Die Fussball Brothers

German soccer through American (Avatar) eyes.

[diefussballbrothers]

Guten Tag DFB Fam! We’ve decided to move the site to Wordpress, the microblogging platform of DAS FUTURE. Peep the new hotness: www.diefussballbrothers.com Thanks for the memories, Tumblr! - Die Fussball Brothers

[diefussballbrothers]

Thoughts, Mien Bruder?

[diefussballbrothers]

Fred,

Autumn is here. The nights are long and cold. Pumpkin Spice branded content clogs every available nueron receptor in our brains.

Like many in autumn, I have come down with an illness. Unlike my wife, who’s fighting off laringytis, i have a different kind of disease. I have the early-stage onset of World Cup fever.

Can you believe it’s only seven months away? Qualifiers are ending as we speak. Soon the field will be set! Sooner than we can say WhichPotIsTheUSMNTInOhWaitFuck we’ll be having the draw for the group stages and the plague from which I suffer tonight will cascade across the globe as viciously as whatever the monkeys had in 12 Monkeys.

On this foggy November night, my symptoms have manifested in delusions of roster projection and transcendental narrative forecasting. What follows are the scribblings of a prematurely ill man.

+++

Who are we?

This blog started, really, on a basketball court in Jackson Heights after the 4-0 dismantling of Argentina in 2010. In those halcyon days of innocence, we knew our avatars of greatness were on the ascendance. Basti, Oz, Muller, Neuer, Per, Hummels, Boateng, Lahm, even Schurrle...this was a core worth watching, worth embracing, worth imprinting our sporting souls onto.

In 2014, the celestial heavens aligned as we hoped knew they would  and we saw our Jungen prove their our mettle, again against Argentina. That it would be the highest mark in Gotze’s life was no matter. It was victory, and it was validation.

Euros 2016 came and we were cautious. We knew it would be too much to hope for a Spain-style run of dominance: this is the new-age mannschafft, and we’re too obsessed with mercedes and yeezeys to get that arrogant.

Our tempered expectations proved prophetic. A bullshit penalty called against old-man Schweiny and France took our spot in the finals. Alas, we can say; it was too much to hope. We beat Italy, and that’s all that matters.

But now? Oz is still around, though seemingly a diminished deity, thanks to the rotting stench floating from the Emirates. Muller is coming off a 6-week hamstring tear, the sort of injury that portends the oncoming death knell of Vater Zeit. Neuer has a broken foot. Boateng is doing his best impression of late-stage Vincent Kompany. Basti is gone. Per is gone. Lahm is gone.

Who are we?

+++

I’ve had the boys back at the lab do an analysis of our lineups from this qualifying campaign in an attempt to suss out who the squad is going to be our expressions of self will be. Sure, the actual World Cup is six months away and much can change on the fringes, but November fever dreams have never been about reality.

GOAL KEEPERS

Manny Neu, Ter-Stegen, Kevin Trapp

Oh, you know, just the goalkeepers for three of the top five teams in the world. I suppose this’ll do.

CENTRAL DEFENDERS

Hummels, Boateng, Rudiger, Sule, Mustafi, Howedes

Six is probably too many, so injuries will determine this. No idea what will shake out...but I sorta expect Mustafi to fall off the list? Either way, this is the entire central defending core for Bayern. Hard to be mad?

WING DEFENDERS

Hector, Kimmich, (Howedes, Mustafi)?

Yo, for serious, I have no idea who slots in here after Hector and Kimmich. Don’t get injured, guys!

MIDFIELDERS

Khediera, Kroos, Goretzka, Can, Gungodan

After Kroos, are any of these players truly world class?

ATTACKING MIDFIEDLERS

Ozil, Muller, Draxler, Sane, Reus (If healthy), Julian Brandt

Top four seem good. This is clearly our strongest unit. Let’s not sleep on Julian Brandt. He’s the next Julian Draxler, so to see him on the bench would be wonderful.

FORWARDS

Timo Werner, Lars Stindl, Sandro Wanger

Timo Werner: could be so legit. Lars Stindl: Been watching highlights and am impressed. Sandro Wagner: Totally shit.

+++

I currently have 26 guys on this list, which means that three have to drop off, and we can’t go with only two outside defenders, so there has to be more dudes. Sandro Wagner doesn’t make it. Khediera will almost certainly be hurt.

So who are we?

Right now, we’re a World Cup winning core and a young generation with talent oozing out of their pores. We have strength in Central Defense, and a huge gaping hole in central midfield.

I don’t know what any of this means, except that I think I need to go watch Timo Werner highlights and talk myself into him. One thing is for sure: he’s better than Mario Gomez.

From your perspective: Who are we?

-Jack

[diefussballbrothers]

GERMANY 6 - 5 (PENALTIES) IITALY  

In Bourdaux, they make masterpieces.

For the neutral, I’m sure this game was a bore. One goal from the run of play. A correctly called penalty on a fluky handball. A weird penalty shootout.

But goddamn Fred, this was battle, and at the end of the carnage we stood proud atop a pile of half-deflated addidas UEFA 2016 OFFICIAL MATCH BALLS (Note: no fun name for Euro balls. Would’ve loved a Champagnalani or something)

VENUE:

Saturday morning is pickup basketball time, so when game time approached I was finishing up my run at Legendary™ Mosswood Park. I was forced to make a snap decision and ended up at Cato’s, a classic Oakland pub on Piedmont Ave. Unfortunately, their TV Sound rules dictate that the only soccer game that gets sound is the World Cup final. How could I make them understand that the stakes today were higher than any World Cup final they could imagine (edit: not true)

The bar was predictably empty for noon on a Saturday, but in the ten minutes before gametime, maybe six other Germany fans filtered in. A pair of girls were wearing German-flag-colored leighs, and had facepaint on. We all nodded at each other in acknowledgement.

I was joined by my friends Zach and Gerald, two gentlemen whose knowledge of the beautiful game comes primarily from late-night rounds of FIFA on XBox. They were supportive of the cause.

There was a lone Italy fan.

LIBATIONS AND SNACKS:

Two ciders, a turkey burger, and chicken nachos for the table.

THE GAME:

Jogi Low, a tactical motherfucking genius.

A tournament is an epic poem, each game a new chapter in the hero’s journey. In such narratives, a critical moments the protagonist faces a challenge that forces them to go through metamorphosis and access a new self in order to move forward. Jogi Low, die Mannschafft, and by extension, you and I, all grew together, and it was glorious.

If you recall, it was the quarter finals against France in World Cup 2014 that Low triggered the Lahm Contingency and moved him back to his familiar position at fullback. All of a sudden the team clicked into a new gear and we were able to dispatch a rival in supremacy. With the confidence of that match, we moved forward to 7-1 and then Gotze’s Volley and eternal glory.

Against the Italians, it could never be just one man moving positions. Instead, it could only ever be a complete tactical shift, a reinvention of the system to stand toe-to-toe with the historical masterminds of gritty strategic play. The story of the game will be the penalty shootout, but if not for Boateng’s Folly, we win this game with a very nervy 1-0 victory. The switch to a 3-5-2 (or 5-2-2-1, or whatever the hell you wanna call it) turned this game into a high-stakes contract negotiation, more boardroom strategic posturing then on-field contest.

But we WON that tactical showdown. We smothered the smotherers. We showed the flexibility of the Borg, assimilating the strengths of our opponent and turning it back on them. They fought and scratched and clawed their way back in, but we held our nerve and at the end of the day it was our victory.

OZIL:

So glad he scored the goal. When he stepped up to take his PK, I told my companions that this was a guaranteed miss. Needless to say, Oz upheld my credibility with my friends.

SCHWEINY: Goddamnit.

FULLBACKS: Kimmich and Hector are great! It’s interesting to see this team with speedy fullbacks. In WC 2014, Lahm was patient and controlling, but not “SPEEDING DOWN THE FLANKS” and Howedes was slow. With Wingbacks, the team has a different width and dimension.

RATING: Five DFB’s

[diefussballbrothers]

Match Report: Germany vs. Italy (6 - 5 on penalties) or “Suck It Mario Balotelli” Jäckchen, DIE MANNSCHAFT has played four games already in the Euros, but today was the first real match of our tournament.  Everything up until this point has been good fun, a nice little vacation in FRANKREICH with a few games penciled in so the boys could stretch their legs.  This afternoon's clash was the first to get the heart pounding and the blood pumping. In the immortal words of the German closed captioning for Bad Boys II:

Viewing Venue: Normally I watch games at a soccer bar called Woodwork, but I felt like, this being a deep rivalry, I needed to go "full DEUTSCH." There's a German "bierhall" in Ft. Greene called...well I don't exactly know what it's called, because the place can't seem to make up its mind whether its called DIE STAMMKNEIPE or DIE SCHWARZE KÖLNER.  Considering the radical difference between those two names ("neighborhood bar" vs. "the black cauldron"), it's my guess that the place is owned by a bickering couple who couldn't agree on a branding strategy.  Anyway, whatever it's called, it's a nice little place where they serve sausages and beer. Co-watchers: Nothing brings out the Brooklyn German expat crowd like an Italy-Germany semi-final.  There were enough Italy fans in the place to keep it spicy tho (pun intended). A #smallworld coincidence: that guy Matt and his kid–they used to play pickup soccer with us–were there.  With a son named "Enzo," it was no surprise Matt was pulling for the Azurri, but it was nice to have a foil.  Also, Enzo told me a good joke: "Why can't you hear a Pteranodon go to the bathroom?  Because the P is silent."  Quality stuff. Snacks and Libations: Some Bitburger pilsener (my drink of choice during the Weltmeisterschaft) and some kinda cruddy bratwurst and pretzel. Fake German bierhalls are hit or miss, Jäckchen. The Game: Given how bad we've wanted to beat the Italians, I half expected some sort of Orc Horde-esque charge at the kickoff whistle, Müller frothing at the mouth, Kimmich riding on Boateng's shoulders, etc.  To the contrary - the first half was probably one of the slowest, most tactical forty-five minutes I've ever seen DIE MANNSCHAFT play.  It felt less like an athletic competition and more like a chess match (Hummels to Queen's Rook Nine) with both sides probing and probing before sending an exploratory pass into the final third.   Maybe we respected the Italians too much–even though we had the ball most of the time, it felt like we were playing their game. They were content to let us have the ball and time and time again, when we came forward they'd snag us in the strands of a tightly woven catenaccio and spit the ball up to their two strikers, who managed to coax some dangerously credible chances out of a nervy half.  Sure, Schweini (on for Khedira, who at this point is essentially an  ambulatory groin injury that has achieved sentience) got a goal in, but it was (rightly) disallowed for the garotting he gave a defender in the process.  We weren't losing, but we weren't winning.  And given the context, not winning was as good as losing.   It wasn't too long into the second half when Özil got a goal, and I was standing on a bench yelling.  I like the fact that Öz has settled into a utility role on the team and isn't considered a failure if he doesn't score eight goals, but hell, I still want him to do great, and this was great. It was an atypical goal for ole Mes, a kind of right-time-right-place shot that used to be Müller's specialty, but whatever it was, it was awesome, and we were up one nil. Given that Italy's entire game plan was based around "slowing us down" I was pretty confident/borderline cocky that they would have a hard time playing a goal down.  Indeed, for fifteen minutes or so, we looked more likely to double our lead than they did to equalize.  It was in that fifteen minutes or so that a very brief wave of psychic energy washed over me, because I had the very distinct thought that the only way Italy could score was a handball in the box.  Lo and behold, a few minutes later Boateng jumps up on a free kick, his arms comically high, they get that handball in the box, and it's a tie game. A word on Boateng.  First of all, that mistake aside, he had a great game, controlling the back line and distributing the ball beautifully, so I say this with all due respect and dignity: but WTF? In some handball situations, there's debate after the fact as to whether the player's arm was in a "natural or unnatural position."  This was not one of them.  Boateng, throwing up both his arms in the box like a stupid kid who has the right answer in class for once, gave the ref absolutely no choice.  I'm really glad it didn't decide the game, because that kind of flub would have haunted Jerome in gif form for life.   The score tied, the Italians raised up the drawbridge and battened the hatches.  You could tell, even in the eightieth minute, their goal was to get us to penalties, where our superior firepower, razor sharp passes and Julian Draxlers would mean nothing, and it would simply be our world class goalkeeper against theirs.  They managed to do it. I think it was Tolstoy who wrote that every penalty shootout is miserable in its own way, and this one was no exception.  A microcosm of the entire match, it offered little in the way of sporting spectacle, but for pure drama, it was A++.  It's late here Jäckchen, I don't have time to go shot by shot, but I will say that, around the time Özil pinged it off the post, I began to feel we would lose this one.  I even felt okay about it.  You can't be too upset about going out on penalties.   As it turns out though, you can be ecstatic about going through on them.  After some downright goofball misses (including an extremely giffable Zaza run-up and a classic Schweini moonshot), brave Jonas Hector stepped up to the ELFMETER spot and slid it under Buffon for the winning goal.  Around the world, people Googled "Who is Jonas Hector" and around the bar, people cheered like a pack of murderers who've all been granted midnight pardons by the governor.   It wasn't pretty, but we did it.  We beat Italy.  And at long last, I feel completely justified in saying this: SUCK IT MARIO BALOTELLI.  SUCK IT HARD. My Score: Five DFBs man, what else?? - Fred P.S. I think we can win this thing.

[diefussballbrothers]

Now seems like a good time to repost this

[diefussballbrothers]

Liebe Jäck, I am horribly addicted to podcasts.  #Haha to be sure, but for real: it's a problem.  The other day I was lying on my couch after a long walk, my phone on the coffee table, achingly out of reach, and I had the realization that it was the first time all day when I didn't have information pouring into my brain.  At work there's work and the internet.  At home there's the fiancé and now the puppy.  And in between all of that, there's podcasts.  And most of those podcasts are FUSSBALL podcasts.   Like many an addict, it started innocently enough, when a friend (or in this case, a BRUDER, you, Jackchen) turned me on to a gateway drug: Men in Blazers.  I have a LOT to say about Men in Blazers (god that's a depressing sentence).  But that's for another post.  For now, let's just say I was an instant GFoP, listening to back episodes, visiting the wiki, even attending that slightly awkward "survival sunday" pub party, when you were blessed by Rog (what did he say again re: yr germany kit?  "You've never looked uglier"?) But of course that wasn't enough–Men in Blazers only comes out once a week!  It was soon on to the closest British equivalent: The Football Ramble. From there, Football Weekly (and Football Weekly Extra of course).  These are your middle-tier drugs.  Sure, they're focused on soccer, but they make jokes too.  Everybody's still having fun at the party.   I forget when exactly, probably it was when the big gaping hole in my life opened up after the 2014 WELTMEISTERSCHAFT, but at some point it "got dark" and I started hitting the harder stuff.  BBC 5Live man.  FUCKING 5LIVE.  You start with World Football Phone-In, with its jolly theme music and its rotating cast of avuncular goofballs.  But then you realize there are OTHER 5Lives.  5Live Football daily is DAILY.  As in EVERY DAY.  Then of course there's that raw imported shit: the 606 Phone-ins.  Once you start on those, you've already lost perspective, and it seems normal to spend an hour of your weekend listening to British people call in to radio stations to yell about ticket prices for games in places you have never been and never will go.   Let's not even talk about the Goonersphere podcast, or my brief flirtation with TalkSport, it's too shameful.   Why am I writing about all this Jackchen?  Mainly because I'm bored at work and DIE MANNSCHAFT doesn't play until Saturday.  But maybe more to the point: I'm working up to my THIRD LAW OF SOCCER PUNDITRY.  The first is that knowledge of the game is secondary to being an entertaining british person.  The second is that the only thing that matters for in-game commentary is the volume and intensity of the announcer's voice.  The THIRD LAW OF SOCCER PUNDITRY IS: there is an inverse relationship between how well England does in tournaments, and how enjoyable soccer coverage is. Bar none, the English are the best in the world at being upset about their national team. The cutting eloquence, the sense of entitlement mixed with self-loathing, the wry sarcasm, the thick varnish of repression masking a brutish rage, the funny slang, the Shakespeare references (I think it was Marcus Speller of the Football Ramble who shouted out Banquo's Ghost re: Roy Hodgson), and on and on and on. 

Ever since England's shock collapse against Iceland, it's been an embarrassment of riches, from Jonathan Wilson's simple "Jesus" tweet to the endless jeremiads from BBC also-rans.  I say this sincerely: the British are good losers.  They turn their team's garbage performance into gold.  And they're gracious too!  In all my reading/listening, I didn't detect even the slightest whiff of bitterness against Iceland.  Right now British stock is low (in both the literal and figurative sense), but England will always be a reliable exporter of AAA-rated FUSSBALL commentary, and for that I thank them. As a sidenote, I recommend listening to yesterday's 5-Live Football Daily (jesus, am I really recommending that someone I love, a member of my own family, listen to an episode of 5-Live?).  There's a long bit at the end where Mina Rzouki, Rafael Honigstein and Phillipe Auclaire all try to explain why England sucks.  Their explanations adhere #perfectly to national stereotypes (Rafa the German - "not enough organization," Phillipe the Frenchman: "the players' psychological state," Mina the sort-of Italian: "not enough passion.")  It's good times, and helps back up my next law of soccer punditry, which I'm currently workshopping: no one knows a damn thing.   Okay, back to the grind. - Fred

[diefussballbrothers]

Paris correspondent Laure sent in this #germanhumor gem

[diefussballbrothers]

Even the NY Daily News knows England sucks. 

[diefussballbrothers]

Berlin correspondent Charlotte sent in this photo, depicting some tasty EuropaMeisterschaft-themed paté, complete with free tattoo and little pieces of Schweini.  

[diefussballbrothers]

Match Report: England vs. Iceland (1 - 2) or “The Circle is Complete”

Jäckchen,

Yesterday my journeys came to an end, and I boarded a flight back to the land of skyscrapers and reasonable kickoff times.  However, I was in LA long enough to watch the business end of this classic SPIEL.

Viewing Venue: I had a meeting in Downtown LA that ended around 12:30 and a flight at 4:30, leaving me with a span of time I could use to either eat tacos or watch soccer.  I was sort of on the fence about it, as an England win seemed perfunctory.  However, at 12:40, I got a text from a friend asking me if I “could believe the game!” which led to a frantic search for an open sports bar.  Making my way through the post-apocalyptic art deco absurdity of DTLA, I found one called “Gamez” that had the #gamez on.

Co-Watchers: A small table of incredulous England fans, a skate punk rooting for Iceland, and two women having a really loud intense discussion about how THEY WERE DEFINITELY NOT MENTALLY DISTURBED.  

Snacks and Libations: My trip through taco heaven ended on a sad little burger and some dry fries.  Thanks for nothing Gamez.

The Game: Jäckchen, we’ve talked in person and on DIESES BLOG about how International soccer is “not that good” compared to club soccer, and it’s true, it’s not.  However, it’s usually at least competent.  This performance from England…wow.  At a certain point it stopped being about “strategic deficiencies” and a “lack of incisiveness” and started to devolve into “poor motor skills” and “how do you play this game again?”  At a certain point (I think it was after Harry Kane sent his fourth free kick about ten yards too wide and twenty yards too far) it took on a grotesque character, and I started to wonder if everyone on the English squad was planning to defect after the match, Cuban style.  

England were so so bad that this game is hard to view through a rational lens.  All of the explanations that the British commentariat will throw forth will fall short: that they don’t care enough (please), that the players are spoiled (maybe, but show me a sports star that isn’t), that Roy Hodgson isn’t tough enough (maybe, but that doesn’t explain why Wayne Rooney forgot how to trap the ball), that the players wear Beats Headphones on the bus instead of talking to each other (?), etc. etc.  Hodgson is already gone, but can he really be blamed?   This level of crap is a statistical marvel, superseding individual performances or coaching blunders.  Crap qua crap.  

I discussed this in earlier posts Jäck, but this game completes the inevitable “England in a major tournament” Skepticism—>Hope—>Hype—>Disappointment circle perfectly.  I’m sure there will be mountains of flak for this performance, but nothing will change.  In two years, this game will be forgotten, and as Russia looms, the British commentariat will be cautiously talking about how far Rashford has home.  Twas always thus, and always thus will be.   My Score: I feel too bad for England to even give this a score. 

[diefussballbrothers]

Match Report: Germany vs. Slovakia (3 - 0) or “DIE KUCHENWANDERN”

Jäckchen

After Saturday’s bachelor party debauchery, I found myself waking up Sunday morning facing cold hard reality: I was still in San Diego, and DEUTSCHLAND had reached the stage of the Euros where one trick loss sends us home.  

Viewing Venue: A San Diego beachouse, post-debauched bachelor party.  Half-finished bags of lime-flavored Cheetohs littering the linoleum floor.  Endless empty Modelo cans.  A curtain rod inexplicably torn down.

Co-watchers: Fellow bachelor partiers, all trying to wake up and get their shit together before our unreasonably early checkout time (11AM)

Snacks and Libations: I think like, some stale chips and gatorade?  

The Game: You seemed to find this game a bit meh, and I understand why.  From the first five minutes of action it was very clear that we were running the show, and our win was ultimately a rubber-stamp affair.  However, I really dug this game.  For the first time this Euros I felt like we played like Germany, with our Beautiful MachineTM attacking style on display.  Admittedly, it was Slovakia, but maybe we needed one with the training wheels on to find our cruising speed.  We formed laser passing grids around their D, cutting in from all angles and reducing poor Martin “American History X” Skrtel to a cue ball of rage, and it could have been five or six nil.  Some player notes:

Özil: Why why why does he take penalties?  The fact that anyone let that happen is a testament to the absence of leaders/shouters like Lahm or Schweini on the field.  There was some stat pinging around the soccersphere about how this is the first time Germany has missed a penalty since The White Album–that alone doesn’t bother me (we shouldn’t be relying on penalties to win games), but I was worried we’d lose Öz for the rest of the game/tournament due to his fickle mindset.   Thankfully he “came good” for the rest of this SPIEL. Unfortunately, I don’t think this is “his tournament,” but I do think he’s settled into his role as a utility midfield player, and unlike the WELTMEISTERSCHAFT, the pressure on him is only “high” as opposed to “firehose.”  

Draxler: My knowledge of Julian Draxler is limited to a Wolfsburg game I paid 50% attention to, and a couple of YouTube highlight reels set to horrendous sub-Eurovision dubstep–I’ve long known he’s got potential and is “one for the future” but that’s about it.  This game was his formal debut as a first-team baller, a legitimate replacement for Marco Reus, and the rare German player who is exciting to watch on his own (sorry Kroosbot).  He actually takes people on, one on one!  And sure, it only works 50% of the time, but that’s about Neymar’s success rate too.  Excited to see where he goes.

Kimmich: Actually pretty good!  

Boateng: Despite looking in about as good a shape as I am, he was authoritative on the backline and decisive on attack.  

St. Neuer: It’s hard to believe any human being can be this reliable on the field without there being a skeleton in the closet.  Maybe in private he’s Inspector Clouseau-level clumsy, like always dropping giant steins of beer?  Maybe he’s secretly addicted to betting on cockfights?  Throw us mortals a bone here Manuel.

My Score: A jolly three DFBs.  ITALIEN awaits!

[diefussballbrothers]

Copa America Match Report: USA vs. Colombia (0 - 1) or “The Faces of James Rodriguez"

Jäckchen,

As I mentioned in my last dispatch, I’ve been traveling.  Most of this recent trip has been spent in LA, schlepping around in Ubers, eating endless tacos and having long conversations about whether or not “Creative” is a valid job title.  However, I did end up in San Diego for a weekend bachelor party, and it was there I found myself watching Copa America’s third place game.  The winner would bask in the bronze glory.  The loser would take home commemorative keychains.  GO GO USA.  

Viewing Venue: Liebe Jack, have we ever talked about San Diego?  And how much I hate it?  As Northern Californians, you and I are naturally going to gravitate towards the foggier, mountainy-er half of our beloved home state, so I’ll admit bias.  But I’m not one of those “fuck LAers” - I love the languid pace, the everywhere flowers, the 50s signage, etc etc.  Something happens, however, when you get past Carlsbad on the 5.  The heat gets a little muggier, the storefronts get a little dirtier, and the Oakleys come out.  San Diego, with it’s weird hybrid of military culture, SoCal buenos tiempos and druggy seediness, is a dark place.  Bros in open-top Jeeps with face tattoos, blasting Sublime and leering at preteen beach walkers.  Miles of vape shops and Hawaiian coffee stands. Confederate flags, plastic bags of oranges rotting in the street, overly sexual Rastafarian murals.  Doom.  

Anyway yeah, I was at a beach house in San Diego.

Snacks and Libations: It was a bachelor party, I’ll plead the Fifth.

Co-watchers: Eight thirty-something bros, most of whom went to Harvard Law.  Most weren’t big FUSSBALL people, but a couple of them knew who James Rodrigues was.  

The Game: Perhaps it was a somewhat blissed-out mental state, but I could not bring myself to care about this game really much at all.  As I said in my match report on USA vs. Argentina, the state of US Soccer is very clear to me: we’re deeply deeply “okay I guess” at FUSSBALL.  Winning this game would not change that status, nor would losing it.  Mainly I was interested to see DER JUNG GUNS take the field (Pulisic, Nagbe) and begin the inevitable hype—>disappointment cycle anew.  Sadly, neither of them figured heavily.  In the main, this was a classic USA performance.  When they have the ball, we’re full of grit and determination to shut them down and win it back.  When we achieve that goal and get the ball, we do nothing much.  

The main thing that left an impression on me here was the last five or six minutes of the game, which saw Colombia pull a downright impressive array of time-wasting tricks (diving, faking injuries, taking forever with throw-ins, arguing with the ref unnecessarily, etc.) in order to run the clock down.  James Rodrigues alone wasted a good two minutes by calling the physios to the field to help him with the facial cramping that resulted from his near-constant baroque-painting-level whine face.  

At this point in the game, most of my bachelor party co-attendees were yelling obscenities at the screen and observing that these shenanigans were the kind of thing that prevents the sport from getting big in America.  Usually I’ll defend “the dark arts” of FUSSBALL, and point out that the fouling system in basketball is just as stupid, but I found myself completely agreeing.  It was annoying, and if every soccer game ended that way, I’m not sure you and I would do this blog.  Thankfully, most don’t.  To be honest, I’m not entirely sure why this one did - maybe Colombia just didn’t give a damn, maybe it’s [OFFENSIVE CULTURAL CLICHE ABOUT SOUTH AMERICAN SOCCER REDACTED], maybe it was the heat.  Who knows.  All I know is this game was eh.

My score: One DFB.  

[diefussballbrothers]

Fred, I’ve asked my friend and co-worker Alex, an Englishman, to contribute some thoughts today in the aftermath of England’s Euro exit (Euxit)

It's not often that I feel embarrassed to be English.

Over the four decades of my life, I've managed to slip that little snippet into my conversations with PIWTIs (People I Wish To Impress) with relatively consistent success.

"Yes, I grew up mostly in Palo Alto, but I was BORN in England, and LIVED there for my first SIX years and for a COUPLE of years in my twenties and I'm ACTUALLY a citizen. Of England."

"Oh wow, cool. Would you like a beer/job/sexual excursion (depending on the situation)?"

A relatively useful tool. Not totally consistent, but a good little ditty. And of course, there's The Beatles and Radiohead. And McVities chocolate biscuits. And socialized medicine. And Monty Python. All in all, something to be chuffed to be a part of (while, of course, ignoring the ancient history of oppression, colonialism, obscene class structure and Ghandi bashing...that stuff? Waaay in the past).

But then there was this week. Or the end of last week into this week. The Brexit. We made Britain great again (tm).

That was embarrassing. Yes. Um. Yes. Big time. But at least we have football!

And then this. In minute 85 if that debacle, Roy Hodgson, he of the perfect English football name and perfectly dull meandering football philosophy, decided to put Marcus Rashford in the match. The game was lost. It was 2-1, and even if England had scored or miraculously gone on to win, it was lost. They had spent 85 minutes tripping over themselves, clutching their faces after clanking passes and chasing the ball they had just kicked. It was as if they were playing against themselves.

Then on came Rashford. Too young to understand what it is to be an English footballer. Still unread in the classic "don't fuck up don't fuck up don't fuck up I fucked up" mantra of the English footballer with the ball at his feet.

And for five minutes, Rashford tormented the Sigur Ros defense. He ran at them, he ran past them. He took their sweet harmoniums and stomped on them. He acted like a footballer from the country that invented football, that had a relatively humane climate, that was actually PART of Europe...oh wait, strike that last part. Rashford didn't know any better. He actually thought he had a chance. But he didn't. For he is an English footballer.

He is an English footballer.

Tonight, he must change his name from Rashford to Tentativeandterrifiedford.

I don't think it's self loathing. I think it's abject fear of ONCE AGAIN disappointing. Which leads, of course, to disappointment.

Did you know I'm half Danish?

[diefussballbrothers]

Fred,

You wrote eloquently about the difficulty of staying engaged in the Euros and Copa and Jamie Vardy-snubs-Arsenal rumors. I agree. This tournament has felt different than World Cup 2014, slightly more in the background as our lives force our focus elsewhere. I haven’t even gotten around to writing about our first knockout stage game until now, over 24 hours past the moment of victory. 

It’s been hard to know how to prioritize this campaign. Sure, we’ve got a title to defend, but winning the World Cup has made me feel careful to manage my expectations. I don’t want to get too greedy, and it’s easier to resign myself to defeat in the future, a quiet trip to the Semis and a victory in the third place game, and let’s all feel happy about being sponsored by Mercedes. 

Hell, even the format has contributed. A group stage in which a 3rd place finish could get you into the easy side of the bracket (See: Portugal, who clearly now could fluke to the finals) made Northern Ireland feel like an odd footnote rather than a real game. We never really were in trouble and won 1-0. No ball sniffing or funny pitt stains. 

Slovakia had a sort of casual elegance to it, a hum-drum 3-0 smothering. It looks wonderful next to the Algeria 2014 game, a drama filled affair that proved a turning point. This was no Wenderpunt, unless the rest of the field lays down their arms and lets us canter through. 

No, Fred. The tournament has felt static until today. It’s today that the tides have shifted and the blood has begun to boil. The world is watching England, and their complete zusammenbach at the hands of the Ice-Lords, but the real story comes from the morning game: our quarter-final opponent has been unveiled, and nemses, thy name is Azzurri. 

(A quick note on England: Amazing. Just pure majesty from England to complete the Brexit so finely. What jokes are there to make? The thing itself so plumly parodies itself, there’s nothing to do but look at it and marvel.)

       But jesus. 

Italy. Fucking Italy.

It was always going to begin and end with Italy.

This game is the turning point, the demarcating moment of the tournament for our campaign. This game is the test we must pass if the team is going to scale the heights of dynastic glory. 

In my spare time i’ve been reading a book on German History (A Concise History of Germany, by Mary Fulbrook, to be exact), and what’s fascinated me has been the deeply foundational roots of the German identity. Like, I kinda get what “Germany” as a thing is back to the Kaisers, but before that the memory gets lost in hazy images of pre-industrial beer halls and neo-classical hipster facial hair.  To finally learn what was happening in Germany, say at the time even of Shakespeare has been fascinating. It’s like a European Major League Baseball fan suddenly learning about early-Colonial America. 

One thing that has stuck with me in which the way the History of Germany is hard to pin down because it’s geographic location has mucked up the German identity into a tattered tapestry of European history overall. Before late-Enlightenment cultural breakthroughs in philosophy and music, German contributions to the Grand Narrative of Europe have been generically Kings-in-Castles sort of stuff. Oh, and Martin Luther’s Reformations, but who counts that? 

There’s lots of feudal shenanigans, and much of the story is dominated by the medieval Holy Roman Empire, a central European vassalage system that was conservative and centrist. Essentially a vast extension of the Pope’s direct influence, German noblemen and knights were constantly oriented towards the Italian peninsula, fighting or worshipping the powers to the south. Some scholars argue that this continued sapping of resources and focus on Italian affairs diverted the growth of German industry, culture, and national identity, and “thought-leaders” developed in England, Italy, and especially France. 

Basically, is what i’m saying is, we owe the Italians for way back. 

And that’s before we remember Euro 2012 and Balotelli’s fucking bullshit header. 

I’m mad Fred. I want to beat Italy real bad. And i’m terrified we’re going to lose. Because Italy is the demon this team has yet to slay. It’s going to be an epic fucking battle, another entry into a centuries long saga. 

I hope Kimmich is up to it. 

[diefussballbrothers]

Guess we’re not going to be hearing those weird “Scandinavia wants our chocolate, Sweden wants our cocktail dresses” ads on Football Weekly anymore Jäckchen. I wonder what would have happened if the “Stay” contingent had based its campaign entirely around the fact the Brexit will affect the Premier League.  Easy to vote to leave the EU when it’s a vague concept about national pride...harder if it costs yr beloved Canaries a shot at signing Granit Xhaqa’s little brother.  Sad day.

[diefussballbrothers]

Jäckchen, If you know two things about the German language, the first is that "it's ugly" (not really true, but I get it) and the second is that "there are really long compound words."  This is completely true, whether it's your crazy stunt words like RECHTSSCHULTZVERSICHERUNGSGESELLSCHAFTEN ("insurance companies providing legal protection") or more day-to-day fare like MITFAHRGELEGENHEIT (”carpool”).  To be sure, it's inimidating, but it's also kind of fun to be able to just lego nouns together until you have a concept.  To that end, here's one I just made up: BRIEFVERGESSENSCHANDE.  Let's break it down:

BRIEF = Letter VERGESSEN = Forgetting SCHANDE = Shame It refers to the phenomenon of taking a couple days too long to reply to an email, then feeling a sense of shame about said lateness, a toxicity that grows and grows until the correspondence and perhaps even the correspondent has an electric fence around it in the dark pastures of yr mind.  R Ü with me?  Friendships can be destroyed by severe cases of BRIEFVERGESSENSCHANDE, Jäck. I find myself experiencing a small degree of BRIEFVERGESSENSCHANDE regarding this liebe blog.  It started with Germany vs. Poland (as you put it succinctly, "The Game That Happened").  I was all set to watch it at my office and rip off a "sick post" when my boss (who is almost never around) chose Thursday 3pm EST, aka kickoff time, to show up and unreasonably ask me to do my job.  I missed 90% of the game.   The very next day, I jumped on a plane (well, you drove me to the plane) and flew out to LA for a week of meetings and tax writeoffs.  I have been trying to keep up with the Euros and the Copa, and I have seen some of the games.  But it just feels different out here.  I can't explain it.  Maybe it's the heat (90s on the West Side, triple digies in the Valley).  Maybe it's the fact that I'm a stranger in a strange land, and most of my mental energy is spent on processing local customs, like Uber drivers who actually talk to you.  Or perhaps it's because every time I sit down to write about the MANNSCHAFT, instead what comes out is a script for a Hulu pilot starring Brad Garrett as a polyamorous district attorney. Whatever the reason, I haven't posted much, and am feeling some BRIEFSVERGESSENSCHANDE.  But with BRIEFSVERGESSENSCHANDE, it's best to just break the silence and not stress too much, even if all you have to offer is a long riff on German grammar and some crappy game recaps.  So without further adö, some crappy game recaps: England vs. Slovakia (0 - 0) or "LOL" I think I mentioned to you that one of my favorite things about the Euros has been seeing the British soccer commentariat follow the "England at a major tournament hope/hype/disappointment" script down to the last detail.  England's failure to score against a country that didn't exist twenty years ago completes the narrative of doom.  Though they've made it to the next round and may go as deep as the semis, the fact that tiny Wales topped the group over mighty England is perfect.  I watched the game in East Hollywood at a friend's place, eating his Kettle Chips (sorry Ian) and breathing his AC.  Truthfully, I don't have much to say, but I do want to relay the comments of a dejected England fan who called into a radio show I sometimes download as a podcast: "we played the Dog & Duck eleven, we did."  Translation: "we fielded a roster that would compare in quality to a team sponsored by a pub named the Dog & Duck."  Good times. Germany vs. Northern Ireland (1 - 0) or "Erin Go Blah" As I think I mentioned earlier, I was a bit confused about whether we were supposed to be hyping or hating Northern Ireland, but I cleared it up with MUTTER via text.  We hate them.  They are traitors who stayed loyal to England. A plague upon their firstborn, etc.  Reassured that I could come into this game without even the tiniest twinge of moral confusion, I streamed it at another friend's place in Silver Lake while he was out being a lawyer and I was not yet showered.   This game held much promise–redemption after a bleh Poland outing, goals for Müller finally, more Löw hygiene gaffes–but didn't deliver, at least for me.  I will say, we did "click," especially in the first half.  Özil had his first consistently great performance, offering the silky touches and camel-through-a-needle’s-eye passes he's made his name with.  Kroosbot still doesn't make mistakes (or sleep, or dream, or love) and he ruled the middle of the field with an iron robo-fist.  Neuer continued to cement his reputation as the world's first box-to-box keeper. We dominated possession, we passed a lot, we got a goal.  We looked like Germany. But we didn't look like we really wanted it.  Especially in the second half, the lack of potency became painfully clear. Müller has come down with a serious case of Girouditis (it's an epidemic in France) and he couldn't seal any of the many deals that came his way.  Mario Gomez got the ball in the back of the net, but it took "a rub of the green."  And Mario Götze...well, let's just say that Mario Götze is probably running out of ways to remind everyone at training camp that he scored the goal that won us the World Cup ("Hey guys, anyone wanna listen to some Samba while we eat dinner?"). It's time to lay an ugly truth on the table: I don't really think we can win this thing.  Obviously, the knockout stages will different.  Teams will stop parking buses.  There will be more to play for.  Even so, I'm already starting to internally manage expectations, and I wouldn't be surprised if Löw is doing the same. But hey, we won.  THREE DFBS. USA vs. Argentina (0 - 4) or "Ohhhhh Right" I watched this game with my friend Mike at a bar in Echo Park.  Mike doesn't know much about FUSSBALL and its KULTUR, so I spent a fair amount of time trying to explain the offsides rule, promotion/relegation, and how a Swedish person can be named Zlatan Ibrahimovic.  Really, I shouldn't have bothered, because after three minutes of gameplay, Mike knew everything an American soccer fan needs to know: we're not that good. We have the right to be proud we made it to the semifinals, and we have the right to cackle at the fact that our arch-rivals Mexico got a Germany-Brazil style whomping at the hands of Chile.  But we don't have the right to believe that grit, determination and a fan that dresses up like Teddy Roosevelt will mean a goddamn thing to Lionel Messi.  It was a good old-fashioned disheartening "they're just better than us" beatdown, and it could have been worse than 4-0.  To be sure, it could have been better–if we hadn't conceded so early, we might have held on longer.  But this loss was a fait accompli. I genuinely do feel sorry for the new USMNT fans who believed we had a chance.  Their sorrow is on the hands of the "RA RA USA" Fox Soccer team, and all the video editors who unironically put Blur's Song 2 over footage of Jermaine Jones.  As for the monday morning quarterback crew, I'd love to see their explanation of what lineup would have been able to stop Argentina, but that's just because I love watching words die in people's throats.   I do like team USA Jäckchen, you know this, and I was sad we lost.  But I'm also a realist. And the reality is that we're not there yet.  Maybe some day two DEUTSCH brothers will start an irregularly kept Tumblr called "The Soccer Brothers" about the USMNT.  That day is not today.   Goodnight sweet Copa, and let a flight of Angel di Marias sing thee to thy rest. TWO DFBS Namaste, Fred