When I Root I Kick It Root Down: Official Match Statement for The Mighty PTFC vs. San Jose Earthquakes

Roots are for closers.

Roots are for closers. (PHOTO: Craig Mitchelldyer-Portland Timbers)

FOR IMMEDIATE RELEASE

The Back Office
Beneath Providence Park
Rose City, Cascadia

Official Match Statement PORvSJ  League Match


Dear Major League Soccer,

You probably know this about me but when I root I root for the Timbers.

I also kick it root down.
We put our boot down.

San Jose we put down.
We put our boot down

And Valeri’s making some love, he put his boot down
Like Bob Ross and Joy of Painting Alliance
Everybody knows he’s a master of Footy Science.
He’s a Maestro of thick rhythm.
Guess who to expect to get his crew rhyming
Never let you down when he’s gliding on the ground.
So Rod, gets on the Mic and turns it out.
We’re talking Rod Down, he put his boot down.
And if you want to battle him he’ll pace you on the ground.
He put his boot down, he slung that goal down.
He stepped up to the slab lifted it off the ground.

We kicked it root down.
We put our boot down.

Come up representing from The Upper West
Cascadia Derbies putting us to the test
Most times we feel as though we are blessed.
Because what we are doing is for the crest.
Well, we came out early goofy like those California Raisin guys
Then we were strutting like The Meters with the Look-ka Py Py.
Cause downtown Portland is where we were born.
And when the rain is falling we know we’ve won.
Your clubs are stable as the Titanic.
A phone call from Garber and you’re throwing a panic.
But we break it from our roots when we kick it on down.
Jimmy Conway is my man, I wanna give him a pound.

We kicked it root down.
We put our boot down.

Chara’s a rock he don’t stop, across the pitch like a tic and a toc.
This club will fill the fuckin heart to the brim
We ride bikes on our blocks and sing on a whim.
There is that crowd with the funky sound.
The Timbers Army you know we came to get down.
Flags and songs and banners among two-sticks.
And say “Oh my Rod,” that’s the funky shit.
Pass the ball to Sugar Foot he’s gonna cause a panic.
The Original Timbers kid is doing damage.
His speed like a train from the Goose Hollow station.
Doing hardwork getting kicked in vain a fucked up situation.
Writing battles in the turf with his feet wrapped in tape.
In circles he will run around underneath the sky scrapes.
Like Ohio Players shredding funky on the Soul Train show.
It’s Darling vs. villains and only one we should know.
Enough of that, I just wanna give some respect due.
Ridgy Smalls and Big Papa Bear are a wall true.
Villafaña is prophetic for the flank’s fight.
If Harrington or Powell play I shall feel alright.
I’m feeling good saw a game played like music.
Tears running down my face because I love how they do it.
And no one can stop this flow from flowing on.
A Flow Master in class with our problem’s gone.
I’ll give a shout out to my friends and fam.
For bringing this into this world and so on.

Love,
BOG

The Audacity of Cope: Official Match Statement for San Jose Earthquakes vs. The Mighty PTFC

Oh, look, honey. Real supporters. (PHOTO: Kelley L Cox-USA TODAY Sports)

Oh, look, honey. Real supporters. (PHOTO: Kelley L Cox-USA TODAY Sports)

FOR IMMEDIATE RELEASE

The Back Office
Beneath Providence Park
Rose City, Cascadia

Official Match Statement SJvPOR  League Match

Dear Major League Soccer,

Why is the universe made of peaks and valleys and not just an infinite plateau of sublime contentment?

Why are feelings made of waves with ebbs and flows that fluctuate on the tides time?

Why does the heart beat and not hum?

Why must things that go up also always, inevitably, come down?

Is the only way to truly know something to truly know the opposite?

Sometimes, in the early purity of morning, after I’ve stumbled to relieve myself and drank hungrily straight from the faucet, I’ll look in the mirror and I’ll see you. And if I still had to pee I’d wet myself from your cool and calculating stare. Whispering, “We are you,” with lips that aren’t mine. Screaming, “I love you!” with a glare not from my eyes. Uttering, “We want you,” with gestures from limbs unattached to mine. And in that reflection I see years of torment, of unrequited love, of unreciprocated generosity, of malicious offenses meant to demean and coral that which you can’t control. That which is opposite. The thing you see in the cold of night after emptying your loneliness into a tissue while listening to Dempsey raps is us.

And that reflection doesn’t taunt you it whispers, “Go fuck yourself.”

Just as we only know we are here if the reflection is in the mirror we can’t truly know ourselves without knowing who others are. That’s why we have friends, it’s why we have heroes and villains, why we love intimately those that are different in ways that lead us to discover more in ourselves and grow as humans.

Contrast is a universal revealer.

A valley always leads to a peak. Something can’t flow unless it ebbs. A rattle might hum but a beat is eternal. When something is down will it inevitably go up?

The ups and downs of this season were exemplified in our match down in the city by the city by the bay. If it wasn’t the contrast of two complimentary colors of green and blue that when mixed together make the color of every mid-nineties Saturn sedan, it was the contrast of possession with purpose disguised as the contrast of a Adi looming down on the half-men of San Jose’s back line as he stroked the ball with legs the size of Jon Busch. The traveling Timbers Army were the fun house mirror making the 1906 Ultras feel bloated and small and insignificant in their own halls.

The Notorious Wall of Portland was a rap battle disguised as a USMNT striker poaching and pinching and flinching and pouting and losing the aerials and losing the lines to an Argentine and a Brit bookended by the vigor of youth and the brashness of learning. And even after Wondo had beaten the line and laid Ridgy Smalls to rest with Villafaña gently caressing his back in a pile of fuck up, it was the young buck who was jawing the veteran at every opportune moment to get in his mealy mouthed head.

But being down to San Jose is how we get off and with patience and virtue we continued our gambit to lay haters to rest and continue the season further into the fall. Our midfield was a contrast to our midfield of past with the reckless vigor of Johnson replaced with the monotonous consistency of Zemanski’s aptness. Where once we had Valeri as a maestro of many melodies we now had La Gata, curious and pensive, yet always dangerous and ready and able to pounce for a goal or deliver a one time slide-rule that unlocked free space. 2014 Nagbe, ever the foil of his 2013 self, burned holes in man-markers and due to his contract with some cynical fate was unfruitful from point-blank even against the tiny keeper.

It was Wallace our savior, our awesome Rod, who delivered a brace of deflections that was contrary to everything we’ve known this year. Our luck has been made on the backs of the dead, meaning without bad luck we’d have none at all. But tonight was different, the deities ruling our world shaped in clay by their hands, saw fit to reward us for never giving up hope.

Our audacity to cope with every obstacle imagined, thrown our way on the lashing tongue of fate or filed on a memo in Satan’s briefcase, was finally acknowledged and the chips all cashed in.

The Goonies used to never say die.

But we killed them so we could live another day.

Love,

BOG

The Beauty of a Broken Heart: Official Match Statement for Toronto Football Club vs. The Mighty PTFC

Says it all, really.

Says it all, really.

FOR IMMEDIATE RELEASE

The Back Office
Beneath Providence Park
Rose City, Cascadia

Official Match Statement TORvPOR  League Match

Dear Major League Soccer,

It’s been awhile. (“Been awhile” in Staind’s lead singer’s voice)

But I’ve been tracking down some leads on a nefarious rumor and crying into my Captain Planet pillow, just trying to understand why and track down whoever the fuck it was that nonchalantly told Will Johnson to go break a leg as some wry and symbolic gesture of good-luck meant to mean the absolute opposite but when uttered before 10am Pacific Time beyond the northern borders and under crystal blue skies inside any venue with “BMO” attached to it becomes a sickening and gut wrenching reality rather that a cliche saying.

My leads ran dry but my pillow still lies damp with feelings. Captain Planet flaccid from the weight of emotion looking unable to recycle a can let alone prevent global warming.

But I digress. Will did this because he’s a fucking hero. At the first whistle of any match there is not a player on the pitch that wants to win the first challenge or at least make a go at it that will leave even the sharpest opponent’s senses dulled more than Will. He isn’t just one of the best box-to-box midfielders in the league, he’s also our Captain and did I say he’s a fucking hero.

When Alan “I’m a big fucking idiot” Gordon hurled a homophobic slur his way Will flipped him a count for a three game suspension and further exposed latent homophobia and forced the league to take stands for equality. Have you heard he’s a fucking hero.

He’s grabbed the lads by their scruffs, thrown temper tantrums and dance parties, scored magnificent free kicks, won dangerously beautiful tackles, nearly decapitated keepers after barreling into the box on the end of a flick, been shown yellows for counting, had bad games and good games and games where he’ll even make you forget about Diego Valeri if only for the smallest of moments. Essentially, he’s a fucking hero.

And this past weekend when the whistle went, “Pweeeeeeeeep!” he did what he always does and went into a challenge, as brashly and quickly as Rob Ford would jump on a crack rock, and suffered an injury that will define the final chapters of his career.

And he did it for Timbers. He did it for us.

And he’s done it before. He’ll do it again.

Because he’s our Will. He’s our Captain. And you can go fuck yourself because he’s a fucking hero.

Where do we go from here? Where did we come from? Who the fuck are you?

All appropriate questions just as Adi’s answer to a comedy of errors was a strike on the end of a Chara’s in charge challenge as poetic as the subcharacters of “King Lear.” As appropriate as Valeri not earning an assist or goal in a game where he created an own-goal after Chara again collected his ball and dished a restart to an oft failed corner that Valeri sent into the box on the back of a banshee.

But then the drought hit and the referee too. Elbows upon elbows upon elbows upon blown call upon call against us matching exactly the circumstances of noncalls on them. Who is this man in yellow? I dare utter his name here to give credence to his blasphemous guile. Ridgy Smalls bullied into submission. Our defense in shambles after close call after close call. Were these individual mistakes in the spirit of the game or logical results of a Toronto policy of brutishness? There is only one answer: Fuck that guy.

But seriously we were there on the verge of deliverance and about to claim points that needed claimed. But now we sit adrift of a spot earned from dismantling our second-fiercest rivals. We sit without the fate of our men in the palm of our hands. Our dreams can only be fulfilled from the nightmares of others.

We don’t need a maestro or even a Captain.

We need a fucking hero.

And quite possibly a miracle.

Regards,

BOG

BOG Tea Leaves: Week Twenty Eight

marquesas09

Thrice the Iron Lion roared.
Thrice and once the Hedge Don snored.
Twitter cries, ’tis time, ’tis time.
Round about the league we go.

Round about the league we go.
Getting down to nitty-gritty.
We know who’s bad and who is shitty.
Days and weeks now naught and six.
The test of good is yet to come.
As parity rules with an iron thumb.

Double, double toil and trouble.
Who lifts the cup from out this rubble?

Friday, September 19

Real Salt Lake vs. Colorado Rapids #RSLvCOL

Going up or coming down.
Is Mastroeni made of frown.
Does Beckerman moonlight as a clown.
What else to do in this salty town.
The Rapids rose and fell too quick.
They never reached the thick of it.
And if officials don’t make you sick.
The on pitch tactics will make you thick.
2-1 Real

Saturday, September 20

Philadelphia Union vs. Houston Dynamo #PHIvHOU

Fresh of a loss to the shit from our North.
Trying to maintain and find their worth.
The Union are stronger than ever before.
That’s not saying much they don’t usually soar.
And Houston just chug-a-lug on and about.
More persistent to shake in the fall like the gout.
Don’t expect fireworks or even much noise.
It’ll be precision boredom and boys playing boys.
1-1 DRAW

Red Bull New York vs. Seattle Sounders Football Club #NYvSEA

If you need a hero an ornery Legend.
If you need a boot in which to depend.
His name is Henry not like it’s spelled.
Find what he thirsts and you will be quelled.
When footballing idols play American ones at best.
And play is so sloppy it could be a jest.
Arsenal blood runs red in these Bulls.
That’s all it takes to make shit of these fools.
3-1 Red Bull

Columbus Crew vs. New England Revolution #COLvNE

The battle for the middle of the end.
Two old dogs that won’t be friends.
One old foot in midwest yellow.
One old boat in that Jermaine fellow.
Who gets excited for Ohio ball.
Who gets excited to watch the chips fall.
I’ll tell you a fact if you tell me lie.
I tell you theirs no cups even if these clubs try.
2-2 DRAW

Impact de Montréal vs. San Jose Earthquakes #MTLvSJ

The battle for the bottom of the bottom of the table.
Time for both teams to start thinking about the stable.
Book those flights and call your kids and wives.
Tell them you’ll be home soon to live your other lives.
Is it three points you want or something less.
Is it time to turn it on or simply to digress.
Let it go this season’s done for you.
But if you must then prove yourself to better than a few.
2-1 Impact

Chicago Fire vs. District of Columbia United #CHIvDC

Tie your shoe and tie a match and draw a picture scene.
Tell the story of regret and how the refs were mean.
Pray to Dark Magic Mikey’s ancient ailing hips.
But save your hope and save your breath upon your lips.
United can untie your knotted form.
With plucky youth your defense will deform.
I’m sorry Fire your light is out it isn’t all your fault.
So eat a lime and take a shot and snort that line of salt.
2-0 United

Los Angeles Galaxy vs. Football Club Dallas #LAvDAL

It’s nice to hit a form so late like Galaxy.
An easy opening season left their fixture on delay.
Now I’m okay if shit is weird but this is getting cray.
Just needed stars to retire boots and have a final say.
LA are flying high enough to make a final run.
And Dallas shouldn’t be around it’s never any fun.
Congestion plagues a shoddy schedule built for parity.
But storylines and careful thought are still a scarcity.
3-0 Galaxy

Sunday, September 21

Toronto Football Club vs. Club Deportivo Chivas United States of America #TORvCHV

Insert sad horns in your mind.
Think of goat horns in the grind.
When clubs are owned by men not sport.
And culture is contrived in a court.
It isn’t fair and it isn’t football.
But this is life and one league for all.
It’s about markets not matches you see.
Leaving the remaining Chivas matches absent of glee.
4-1 Toronto

Battle Hymn Portlandia: Official Match Statement for The Mighty PTFC vs. Club Deportivo Olimpia

This isn't really America exactly. (PHOTO: Craig Mitchelldyer-CONCACAF)

This isn’t really America exactly. (PHOTO: Craig Mitchelldyer-CONCACAF)

FOR IMMEDIATE RELEASE

The Back Office
Beneath Providence Park
Rose City, Cascadia

Official Match Statement PORvOLI  CONCACAF Champions League

Dear Honduras,

CC: Major League Soccer, CONCACAF

I present you the National Anthem of Honduras (italics) juxtaposed with the Statement Hymn of the Match (bold):

Like an Indian maiden you have been sleeping,
Lulled by the resonant song of your seas,
When, set in your golden valleys,
The bold navigator found you;
And on seeing, enraptured, your beauty,
And feeling your enchantment,
He dedicated a kiss of love to the blue hem
of your splendid mantle.

Like a hipster maverick you don’t sleep,
Lulled by the dissonant song of your please,
When, set in your green and golden valleys,
The bold pedestrian found you;
And on being, enraptured, in our beauty,
And living inside an enchantment,
We dedicated a kiss of love to the mighty axe
of our once splendid crest.

From a country where the sun rises,
Beyond the blue Atlantic,
That man who had dreamt you
In search of you he launched to sea.
When you raised your pale forehead,
In the lively anxiousness of your hope,
Under the gentle dome of your sky
Already floated a strange banner.

From a region where the fun rises,
Beyond the bule borders,
That fan who had dreamt us
In search of more we launched to MLS.
When you raised your stained scarf,
In the lively audacity of our hope,
Under the gentle rafters of our home
Already floated a deranged manner.

It was useless that your beloved Indian
Rushed into the fight with ire,
Because, covered with his blood, Lempira,
In the deep night he sank;
And of the heroic deed, in memory,
The legend alone has kept
A sepulcher in a forgotten place,
And the severe profile of a mountain peak.

It was useful that our belaboured owner
Rushed into a fight that was dire,
Because, buried with the brand, Timbers,
In the new dawn we sank;
And of the inaugural creed, in memory,
The Army alone has kept
A totem from the forgotten place,
And the severed profile of a club now franchise.

For three centuries your children heard
The imperious mandate of the master;
For three centuries your useless complaint
In the blue atmosphere was lost
But one glorious day your ear
Perceived, powerful and distant,
That there, far away, over the Atlantic,
Indignantly, a lion roared.

For three years our supporters sang
The perilous mandate of progress;
For three years our useless tactics
On the green pitch was lost
But one glorious day that year
Possession, purpose and Porter,
That here, and now, in Cascadia,
The Iron Lion roared.

It was France, the free, the heroic,
Which in its dreams of centuries slept,
Awoke irate to life
At the virile protest of Danton:
It was France, who sent to the death
The head of the consecrated King,
And which built up proudly at its side,
The altar of the goddess of Reason.

It was Valeri, the free, the maestro,
Which in his dreams of football we wept,
Arose irate with strife
At the tepid protest of fouls and flops:
It was Argentina, who sent to Rose City
The head of a goal scoring striker,
A cat with nine life saving goals at his side.
And a defender of the Altar of Domingadas.

You also, oh my country!, arose
From your servile deep sleep;
You also showed the world
The infamous shackle destroyed.
And in your blessed soil, behind the tall
Hair of the wild jungle,
Like a bird of black feathers,
The fleeting colony was lost.

You also, oh this league, arose
From a slovenly deep and amateur sleep;
We showed you the world
Your infamous lack of style destroyed.
And in your cursed soul, behind the stall
Notes of your wild rules,
Like shit on the bathroom wall,
You knew that we you had lost.

Your flag is a splendour of sky
Crossed with a band of snow;
And there can be seen, in its sacred depths,
Five pale blue stars.
In your emblem, which a rough sea
With its wild waves protects,
Behind the bare summit of a volcano,
A star brightly shines.

Our city is a splendour of roses
Crossed with the bands of rain;
And there can be seen, in its sacred depths,
A team, a town, and a Timbers Army.
In our crest, which a Doug Fir
With its sturdy earthen chevrons protects,
In the shadows of too many volcanos,
The Timbers win or die trying

To guard this sacred emblem
We shall march, oh fatherland, to our death;
Our death will be honoured
If we die thinking of your love.
Having defended your holy flag,
And shrouded in its glorious folds,
Many, Honduras, shall die for you,
But shall fall in honour.

To guard this sacred crest
We shall never march to the match, to our death;
Our death will be by winning
If we die drowning in this love.
Having defended our righteous club,
And shrouded in its glorious smoke,
Many, Timbers, shall die for us,
But we will bury them in Green and Gold

Your flag is a splendour of sky
Crossed with a band of snow;
And there can be seen, in its sacred depths,
Five pale blue stars.
In your emblem, which a rough sea
With its wild waves protects,
Behind the bare summit of a volcano,
A star brightly shines.

Our city is a splendour of roses
Crossed with the bands of rain;
And there can be seen, in its sacred depths,
A team, a town, and a Timbers Army.
In our crest, which a Doug Fir
With its sturdy earthen chevrons protects,
In the shadows of too many volcanos,
The Timbers win or die trying

Love,

BOG

BOG Tea Leaves: Week Twenty Six

IMG_7735

Thrice the Iron Lion roared.
Thrice and once the Hedge Don snored.
Twitter cries, ’tis time, ’tis time.
Round about the league we go.

Round about the league we go.
If you don’t know now you know.
If you’re good or if you blow.
Days and weeks now naught and eight.
Sell the house and keep the car.
Do or die and ride the playoffs far.

Double, double toil and trouble.
Who lifts the cup from out this rubble?

WARNING: HAIKU EDITION

Sunday, September 7

Columbus Crew vs. Club Deportivo Chivas United States of America #CLBvCHV

A yellow sub dream.
Cream not risen to the top.
A thing to tell none.
1-0 Crew

New England Revolution vs. Chicago Fire #NEvCHI

King of the drawing.
Yearning for deliverance.
Severed and dying.
2-0 Revolution

Saturday, September 6

Toronto Football Club vs. Philadelphia Union #TORvPHI

Race for some playoffs.
Look to payoff investors.
Cracks in parity.
2-1 Union

Red Bull New York vs. Sporting Kansas City #NYvSKC

Legend’s ornery.
BWP a scoring dream.
But are they any good?
3-2 Red Bull

Houston Dynamo vs. Impact de Montreal #HOUvMTL

Snore fest and dumbest.
Matches made in hell’s boredom.
Tune in/out drop dead.
1-1 DRAW

Vancouver Whitecaps Football Club vs. District of Columbia United #VANvDC

Van parked in the North.
Capitol is burning bright.
Forget night again.
3-1 United

Real Salt Lake vs. Football Club Dallas #RSLvDAL

A lake of salt tears.
Never playing on Sunday.
Inherit the meek.
2-2 DRAW

Friday, September 5

Los Angeles Galaxy vs. Colorado Rapids #LAvCOL

Landy Cakes on fire.
Vacations are for closers.
Retirement OUT.
3-1 Galaxy

Wednesday, September 3

Philadelphia Union vs. Toronto Football Club #PHIvTOR

A snake or soft serve,
Both coiled ready to bite,
The decadent mouse.
2-1 Union

New England Revolution vs. Sporting Kansas City #NEvSKC

Revolution? Nein.
Sporting up and Sporting down.
Revelation, yes.
2-0 Revolution

Club Deportivo Chivas United States of America vs. Seattle Sounders Football Club #CHVvSEA

Too much is to hope.
The rank and vile of excess
Runs into the river.
1-1 DRAW

The Summer of This Content: Official Match Statement for Vancouver Whitecaps FC vs. The Mighty PTFC

Villafaña gonna knock you down. (PHOTO:Anne-Marie Sorvin-USA TODAY Sports)

Villafaña gonna knock you down. (PHOTO:Anne-Marie Sorvin-USA TODAY Sports)

FOR IMMEDIATE RELEASE

The Back Office
Beneath Providence Park
Rose City, Cascadia

Official Match Statement VANvPOR  League Match

Dear Major League Soccer,

The dog days of summer are fleeting memories in the recesses of our heat muddled minds. For the last month I’ve sweated through matches, through work, through sleepless nights of tangled sheets and box fans blasting the warm air across our restless bodies, and creating wind tunnels in the empty cavern between our distancing bodies.

I step outside and time slows down, my freckles get larger, and from a distance of 20-25 feet the lobster glow of my sunburned skin appears a supple bronze to the untrained eye. I step inside and shadows are washed out, the corners thick with stale warmth. I want to take a cold shower but instead can barely manage a nap. Is inside hotter than outside? Is the shade of a tree with a whispering breeze cooler than the cold, dead cement floor of the basement with the hum of a water heater? Will the heat never end?

Will this season ever improve?

Do you even love me anymore? Did you ever?

In a delirium of grief I stumbled through life last week. Numb from the sting of a thrashing by our foes. A match where we left our pride on the pitch and scuffed home to lick our hearts. Hope can’t be lost if it never was found and our wins against lesser opponents were hardly the building blocks of what this club could hope to achieve this campaign but on the horizon of our dejected expectations was still the reality that playoffs were something in which still to believe.

Against Vancouver we had a chance to make a statement. It’s not that Vancouver is even good: they aren’t. The best-case-scenario was a win and a squeaky shuffle above the red line at Vancouver’s expense. A draw wasn’t the worst either. A loss would be a devastating blow to the faint glow of hope we each have hidden in the back corner of our underwear drawers.

The result wasn’t just an emphatic and important win, it was an utterly calculating and precise dismantling of an opponent from tactical execution to individual performance.

The result was the result of a season of discontent. The final bubbling climax of a rising potential. The unbridled explosion of glistening expectation. A shower of hope after a summer of dread.

The result was a testament. It was a sermon on the system. It was a lifting gospel delivered amongst heathens expounding the virtues of a system based on control and explosive individual creativity.

The result was Timbers and if you didn’t get the memo we are going to make your stupid and inequitable MLS Cup Playoffs and you can go fuck yourself.

It started with the lineup and Porter going with youth and action on the wings of the defense. Ridgewell helmed the back line with Kah appearing as he always has. A wild animal on challenging, loose with possession, average with passing, but bringing a fundamental fatherly aspect and familial camaraderie to a team that at times has looked like a group of orphans trying to clean chimneys with coat hangers. He’ll throw you down and massage your legs and then ruin your moment on TV after the final whistle. He’ll always be there for us even when he’s not there for the ball. Ridgy and Kah proved up to the task of cleaning the sheets with clearances and tackles.

Villafaña on the left and he’s earned back a starting role. He’s patient with his bursts down the line, communicative with his wingmates up top, and courageous on tackling even if he needs to get a little faster. And although I was nervous every minute that Powell was on the pitch, he was essential, not only for the goal, but in his constant activity spreading the Vancouver defense like a canvas on which Valeri and Nagbe could create art.

With Nagbe’s speed and Valeri’s grace chances were created through the night and rhythms were danced to in the second half. Still our Maestro is seen flicking notes onto tone-deaf ears with an errant pass or mistimed run, but the riffs where he thumps his will through masses of flesh and rolls into ambient space without a care in the world only to relinquish his brush to stroke the genius of others. Subtly he unlocks Nagbe and Nagbe and his sugary foot strafed the Vancouver squad with 51/52 passes obliterating them with pops and locks and pivots and spins and bursts of awesome that left ankles swollen and prides adrift. His ball to Wallace was a hot knife through butter and Wallace capped a hard-working night with the slot into the corner.

Chara and Johnson worked the pivot like never before and in the waning moments of the match were the fulcrum of a minute and a half of ball possession that even had the Vancouver crowd yelling, “Ole!” For the second straight match Porter’s second half subs proved tactically correct and Mikey shined in his natural RB position and delivered one of his cheeky ground chip crosses that look painful until Urutti slams in his laser nearly peeling the GK’s face from his skull.

You want stats? We won them all. You want reasons? We are the better team.

But our season? Well, it seems like it’s just getting started. Thanks to your playoff structure that is an entirely okay thing.

Love,

BOG