A Tale of Two Cities: The European Cup Final and Toronto FC

I've been warned more than once about my poor post-rate on the bloog lately. I'm going to call this a 'bloog.' The more I say 'blog,' the more I'm going to start thinking of myself as being part of some sort of 'on-line' community, and then I'll buy 'HTML for Dummies' and go on NPR shows and talk about the triumph of New Media all the while developing a gross wet lisp at the back of my teeth, and well, you get the picture. So get ready while I bloog your mind.

So the European Cup final. I don't know, what did you think? There I sat, beer in hand, tickled pink by two first-half goals and the (big) ear marks of a top notch final. So where did it go? It didn't help that this was more an above-average Grand Slam Sunday at Stamford Bridge than a marquee-burning European Cup classic. Celtic v. Inter Milan in 1967 (it was Jimmy Johnstone who said of the night, "They came out looking like film shtars, but it was them who were out on a dune!") as well as the exotic match-up between Real Madrid and Eintracht Frankfurt at Hampden Park in 1960, perhaps the best football game of all time, both perfectly symbolize the cosmpolitan magic of the European game.

Chelsea v. Manchester United, two clubs that on footballing terms entirely deserved their respective places in the Moscovite final, was never a fixture that could reach the heights some of us snobs have come to demand from our football. Look at it this way: if you could choose who to watch play in a European final, would it be Ronaldo or Di Stefano? Lampard or Cruiff? Ashley Cole or Peter Withe (this last one is strictly for me)? Don't tell me you even paused to think of an answer.

Besides, the stress now we put on football to be what it was twenty or thirty years ago can be migraine-inducing. Welcome therefore to the wet and wild world of the MLS. I was finally able to catch some delectably downgrade fixtures at BMO this past week where there's a bastion of hard-tackling open football thought long-dead in the land of its birth. Toronto FC is bucking the South American trend in the Soccerball League by employing a decidedly retro English style: a lone striker resembling a club bouncer gobbling up long balls and scoring what we call in the hockey business 'les buts de garbage.' And with TFC in third place on a six game unbeated streak, it appears to be working.

Yesterday's rain-soaked victory over DC United was the perfect antidote to the all-too familiar Premiership match-up. Terrible tackles, tussles that ended without the flash of red or even yellow, and desperately fruitless counterattacks all added up to a marvelously old-school, League One-ish affar. The steady rain seemed to goad the South Stand on in anger against the opposition and officials. But what further bonded the crowd seemed to be Toronto's difference, our identity in play. While the Peraltas and Donovans and Schelotto's of the league rest firmly on the terra firma of the South American approach, Toronto has stuck much more closely to her naturally Northern roots.

And as any Northerner from Holland to Edinburgh will tell you, there's something magical about a weekday fixture in the cold rain, something almost pagan, like a Puritan strip-tease in a dark New England forest. Carver spoke about Toronto FCs resilience despite their sloppiness of play, but sometimes football is nothing more than getting 'stuck in,' the ability to plant one's foot down and say in effect, "this is who we are." This distinct style, built more on guts than expensive acquisitions, instinct more than laserpoint tactics, reminds us of the importance of identity in football. As good as the European Cup final was this year, a distinct style or identity, as happens all too often in the one-size-fits-all, made-to-regulation football, was sorely lacking. It's nice to know I don't have to go too far these days to find it.

Photo Credit: Marc Parravano