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..jpg)
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