Drogba's agent represents a single MLS player
that player is a guy named Djimi Traore
This is easy
Drogba would be classified as a "Master DP," which is reserved only for a famous player that wishes to sunset in MLS. Each team will be allowed to carry one at only a $200K cap hit, unless they sign a youth DP at the same time, in which case you take no cap hit at all and MLS gets you an extra case of Gatorade and some scratch-off tickets from your state’s lottery. This rule only takes effect when LA, Seattle or Toronto sign a Master DP (note: NYCFC is added to this list in 2015) and will be announced to teams like Portland after the signing and to teams like San Jose when they complete construction of a new stadium (again, exception for NYCFC. Oh, and Miami Whatever FC). It’s really straightforward.
When brick walls have inspirational halftime speeches,
they implore each other to run through Drogbas.
Zlatan against Lenhart would cause a dimensional fissure so great as to swallow the universe whole.
And in those brief, glorious moments life would have meaning.
So would you say that
Mugen is a writer you like?
It's Sunday. You're allowed to go to church.
Many people have made the case that Evans
is not a good enough fullback to help the USMNT out of their group at the WC. I will not argue simply because I don’t know and it is a terribly difficult group (see CR7, Andre Schürrle, Mario Götze, Asamoah Gyan).
That being said, Evans did help the USMNT get to the WC and was the starting fullback during the teams most successful year ever. He does that though smart positioning, bend-don’t break defending, and possession oriented distribution. Evans is surely no wingback but he has shown himself to be a very competent defender against very good competition. I see no reason why Evans would be less successful as a fullback in MLS than he is in international competition. That he is more valuable to the team in midfield is an entirely different issue.
Pinocchio: Vampire Hunter.
He could be heard in the night whittling his nose into a sharpened stake, stabbing into the hearts of the undead repeatedly uttering the phrase, "I’m a real boy," over and over as he stabs.
I will consider the lack of a retro 3rd kit to be evidence of the vapidity of the Objectivist philosophy
and there’s nothing you can do about it
If anyone on the team has earned the right to be taken at face value, without cynicism, it's Evans
On the field, he’s the captain and the most vocal in giving instructions to other players (and the other players do what he says). Off the field, he never complains, he’s honest in criticizing his and the team’s play after poor games, and he is one of the best at analyzing what happened (his post-game interviews have by far the best information-to-cliche ratio).
I’m curious to know whether he was asked about the lockerroom attitude or he spontaneously brought it up. Even if asked, he then proceeded to give an answer that was at least four paragraphs long, rather than offer a short response and then switch the topic. He also was clear about how a good lockerroom helps but is not a cure-all.
So we can be cynical and think that Evans is just mouthing the words from the owners and the coach, to cover up their incompetence as they blame their own failings on a bad lockerroom. Or we can believe that Evan is being honest, and that the owners and the coach have made personnel decisions based in part on lockerroom attitude (including getting rid of a player with a bad on-field attitude) because they felt that would make the team better.
I believe Evans.
That would be a pretty short article
"How did Michael Sam become gay? He was born."
And yet, despite all that lack of becoming huge
the game is substantially more popular, the national team substantially better, and the pro league infinitely more successful than in 1991.
Narrative has a hard time with steady, incremental improvement.
This next one is a very special comment, made on February 13th. It is the undeniable comment of the week. Congratulations, sbo!
Let us go then, you and I,
When the Tifo is spread out against the sky
Like Will Johnson etherized upon a table;
Let us go, through certain supporter-packed streets,
Screaming no retreat
Of restless matches in one-night cheap seats
And Sodo restaurants with oyster-shells:
Streets that follow like a tedious argument
Of insidious intent
To lead you to an overwhelming question. . .
Oh, do not ask, "What is it?"
Let us go and make our visit.
In the room the trialists come and go
Talking of Michelangelo.
The green haze that rubs its back upon the window-panes
The green smoke that rubs its muzzle on the window-panes
Licked its tongue into the corners of the evening
And indeed there will be time
For the green haze that slides along the street,
Rubbing its back upon the window-panes;
There will be time, there will be time
To attack on the wings, where Pappa and Oba will meet;
There will be time for Ozzie to murder and create,
And time for all the runs of Yedlin and Deuces
That lift and drop a Timber on your plate;
Time for you and time for me,
And time yet for a hundred quick decisions
And for a hundred visions, passes, and revisions
Before the stoppage of time and yellow card pleas.
In the room the women come and go
Talking of Michelangelo.
And indeed there will be time
To wonder, "Do I dare?" and, "Do I dare?"
Time to turn back and celebrate 40 years,
With Windows 8 Rave green Troll thing in my hair—
[They will say: "Why is Flaco so thin!"]
My third kit collar mounting firmly to the chin,
My Sounder at Heart Scarf rich and modest, but asserted by a simple pin—
[They will say: "But how his arms and legs are thin!"]
Do I dare
Disturb the universe?
In a minute there is time
For decisions and revisions which a minute will reverse.
For I have known them all already, known them all;
Have known the defenders, midfielders, formidfenders
I have measured out my life in 90 minutes and flamethrower booms;
I know the voices rising with a rising call
Beneath the music from a farther room.
So how should I presume?
And how should I begin?
And would it have been worth it, after all,
After the beer, the nachos, the cheese,
Among the porcelain, among some talk of you and me,
Would it have been worth while,
To have bitten off the matter with a smile,
To have squeezed Centurylink into a ball
To roll it toward some overwhelming question,
To say: "I am Cerberus, come from the dead,
Come back to tell you all, I shall tell you all"
If one, settling scarf by her head,
Should say, "That is not what I meant at all.
That is not it, at all."
No! I am not Honey Badger, nor was meant to be;
Am an attendant Brad Evans, one that will do
To swell a progress, start a scene or two
Advise the Captain Sheriff; no doubt, an easy tool,
Deferential, glad to be of use,
Politic, cautious, and meticulous;
Full of high sentence, penalty kicks ridiculous;
Always, indeed, always ridiculous—
I grow old . . . I grow old . . .
I shall wear the my Mauro Rosales Jersey though he’s sold.
Shall I part my hair behind? Do I dare to eat a peach?
I shall wear my shale Neagle, and walk upon the Occidental.
I have heard the supporters singing, each to each.
They only know how to sing to me.
I have seen them riding seaward on the waves
Destroying the Galaxies, the Timbers, and the Classy Mullan hate blown back
When the wind blows the water white and black.
We have lingered in the bowels of Section 143
By hordes of green wreathed in Seattle, our true hometown
Till human voices wake us, and we drown.