The Return of El Niño? Chelsea Hopes So.

Over the span of a few years, Fernando Torres went from sporting a coiffure vaguely reminiscent of Paris Hilton to being almost as useless as Paris Hilton out on the pitch. After struggling to find his form during the first half of last Barclays Premier League campaign, Torres joined Chelsea in a blockbuster transfer in January and basically disappeared. When spotted, he was seen skulking at the fringes of matches, looking generally out-of-sorts and ineffective. So, shortly after news of a potential breakthrough in the D.B. Cooper case emerged, it seemed appropriate that there was a Fernando Torres sighting during the Blues match against Stoke City last Sunday. Though he failed to score, Torres created a chance, attempted four shots and consistently challenged the Potters back four. Perhaps more importantly, though, he just looked livelier. To wit, Torres received 51 passes before being subbed off in the 89th minute last Sunday. During the last two matches of the '10/'11 campaign, Torres had a total of only 54 passes received, with a listless performance against Newcastle standing out as particularly fallow. If this improved work rate is a sign of things to come--and not just a false dawn--Chelsea will add to their trophy cabinet this year.

Michael Carrick--Good . . . But Not Good Enough for United's European Ambitions

As chuffed as Manchester United supporters must have been to watch their club rally from two goals back to pip Manchester City 3-2 in the Community Shield, Sunday's performance still left at least one important question unanswered. How will United overhaul the likes of Barcelona and Real Madrid in Europe with Michael Carrick in the center of the pitch. Now, to be fair to Carrick, he's a quality player who endures a hellacious amount of stick from the chattering classes on the Internet and in the Twittersphere. Just because some of this criticism is unfair, though, doesn't mean all of it is undeserved. After all, it was Carrick who gifted possession to Yaya Toure before he rifled home the winner in the FA Cup semifinal. And it was Carrick who looked simply overmatched during the Champions League final, attempting a meager 38 passes and connecting on only about 83 percent of them before being mercifully substituted in the 76th minute. On Sunday, it was Carrick's long, diagonal pass that Nigel de Jong intercepted to start the build-up to City's second goal. The fault for that goal should not pinned exclusively on Carrick, but one cannot envision Paul Scholes conceding possession so cheaply under similar circumstances. At least towards the end of his United career, the intensely private Scholes jealously guarded the ball as if it were imprinted with his ATM PIN; Carrick, if he's to inherit Scholes mantle as United's deep-lying pass master, must do the same. Carrick's apologists often note that he has an impressive collection of Iberian admirers, as both Barca's Xavi Hernandez and Real's Xabi Alonso, have lavished the midfielder with praise. What Spain's X-Men have politely omitted from their respective paeans is that Carrick wouldn't crack the starting XI at either Barca or Real. Carrick is not world class, and, with him in the center of the park, neither is United.  

Copa America Time Machine

The Copa America wrapped up this weekend with a historic Uruguay victory. In some ways, though, it never really kicked off. Argentina and Brazil, the glamour sides and heavy favorites, sputtered to early exits. Lionel Messi failed to score for his country (again). And Paraguay managed to make the finals without actually winning a match (they drew all their group games and advanced on penalty kicks). Still, in spite of this, I enjoyed the tournament. The reason I kept tuning in to Univision's coverage, though, had little to do with the product on the pitch. No, my attraction to this year's Copa America was purely nostalgic. Just watching a match made me feel like I was 14-years-old again.

During the summer of 1990, my best friend/neighbor and I were looking forward to our freshman year of high school in southern Connecticut. We were also desperately looking for something to do. One day, after catching a Showcase Showdown on The Price is Right, we turned on Univision's coverage of the 1990 World Cup in Italy. Soon after, we were hooked.  Thanks to Sports Illustrated, we knew a couple of household names, but our ignorance didn't seem to matter. It was just so intoxicatingly different--the raucous atmosphere, the exotic, mononymous names and the language and style of the presentation. Not only did it give us the shock of the new, but also provided the thrill of the forbidden. Two kids who had yet to take a Spanish class had no business watching Univision, but it put us ahead of the curve. We felt like the only people that summer running around yelling "GOOOOOOL!!!!!"  Four years later, everyone and their brother would be aping Andres Cantor's famous call. In many ways, it was our introduction to the world: an epiphany that there were fascinating, foreign cultures about which we knew very little.  I'm not sure if I'll ever experience a feeling quite like that again.

We're no longer neighbors, but a little over two decades later, my friend was texting me throughout the Copa. Sure, he said, it's on YouTube, but he's watching Univision. I think I know why.

The Torres Experiment is Failing at Chelsea

Regardless of what happens during Chelsea's remaining Premier League fixtures, the first chapter of Roman Abramovich's Fernando Torres Experiment has to go down as an epic failure. As someone who had been scrounging for the positives in Torres play with the Blues (such as his passing ability, his header v Manchester United in the first leg of the Champions League tie and his good work with Yossi Benayoun v Wigan), his wholly anonymous and inert display in the second leg v United on Monday finally deep-sixed to my fading optimism. For most disinterested observers, only one conclusion can be drawn from the first half of Tuesday's capitulation--Fernando Torres is not the same talismanic presence he was for Liverpool and Spain from 2007-2009. In fact, he looks a completely different and vastly inferior player.
A couple of chalkboards (courtesy of the fantastic Total Football iPhone app) underscore just how ineffectual El Niño was on Monday.

Though Torres was playing in his preferred position as a solo striker, it can reasonably be argued that Torres' dearth of passes received during his 45-minute shift was down to poor service and Chelsea's overall lack of creativity in the center of the park.  However, it's notable that Drogba dropped into deeper, more central positions to get on the end of almost twice as many passes. Most importantly, his deft chest control at the end of Essien's assist (in yellow) is exactly the kind of skill and composure in front of goal that Torres has failed to demonstrate. One gets the feeling that if Torres was in the exact same position, he would have miscontrolled the pass or fluffed the shot. He doesn't just seem out-of-form; he seems like the victim of a alien abduction. Gone is pacy, explosive and ruthless striker who once terrorized the likes of Nemanja Vidić. In that player's place, is a sluggish, tentative simulacrum.

The chalkboard on the left speaks to the Torre's crisis of confidence. His one attempt to actually run at an opponent was a tame, unsuccessful effort in his own half. He just never looked like troubling United's back four, while Drogba was far more aggressive with the ball at his feet.
An Uncertain Future
The danger of any transfer for or free agent acquisition of a struggling superstar in any sport is that the acquiring team is actually paying for the player whom they remember rather than the player who currently exists. Abramovich, envision as the oligarch from the DirecTV commercials who I now reflexively envision as the oligarch from the DirecTV commercials, clearly paid for a player who he fondly remembered skinning Premier League defenders to the tune of 56 goals from 2007-10, rather than the guy who looked indifferent and aimless at times for Liverpool this season. It's possible that Torres could recover his world class form, but it's possible that he might not. If he doesn't, Chelsea will need a manager with a personality big enough to finally abort the Torres Experiment.

Post-Balotelli, Will Clubs Learn that Mad Genius Often Fails?

The latest Mario Balotelli implosion during Manchester City's ultimately futile Europa League victory over Dynamo Kyiv begs the question of when European soccer clubs will come to a realization that dawned on American sports franchises long ago--the benefit of phenomenal but volatile talent is often not worth the considerable cost. Granted, given that Balotelli couldn't quite make out how to put on his training bib during the pre-match warm-up of the fateful match, "genius" seems an inapt description. Not to infer that Balotelli is the only Premier League player who isn't a Mensa member; indeed, perhaps the most damning indictment of the intelligence of the modern footballer is that they often make boorish "pundits" like ESPN's Robbie Savage look positively clever in comparison. However, Balotelli stands out because while his physical gifts and natural skills are undeniably world class, his mental make-up falls somewhere between the schoolboy and Sunday pub league level.

Balotelli's Priors

And obviously, this isn't the first time the red mist has descended on the wilful Mario, as this epic display of petulance that occurred after his Inter Milan recorded a famous 3-1 victory over Barcelona at the San Siro last year can attest. His gesticulations both during and after the match were a response to a chorus of whistles that greeted an ambitious, wayward volley. To be fair, the tempestuous relationship between Balotelli, who was born in Italy to Ghanaian parents, and some of Inter's fan base has been complicated by rampant allegations of racism directed at him by Inter's ultras. Sadly, there's likely an element of truth to the claims that Balotelli was unfairly vilified by a bigoted segment of the club's support; on the other hand, he didn't exactly ingratiate himself to the rest of Inter's fans when he was duped into pulling on an AC Milan shirt on Italian television. There's absolutely no excuse for racism of any stripe, but when you play for Inter and you admit that AC Milan is your favorite club--another Balotelli faux pas--all bets are off. This obsession with loyalty isn't confined to soccer hooligans, either. For example, if New York Yankee phenom Jesus Montero admitted that the Boston Red Sox were actually his favorite baseball team, the reception he would receive at Yankee Stadium would likely be so obscene that the game's telecast would have to be rated NC-17. Ultimately, Balotelli's actions both on and off the pitch, suggest that Super Mario, while immensely talented, is a naïve, narcissistic and emotionally immature kid.

A Bad Bit of Business

Given the copious evidence of Balotelli's personality issues, it boggled the mind when City bid against themselves and splashed £24 million to rescue him for Inter last year, especially during a transfer season that saw Rafael van der Vaart and Javier Hernandez sold for fees reportedly under £10 million. Sure Balotelli's former and current manager, Roberto Mancini, has been able to coax 10 goals from the mercurial striker this season, but those have come against decidedly mediocre (at best) opposition (4 v Aston Villa; 1 v Fulham; 2 v West Brom; 2 v Salzburg and 1 v Timisoara). And with one of the biggest matches of the campaign approaching, Mancini will likely drop the wunderkind for cooler heads against Chelsea, tacitly admitting that the occasion is, at the moment, just too big for the player. If this happens, City fans are well within their rights to ask if a slew of goals against Villa and West Brom is the optimal return for £24 million. Couldn't Daniel Sturridge have provided that kind of production for a transfer fee of zero? In three years, the papers might be rife with stories about Balotelli finally fulfilling his vast potential, but he won't do so with City, who will likely have to sell him at a steep loss, most likely to AC Milan. My advice for the Rossoneri is simple--buyer beware.

Red Flags Mean Red Cards

American sports franchises--especially those in leagues, like the NFL, with salary caps--have been burnt by the seductive allure of mad genius before and have tried to develop mechanisms to minimize the risk of wedding themselves to a potential basket case. Specifically, the NFL administers the Wonderlic Cognitive Ability Test to and allows teams to conduct interviews with potential draftees at its scouting combine, all designed to allow franchises to understand the mental capacity of their future employees. Naturally, it doesn't always work (see Leaf, Ryan). Sometimes, you miss the red flags and end up with a lemon even after kick the tires. Nevertheless, in the NFL, there's at least the recognition of the possibility that a player's attitude or character could be so detrimental to a team that the harm he can do could actually supersede the value he can add on the field. Some players are literally more trouble than they're worth. Right now, Balotelli is one of those players. He should also serve as yet another admonition to transfer market buyers that a slew of impressive goals on YouTube and a din of hype does not a £24 million player make. Once the FIFA Fair Play rules actually start to bite, clubs that disregard this kind of fiscal prudence will do so at their own peril. So, in preparation for those regulations, you have to wonder if European clubs will ask to do a due diligence mental check on transfer targets to make sure they don't get saddled with the next Balotelli. After seeing his most recent meltdown, who can blame them.

If There's No NFL This Fall, You Could Always Watch . . . Football

It strains credulity to think that on the day after the Tohoku earthquake put Japan on the precipice of an actual nuclear meltdown, Peter King thought it appropriate to use the term "nuclear winter" to describe the NFL lockout, but it's symptomatic of the kind of journalistic hyperbole that will accompany the labor stoppage. Indeed, what on earth will the American people do if there's no NFL season this year? Will the yawning maw of hell not open and swallow us all? Well, in the event that it doesn't, we can consider watching that Other Football--the one we call "soccer." Before you go all Jim Duggan on me, please note that I like the NFL as much (and probably more than) the next American guy. Then, at least consider these five reasons why soccer might not be a bad surrogate for the NFL this fall.

1. Fewer commercials--No, actually MUCH fewer commercials. Considering there are only commercials at halftime (and not, say, after every goal or kickoff or corner kick), watching a soccer match on television doesn't make one feel as if they are enduring a brainwashing experiment bankrolled by a Coors, Subway, the fast food industry and various Big Pharma conglomerates. You will not see a Silver Bullet train materialize out of thin air to the theme of the O'Jay's "Love Train" eight times in an afternoon and feel your will to live slowly slip away. You'll also miss the same company's attempts to try to convince you that you need a specially designed label to tell you that their product is, in fact, cold. Honestly, this might be reason enough to watch a soccer match.

2. Many of the players on opposing clubs still really don't like each other--In the post-lockout NFL, the profound sense of unity and camaraderie that already binds the players will only be strengthened by a protracted struggle against ownership. And while this is great for union solidarity, when it comes to competition, I tend to prefer what the state of Georgia calls "clean, old fashioned hate." Soccer offers plenty of that, along with a fair bit of hate that is not clean at all, but just plain bigoted and sad. Nevertheless, the passion and atmosphere that is generated by the cocktail of historical tensions (whether they be sectarian, regional, political, socioeconomic or a witches brew of all of these) that simmer just below the surface of soccer's greatest derbies and rivalries is often channeled through the crowd to the actual players with spectacular results (for recent examples, see Celtic v Rangers or Roma v Lazio). There is rarely any professional courtesy on derby day. And for someone who, like me, prefers a post-game bust-up to a prayer group, there's nothing wrong with that.

3. The tabloidish off-the-pitch hijinks of a typical large club's players and their WAGS (wives and girlfriends) can make the cast of the Jersey Shore look like the BYU Ping Pong Club--Whoever says the NFL is the best reality show on television isn't familiar with the English National Team--a media-fueled cavalcade of cupidity and crassness whose recent ability to disappoint, infuriate and fascinate an entire nation is beyond compare. The hedonistic exploits of that lot are literally too numerous to recount here, so, instead, I'll only mention the curious case of then 25-year-old Romanian striker named Adrian Mutu. While playing for the English Premier League's Chelsea F.C., Mutu, sometimes known as the Prince of the Carpathians, tested positive for cocaine. It then became clear, thanks to the inimitable Sun, that blow may have been the least interesting thing he was doing. As it turned out, Mutu, who was alleged to have often consulted gypsies, had supposedly participated in orgies with Transylvanian porn stars during which he drank their blood. Now that's a brand of "#winning" that could make Charlie Sheen blush. Suddenly, those tweets from Chad Ochocinco don't seem all that interesting after all.

4. The matches are relatively short--Due in large part to the absence of commercials about erectile dysfunction and five dollar foot-longs, matches are over in a little under 2 hours (i.e., the amount of time it usually takes Phil Simms to say something even remotely interesting).

5. The footballs are not mutually exclusive--If you end up sampling the Beautiful Game and enjoying it, you need not quit cold turkey once the NFL returns. Conveniently, Sunday's matches will wrap up right before 1 PM EST, allowing you time to consult your beer's label to make sure it's as cold as the Rockies right before the early games kickoff.

Same Old Arsenal--Are the Gunners Morphing into the Pre-2004 Boston Red Sox?

The agony and ecstasy of today's Carling Cup Final reminded us that professional sports, no matter how irritating and infantile they often seem, can still produce drama that no Oscar-nominated performance can hope to replicate. It also reminded us that, despite their recent famous 2-1 victory over Barcelona in the UEFA Champions League earlier this month, Arsenal still lack the so-called "killer instinct" necessary to add to a trophy cabinet that hasn't been opened in nearly six years.

Maybe John Henry Bought the Wrong Red Club

It's difficult to overstate just how maddening this defeat will be for Arsenal and their supporters. Though Arsene Wenger once perceived the Carling Cup as little more than an opportunity to blood some of the academy's youngest talent, the Gunners were clearly aiming at it this year, hoping some long overdue silverware would sate fans and silence some critics. Not only was the Carling Cup no longer below their station, they actually needed it. In fact, they were the only club that needed to win it. To lose it in such tragicomic fashion is a cruel blow of Bucknerian proportions.

I drop the gratuitous Bucker reference here not just because I'm a Yankees fan and spring training is upon us. No, I do it because in Arsenal's Carling collapse, I detected the same grim inevitability that "cursed" the Boston Red Sox, owned by the same John W. Henry who's in charged at Liverpool, before their improbable World Series win in 2004. Though Birmingham City's tactics were reasonably effective for most of the first sixty minutes or so, Arsenal's class gradually started to tell and Ben Foster began to resemble Sonny in the tollbooth scene of The Godfather. Sure, if they didn't score in regular time, they risked the lottery of penalty kicks, but most people would have put their money on Arsenal breaking through in extra time (kind of like the similarly passtastic Spain in last year's World Cup Final). And yet, even though they were bossing the match, I couldn't help but feel that somehow, some way Arsenal was going to find a way to lose. That's pretty much the way I felt about the Sox when Aaron Boone kicked Red Sox Nation in the proverbial junk in Game 7 of the ALCS. How Henry and the Red Sox reacted to that spectacular disappointment helped chart the course to two World Series championships over the following three seasons (and a team that, much to my chagrin, should be a prohibitive favorite this year). Though they dumped their unheralded manager--who, unlike Wenger, wielded little influence within the organization--they didn't hit the panic button and their patience paid off handsomely. Will Arsenal do the same? Now, Arsenal's barren patch cannot compare to the Sox's 86-year drought, but when you play in the Information Age and in a league in which you are one of four clubs that have a legitimate chance to win, six years can seem an awfully long time.

Arsenal have been accused of lacking a lot of things--a leader on the pitch, an adequate goal keeper and a killer instinct, of course--but it seems to have patience in abundance. You have to wonder if that may change as the club's board and supporters tire of the same old Arsenal.