On a day when so much else was going on for me, soccer just kept seeping in.
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So, I had a bad head cold, but it’s been gone for a week. But, as often happens with me, it went down into my throat and turned into a wet, wheezing cough.
I woke up Wednesday morning feeling awful. Yes, I have medicine for this, but at this point it would be another full day before I remembered. Bens are like that sometimes. Nobody knows why.
Wednesday was also about to turn into the hottest, most humid day in Toronto so far this year. And, I had two hours of morning performance scheduled in my other career as a pre-school children’s musician. I wasn’t contagious, and didn’t feel sick enough to disappoint anyone. So I trudged off into the heat, and worked.
(Cue soccer angle.)
It went okay, but by the time I hit the couch and switched on the Confederations Cup semifinal match between Spain and the United States, the Yanks were up 1-0 and I was completely exhausted.
To paraphrase a wonderful beer commercial: I don’t always fall asleep watching an important soccer game, but when I do, I prefer Latin commentators.
Even a very boisterous Spanish announcer couldn’t keep me from nodding off, but his battering crescendos always woke me when there was close call in the game. There were many – and they were all Spain.
A shot over the bar here, a pass just behind a striker there. All Spain, all the time. Some games look like they’re played on slanted pitches. This one looked – what I saw of it – like it was on a cliff, with the U.S. defending the bottom.
No question there was going to be another goal. But when I finally heard that call – that horrendous “GOOOLLLLLLLLLLLLLL!!!!” that I’d be beyond delighted to never, ever have to hear again – I jolted awake to the impossible sight … of the Americans celebrating?
And they did it! They pulled it off! An underdog side that was all but ignominiously eliminated just days ago, knocking off the world champs in a huge game that really matters. If my only clear image of the match is that that Spaniards utterly dominated and the Americans found a way to win anyway? – well, that’s pretty much the central story of the entire soccer day. Wow!
And then I had to go back out in the heat and play another show.
I actually felt okay when it was over, but utterly wrung out and done.
Back in the car, word breaks that Toronto FC midfielder/reluctant-defender Kevin Harmse has been dumped to Chivas USA for allocation cash – MLS-speak for money Mo Johnston can spend wot don’t count under the salary cap.
He’s the third midfielder cut in a row, following Johann Smith (yeah, I know he thinks he’s a striker) and Rohan Ricketts. And in my not-quite-healthy, over-heated delirium, this is the first moment I’ve actually wondered if there might be some actual truth to the Julian DeGuzman rumours.
You know – great Canadian player, leaving Deportiva La Coruna of the La Spanish Liga, in town recently. A lot of people tell me many things, and not all of them are true. I do certainly believe the Reds have chatted with DeGuzman, and contract terms have been offered. I’m also sure he would love to play here. Some day.
Europe already knows how good this player is, and he’s got nothing to gain by spending four months in Toronto, even for DP money which I’ve been told would bring him a cool million bucks for the rest of the season. There must be other offers – and they will be more lucrative, from higher-profile clubs.
Driving and fading, I decided to pass on BMO Field in the stillness and humidity, and retreat home to watch TFC and New York Enegry Drink on my couch – awake, this time.
Awake, but distracted.
‘Cause didn’t just PBS let fly with a documentary on the best sandwiches in America? And I’ve had some of these! Primanti Bros. in Pittsburgh, with the fries and coleslaw in the sandwich. Schwabl’s in Buffalo, with the wet sumptuous roast beef and dry, salty, unforgettable bread.
I’m far too tired to resist. So it’s sandwiches on the TV, and a grainy internet feed of TFC – who are wearing pink shirts tonight in a breast-cancer fundraiser. The shirts are pale, and remind me of a long, strange night in the old APSL when I called play-by-play in a Toronto Blizzard-Ft. Lauderdale Strikers game where – due to terrible planning – both teams wore white shirts.
But I don’t have the brain – just yet – to figure out how to expand the Internet picture to the full screen. So I’m drooling over All-American junk food when one of the pale pink dots on my computer monitor heads a pixel-sized soccer ball over the late-arriving New York goaltender dot for what turns out to be – finally – Pablo Vitti’s first goal for Toronto FC.
Finally, for the second half, I was up, undistracted, and watching a full-sized feed. I lasted long enough to watch Toronto’s Chad Barrett slide a perfect pass to Dwayne DeRosario, who perfectly lobbed it for Toronto’s second goal in a 2-0 win. I was sad not to be among the cheering fans at the end, but also glad not to be out in the heat, facing yet one more drive across Toronto on such a still and sweltering night.
A very long day – with lots of soccer, even though I seemed to be doing my best to ignore it all.
Onward!