Behold the power of the mind.
It's me. It's not you, it's me, isn't it?
Got my cold
beer water (it was the mid fucking 90s yesterday, sheesh), my pizza rolls, my not-as-comfortable-as-it-used-to-be couch and I's ready for Brankomania! I is.
A little backstory: in my post LeJerk LeDespair, I was on the lookout for a fresh addition to my cadre of annual rooting interests, one that wouldn't shatter my heart into soul-perforating shrapnel as consistently as all these Northeast Ohio bastards. After much deliberation (mostly the promise of a free beer), I had decided to adopt DC United, a team with a short, albeit successful, history. Oh sure, they were off to a poor start this campaign, but at 2-3-1 with an even goal differential in their last 6 matches, coupled with the emergence of young (dude can't even vote for the next Honduran pretzeldent yet) speedster Andy Najar -- and, bien sûr, new signing Branko! -- things were looking up (not really, but I need to work on my lying).
Until the first unsuccessful shot on target.
And the second.
A little help, please.
And a near, ultimately unsuccessful, Najar breakaway.
And another, though at least they're attacking, unlike the last time I saw them.
A Keller save.
Fuck, defensive lapse -- whew!
Another lapse -- whew!
Another Keller save.
72nd minute, begone noted novelist Stephen King. Stop! Brankotime! Sure, he may have booted that long pass into Pennsylvania, but what raw power! Socrates, Rivelino & Jesus rolled into one!
Oh well, one point is better than no p -- HAHAHAHA!
Giving up the winning goal right before the end?
Aside #1: even though this is 21st century America, the stadium, and all her attendant rituals, remains a place where a certain level of state-approved dissent is permitted. That said, I was shocked to catch, late in the second half, an acrid whiff of the notoriously unruly barrabravas: the achromatic cloud of either a firework or a smoke bomb. I'm well aware that a metal detector wouldn't have caught that, but where were our uniformed first responders and their busy hands? This is the seat of American power, dammit. First, lighters & wicks, next, tactical nukes in suitcases. For shame, Washington, D.C., for shame.
Aside #2: I'm contemplating taking up scrimshaw.