In the wake of Arsenal's 1:2 loss to Hull City (not to mention Barca's loss to Numancia, Roma's Champions League loss to Cluj, the 2:5 hiding Sexy Jurgen's gang took not long ago...), how's that inevitable European SuperLeague sounding?

Sure, I'm kind of a sucker for sports nostalgia and history. But Yankees nostalgia? That's like looking back fondly on the heyday of Standard Oil.

"Franck cannot believe it...and his daughter needs to be slapped."
—commentator Ray Hudson, as Bayern Munich's off-duty Franck Ribery glumly watches Bayern's 2:5 home loss to Werder...with his toddler daughter applauding at his side.

American soccer fans keep constant vigil, waiting for signs that their beloved USA is creeping toward the moment when it casts off history's shackles and becomes a Great Footballing Nation. Generally, this watchful stance is expressed in excitement over new club youth-development schemes, national team performances ("we beat Guatemala again!

I will admit that, as keen a football fan as I may be, I would not ordinarily seek out the YouTube highlights of Manchester United v. Middlesboro in the Carling Cup. But when I read Sir Alex's strident condemnation of the foul inflicted on his young Brazilian player, I, well, you know. Had to see it.

So Landon Donovan may go to Bayern Munich, eh? My trusty volume of Wikipedia informs me that Bayern's current squad includes Luca Toni, Lukas Podolski and Miroslav Klose at forward, with attacking midfielders such as Franck Ribery and Ze Roberto.
Where does Landon fit in all this?

A non-football note: one of the finest writers from my hometown passed away this morning. James Crumley—in addition to propping up the bar at Charlie B's tavern and providing gruff advice to younger people so foolish as to desire careers in the Literary Arts—wrote one of the best first sentences in all of modern American crime fiction.

The great thing about the Cypriot side's 0-0 result yesterday—aside from the fact that it may well have marked the first Champions League point for a club that has existed in a state of exile from its home city for nearly 40 years—is that it came against Werder Bremen. I hate Werder Bremen...and I don't know why.

So, thus far Liverpool are playing not-very-good football, and yet have not suffered a single bad result in seven competitive fixtures. With just eight and a half months to go, I see that formula holding up really well.

Not that I'm excited about the prospect of a global financial meltdown and a Second Great Depression, but how awesome is it that Manchester United's shirt sponsor looks like it will be the next to implode? As I just read on the Blogs:
The message is loud and clear: AIG is toast.
The Weevils could well be running around with shirts that say PANIC!

This fantastic piece on the Champions League's obscurities, aside from its own merits, took me back: to the days when I would burrow into two- and three-week-old British newspapers that somehow washed ashore in the University of Montana's crypt-like Mansfield Library. This was before John McCain invented the Internet (or, as we called them on their advent, "The Wires"), and European football existed on the same approximate American consciousness level as Bhutanese politics.

Not to make light of the Congo witchcraft stadium tragedy, but an unreconstructed, irresponsible part of my soul harbors the feeling that the American soccer scene would be a lot more interesting if it involved few die-cut suburbanoids and more fetish-wielding sorcerers. Just an opinion.

Two-one, two-one, two-one, two-one....
A pair of ridiculous goals. Man United wearing fey white uniforms, maybe so Berbatov doesn't get confused. Alex Ferguson, reminded by Liverpool fans that when it comes to his florid mug, one need never mock alone. All quite a good time, really.

Daniel the Red covers The Stooges:
Italy 2-0 Georgia World Cup Qualifiers Highlights

"There are a lot of them that will not be here next year, so they need to perform in order to find a new club."
—Portland Timbers manager Gavin Wilkinson, on his players' final match of the season.
Twenty-nine matches played. Seven wins. Is Wilkinson going to be here next year?

Eureka! It turns out that if no one plays defense, football becomes a very high-scoring affair.
All credit to Theo Walcott's very cool finishing (and even some credit to Wayne Rooney for his), but Christ on a unicycle, there was just no marking at all. The aftermath will no doubt result in a long national emotional crisis in Croatia, which will only be resolved by the Ninth Balkan War in 2034.

Hard to know what to make of one of the best clubs in Major League Soccer being beaten—make that thrashed—by mighty mighty Joe Public Football Club. Then again, maybe it's not.