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.

A Look Back at the Meaning of UConn's Pyrrhic Victory

Now that about a week has passed since the UConn Huskies won The Worst NCAA Basketball Final Ever, I figure I have enough perspective to look back and try to address the question of whether someone who, like me, has been a fan of men's college basketball for almost three decades, should derive any joy from watching their alma mater win a game that basically bombed college basketball back to the Stone Age. Without hesitation, I have to say the answer is unequivocally "Yes." And the reasoning is simple. It's much better to win The Worst NCAA Basketball Final Ever than it is to lose The Worst NCAA Basketball Final Ever. Just ask Butler. 


Granted, that doesn't mean that I actually enjoyed watching the game. In fact, as someone who has long appreciated not just March Madness, but also the long slog of the regular season, Monday's re-enactment of Bill Laimbeer's Combat Basketball was a sad and shambolic reminder of just how far the state of men's college basketball has fallen since the introduction of the NBA's "one-and-done rule" in 2005. The merits of "one-and-done"--which states that high school players must be 19-years-old as of the end of the calendar year of the NBA Draft and one year removed from their high school graduation to be eligible for selection--have been debated ad infinitum, but the argument UConn and, especially, Butler made last Monday is almost irrefutable. During the telecast, NBC's usually anodyne Clark Kellogg noted repeatedly that the teams' performances were "inexplicable," but the elephant in the room was that there was, in fact, an obvious explanation for Monday's travesty--over the last couple of years, the quality of college basketball has generally been pretty poor, and it's getting progressively worse. That's why Butler, a team that won ugly throughout the whole tournament, got as far as they did. It's not that the Bulldogs didn't deserve to be there, they probably did (thanks to a truly farcical ending to the Pitt game). And therein lies the problem.


The Rise of the Mediocre Mid-Major


As Charles Barkley opined during Monday's post-game show, this won't be the last time we see schools of Butler's ilk in the Final Four. What he didn't add is that well-coached, veteran teams comprised of NBDL-level talent will soon be able to compete with the traditional powers from the "major" conferences that are still fielding a collection of highly-touted strangers who have been recruited for a one- or two-year layover in college ball. This paradigm shift greatly advantages the mid-majors who don't bother trolling for McDonald's All-Americans with the likes of John Calipari. Rather than take Calipari's day-trading approach of trying to annually restock a program with lottery picks, the mid-majors can take a more conservative, recruit-and-hold approach. The gamble small schools are willing to take is that four years down the road in March, no-names who've played 100 games together will be able to give blue-chippers that have only played 35 a run for their money.


If it Ain't Broke


The problem with this kind of parity is that it's fundamentally regressive. Mid-majors aren't ascending to the major's level of play; instead, the majors are backsliding to mediocrity. The tournament, as a contest, is more competitive, but the quality of the contest itself is suffering. Most people, though, don't really seem to care, as the tournament's record-breaking ratings suggest. Now that March Madness is a cultural meme that has introduced terms like "buzzer beater" and "bracket buster" into the national lexicon, its sheer drama will continue to generate impressive Nielsen ratings. That's why it seems unlikely that there's going to be a big push from the NCAA to undo the one-and-done rule. And I guess that's good news for UConn and Butler, because given the direction college basketball is heading in, this won't The Worst NCAA Basketball Final Ever for too long.

Birth of a Husky Nation--Five Moments that Define Connecticut's Obsession with UConn Men's Basketball

I have to admit that I’m inclined to snigger whenever I see the stadium of a SEC football factory teaming with fans who I’m inclined to believe have absolutely no personal affiliation with the school other than a shared state of domicile. It’s one of the most shameless forms of what Kurt Vonnegut called “granfalloon.” Naturally, as a Connecticut native, when it comes to UConn men’s college basketball, I tend to look right past this inconvenient truth. In other words, I’m a pretty big hypocrite.


Granted, I actually graduated from UConn Law, but I have plenty of friends whose only experience with the state university is a lost weekend at Storrs sometime in the late Nineties and that doesn’t stop them for shouting themselves hoarse when the Huskies are on television this time of year. And if I’m honest, I was a UConn hoops fan long before I made the mistake of going to law school, so I’m not any better. Really, I’m not a fan because I went to law school there; I’m a fan in spite of the fact that I went to law school there. It’s pathetic, I know, but you have to realize that as a kid growing up in The Constitution State during the late-Eighties, there wasn’t much going on. The Hartford Whalers were laughable, the Yankees, save Don Mattingly, irrelevant and the Internet nonesistent. If you were Gen-Xer without a driver’s license, you’re options were limited because, eventually, even Mike Tyson’s Punch-Out!! got old. And I don’t think the situation was too much rosier for adults. After all, much of Connecticut was a giant bedroom community marooned between New York City and Boston. On its own, the state was a cipher, affluent but anodyne, and in desperate need of a collective identity.

Enter the Huskies

Mercifully, that began to change a little more than 20 years ago during the 1989-90 “Dream Season,” a campaign that initiated one of the most dramatic and improbable transformations of a NCAA Division I athletic program in what we might call the “ESPN Era.” In honor of the program’s ascension and this current squad’s Final Four appearance, I’ve given some thought to my top 5 UConn men’s basketball memories, so, in chronological order, here’s what I’ve come up with:

1)     UConn 70 Georgetown 65 Big East Regular Season (January 20, 1990)—While UConn had won of NIT the preceding season, I had the feeling that most people figured that was a good as it was going to get. They were just satisfied that somebody from Connecticut had won something. The prospect of actually dislodging the real beasts of the Big East, like Georgetown, Syracuse, Villanova, St. John’s and even Seton Hall, simply wasn’t realistic. On this night, though, while watching this game with a group of classmates at a friend’s fourteenth birthday party, you could sense things might be beginning to change. We were all sitting there, just waiting for the Hoyas, who were undefeated and ranked second at the time, to make a run and overwhelm the unranked, upstart Huskies. They never did, and UConn celebrated a famous victory.

2)     UConn 71, Clemson 70 NCAA Tournament regional semifinal East Rutherford, N.J. (March 22, 1990)—A friend’s father had just dropped me off at home after basketball practice.  We had been listening on the radio, and I literally sprinted from the car to my parent’s door to make sure I didn’t miss anything. While I barged through the door, I asked my father what happened. “They lost,” he said, walking upstairs. I didn’t respond until I got in front of the screen. Then, relieved, I shouted “No, there’s still one second left.” He didn’t respond. Then I watched this happen:

I didn’t know how to react; I was as shocked as Elgin Campbell (2:16). Without taking my eyes off the screen, I just yelled, “They WON.”

3)     Duke 79, UConn 78 (OT) NCAA Tournament regional final East Rutherford, N.J. (March 24, 1990)—This time, it was a basketball game—rather than a practice—that kept me from watching most of this Elite Eight classic. Right around halftime of my game, somebody who had been listening to UConn in their car came into our middle school’s gymnasium and reported the score to someone sitting in the stands. Soon, the entire crowd was abuzz. Sensing the urgency of the situation, the referees suggested we take an impromptu time-out to try to catch the end of the game that really mattered. And so, all the sweaty players and most of the anxious crowd repaired to the school’s library, where someone had manipulated the rabbit ears on an old RCA so that CBS’s snowy picture gradually came into focus. As someone who had been watching (and hating) Duke since 1985, I just knew Christian Laettner and his floppy, pretty boy bowl cut were going to do this (at 2:18):

Cruelly, just like that, the Dream Season was over. I swore under my breath, and we went back to finish our game. I don’t remember who won; I don’t think too many people cared.

4)     UConn 75, Washington 74 NCAA Tournament regional semifinal Greensboro, N.C. (March , 1998)—My college friends (most of whom were not UConn fans) and I watched entirely too much college basketball, and all of us were sure that this talented UConn squad was going to win this match-up handily. Washington, though, just refused to go away, and, with 10 seconds left, somehow found themselves in the lead. Still, I was irrationally confident that UConn were going to find a way to win. That is, I felt that way until a Jake Voskul's shot rimmed out excruciatingly with 6 seconds left. What followed next was a communal experience that couldn’t have been more antithetical to the one Laettner inflicted upon me eight years earlier. Amid a hail of indignation and expletives, we watched Rip Hamilton chase down a rebound and do this:

A minute later, we were still going nuts and still swearing, but for an entirely different reason. I'm pretty sure people waste their time watching sports for moments like this.
  

5)   UConn 77, Duke 74 NCAA Tournament championship game St. Petersburg, Fla. (March 29, 1999)--The state of Connecticut couldn't have scripted a more satisfying way to win their first NCAA men's basketball championship. To do it in such dramatic fashion against a perennial angstgegner felt like a realization of the Dream Season Laettner deferred nine years earlier. While watching the wild celebration that accompanied the final buzzer, I couldn't help but think back to a night in January nine years before when a bunch of kids watched an unranked Uconn take down the mighty Hoyas.


Like any 20-year relationship, there's been some speed bumps in the state's love affair with this team, and, as recent NCAA sanctions suggest, UConn lost Cinderella's glass slipper long ago. Still, if Husky Nation tends to look the other way when the dark side of the program is revealed, I can sympathize. It's not right, but a state that was teased by the New England Patriots and betrayed by the Whalers is always going to give the program that has given them something to cheer about for over two decades a second chance.

Massachusetts--The Commonwealth of Dietrologia

Last week, the addictive Schott's Vocab blog on the New York Times website touted one of my favorite foreign words--"dietrologia." Sometimes translated as "behindology" or "behind-the-scenes-ology," dietrologia is eloquently explained by John Foot in his Winning at All Costs: A Scandalous History of Italian Football as "a science of all-encompassing conspiracy theories, where every event is explained with reference to the machinations of powerful, unseen forces." The reason why I've always like this term is that I've never come across a phrase that so succinctly captures the way many Massachusetts voters perceive their workings of their supposedly hack-infested state government. Indeed, the idea of dietrologia is the bedrock on which the idea of "Hacksachusetts" is built. Essentially, in Massachusetts, dietrologia can function as a kind of political Theory of Everything that is capable of explaining virtually every political appointment, nomination, policy, appropriation or hire. The beauty of this kind of thinking, as Foot noted, is that its "explanations are rarely proved right or wrong and here lies the source of its power." Of course, the instances when dietrologia is proved right--like Italian soccer's quasi-match-fixing calciopoli scandal and the patronage fiasco at Massachusetts's Probate Department--only redouble the strength of its grip on the popular imagination.

And, as the local Massachusetts' media recognized long ago, dietrologia isn't just a mindset, it's a moneymaker. The Boston Herald's Howie Carr, The Boston Globe's Spotlight Team and FOX25, all scramble for scoops that expose the tangled web of public corruption that supposedly underlies even the most mundane details of everyday life. In the Bay State, dietrologia endures because while it may not always be right, it's usually pretty entertaining and, compared to other noxious conspiracy theories (e.g., the 9/11 Truth Movement), it's relatively innocuous. It's just more interesting to believe that the real reason a judicial appointee got the nod was because he is the nephew of the Governor's former driver, not because he was a highly qualified candidate. And, who knows, it might also be true. Ultimately, dietrologia is a guilty pleasure that can be spun by its purveyors as hard, investigative journalism. That's why dietrologia is going to be with us for a long time. It's a word every Massachusetts resident should know.

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.

Charlie Sheen is Gone--Let's Get James Spader Up in the Bullpen

Every time I see a story about a recent performance of Charlie Sheen's One Man Traveling Circus, I can't help but think of the scene in Ghostbusters when Dan Ackroyd's character, Ray Stantz, is rambling on after invoking the Stay Puft Marshmellow Man. Hearing his partner go to pieces, Bill Murray's Peter Venkman dryly notes, "Ray has gone bye-bye . . . ."  Charlie, too, has gone bye-bye.  And while I'm by no means a fan of Two and a Half Men, I can't help but find this situation interesting simply because it leaves the show's creators with one of the most perplexing of all Hollywood riddles.  How does one replace the true star of the show?  Here's a clue--the answer is not "John Stamos."


No, Jesse from Full House is never going to be the answer, but, to be fair to Stamos, there probably isn't a viable long-term replacement for Sheen.  And that's why I hope that the producers just take the cynical approach and try to find someone who could just help carry the show for a season or two (see Jon Lovits replacing Phil Hartman on News Radio under, obviously, much different circumstances).

Calling James Spader

Ok, I understand the reasons why this cannot possibly work, with the primary reason being that Spader is not really a comic actor. However, in terms of chemistry, I don't think Jon Cryer and Sheen, in all their seasons on Two and a Half Men, have produced anything even approaching this scene from Pretty in Pink. There are just so many things to like in that clip. That feathered hair. That bitchin' (and blousy) white suit. That slouched, I-don't-give-a-f--k shuffle. I don't think you can beat that. As badass as Charlie Sheen thinks he is right now, he's not even in the same league as Spader's Steff.

But it's not just the Steff-Duckie dynamic that would make this such a fun watch. As his turns as the obnoxious Steff and truly evil Rip from Less Than Zero demonstrate, Spader was a master at channeling the dark side of the spoiled, Gen-X rich kid. I'm pretty sure he would be similarly adept at portraying those same douche bags as they enter middle age. Wouldn't it be great to see how Steff is making out today? Probably much better than he deserves. I could just see him as a twice-divorced, Silicon Valley-based venture capitalist who summers on Nantucket, has his pilot's license, wears a scarf in the summer and rocks Façonnable shirts. Can't someone make this work for a least a couple of episodes? As great as this could be, I'm not getting my hopes up. I'm sure the chances of this happening are, well, nah-dah.