To All Seasons, An End.

Two significant parts of my life came to an end this past week with the U.S.'s World Cup and the first season of Treme coming to an end. Both had tremendous build-up, moments of glory and mixed feelings. So, in the name of conflagration and journalism's grandest tradition, let's take a look back at two completely unrelated items in a forced metaphor. Bob Bradley, meet Big Chief Albert Lambreaux. Clint Dempsey, get your hands off Janette Desautel, you greedy bastard. Davis McAlary's passing a joint to Landon, who's been crying in the corner all night. Wait, who the fuck invited Bill and Mick? Shit's about to get out of hand.

There's a moment when Sonny goes to Houston to sit-in with some other New Orleans players who are doing a session at a roadhouse. He plays one song, they thank him and ask him to move over. Somebody else wants the seat for the next one.

"But I can carry it."

"That's alright, man. Thanks for sitting in."

Sonny steps back into the crowd and watches as his replacement and the rest of the band lays into "At the Foot of Canal Street." It was at that moment that Sonny knew he didn't really belong. He probably knew all along, but this was the visual proof. It's not because of some cruel twist of fate or evil forces working against him. It's not because he didn't work hard enough or didn't have the will to get it done, he just was not on that level.

Watching quarterfinal games on Friday was that moment for U.S. Soccer. We tap danced on the guardrail and had some good moments in the bramble of group play. The good teams are just trying to scrape by. The bad teams are just trying to put bodies in front of the goal to hang on for a draw. In the middle, teams like the U.S. split the difference. The result is a random madness of deflections, own goals and penalties. The outcomes seem more like happy accidents than decisive conclusions, and it's understandable how people can become frustrated with it.

The knockout round is almost a completely different sport. The kids have been sent home and it's time for the adults to go to work. Brazil and the Dutch played beautiful football. And not just beautiful in the "beautiful game" context of finesse and showmanship. It was complete. They were hardnosed when necessary, dirty at moments, and most of all, turning chaos into stunning order that, after it's over, seems like the build-up was all part of some masterplan. It's Van Morrision singing "Cypress Avenue" after sitting through some local wedding cover band sing "Brown Eyed Girl." There's a loose association, but vastly different tiers of performance.



That's not to say that the U.S. didn't accomplish anything. We won the group, showed competence and played with gritty pride, none of which are givens when it comes to American soccer. Playing a game to put out the last African nation in the first African soil Cup brings a lot of bad juju. But it wasn't ancient black arts or continental terroir that brought us down (though I do put some blame on the very presence of Terry McAulfie and the stench of loserdom that trails behind him like a sulfurous cropdusting).

The African teams have a reputation not all that different than Louisiana football-- unbridled athleticism that tries to overwhelm with sheer size, speed and attitude with no shape, direction or strategy. But if you can contain it, bring order without killing the joy, it can be a legitimate force.

But that wasn't Ghana. They put together an organized, thoughful game that left our players playing chase for the majority of the match. That crazy Serbian door-to-door encylopedia salesman with the loosened tie and the confused look has done a job on par with Nick Saban in Baton Rouge. They looked even more the polished, professional squad in their next game against an equally organized Uruguay. They belong.

More than anything else, this U.S. team gave us shared moments. The moments when you're clutching an American flag in one hand, with your fingertips dug into the shoulder of the stranger next to you. For waning minutes at the end of the Algeria game, the country was united under the right foot of Landycakes. Shared desperation can bring an energy. It was talked about in New Orleans immediatley after the storm, there was almost a brotherhood among everybody who was left. We're all up againt the same wall, but the fact that we're all still standing is an impressive accomplishment. But when that adrenaline wears off and you realize you're still standing in the same place against the same wall, it's a fast decline. It's time to either move forward or fall down.

Your keeper in the opposing team's box is the physical manifestation of desperation. It means the good ideas have run out. All that's left to do is throw everything you've got into the breach and hope the confusion is enough to disrupt the logic's foot on your throat. Against Ghana, Tim Howard was the human kitchen sink, hurling itself headfirst into the ball. It was time to go home

But there's more than one way to handle the revelation that you don't belong. Sonny realized he couldn't create, so he self-destructed and went Berman on some leather at a shady bar. But then there's Davis. And if there's any reason for Sonny to exist on Treme, it's to serve as comparison for Davis. Like most everybody at the start of the show, I was annoyed by Davis. I understood his purpose and what he represented in the New Orleans eco-system, but still cringed every time I saw him on screen...that is until they start to develop Sonny. Davis is a loveable tag along. Sonny is a leach, and that's an important distinction that gives Davis a new nobility. There was a time when Davis and Kermit Ruffins were peers, but Davis got left behind. Instead of getting moody about his short-comings, he becomes a fan, even pushing Kermit further. "America needs it some Kermit. You're standing there telling me all you want to do is get high, play some trumpet and barbeque in New Orleans your whole life?" ("Sounds good to me.") Sonny just slunk off into the dark and tried to take Annie down with him, rather than letting her outshine him.

So where do we go from here? Sonny would spit on the ground, comment on how soccer sucks anyway and go watch some Nascar. Don't do that. Be a Davis. Be an appreciator and take joy in the extraordinary, even when you're not directly invovled. This is when it gets good.

Fight for What's Right. Fight for Your Life.

I'm going to yell at the television today. Like a senile cat lady watching Family Feud re-runs (Richard Dawson years). I can't help it. It's not just the World Cup itself, although that would normally be damn well enough. John Wooden, the last honest man in all of sports passed on, and world has been burning in the white hot lava fire of rebirth ever since. Tuberville might have finally hit 88 mph and corrected his national championship resume. Mitch Mustain hitched a ride with a skateboard and Delorean bumper grab and could once again reunite with Capt. Gustav Malzahn Nemo. Big Baby is a legitimate post-season NBA player. Texas is now all but part of the Pacific coast, for Christ's sake.

The plates have collided. Somebody crossed the streams. And this frenzy has all built into the pleasant hum of a thousand dying emus and the World Cup starting up in frickin Africa. In this time of continental shift, the only thing left is for the United States to feel the power of love and dial it back to 1950 for a win over the Brits at their own game.

Everything I know about South Africa, I learned from watching Lethal Weapon 2. So naturally, I assume all the people in charge look like Hans from the Mighty Ducks. They are assisted by Aryan women and all financial transactions are conducted with a swift Busey roundhouse to the back of the head solid gold Krugerrand in the manner that God and Ron Paul intended. However, apparently a few things have changed since Riggs and Murtaugh ended apartheid and my "See Sun City" brochure may no longer be an accurate representation of the country.

The first modern day developing world World Cup gives a certain air of unpredictability. It doesn't feel quite right. The plates are shifting again, and this thing might not be entirely stable. And when the ground starts shaking, there's no better opportunity for the chess club champion to grab the prom queen, find a structurally sound doorway and go at it like the walls are about to come down.

If I had written this 6 days ago, I would have told you this-- we have absolutely no shot. The problems that were there at the beginning of qualifying two years ago are still there. We can't hold possession. We have trouble with creativity on the attack. Robbie Findley doesn't have the ability to move laterally. But most of all, our defense is a disorganized mess.

God love Jay DeMerritt. He's a hard-nosed, scrappy player who clearly loves the game, but he directs the defense like a Viking horde chasing a chicken. I don't even know what that means, but it's a mental image that seems to fit. No shortage of bloodlust or aggression, but just a mob-style pile of dust, flailing feet, facial hair and Tim Howard, our Tourette's-inflicted goalie, screaming wild obscenities in the background. Australia is not a good team. They probably won't make it out of their group play, but if they had had Wayne Rooney on loan for our game, they would've put six goals on us. We have some skill in some key places, but on the whole, our squad doesn't stack up to a world class side. In a stagnant world, we don't have a chance.

But, man. A lot's happened since last Saturday morning and today's world is anything but stagnant. And when times seem their most uncertain, there's no better opportunity to take something that you normally wouldn't have.

Later the same day of the Australia game, I sat in Levon Helm's house, drank a fifth of whiskey and heard the man sing Rag, Mama Rag. Shit happens in America. Beautiful, amazing shit. Glory, glory hallelujah. On the ride home the next day, two things rang in my head-- the dull bells of brown liquor hangover and the pounding drum of foolish pride.

Since then, I've awoken every morning to blaring James Brown and gone to bed to the Taps of the Top Gun theme, and it's built.

We're America. We're going to fucking win. We're going to cockpunch those limey bastards, and we're going to do it because of, not in spite of, our being completely outclassed. They're the pedigree. The royalty. The world soccer aristocracy. And just like the monarchy of old, they've collapsed under the weight of their own crown, thin bloodline and irrational belief in the power of one set of genetics. We're the muts. Clint Dempsey learned the game from the illegal immigrant children who played in the street in front of his Texas trailer park. Jozy Altidore is a the Jersey-born son of Haitian immigrants. Jose Torres scalped Eric Estrada for good luck and hasn't looked back since. Herculez Gomez has two z's in his name. These are our boys, and if you don't see us in them, you need to turn off Glenn Beck and really look at the history of who we are. We're team Zissou. Klaus used to be a bus driver. Wolodarsky was a substitute teacher. We're a pack of strays.

How does that add up to victory? Fuck if I know, but I believe it does. So, crank up the patriotic rock of your choice (except for Lee Greenwood, who is a war profiteer, child molester and Dutch football supporter), crack open two cans of exceptionally cold, incredibly affordable and unrepentenly mediocre beer, smack them together and poor them down your face. Gameday's come to June for one month, and month only, we here at the Sons of Caine are proud to be with the Yanks.