That was a fucking nightmare. Liverpool, arguably the hottest team in Europe played like leprous chimps today at home against Chelsea, a team they had already beat twice this year. They are fucked. To advance to the next round, they have to score a minimum of 3 goals on Chelsea’s home field next week. That’s, uh, not gonna happen.
In most of the American sports I watch, momentum counts for something. In baseball and football, the best team doesn’t win the World Series or the Super Bowl — the team that elevates their game at the end of the season when everything counts wins. And of course, there’s the element of luck.
That’s why my 2006 Cardinals, who went 83-78 during the regular season and nearly pulled off a Mets-like collapse to end the season became the worst team to ever win the World Series.
Liverpool came out fast and confidently, riding that momentum, scoring quickly and dominating play for about 20 minutes. And then? They sucked for the rest of the match, putting up a laughingstock effort. All of a sudden the defense was gone, Steven Gerrard looked hungover. Oh, fuck the analysis. They sucked.
I went for a walk. I needed nicotine and cancer. And on the way I did something I’ve never done before in my life — I walked into a bar and ordered a shot. Normally I would walk into a liquor store and buy the whole pint, and right now I’d be regalling you with misspelt words and fancy new euphemisms for getting fucked up the ass.
But tonight, I slumped into the Cherry Tavern, the neighborhood dive. The last time I was in this bar, I got punched in the face by an Irishman for whom I’d just bought a shot and a beer. (Full disclosure: I was mocking him.)
I saw the waif-y 22-year old bartender walk towards me, and I swear I saw a hesitation in her step when she saw the look in my eyes.
Conversation:
Me: Hi. I need a shot of Jameson’s.
Her: Ok.
Me: It’s been a rough night. (Unspoken: My team Liverpool just got thong-raped by Chelsea.)
Her: (pours the shot, starts to put the bottle back)
Me: Thanks. Uh, don’t put the bottle back just yet. (Are you listening to my fucking brainwaves??) I’m gonna have one more.
Her: (deer in headlights look) Do you come here often?
Me: (stupid tramp. quit trying to impress me with your crap dye-job and and pour the fucking shot.
Me: Yeah, I live right up the street. I’ll take another. <Gulp>
As I walked up the street, I realized I had spent the last of my cash on way too little whiskey, and had to head up to an ATM for cash for the cigarettes. I wanted to hip-check one of those stupid minivan cabs on my way. Fucking dumbshit American crap cars painted dipshit yellow.
Liverpool was playing *great* over the last few weeks. Chelsea was doing better, but still pretty flat.
Oh, by the way, how did Liverpool manager Rafa Benitez (formerly featured here in the Penalty Box) prepare his squad for this match? By pulling the same dumb shit he did earlier this year and talking trash in the press against Sir Alex Ferguson and Manchester United, a squad they were already likely not to face again this year, and now are certainly not facing again.
Rafa, what is your fucking problem? Every time your team starts to play well you make it all about you and lose the fucking task at hand. Sew your fucking jaw shut, you ignorant dumbfuck, and perhaps consider motivating your team for the 8-10 matches you have coming up against teams other than Manchester United. You fucking media suck-artist. Lie your enormous air-sucking face down on the pitch and let the entire Premier League drive their spikes into your jaw in the hopes that they can wire that shit shut. You just signed a 5-year contract which means I’m going to be 40 before my team has a chance to win any trophy. I hope Pete Townshend gets you into kiddie porn.
Whatever. I have a hangover I need to work on.
I'm Keith Hernandez! 