Elizabeth Warren and the CILF Test

Last week, Elizabeth Warren launched a Senate exploratory committee to begin raising money for a possible 2012 attempt to wrest Ted Kennedy's old seat from Massachusetts Republican Scott Brown. Right now, I don't like her chances. And here's why--Elizabeth Warren looks like this.

In other words, Elizabeth Warren, despite all her impressive academic and professional qualifications, fails the Candidate I'd Like to F*ck (CILF) Test. Now, I don't mean that literally, and I'm not inferring that guys who voted for, say, Mitt Romney, in the last primary did so because they wanted to have sex with him (though that's an interesting theory).  No, I'm really using the CILF Test as a benchmark to evaluate if a candidate projects the sleek, prepossessing image that America expects from its aspiring politicians.

The CILF Test doesn't apply to old warhorses like John McCain or Rosa DeLauro. But, if you're an aspiring politician, it helps to look more like Scott Brown than Meg Whitman. Similarly, while veteran news anchors can look like old, leathery handbags, rookie newsreaders should appear as if they've just retired from the pageant circuit. Though none of this terribly superficial stuff should matter, it, of course, does. Just as the professorial Warren was forming her exploratory committee, Slate.com released a piece on what Google search terms were associated with various Republican presidential candidates. For Michele Bachman, who has more or less officially been anointed as "photogenic" by the popular press, "hot" and "bikini" were especially popular; while, for Romney, "hair" was unsurprisingly near the top of the list. When I Googled "Elizabeth Warren," terms like "harvard" and "books" popped up. Yawn. At the risk of sounding unkind, another term that comes to mind when I see photos of Warren is "great personality." If she hits the campaign trail, I hope she has one. She's going to need more than just her good looks to win back Ted's seat.

Is this a candidate you'd like to . . . well, you know?
That's what I thought.

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.  

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. 

Farewell to "The Legend" . . . Not So Much--The End of the Roy Williams Era In Dallas

In 2009, during the Dallas Cowboys 17-7 loss to the Green Bay Packers, Tony Romo overthrew a deep out to Roy Williams along the sideline.  He didn’t overthrow it by much, as I’m pretty sure it grazed off Williams’ outstretched hands before landing harmlessly out of bounds.  For me, what happened next defined Roy William’s tenure in Big D.  He looked back at Romo, and holding his hands in the pass-catching triangle shape, moved them down over his chest.  It’s was almost as if he was saying, “Hey, I know I’m 6’-3’’ and have hands the size of stop signs, but, if you want me to catch a pass, you really need to put it right here between the numbers.  Otherwise, I’m afraid I cannot help you.”  That’s who Roy Williams is.  And that’s why the Cowboys are glad to be shot of him.

Of course, what makes Williams’ unremarkable 35 games with the Cowboys—94 catches/1,324 yards/13 TDs or numbers elite NFL WRs put up in a single season—so offensive is the head-slappingly ridiculous trade they executed to acquire him.  As the 2008 trade deadline approached, the Cowboys sent the Detroit Lions their first-, third- and six-rounds picks in the 2009 draft and their 2010 seventh-round pick in exchange for a malcontent who was dubbed “The Legend” at  Permian High School of Friday Night Lights fame.  As ludicrous as that deal sounds, it’s actually much worse.  Because Williams was moping through last year of his contract, the Cowboys actually traded all those picks for a 10-game rental of Williams.  So, to compound their original error, the Cowboys inked Williams to a five-year $45M dollar deal with $20M guaranteed.  Sure, if Dallas waited until he was a free agent, they could have snapped up the University of Texas alum without having to sacrifice a raft of picks, but, according to J.R. Ewing Jerry Jones, they needed him for the 2008 season, son.  True to form, Williams repaid the ‘Boys by becoming invisible for rest of year (10/198/1).  In 2009, he was marginally better, but still only adequate, at best.  For example, in that season, Football Outsiders ranked him as the 59th best WR in the league, who was good for only about 40 yards over a replacement level player.  After another year of underachievement in 2010, the Cowboys had finally had enough.  As forgettable as Williams’ time with the Cowboys was, the lessons of his ill-advised acquisition deserved to be remembered.  Eventually, even J.R. learned from his mistakes, so let’s hope Williams’ release is a sign that Jerry Jones is capable of doing the same.

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.