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Tim+Howard+USA+v+Portugal+Group+G+2014+FIFA+iDqCtKEDtjcl And just like that, another American dream ends painfully at the feet of Belgium. Years of preparation and tough decisions, not without controversy, went into the U.S. Men’s National Team’s run into the knockout stages, an arduous and heart-pounding journey from the depths of the Group of Death and through the Amazonian rain forest. Landon Donovan was nowhere to be found. Jozy Altidore became an ineffectual cheerleader, for all intents and purposes. Michael Bradley commanded the midfield with the force of a dead battery and held possession in a way which undoubtedly made several Spaniards blush, but who were they to judge?

Tim Howard was brilliant. Clint Dempsey embodied the American ethos, playing through a broken nose and exhaustion. Jermaine Jones struck every ball with passion and unparalleled intensity. Matt Besler fearlessly stood tall against some of the world’s best strikers. This team, for all its follies and missed opportunities, represented its country perhaps more closely than any other at this World Cup. This was truly an American team, despite (or because of, depending on your disposition) all the talk of German-Americans and under-the-table deals preceding Jurgen Klinsmann’s first major tournament on a world stage. Victory again eluded the U.S., but that wasn’t really the goal anyway.

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Tim Howard, a portrait

Tim Howard, a portrait

The 2014 FIFA World Cup is here, and I have a novice’s degree of knowledge as to what’s happening, as well as a small amount of sentimentality for the event. This is me traversing through work, drunken weekends, and Spotify with the World Cup either in the fore or background

Monday, June 30th

I wasn’t really interested in how France – Nigeria, or Algeria versus Germany for that matter, was going to play out. It seemed inconceivable to think that the two African teams would be able to put up a fight against two European powers that were at the top of their rank. So I ignored the matches, which were mostly scoreless affairs until the final minutes. There were plenty of moments when Karim Benzema and Thomas Müller could have knocked in shots to put their opponents in utter despair but some cosmic force was unwilling to give these two teams an easy victory. France would ultimately run away with the game in the final minutes while Germany required extra time in order to advance. Based on both performances, I would say that both teams acted a little entitled throughout the entirety. It would have been interesting if Nigeria and Algeria would have scored, and I wasn’t in the middle of closing financial reports, but, alas, such is life.

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Staving off the insurrection.

The 2014 FIFA World Cup is here, and I have a novice’s degree of knowledge as to what’s happening, as well as a small amount of sentimentality for the event. This is me traversing through work, drunken weekends, and Spotify with the World Cup either in the fore or background

Saturday, June 28th

“So, is his name really Hulk?” I asked Blog Lord Rory Masterson as I stared at the back of the vibrant yellow jersey on the Brazilian strong man.

“No, it’s just a nickname,” Rory told me, as the officials called back a goal due to an offside position.

We were watching the Brazil – Chile match in a parking lot behind the Latta Arcade in downtown Charlotte. There was a large, white trailer parked behind a row of old, brick buildings that held the gigantic projection screen which a crowd of mostly Brazilian faithful watched with anxious eyes. I was surprised that there seemed to be a contingent of Brazilian ex-pats rather than Americans-turned-Brazilian fans. Then again, Charlotte is the second-largest banking city in the country.

There were a handful of Chile fans among the bright yellow and green. You could hear them every time Arturo Vidal failed to convert a goal. The Brazilian fans looked at them with ire after Chile would zip through defenders only to an provide unfulfilling play. There were groans on both sides as each team refused to give up a goal. For Brazil, it was a matter of the team winning on its home soil. For Chile, it was a chance at the unthinkable.

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The alarm went off.

You woke up. Maybe you were fully awake with the adrenaline of anticipation by the time it started; maybe you were still half-asleep and in a daze of obligation. Friends congregated around a television – you could have been one of them – or you just kept your phone charged to ensure you got the texts as they rolled in. You had cereal, or you started in on the drinking. Grease was standing by as a coping mechanism. You were decked out in the attire of a country you’ve never visited and don’t know anyone from, or just your pajamas. Your Twitter feed was open. All the quips from strangers you’ll never know rolled in. And you remember where you were when David Luiz scored after 18 minutes. The knockout rounds had truly begun. The day was just beginning.

For you, anyway. Somewhere else, I was already in the process of interviewing the first of four candidates for a position at my radio station. I had already traveled an hour north from my apartment by the time of Luiz’s goal. My cereal was long gone. I wasn’t watching. I had been up since 4am. I had already seen genius again.

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Jogi Loew and Jurgen Klinsmann, bruders

The 2014 FIFA World Cup is here, and I have a novice’s degree of knowledge as to what’s happening, as well as a small amount of sentimentality for the event. This is me traversing through work, drunken weekends, and Spotify with the World Cup either in the fore or background

Thursday, June 26th

Time. That’s the only thing that was in the US Men’s National Team’s favor when facing Group G. The USMNT was given the ‘Group of Death’ with three titanic opponents that would crush any hopes the US had for, at the most, making it to the semi-finals. There was the unconquerable Ghana and the soccer stardom of one of the world’s best in Cristiano Ronaldo and, by proxy, Portugal. Then, there was the polished, mechanical, engineered-to-kill creation known as Germany. It was only a matter of months before all three would send the US packing back to a place where the MLS failed to attract a million viewers for its championship game. American ‘soccer’ has no place here, they seemed to mock. The United States was given 270 minutes before the vultures would come to pick the remains.

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Suajaws

The 2014 FIFA World Cup is here, and I have a novice’s degree of knowledge as to what’s happening, as well as a small amount of sentimentality for the event. This is me traversing through work, drunken weekends, and Spotify with the World Cup either in the fore or background

Tuesday, June 24th

Luis Suarez’s reputation as somewhat of a heel was revealed to me before I headed into the tournament with a wide-eyed freshness of the characters on each team. The Men in Blazers podcast hinted at this during their 2014 World Cup preview with references to Suarez’s previous biting incidents. I investigated this further after Suarez’s masterful, trolling performance of England where there is, in fact, a section dedicated to his previous misdeeds on the pitch. One of them occurred when he was playing in the Dutch league for a team known as Ajax where he dug his teeth into someone and received the nickname as the “Cannibal of Ajax”. This set the wheels in motion for Luis to land in Liverpool but even after a punishment for what was seen as a visceral, knee jerk reaction Suarez struck again in the English Premier League.

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The Sum of All Fears

The 2014 FIFA World Cup is here, and I have a novice’s degree of knowledge as to what’s happening, as well as a small amount of sentimentality for the event. This is me traversing through work, drunken weekends, and Spotify with the World Cup either in the fore or background

Saturday, June 21st 

I woke up on Saturday morning on the uncomfortable, green couch in my apartment. My throat was killing me and my head was heavy. I looked around the living room and two of my friends were both curled up in fetal positions on the floor. On the coffee table were three empty bottles of Pabst Blue Ribbon, an open bag of Cool Ranch Doritos, a barren pack of Camel Blues and the controller to my roommate’s Playstation 3. I lifted myself off of the couch then stared at the mess that lay in front of me. I thought it best to settle into this hangover by playing Grand Theft Auto V because, of course.

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Troll God, Luis Suarez

 

The 2014 FIFA World Cup is here, and I have a novice’s degree of knowledge as to what’s happening, as well as a small amount of sentimentality for the event. This is me traversing through work, drunken weekends, and Spotify with the World Cup either in the fore or background

Thursday, June 19

There was a time in history when someone from England could tell you that the sun never sets on the British empire. The English who remember these times also hang portraits of Winston Churchill and like to talk a lot about Bobby Moore. These same people had the misfortune of watching Wayne Rooney, the most internationally recognizable player from their country, make a goal to equalize the game against Uruguay only to be one-upped by frequent 4chan user, Luis Suarez, in the 84th minute of the match. The dwindling minutes were a demonstration in desperation and keep away for a nation that is now depending upon Mario Balotelli to save them from the brink. The English now need a Dunkirk-like interference from another nation in order to be saved from utter destruction.

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Everyone has seen The Old Guitarist. It’s one of those paintings, like The Mona Lisa or Starry Night or The Persistence of Memory, that has survived time and trends and somehow made it into the Western cultural subconscious – people who don’t like or know anything about art still vaguely recognize it. If you’d like to see The Old Guitarist in person (and you should, even if security tells you not to), the painting hangs among the walls of the Art Institute of Chicago. It’s something else.

The subject matter is simple: an old, blind beggar playing a guitar in rags on a Barcelona street. But what’s noticeable is how the color palette plays to the subject matter, a gradient of blues that sets the tone of the painting. It’s not the only one: Between 1901 and 1904, Pablo Picasso painted several works with a similar eye that are still being examined today – in fact, just this week, it was revealed that infrared technology had uncovered another layer in 1901’s The Blue Room.

Contemporary critics and the public, however, did not receive these paintings warmly. The beggars and prostitutes of his art soured crowds that had been showing a great interest in his work just a year before. We know it now as Picasso’s Blue Period, a dark layover in the artist’s life.

So you’ve got one of the great artists of his time making challenging works – some inarguably among his best – in a state of desperation and nobody’s noticing. This is a post about art, sure, but it’s also about sports. And no one is painting a more desperate picture in the art of motorcycle racing right now than Jorge Lorenzo.

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