Chelsea's Narrow Escape v the Canaries--Not Much from Torres, Too Little Caution from Lambert

When I wrote this about Fernando Torres’ industrious performance against Stoke City, I carved out the possibility that his form on that day could be a kind of dead cat bounce for a terminally declining player.  His play in the following two matches (v West Bromwich Albion and Norwich City) suggests that might be the case.  Distressingly, it seems Torres might be turtling back into the shell he occupied for large stretches of last season.  As the chalkboards below indicate, Torres’ passes received have dramatically fallen off since he had 51 against Stoke on the opening weekend.  And while he had 9 take-ons against Stoke and 10 versus WBA, he had a measly 2 (both lost) last BPL weekend.  And it’s not just the stats that tell the story here, as anyone who’s watched Torres play for Chelsea will attest.  Particularly, there was a moment in the 21^st minute of the Norwich City match, when, having been played in by a nice slide-rule pass from Florent Malouda, Torres decided to cut back at the edge of the box and try to find Drogba with a pass rather than try to beat Ritche De Laet for pace.  Though he nearly created a chance, this, for me, was a telling moment.  Where, exactly, is the player who used to smoke Nemanja Vidic (never mind perennial United loanee De Laet) and score goals for fun against the Red Devils?  Or how about the guy  whose blazing speed helped him score the winner in the final of the 2008 European Championships?  Sadly, I think the answer is becoming clear.  That player, like those £50M, may be gone forever.

Paul Lambert was apparently pretty frosted at what he deemed to be the excessive exuberance displayed by some Chelsea staff after Ramirez won a penalty that ultimately lead to Frank Lampard’s match-winning goal.  Really, the nerve of these continentals and their emotions.  A look at how Norwich was positioned after equalizing, though, suggests Lambert should mostly be angry with himself.  As the Chalkboard below indicates, Norwich maintained a high and narrow defensive line in the period after Holt evened the score.  This unbalanced 1-8-1 seems like a particularly odd tactic for a recently promoted club who was well-positioned to leave Stamford Bridge with a point.  What is more, it allowed Chelsea to attack from the wings and beat them on the counterattack, which they did in the build-up to Ramirez’s penalty-winning run into the box.  Rather than play for the point, Lambert seemed to want to kick-on and win the match.  It’s admirable when smaller clubs don’t park the bus, but sometimes discretion is the better part of, well, you know.  Lambert got greedy and got burned.

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.

The Loewdown on US Soccer's Superstar Gaffer

Finally, in Jürgen Klinsmann, the United States Men's National Team has its superstar.  Granted, he'll be on the touchline instead of the pitch, but, right now, Sunil Gulati, the president of the United States Soccer Federation, will gladly take it.  In his pomp, Klinsmann was a world-class goal-getter who plied his trade around Europe and netted 47 international goals in German colors.  His credentials as a player are impeccable.  His credentials as a manager, on the other hand, are less clear.

Klinsmann took his first managerial post in 2004, helming an unfancied German Man's National Team that seemed in danger of embarrassing itself as host of the upcoming World Cup.  Combining the ruthlessness he exhibited as a striker (in demoting the imperious Bayern goal keeper Oliver Kahn in favor the eccentric Jens Lehmann) with some New Age coaching methods (like the extensive use of a sports psychologist) that seemed to coax match-winning performances from supposed has-beens like Lukas Podolski, Klinsmann took Die Mannschaft on a fairytale run to the quarterfinals. Along the way, he also managed to restore the reputation of football in Deutschland and awaken a latent and relatively benign strain of German nationalism. He and his nattily clad assistant, Joachim Loew, were national heroes. Not a bad start, really.

Perhaps sensing that the sequel couldn't possibly live up to expectations, Klinsmann opted not to renew his contract with Germany shortly after the World Cup. Loew, who many theorized was the power behind Klinsmann's throne, has seamlessly assumed command and led Germany, now ranked third in FIFA's world rankings, to impressive performances at the 2008 European Championships and 2010 World Cup. Klinsmann, on the other hand, has struggled to build upon his sensational early success. Two years after leaving Germany, Klinsmann was handed the keys to the Bundesliga's most iconic, finely tuned machine--Bayern Munich--but Klinsmann's Left Coast Zen never quite jibed with the prestigious Bavarian club's more buttoned-down culture. With five matches remaining and Bayern 3 points off the top of the table, Klinsmann resigned. He hasn't worked as a manager since. 

Since their amicable separation in 2006, Loew has been the Paul Simon to Klinsmann's Art Garfunkel. With the USMNT listing towards regression after a disappointing Gold Cup, US soccer is hoping he can rediscover his mojo. Troubled water lies ahead. 

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 Tao of Penalty Kicks--PKs Just Are . . . So Deal With It

Thanks to the Twitterverse, public bellyaching about the injustice of using penalty kicks to decide a tournament began only minutes after the United States Women's National Team lost the Women's World Cup to Japan.  By the end of today, I expect all the usual tropes to be trotted out, such as "It's like using a home run derby to decide a baseball game!" or "Having a free-throw contest determine the NCAA Finals!"  Actually, it's not like these things at all.  The most appropriate analogy to major American sports is the use of penalty shots as a tie-breaker for hockey games, which, of course, the NHL now does throughout the regular season.  Granted, during the NHL playoffs, this tie-breaker is scrapped because a series format is used, unlike the one-off, knock-out tournament approach used in World Cups.  Now, we can debate the merits of overtime or a three-match series approach versus penalty kicks ad infinitum, but, the truth is, that would be a colossal waste of time.  Penalty kicks are not going anywhere.  As any footy fan vaguely familiar with the opaque and corrupt machinations of soccer's governing body, FIFA, could tell you, reform is not something that concerns the bureaucratic Illuminati of international soccer.  So, we can bemoan the justness of penalty kicks, but that would be about as productive as grousing about the shape of the letter "F."  Penalty kicks just are.  They are not fair.  But, ultimately, they are what you make them--an unforgettably dramatic way to win (see Brandi Chastain in 1999) or a cruel, gut-wrenching way to lose.