Ridiculously, I was up at 1 AM this morning, refreshing MLSNet to hope, with all my heart, that the fucking Burn, of all teams, could manage a tie with the lime-green fucktards. It didn't happen, which was a shame, because my team choked on Fred's dick and couldn't get in on its own steam. That bit was mostly appropriate, because Ricardo Salazar choked on it when he awarded DCU a penalty kick after an egregious drive by the discommodated Brazilian, a PK that resulted in DCU appearing to have a chance. "Fred Dived For Your Sins," I texted this guy, a line I will modestly claim as my best of the season. The hilarity became more pointed in the last five minutes, after Julius James, hopping around the pitch one-legged, had managed to head a bounce into the KC net, and DCU were defending madly to hold on for a win that would have, as it happens, put them into the playoffs free and clear. An inswinging free kick bounced off Fred's elbow as he guarded the near post, and Salazar righteously awarded KC a free kick.
"From my opinion, it wasn't a PK," Fred said. "My arm was close at the shoulder, and I turned in a little bit with the right shoulder, and it got me. I think because I made a move, he gave me the penalty."
Bullshit, Fred. You fucking handled the ball, on the goal line. I didn't even know you were red-carded for it until I looked at the box score. You earned it, big-time. Now, go away (more on that later).
As to the entire season, this is a more comprehensive chronicle of the suck than I could possibly manage. Sadly, the author is afflicted with a pervasive and consistent melancholy, a twisted and stickling devotion to principle that direly warps his understanding of the geometry and physics of a game's plot, a tragically deficient grasp of tactics, a blatant, maddening, and likely deliberate disregard for the finer points of smack and Ba'al, and only a middling sense of man management. Of course, he's a bright boy, and he's improving dramatically, given the more consistent access to my tutelage that this season delivered.
My line's the same. Many of the club's personnel are adequate, but we lack creativity, we lack confidence, we lack flair, we lack speed, and most importantly, we lack a coach who knows his ass from his elbow (which is the proximate cause of three of the four lacks I cite). The following players can disperse, and I will not shed a tear:
Josh Wicks, Milos Kocic, Avery John, David Habarugira, Greg Janicki, Julius James, John DiRaimondo, Danny Szetela, Ely Allen, Fred, Tiyi Shipalane, Christian Gomez, Emiliano Heskey (my second-best line of the year), and Ange "Mr." N'Silu. I'm giving Lawson Vaughn, Andrew Jacobsen, Boyzzz Khumalo, Clyde Simms, Brandon Barklage, Benny Olsen, and Jaime Moreno mercy fucks, for various reasons (some because I like them, some because I'd like to see how they fare under competent coaching, and Benny and Jaime because they're Benny and Jaime). But I am summarily dismissing half of a 28-man roster. Wow. I'm brutal.
Note my grudging acceptance of another year of Santino Quaranta. He remains unforgiven, though I have lifted his discommodation and nodded in admiration for his determination.
Beyond all those above, one man must go, and that is of course Tom Soehn. He is utterly fucking inept. There is nothing nice to say about the man. He ran the team into the ground. He can't coach a game, he can't manage a roster. He can't comprehend what's happening in front of him. There is a valid argument that the front office procured some miserable personnel to fill out the roster (and bDr makes a fine argument about the impact of the former ownership), but Mittens the Chimp could manage a game, and a season, better than this jackass. In fact, the previously (and lovingly) maligned bDr has a better understanding of tactics and man management than Soehn does, and that's just plain fucking sad. Soehn lost the team sometime between Memorial Day and Independence Day, and we've been whimpering about the fallout ever since. The man has to go bye-byes, and it's not sad; he'll have a job baglapping Saint Piotr Polski (newly of Philadelphia) moments after he is fired (I'm hoping for Monday morning). Fuck off, good riddance, live in nightmarish memory, you stubborn fuckwit.
The seasonsuck was not limited to the team itself. The guy who used to be the primary voice of this place disappeared. The place will remain on the blogroll, but it's pretty much deceased. The new authorship is no more dedicated to its craft than, say, I am, and that site doesn't work without that sort of dedication. It's a shame. We like the other guy, and he's fun to be around, but he appears to have been overcome by life. It happens. Happy trails, D.
Thanks to bDr for making our first season of season tix available. Couldn't have a better companion for standing up for United. And only one person can ask me to post without getting a completely useless and smartass post in response.
His Caninitude, dogma-N, the one and only bDr, states thusly:
And, might I point out the inconsistency of saying the players are good enough to win with a decent coach while simultaneously dispatching the majority of them to the USL2 gulag?
You might. But you'd be wrong. There's a way to manage suckitude so that it's less sucky (even 0.06% less sucky). Soehn hasn't got a clue what that is. The players on this team, competently managed, could have made the playoffs pretty easily, given the dismal, bleak mediocrity that was this year's MLS regular season, and given a coach not predisposed to backpassing with a team gruesomely unable to hold onto the ball even when unchallenged.
I tell you with love that you seem to be forgetting stuff, which I will delicately and graciously attribute to your advanced age and preoccupation with having to think about George Will's petite chubby (neither of which you can help, and Hi! Sasha):
First, we're DC Fucking United, and just making the playoffs ain't fucking good enough.
Second, you've been saying the same fucking thing since fucking July (it is possible that I unfairly do not credit you with being on board with Mort d'Soehn earlier, but that's about the earliest I recall you piling on--please forgive if I'm cheating you out of a month or two), and the onliest difference between our positions is that there are at least two players (likely four) I weakly defend above who you would gleefully consign to the Greater Wyoming Wednesday Night Pub League, and two players I do not mention above (precisely because I didn't want to get into this one with you again) who you would douse in dinosaur pressings and set on fire before sending them to the fucking Railhawks (perhaps after attempting to douse the fire with your urine).
Since we're there, I guess don't need to be bashful; for the money, Marc Burch and Devon McTavish are perfectly serviceable backups to our backups, and for the money, you're not going to fucking do better. Furthermore, Burch is a Terp, and further furthermore, Burchie and Blanco at the Plex, which better be the fucking QED to end all QEDs, bitchez. Burchie could cost us four playoff seasons and I'd still be totally gay for him, and it's not like he cost us this one. For his part, McTavish has developed into a good guy in the community (despite having gone to a creme du tard university), and can be (relatively) safely stuffed into a number of spots around the field when the going gets tough.
Do I hate the noodle-like appendage attached to the end of Marc Burch's right leg, and the witless and graceless gyrations he goes through to avoid touching a ball with it? Yes, I do. Do I hate that two fifty-year-old bloogers are very nearly as fast as McTavish? Yes, I do. Neverthemore, for the itsy-bitsy money those two get, they can take up a pair of roster spots.
As to the unquoted portion of your comment: 40 years ago, I'm not really sure how this happened, but in (I think) two years at HippieCrunch Elementary, I had three teachers--I think I got moved from Mrs. Nieder's class to Miss Stratmeier's class in fifth grade (or vice-versa), but I don't remember why. You had been there a while, following your stint as a Wheatonian (oh yes, I just outed your vile secret, you Burchie-hatin' Wheatonian Refugee Wanker!). I'm not even sure we were together all the time in sixth grade--I think I had Mrs. Shaw, and you were in Mrs. G's class, though they started moving us around for math and English, I think, and we were both with the smartass kids. What I remember best about the sixth grade, though, is Bowman's sister cracking a 2-inch sheet of ice over my head one recess, by way of informing me that she had a crush on me. After that, it all just went to Hell.
Let's stop reminiscing now.