United won at RFK last night. Didn't go. I'll not lament too much my fallen fandom again and spare you mostly another recitation of the existential meaning I assign it other than to say that SeatSix had a social engagement and Landru (here hating on DCU before resorting to bunnies) is still recovering from lung-trauma and I no longer give enough of a fuck about United to go to a game by myself. I was curious how I'd react to the news of a new stadium that actually seems to have a reasonable chance of being built judging by the relatively slight pushback by citizens groups and lack of easy political demagoguery by ambitious alderman compared to previous stadium proposals. United is on the cheap now - ownership is not going to invest in the team until new revenue streams are guaranteed (and they are not yet guaranteed) - and the cheap little shittyass cost-cutting ownership has implemented (the crappier packages for season-ticket holders both in swag and in games - for more than a decade we got three non-MLS regular season games, this year one, on a Friday night against an opponent scheduled to draw the opponent's fans, for instance) pissed me off in addition to ownerships refusal to spend in the off-season to improve the product. As of yesterday morning I was 50-50 I'd go regardless whether Landru and SeatSix didn't, but news that Vince McMahon Garber, head of Major Rinkydink Soccer, routed Clint Dempsey to a league flagship combined with a weather forecast of torrential downpours (which turned out true) plus other gah that will go undocumented here and I said fuck it. And there are the echoes in my fandom here and elsewhere. In 2010 we went to Philadelphia for United v Philly in Philly's first home game ever. United truly sucked in 2010. We loved them. On the way home we stopped at one of the Houses on 95 in Maryland to grab something to eat. We were sitting at a table when Santino Quaranta walked by, saw us in our United black, he came over and thanked us for making the trip to Philly, yapped with us a few minutes. Last night, a United that truly sucks, that isn't loveable, started a midfielder wearing Santino's old number, the name above the number was Jeffrey. Fine metaphors abound.
Link-farming returns tomorrow. Have more songs for long solo drives over gorgeous mountains and a poem that looks like us.
OLD MEN PITCHING HORSESHOES
Back in a yard where ringers groove a ditch,
These four in shirtsleeves congregate to pitch
Dirt-burnished iron. With appraising eye,
One sizes up a peg, hoists and lets fly—
A clang resounds as though a smith had struck
Fire from a forge. His first blow, out of luck,
Rattles in circles. Hitching up his face,
He swings, and weight once more inhabits space,
Tumbles as gently as a new-laid egg.
Extended iron arms surround their peg
Like one come home to greet a long-lost brother.
Shouts from one outpost. Mutters from the other.
Now changing sides, each withered pitcher moves
As his considered dignity behooves
Down the worn path of earth where August flies
And sheaves of air in warm distortions rise,
To stand ground, fling, kick dust with all the force
Of shoes still hammered to a living horse.