At Swan's today, David Moyes threw another tin full of washers and screws into the places
where the nuts and bolts go in the name of chasing a Cup Final. You may have heard that the
Swansea Swans play an exciting brand of passing football. Oh, my gosh, you have not heard?
They love to pass. It is the philosophy that their manager has instilled in them from day one.
Pass, pass, pass, pass, and pass. Pass, pass, pass and move, pass, pass, pass. Their manager has
also garnered respect from the pundits for never abandoning his footballing philosophy: pass,
pass, pass and move, pass, pass, pass. Although the Swans have not scored a great deal of goals
since their opening day 0-4 loss to Manchester City, they jogged into Liberty...Stadium(?) today
as favorites against the Mersey Millionaires, because, as you may have heard, they like to pass,
pass, and pass.
HALFTIME
The same two teams emerged for the second half, which had to be discouraging to anybody who
had paid good money for their tickets...or had just had their Direct TV turned back on for the
match. Whatever, we can only watch what is thrown at us. When your wife is furious at you and
throws a brick of charcoal onto your dinner plate, and the charcoal looks like it may have once
been something like a chicken, you don't protest, you just keep your mouth shut, start picking at
it and begin opening beers. Well, I kept opening beers and I let my eyes pick over the waste on
the pitch for anything that may have resembled palatable.
For the most part, Everton had been like a FIFA 2012 game by EA Sports. The players on the pitch
were an odd fit, played at around a 64 rating, and didn't seem to know what strange force had
placed them where they were. However at the 52 minute mark, Gibson, seemingly bored by the
constant grazing of tasteless grass, stumbled upon a bumbling ball and drove his huge-assed
foot through it. This created shock waves in front of the Swan's area, and Jellavic and Cahill each
pounced gleefully upon the rebound, but to no effect.
This bit of action, form and bravery seemed to suit Pienaar, so he braided up his hair, painted his
face, and went on the warpath. Historically, swans do not fare well in the onslaught of warpaths,
and Everton bullied their way into a free kick just outside the area, point blank, in the postal
code of Leighton Baines. Moyes took this opportunity to yank Cahill from the pitch and threw
Fellaini out there. Then, Baines stood over the ball. I doubt that I was the only Evertonian who,
without being psychic, already knew that the ball was going into the net before it was kicked.
Upon impact, the goalkeeper barely moved more than me. The ball tucked itself into the
top right corner, and I nodded my head once in acknowledgement of the obvious. To cheer
would be to make me as crazy as a loon who screams at the moon, or cries because the sun has
risen.
The Swan's manager tried to rally the troops by singing a show tune: “Pretty, I feel pretty, I feel
pretty, and witty, and wise!†But while his pretty players paused and swooned, shouting for an
encore, Pienaar was busy feeding Jelavic about fifty times in front of a practically unguarded net
before the Croat finally managed to boot one past the keeper. Everton peppered Swan's goal with
about a million more shots before Swan's manager cried out to his players, “To the BBC Pass
Shield, lads!†and Swan's fled the field for the comfort of the football pundits who smoothed their
ruffled feathers and told them how beautiful they were.
where the nuts and bolts go in the name of chasing a Cup Final. You may have heard that the
Swansea Swans play an exciting brand of passing football. Oh, my gosh, you have not heard?
They love to pass. It is the philosophy that their manager has instilled in them from day one.
Pass, pass, pass, pass, and pass. Pass, pass, pass and move, pass, pass, pass. Their manager has
also garnered respect from the pundits for never abandoning his footballing philosophy: pass,
pass, pass and move, pass, pass, pass. Although the Swans have not scored a great deal of goals
since their opening day 0-4 loss to Manchester City, they jogged into Liberty...Stadium(?) today
as favorites against the Mersey Millionaires, because, as you may have heard, they like to pass,
pass, and pass.
HALFTIME
The same two teams emerged for the second half, which had to be discouraging to anybody who
had paid good money for their tickets...or had just had their Direct TV turned back on for the
match. Whatever, we can only watch what is thrown at us. When your wife is furious at you and
throws a brick of charcoal onto your dinner plate, and the charcoal looks like it may have once
been something like a chicken, you don't protest, you just keep your mouth shut, start picking at
it and begin opening beers. Well, I kept opening beers and I let my eyes pick over the waste on
the pitch for anything that may have resembled palatable.
For the most part, Everton had been like a FIFA 2012 game by EA Sports. The players on the pitch
were an odd fit, played at around a 64 rating, and didn't seem to know what strange force had
placed them where they were. However at the 52 minute mark, Gibson, seemingly bored by the
constant grazing of tasteless grass, stumbled upon a bumbling ball and drove his huge-assed
foot through it. This created shock waves in front of the Swan's area, and Jellavic and Cahill each
pounced gleefully upon the rebound, but to no effect.
This bit of action, form and bravery seemed to suit Pienaar, so he braided up his hair, painted his
face, and went on the warpath. Historically, swans do not fare well in the onslaught of warpaths,
and Everton bullied their way into a free kick just outside the area, point blank, in the postal
code of Leighton Baines. Moyes took this opportunity to yank Cahill from the pitch and threw
Fellaini out there. Then, Baines stood over the ball. I doubt that I was the only Evertonian who,
without being psychic, already knew that the ball was going into the net before it was kicked.
Upon impact, the goalkeeper barely moved more than me. The ball tucked itself into the
top right corner, and I nodded my head once in acknowledgement of the obvious. To cheer
would be to make me as crazy as a loon who screams at the moon, or cries because the sun has
risen.
The Swan's manager tried to rally the troops by singing a show tune: “Pretty, I feel pretty, I feel
pretty, and witty, and wise!†But while his pretty players paused and swooned, shouting for an
encore, Pienaar was busy feeding Jelavic about fifty times in front of a practically unguarded net
before the Croat finally managed to boot one past the keeper. Everton peppered Swan's goal with
about a million more shots before Swan's manager cried out to his players, “To the BBC Pass
Shield, lads!†and Swan's fled the field for the comfort of the football pundits who smoothed their
ruffled feathers and told them how beautiful they were.
