A couple of months ago I told you about an idea I had for a “Dictionary of Generic Narrative in Football”—a glossary of terms that would teach aspiring soccer fans how to talk about the game using the most widely admired and up-to-date cliches. At that point, I promised project updates, and here’s the first. Eventually, the lexicon will be many times longer than this and so exhaustive that anyone who reads it will immediately be eligible to work at the BBC.

Please feel free to submit your own entries to tips@runofplay.com or through comments. Any contributions that make the final list will be credited when it takes its place of honor in the sidebar, where it will remain, with your name attached, for as long as humanity endures and I keep paying my server costs. More»

I guess Brian couldn’t handle the idea of me at the head of a revolutionary army, because I woke up this morning to find a terse email inviting me back to the site. I’m going to cover MLS, finally living up to that old adage, “See the country, cover MLS.” Apparently “[I] can pay for [my] own [damn] insurance, [friend]” but the site’s picking up my travel costs. Thank you, corporate paymasters in the bodybuilding supplements industry. More»

So…meet your new MLS correspondent. I genuinely have no idea how else to respond to this. I think it’s pretty clear that the kid needs to come back to America.

Hi there,

So…sorry it’s been so long since I wrote. You probably think it’s all because I was stewing in fury over the fact that you published my “secret confession,” but actually that had nothing to do with it. I’ve accidentally TiVo’d enough Facts of Life episodes to recognize poetic justice when it logs in with my username and bites me in the ass. I wreck your Champions League coverage by making it all about my private emotions, I emotionally beg you to let me come back to the site, you plaster my private letter all over the front page, thus getting revenge on me 1) via the same means I used to wrong you and 2) by doing exactly what I was asking you to do in the first place. That is screenplay-quality vengeance, right there. Are you writing a screenplay manual? Are you teaching workshops in LA about what font to use for the “third act”? Are you charging $29.95 a session and taking a fat Church of Scientology bonus under the table for letting them hang recruiting posters in the vestibule? More»

One thing I never get tired of in football writing is the use of the word “admitted.” Let any player approach a microphone with a banal, scripted, or situation-dictated sentiment, and the story in the paper the next day is sure to have him “admitting” that sentiment, as though it was really wrenching and personal for David Beckham to tell the world that putting on the England shirt was every boy’s dream. Landing in Milan yesterday, Ronaldinho unwittingly breathed life into this tradition when he, in the words of Goal.com, “admitted” to the crowd “that his transfer to the Rossoneri was a dream come true.” I think we can all be glad that the man found the courage to get that off his chest. More»

Three days ago, Portsmouth officially unveiled Peter Crouch as the newest member of their squad. I’m happy about this for any number of reasons—my new hobby is constructing little scenes around the logistical challenges of veiling him in the first place (Harry Redknapp: “You can still see his fffffucking knees, can’t you, Nigel? What’ve you got on him, a bedsheet from a five-year-old girl? Why’s it so bloody hard to find a king-size ffffffffffucking comforter, that’s what I wanna know”)—but mostly because seeing Harry Redknapp and Peter Crouch brought together is a satisfaction to the secret dreams of my heart. The girlish legs of the world’s sweetest contortionist plying their trade for the sheet-metal eyes of my favorite titan of banditry. More»

The Song of the Glorious Arsh

I’ll sing you the song of the glorious Arsh
As I heard it myself long ago;
His transfer was rumored all over the world,
Yet no one could say where he’d go:
Whether golden-eyed Chelsea would pay well to sign him
Or wine-sipping Barça would pluck off the vine him
Or Midas-like Wenger would prospect and mine him,
And flourish his glorious Arsh. More»

Quick question, since everyone seems to be comfortable with the idea of God as a color commentator: who’s doing play-by-play?

Read Richard’s post on how ESPN didn’t totally screw up its coverage of Euro 2008.

Read Dave’s perfectly executed headbutt to the sternum of MLS (video footage to be suppressed immediately).

Read The Game on Sepp Blatter’s use of the word “slavery” to describe Cristiano Ronaldo’s £120,000-a-week contract with Man Utd. Turns out it isn’t the first loopy thing he’s said!

Read Antonio G’s brilliant post on the future of football tactics.

More generally: Sports and the role of the past. More»

You probably imagine the voice of God as an awesome, floor-shaking baritone, resonant with majesty and wisdom, like ten million History Channel narrators speaking at once. I’m not so sure. It’s easy enough while watching, say, a tree tossing in the wind, or the space shuttle taking off, to think that God is deeply in the world and guiding its every movement. But when I think about, say, the life of a city, comprising sudden starts and stops, lights going on and off, senseless patterns, intentions colliding like weather fronts, hidden tunnels, secret doors, invisible signals, roaring trains, chandeliers, alleys, telephones, desires, commercial networks, clocks set to different times, and individuals set to different ideas, I imagine a different sort of God, and his voice is something like Andy Gray’s. More»

Gareth Barry’s Disgruntled P.R. Rep Tells All

“When your name is a byword for bravery—
Here’s the thing—you can’t go crying ‘Slavery!’
Without putting the skids
On the love of the kids
At a club that thinks that stuff’s unsavoury.”

More»

And for Accounting Purposes, My Name Is Ronaldo “Ronaldinho Gaucho” de Assís Moreira

Ronaldinho, now Barça’s a fetter,
Has been told that Man City is better,
And would happily go
For the same rate as Jo,
Meaning roughly ten million per letter.

More»