and by Wes Brown getting picked clean on the outside edge after attempting a turn in no-man’s land. A different side on a different day sends us home without any points. Happily Everton’s attack hasn’t jelled yet this season. We’ll take the point and move on, thank you very little.

It’s not the best of times, nor the worst of times – simply the grayest for quite awhile.

Flying High in the Friendly Skys

Check out Rooo. Great picture.

Another lovely score line: Berbatov (29), Berbatov (51), and Rooney (76). The irresistible form continues...

Didn’t get the chance to watch the game live – the curse of being 6 hours behind GMT, eh-hm, "working" – and settled for the usual text updates on a match tracker. Can’t wait to see Rooney’s goal. No worries about going through to the next stage.

West Brom Match: Rooney's Sway

The score line says it all: Rooney (56), Ronaldo (69), Berbatov (71) and Nani (90). Everyone from SAF to United bloggers expected this form would come, especially after the free-flowing-football that intoxicated us against Blackburn and Rooney’s scintillating form for England. Now that it’s here, firstly, we give thanks to the football Gods, and secondly, given this blog is being written 30+ hours after the match, I’ll resist the temptation to analyze anything or add to the obvious platitudes for Rooney.

About the only original commentary to provide is a quick view into a few moments of United fandom smack-dab in the middle of North America.

First off, I must admit to taking the easy route this week, watching the game live off our dish with my United pal, Bill, and making no effort whatsoever to watch at The Local, an Irish pub that shows the Premier League in Minneapolis. (A Cliff Claven trivia fact: The Local’s patrons consume more Jamison Irish whiskey than any other pub on the planet. Yes, that’s right – the champion resides in Minnesota. Take that Galway, Dublin, and Donegal.)

Since Bill arrives primarily to watch football, our 12-year-old fox terrier, Ms. Reilly, immediately knows what’s about to transpire next: random, unexpected noise bursts. These celebrations literally scare the bejesus out of her fist-sized brain, and usually, she cuddles up to Bill at kickoff, as he’s less demonstrative than me. On Saturday, however, she gave us one dirty look, as if to say “Much howling imminent – I go away now” and trekked upstairs to avoid the inevitable.

Nil-nil at half: I suspect for both of us watching versus playing does add a nervy edge precisely because we can’t do a single, solitary thing about the outcome. Trips to the bathroom were made. We pace around our coffee table thinking silently to ourselves “we can’t possibly draw with the Baggies – can we?!” The second-half begins, and you know the rest: amazing, attacking football and goals. Ah – much, much better. Our nerves relieved, our Saturday saved, our club rules.

Soon after the game, alpha-female (my wife, Jill) returns home from yoga. Ms. Reilly hears the arrival of her true pack leader, races down the stairs, past the scary men, and greets her with extra joy and relief. Not long afterwards, sensing calmer times are upon us, Ms. Reilly wanders over to Bill for some well-deserved belly-scratching. About ten seconds into her new-found attention, I get this turn of the head and sheepish look from Ms. Reilly, as if she still wasn’t entirely sure I didn’t have another “ROOOO-NEEY!!!!!!” left in me. Ah, such is Rooney’s form – even a fox terrier an ocean away can feel its powerful sway.