Finally, Kosher Porn!

Like everyone out there, I’ve seen my fair share of porn but I wouldn’t exactly call myself an aficionado. Clinton Portis explained the difference between black and white porn a few months ago and since he didn’t open my eyes to anything new, I’ve yet to broaden my knowledge on the subject. That said, if you had told me there was an adult film out there featuring an all-Israeli cast speaking Hebrew, I would have thought you were mocking me. But as it turns out, Jewporn exists beyond my hidden collection of self-made videos! Fancy a guess at the title?

Assraelis (nsfw).

Something about that is so smooth and refreshing.

But check out the DVD cover to your right… see anything wrong? Or, perhaps, right? Meh.. maybe not. Do you see the letter "k" tucked inside that backwards "c" in the middle of the box? That "c" is actually the Hebrew letter kof and when a k is tucked inside, it becomes the trademarked Kof-k certification for kosher food.

For those playing along at home, it means producer Oren Cohen of Tight Fit productions just gave the world its first taste of kosher porn.

Trouble is, Rabbi Yehuda Rosenbaum, whose company, KOF-K Kosher Certification, authenticates food for the Jewish market, wasn’t down with the idea of tricking observant Jews into thinking they could enjoy Assraelis with their pastrami on rye.

While I know the Kof-K symbol is reserved for food, why can’t they make an exception? I mean, the making and enjoyment of porn is a pleasure of the flesh, right? And in a way, that’s all eating is – partaking in the flesh of another being for sustenance and enjoyment. So really, porn should be kosher and we should be allowed to watch it!

I simply can’t understand why no one thought of this before Mr. Cohen. Since I just solved the "why porn can be kosher" riddle, the next issue would simply be finding a rabbi willing to supervise the action to make sure no filming occurs on Shabbat and all enjoyed pieces of flesh meet a certain standard of cleanliness. Rabbis aren’t priests; no self-flagellation will be required once the process is complete! I don’t think it’d be too difficult to find a rabbi that would sacrifice a week of his time for a great cause, do you? Someone has to get on this issue and make a change. To deprive the Jewish world kosher porn is like keeping vodka from the Russians. Okay.. maybe it’s not that bad but I’m tellin ya, it’s a serious trespass!

People Are Serious About Mourning Barbaro

I was returning to the office from a run this morning when one of the secretaries told me that Barbaro had been euthanized. She was so affected by the news that she had to put down her cheese danish to relay the information:

"Ohhhh Flash, did you hear the news? Barbaro, the racing horse, has passed away. He’s just fought SO much!"

If she knew that furrowing her brow caused her forehead to wrinkle like Lou Holtz’s sack, she wouldn’t do it but rather than focus on that, I responded…

"The New Orleans Saints and Barbaro all in one week? Take that, media!”

She shot me a nasty look and shook her head. I walked away.

So later on, I made a brief post at Critical Sports Blog about the issue. While saying nothing of note, I did mention that I haven’t seen the nation so captivated by a mindless creature facing inevitable death since the State of Florida wasted millions of dollars on Terri Schiavo.

What? Too soon? My ticket to hell has already been stamped. Frankly, I had nothing to lose. Anyway, I was in another person’s office about an hour later when Jim Rome started freaking out about the issue on the radio.

After what was likely 2 and a half hours of reading "Barbaro=Elmer’s" e-mails and being mock offended, he berated the clones for taking such disgusting glee in the horse’s death.

How dare they trample on the graves of champions? Sick freaks. Barbaro’s death broke Romey’s heart and for the clones to behave in a manner that he encourages and rewards every other day of the year was beyond him; he was ashamed. In order to hammer this point home, he crumpled e-mails loudly over the microphone.

That’ll learn em.

Around that point, my co-worker called Rome a douchebag and said that he didn’t know what all the fuss was about. Foolishly, I shared my Barbaro/Shiavo line.

“What the hell is wrong with you? It’s not THAT big a deal but it’s still a big deal! The horse could have won the Triple Crown! I thought you liked animals!”

I’ll be honest, I didn’t see the animals line coming but I should have known better all the same. Just three weeks ago, this bloke called me a sociopath for bagging on the woman that died of water toxicity after trying (and failing) to win a Nintendo Wii for her kids. Lesson learned.

But to my original point — it’s always a shame to see greatness cut down in its prime. But in this case, it’s not as if Michael Jordan or Tiger Woods, you know – actual human beings – lost their lives at the zenith of their careers, leaving a nation to mourn the loss of not only great athletes but also great role models and humanitarians. Please explain why a horse that won ONE great race should get similar treatment. Would the world have been a better place had Barbaro waged a full recovery? Would we have learned something or somehow gained from his existence?

"Oh but he fought so hard! He was so brave!"

No, he wasn’t! This isn’t Disney. Barbaro made no conscious decision to survive. He didn’t know that his body had betrayed him or that he was in a life-threatening situation anymore than he knew that he delivered a violent beatdown to the Kentucky Derby field. Calling him brave or determined does nothing but make people feel better about the agony he was forced to endure. It doesn’t matter how many human qualities are uselessly bestowed on him, at the end of the day, he’s an animal that brought little to the table beyond an exhilarating 2 minutes followed by windfalls for the lucky. And for that (and the possibility of selling his ridiculously priced sperm), he had to suffer for eight months while the media and soccer moms with bedazzlers shoveled garbage about his valiant fight down our throats.

Random Maintenance

Serena Williams Is Making a Mockery of Tennis

And I don’t mean that in a bad way. The hideous fashion choices and corny reality tv show notwithstanding, I love Serena Williams; she’s by far my favorite player on the tour – at least, when she’s actually on the tour and not off somewhere trying to be fabulous.

So why do I like her and not Sharapova or Henin-Hardenne or some rising star? It’s really pretty simple — Serena Williams doesn’t just try to beat you; she tries to beat the absolute mess out of you just to have the opportunity to scream and throw her fist at you in a way that makes you wonder if she’ll hop across the net, snatch your racquet from your limp fingers, and abuse you with it.

Now, you can say she’s just trying to encourage herself if ya want but the reality is that she’s all about smashing her dominance all in your face and throwing in a “C’MON!!!!!!!” just to let you know that you just got owned.

But to the topic at hand…

Serena Williams’ success at the Australian Open is either making a complete joke of women’s tennis or proving that if she’d train like her counterparts, she’d be the best player ever. It’s not enough that Williams continues to wear a dress match after match that makes her look like Cole Trickle’s Mello Yello car in Days of Thunder. That kinda of crazy attire is something we’ve come to expect. But the girl arrived in Melbourne looking like her strength and conditioning program centered around pounding double doubles in an In N’ Out parking lot.

While things are decent enough from the waist up (I’d take her 6 days a week and twice on Sunday in an arm wrestling competition with the tournament’s men), the astonishing enormity of her backside can’t be captured without a wide-angle lens. And yet, somehow, it doesn’t even matter! She just keeps beating people down with no retribution!

These women aren’t just some of the best in the world, they’re also completely absorbed by the game. They live and breathe it.. eating, training, practicing, and studying because their livelihoods depend on it… each week it’s another city, another country, another event.

These girls bust their asses day in and out because maybe one day they’ll win a slam or be ranked number one or simply win enough money to take care of their families for the rest of their lives. They’re doing all they can to rise above and here comes Serena with her no. 81 ranking and shelf booty covered up in a Sprite can dress and just starts handing out justice!

You would think that, at the very least, these girls could hang in until the third set and Williams would tire out but that method doesn’t even work. Sure, she gets into the occasional rally and her opponents force her to run sometimes but she’s still fast enough to cover most of the court. And when she’s too tired, she just smacks returns for winners and rails off an ace or two. It’s crazy! The only hope girls have really had is to take advantage of Serena’s mental vacations but, as the results show, she wakes up just in time to crush their silly dreams.

While the results at the Australian thus far say great things about Serena’s mental toughness and talent, they also speak to a suddenly sad state of affairs for the women’s game. Williams is overweight, injured, and not even playing all that well but all she really had to do was “get determined” and that was all she wrote. What’s even more bizarre is it won’t be remotely surprising if Williams beats Maria Shreikapova tomorrow night. But if that happens, she should just retire.

“Since I blew you all away on my Roscoe’s Chicken n’ Waffles diet, I think that’s a sign that I should call it a career and expand my acting career beyond that scene in Law and Order: SVU.. you know.. just so you no-talent chumps can have a chance, too.”

Serena over Shreikapova in 3 sets — 3-6, 7-5, 6-4 — while still wearing the Days of Thunder dress.

Journey to Shite Hart Lane

When I started this post, this was my outlook:

Who’s that team they call the Arsenal?
Who’s that team we all adore?
We’re the boys in red & white
and we’re fucking dynamite
and Martin Jol’s mother is a whore.

UP THE ARSENAL!!!!! 

As I type, the Mighty Arsenal are preparing to break the will of Tottenscum at Shite Hart Lane in the first leg of the Carling Cup semi-final. Following the x-rated dismantling of the scousers at Anfield last week, Arsène is rewarding the youngins with another chance to thump a first team.

But I type too slowly and now we’re down 2-0. Fuck. Anyway, read on.

So Kolo Toure will function as the captain and elder statesman of a 16-man squad that features Cesc, Philippe Senderos, Alexander Hleb, Mathieu Flamini, and Emmanuel Eboue.Also returning is Abou Diaby, who is starting in the red and white for the first time since an obscene tackle shattered his ankle 9 months ago. But Arsène feels pretty good about his prospects:

“I had a big doubt in my mind that Diaby would ever come back from that injury. I thought it might end his career. We’ve missed Diaby because he gives us something the other players don’t have. He can give us that kind of Patrick Vieira presence in the physical challenges. He reminds me of Patrick in his running style, behaviour and the strength of his tackles.”

Going from a potential career ending injury to Paddy V over the course of a year… no pressure at all, that.

In other news.. you know how there’s the rule that you don’t wish injury upon anyone? No matter how dispicable a person might be, hoping that they get mangled crosses the line of what sports is all about, yah? Well since that’s settled, let’s proceed.

In a 2-1 loss to Watford yesterday, Blackburn Rover Robbie Savage broke his leg in a challenge with Al Bangura… whether they got tangled or if Bangura did something untoward is not known but the best I can surmise is that all Savage’s cuntiness finally resulted in a negative physical occurrence. I can’t deny that I cracked a wry grin when reading the news over at Toxic’s spot but I don’t think that breaks the above-mentioned rules of sport. I admit to feeling a certain satisfaction but I certainly never wished a broken leg upon him. That’s the worst of the worst for a footie player.. but since it’s already happened and all… and since he’s a complete twat and all… I can’t really be blamed for my feelings. Yah? I mean, the Welshman has proven himself to be one of the most odious, obnoxious, repugnant, intolerable, loathsomes cunt in the EPL. And since the rest of the footballing world decided to kick back with a Coke and a smile upon hearing the news, I shall as well.

I know a lot of you don’t know who Savage is but take my word for it. If you were walking down the street and Dennis Hopper popped out of a bush and told said, "Pop quiz, Hot Shot! The two buses on the corner are wired with heavy explosives. One contains an army of plague-carrying, girlfriend/wife-violating robots that will smear poo all over your freshly-painted house and the other contains Robbie Savage. You can only save one." I can assure you, the next day, we’d be dying from the black death while noxious poo fumes wafted around the globe.

Don’t get well soon, Robbie. You sodding git.

**Hattip: Arseblogger for amazing Savage material/Speed scenario. It was fuckin’ excellent.

Al Davis Hires Doogie Kiffin, O.C.

The coaching job no one wanted is finally filled. After garnering little interest in the coaching world, the Raiders were left with the following options: Steve Sarkisian, James Lofton, and anyone on the planet who thought being an NFL coach would be pretty cool. I suppose I could add Dennis Green to that list but he didn’t interview, opting instead to let his 16-32 record over the last 3 years speak for itself. Unique strategy.

It’s really a shame about Green though. I thought he was the perfect candidate to lead this Raider ship on the final leg of our journey into the bowels of NFL Hell but I guess he had better things to do. Not surprisingly, so did Steve Sarkisian, USC’s 32-year-old assistant head and quarterbacks coach. Always the front runner over Hall of Famer and Chargers receivers coach James Lofton, Sarkisian was all hearts and stars after his first interview. But when an offer was made, he ditched the job with a "Thanks for the rep boost, Al. Rather than let you put my balls in your desk drawer, I’m gonna stay down in LA and collect championship rings until a real job comes along."

That left the Raiders back at square one, so we turned to Lane Kiffin, a bloke that recently interviewed for the vacant OC position.

Other than rumors of his involvement in a Pete Carroll power play against Norm Chow, I know little about him. He’s 31. His dad is Buccaneer defensive coordinator Monte Kiffin, architect of the Tampa Cover 2. He became the OC at USC two years ago and his NFL experience is limited to a season of bitch work defensive quality control for the Jags.

And now he’s the 16th head coach of the Silver & Black.

Hiring this guy was so fucking clutch!!

Al Davis likes to hire young, innovative coaches with offensive minds.. he loves giving these blokes their first shot. But Jesus Christ. Lane Kiffin’s innovation extends to re-numbering the pages in Norm Chow’s playbook! Is there anyone in Oakland who takes this seriously? Here’s a snippet from the press release:

Under Kiffin’s leadership in 2006, the Trojans finished first in the Pac-10 in passing efficiency, averaging 264 yards per game, produced two 1,000-yard receivers (Dwayne Jarrett-1,105, Steve Smith-1,083) and a 3,000-yard passer (John David Booty-3,347).

In 2005, Kiffin was named one of the nation’s Top 25 recruiters and served as coordinator of an offense that ranked in the top six nationally in every offensive category, including tops in total offense (579.8 yards per game) and second in scoring offense (49.1), and set Pac-10 records for total offensive yardage, first downs, points scored, touchdowns and PATs. The Trojans, who scored 50 points a school-record seven times, won games by an average of 26.2 points.

Kiffin’s play-calling and design enabled Bush to capture the 2005 Heisman and the Trojans to become the first school to have a 3,000-yard passer (Matt Leinart-3,815), a pair of 1,000-yard runners (Bush-1,777, LenDale White-1,319) and a 1,000-yard receiver (Dwayne Jarrett-1,274) in a season.

No! No! No!

1. USC could have finished first in the Pac-10 in passing efficiency if the bush baby from American Idol was in the booth! When the system for an offensive juggernaut has been in place since, at least, 2002 and your players are absurd NFL talents, there’s no real way to take credit for their inevitable  success! The real challenge of that job was doing your best to stay out of the way and avoid fucking up a sure thing!
2. Recruiting skill means dick. If that’s so important, then here’s what he needs to do — limber up those texting thumbs, fuel up the Raiders jet, and start making home visits to the blue-chip free agents on the market this off-season. If he’s such a masterful seller, sign the talent. I want to see what you can do when you’re selling a laughing stock franchise and an owner that has the Ebola virus on his face instead of Pete Carroll, rings, and Paris Hilton’s va-jay-jay.
3. Kiffin taking credit for the plays that won the Heisman for Reggie Bush is like the wind taking credit for Carl Lewis’s gold medals. When play-calling and design is summed up by the words "Give Reggie the ball and watch the magic," that is not impressive.

But in settling back to reality, what choice did we really have? No one with functioning neural pathways wanted the job. We’d been turned down by college coaches – one without any head coaching experience, no less – two years in a row. And with a desperate Jerry Jones on the loose, anyone that could be swayed would head to Dallas long before signing up to be the new Manchurian Candidate in the Bay. It’s like we’re Jim from American Pie and we’ve been so widely mocked and despised for so long that our only choice was to settle with the band chick from USC…

But hey, maybe it’s really not so bad. I mean, Jim did lose his virginity on the night of prom, which was the goal all along! So maybe Kiffin will pop our figurative cherry and lead us to heights unimagined — crazy stuff like NOT leading the NFL in sacks allowed, NOT finishing with the fewest points (168) in franchise history, and NOT being held without an offensive touchdown for eight straight games. Who knows, with a little luck and a lot of smooth talking, we could get Lane Kiffin to coach us to three wins next year!

Go Raiders!

I’m Glad the Saints Lost

I couldn’t be happier that the New Orleans Saints went down in flames to Chicago on Sunday.

I had no dog that fight. My proximity to Chicago notwithstanding, I have no loyalties to the city nor the team unless you count my waning support of Brian Urlacher. As for the Saints, I couldn’t have cared less. Yeah, I told people it’d be nice to see them win – you know, for the city of New Orleans and all – but I was lying. I’ll admit it. I wasn’t against New Orleans but I wasn’t for them either.

So when the NFC Championship game was set last Sunday, my enthusiasm could best be described with an indifferent “meh.” The biggest excitement I got was telling people that the NFL had fixed the outcomes and that I was gonna get to the bottom of it. But then came the media, who bombarded us with carefully crafted montages of Drew Brees and a devastated Big Easy, Reggie Bush and the contaminated, brackish water, the Superdome and refugees on rooftops, Marques Colston and fans on poverty-stricken streets.

If “Our Country” taught us anything, it was that these images should cause us to salivate, press the red button, and hop on the bandwagon. We had to care about the team from the city that care forgot and spur them on to victory because they deserved it. Why, exactly, did they deserve it? Because citizens are hurting and they need this team to lift their spirits. Because football is the magic elixir; the remedy to a negligent government, homelessness, violence, and poverty. Give New Orleans a Super Bowl and you’ll give it instant normalcy.

To me, this was total bollocks. And the more the media peddled that tripe, the more I hoped the Saints would get blown out. Maybe that makes me a bad person but it didn’t really matter; the guilt kept me silent. To be against the Saints was to be against the triumph of the human spirit. My insincere facade hid the fact that by Tuesday, I hated the story; by Thursday, I hated the Saints; and by Saturday, I’d put money on the Bears.

Now, I’ll be the first to admit that the Saints were an incredible story. How do you root against a gritty, determined bunch whose weekly battles on the gridiron were representative of the fight for life endured by their fans? How do you root against a team that has re-energized and brought hope to a city and her people? How do you root against the rallying point and one, true sign of recovery amidst heartbreak and devastation?

Well, in the regular season, you don’t. You pull for the team on its inspirational journey and you pull for the city they represent  because you know they need the boost. And with 16 playoff spots open, there is plenty of room for Cinderella’s team of destiny.

But when the playoffs come, it’s time to play football. It’s time to put the stories on the back burner and focus on the game at hand. This isn’t the Olympics and this isn’t a chick flick. Matthew McConaughey and Ben Affleck don’t star in this drama. This is sports. This is competition and teams have to go out and play the games. Teams don’t get to win because they have the magical combination of a better story and Rex Grossman as an opponent. Would a New Orleans win have been great for its people? There’s no question. But while football is a nice escape, it’s not a cure-all; and soon after the games end, it’s back to reality. That wouldn’t change if the Saints had lost in the first round or won it all.

Look, I don’t mean to downplay the ghastly aftermath of the hurricane or ignore the fact that it was made even more disastrous because of human failure and negligence. It will take generations for that region to recover. But at some point, this had to be about the game. It had to be about actual football. And given the media’s obsession, that was never possible. The Bears had to go up by 20 before Joe Buck would consider giving up the cause and even then, a spectacular comeback for a devastated piece of our nation was still in reach. Had things gone differently, we’d be looking forward to Peyton Manning Is Due vs. A City that Deserves it. Thanks but I’ll pass.

Oooooh To Be A Gooner!

Whoever you may be
Theres no-one as fast as our Henry
And you’ll be seeing red and nothing of the ball
Cause we are the Fucking Ar-sen-al!!

– 

So here’s the scene – United is trying to nab their first league title since 2003 but Chelski is on their tail and The Arsenal and Liverpool aren’t (too) far behind. 

We smoked em in September 1-0, but taking all six points in league play, especially at home, was going to be a serious undertaking.

The lads came out tense and Manure was all over the pitch, stringing passes through our defence with relative ease. Crunching tackles were in abundance, space was at a premium, and clearcut chances were almost non-existent. The best chance of the half came when Emmanuel Adebayor curled a beauty to King Henry who managed to head it right into the arms of keeper Edwin van der Sar.

Big Game Henry remained a myth. 

But then the second half got under way and the tide shifted… but rather than post thoughts, I have recounted the important details of The Mighty Arsenal’s glorious 2-1 Premier League victory over Manchester United through "artistic expression." Cheers!

The Game (Rapper Not Sport) Will Kick Beckham’s Arse

It’s been widely believed that soccer circles aside, David Beckham’s arrival in the United States would go largely unnoticed. If anything, the buzz created would surround the obnoxious numbers of his transfer deal and in a week’s time, the story would fade away. But it appears that the erstwhile England skipper and Galactico has attracted the (what I believe) unwanted attention of gangster rapper The Game, aka Jayceon Taylor, who, is probably quite hard.

Having run out of rappers to feud with and potentially gun down, The Game – who refers to himself as the "ghetto Bill Gates" and the best rapper in the world – was not entirely effusive about the arrival of the face of Gillette razors in his hood.

"I’d kick David Beckham’s ass on any given day," the Game said when asked about Beckham. "I’d just pick the ball up and kick the shit out of the stadium, game over."

Bricks, mortar, metal. Kicking the shit out of the stadium sounds like a plan, The Game, you pissing tosser. 

Okay, maybe I’m being a little thick here. "The shit" is probably identifying the ball but who knows – it could actually be Beckham or the entire Home Depot Center. Last week, the guy was threatening to destroy the whole of the WWF because wrestler Triple H also calls himself "The Game."

"I’m much stronger than (wrestler The Game) is. I was ‘The Game’ long before he came about. He’s on TV wrestling and it’s pretend, made up. I wrestle in real life and I win."

I can appreciate the lack of respect for the wrestling but delusions of grandeur, anyone? It’s difficult to wrestle and defeat men that are so big you can’t even wrap your arms around their waists… that is, unless you are the Dread Pirate Roberts.

In any case, The Game was on less steady ground when a follow-up question was put his way. When asked his thoughts on Beckham’s ability as a footballer he responded simply: "Pretty good."

In related news, witnesses reported seeing The Game lurking near the Hollywood sign late last night.

David Beckham Continues to Hurt My Soul

I’ve made my opinion of ESPN (and everything falling under the ABC Sports umbrella) quite clear throughout the life of this blog. But I have to admit that there’s one feature of the network that I’ve long appreciated — no David Beckham.

While growing up, I was always bummed when we weren’t in England because there was absolutely no televised soccer coverage. No Soccer Saturday or Soccer Special, no highlights, and no indication that Americans even knew the game existed. Naturally, things changed when we became a home with the internet and satellite tv; I had all the football that I could ever handle.

But then came World Cup 1998 and the United treble… suddenly, I had all the Becks I could handle as well. It was like having a 24-hour orgasm while being consistently cracked in the head with a hammer. His pensive “Beckham… David Beckham” face was all over the telly, be it through advertisements, football analysis, or commentary on the excruciating minutiae of his sordid personal affairs. It was painful. I hated him. By the time Euro 2004 was over, I wanted to end his life.

“Thank God, I have ESPN,” I actually said to myself once. “At least that twat isn’t there.”

But as they say, all good things must come to an end. On Thursday, Beckham signed a deal to receive $250M over 5 years in exchange for looking good, feeding dead balls to the heads of LA Galaxy strikers, and replacing the fraudulent, sackless Landon Donovan as league savior. He and his hideous wife, Posh Spice, are upping sticks as I type, and soon, we’ll be inundated with their excesses, none of which can be forgiven by the magic of his golden foot.

The tabloids will chronicle his every move – from the ridiculous outfits, hairstyles, and manpurses to his fancy parties and A-list friends. Commercials, billboards, and magazines will feature smirking ads for razor blades, sunglasses, and cologne. At least being a big fish in a tiny pond will save us from his sulking and occasional histrionics but all the same, my permanent return to England may come sooner than planned.

Huzzah for Evolution? Beckham Gets Dropped!

Beckham Penalty Kick… – video powered by Metacafe

When the ball sailed past the goal and into oblivion, I was so shocked that I couldn’t react. I wasn’t angry. I wasn’t sad. I wasn’t even confused. I was just there, standing firm in spectacular amazement. It was like my brain had put itself on pause to avoid meltdown. A few moments passed before I said anything at all, eventually turning to my cousin Shiloh to utter a mere, “But…” He replied, “Fuck?”

Unable to articulate ourselves, we stared at each other in disbelief before turning back and simultaneously shouting, “YOU FUCKING CUNT!!!” Shiloh added wishes that Beckham would die but my brain shut back down after cunt, so I had nothing else to add. The rest of the night was a bit of a blur but the abject hatred and anger for Beckham and that moment set in the following morning. It hasn’t subsided.

Watching David Beckham over the years has driven me to ulcers and a Lithium dependency but I recognize that even now, he passes, crosses, and takes free kicks with extraordinary brilliance and can win games at a stroke. Though useless against real competition, Goldenballs will flourish in the MLS, which will be the equivalent of scrimmaging with the Crystal Palace reserves.

That said, I have complaints:

“It’s not about the money.” What a steaming pile. Beckham can leave no greater legacy to football than the conversion of Americans to the world game. He’s the only player that can do it (if it’s even possible) and he knows it. But with a net worth in excess of $130 million, building soccer in America is something he could do for minor duckets and yet he’s just signed the most lucrative transfer deal in sports history. Stop trying to trick people into believing it’s all about good will.

In any case, I wish David Beckham the best of luck. I don’t like him, I don’t want to hear about him, and I don’t want to watch him play. Just thinking about him makes my head hurt. But I still hope his presence is a significant boon to the American game. While the only “stars” following his lead will be of the retiring variety, the true value of the signing lies with the entry of high quality, lesser-known foreign players and youth development.

Who knows.. in 5 years, maybe MLS will be a rival for the Coca-Cola League.