Other than perhaps law, nowhere does the concept of possession hold more weight than it does in sport. In fact, the debate would be abooout near a cul-de-sac; athletics involving both a "ball" and two "teams" basically have their double helices woven by this exercising of influence over said "ball", a bond so heavy not a jack on earth could lift it.

So hey, you catch Barca, man? Shit hasn't changed, I know -- it's great. (Enough to raise a few words up out me, which hopefully precedes a fit of non-dormancy here in the future.)
Sure, they always rip Baby Madrid to shreds at the Camp Nou, and there really couldn't have been a worse game for Abel Resino to debut a raw, inchoate keeper in.

With rosters bound and chained until the new year and this obnoxious international break now in full swing, there seems no better time than the present to effuse an EPL preview, one which -- despite three to four rounds having been waged already -- will feature a table read grossly different than the one incumbent.

There was but one circumstance that would keep Green Street Hooligans Part Trois from a viewing and simultaneous chronicling, to be plastered in columns and rows on PmP's ashy downtown walls. And because Obama isn't near the Hammer he is White Sox fan, lil' ol' modest ol' me, out here just meekly West coastin', couldn't seem to negotiate himself a stream even cable-porn-grainily broadcasting the tie.

Remember about two years back, when that kid blocked Michigan's last-second field goal and carved Appalachian State's name resoundly into the esteemed scrolls of The Unlikeliests, and unleashed a pox that year upon college football's upper crust to nearly all fall to spry inferiors as forcefullyly as they had risen, like dictators in Africa?

It's the gash that keeps on gushing, so it seems. Last Wednesday -- despite all the this one matters only for them and not us placebos given -- managed to hurt, well...like a motherfucker, truthfully. It's Mexico, after all. So deep had the wounds felt, they managed to suffocate an altogether joyous announcement, and perhaps too what would have been a modest sedative.

D'you hear that? You could've very well missed it, for it's rather difficult to discern the ends from the beginnings in the sport anymore. But with something between a bang and a whimper, English football kicked off this here fine weekend. The epic baritone voice in the previews this summer has been telling a familiar tale of an upstart few barnstorming the in-crowd and demanding themselves one of the so-privileged -- like Heathers, but in T90s, two-footed and studs up.

Well, here's some half-baked MLS ruminations, for no other reason other than I don't enjoy leaving this neglected for more than a weeks time, and that other League kicks off on Saturday, which will send America's wittle weague to the back of the bus. (Plus too the fact that I don't have a Twitter.

If it were up to Anheuser-Busch's Bud Light division -- department: Lime, specifically -- my summer wouldn't qualify as having even started yet, despite the calendar now reading August/Agosto. (I haven't brought one out, sadly. I'm presuming I won't by autumn, either, by which I'll have then denied myself a summer, which may or may not retard the space-time continuum.

Even if you didn't necessarily need it, it's definitely nice to be reminded of why exactly you chose to devote unscrupulous time, love, thought, and effort towards something so supplementary and perhaps even pointless, depending on your worldview. I'm afforded these moments almost daily on a wide-scale level with sports (see above picture), but as my mania is dominated around the (traditionally) white ball with a dozen black pentagons (and the brown grooved ball with black trim - probably more so), Chelsea-Inter at the Rose Bowl a turn of the moon ago was about as good a reminder as could possibly be received stateside.

Somewhere deep in Old Trafford's vitals. A trio of smart-suited suits wait in an office. A desk sitting near-dormant precedes a chair sitting well-vacant, all preceding a season now sitting all-too tenuous.
The office door opens. The ass to whom the chair's groove belongs enters. Cue: The Tipping Point.

I don't think I'll be treading any toes by suggesting that the past 12 months hasn't been the kindest to American soccer, on pretty much all its fronts. Our emissaries abroad in the big leagues have all regressed to varying degrees (minus probably and only Baby Bradley), even if it were ever the paltriest of declines.

This, at least in terms of the Galaxy, must be their Potsdam Declaration. The comparison is high-flown and a tad cliché, but I wonder if the next two weeks before Beckham Airlines touches down, for what'll probably be his last hurrah out Californee way (to play, mind you), there won't be just the slightest hint of equal parts dread and malaise sifting through LA's ashy streets, not unlike the assumed in Japan in early August, nineteen forty-and-five.

I won't say how many years I'd been provided or what substance I had been nepotistically coaxed into downing, but I can say that I sat intently through the whole happenstance, hoping it to reveal itself to be unfathomably true, too many damn parallels to refute. And yeah, Dorothy putting her hand to the Tin Man's chest whilst a heartbeat closes out Dark Side is a skosh bizarre, but I can point to another time years later where the apophenia was waaay more NO FUCKIN' WAY, DUDE and didn't involve going through the same album's motions thrice.

God damn, Mike...well, rest in peace. "Billie Jean" is, has been, and always will be hood as a son of a bitch.
Keepin' it relevant: meet the finest visual juxtaposition of "Michael Jackson" and "soccer" available.
Your jokes aren't necessary.
Also, in lieu of recent events, a comparison culled from a buddy.