Thursday, April 16, 2009

New England Revolution


Real soldiers from the colonial era were maybe five foot-five and weighed, perhaps 130 pounds (after a good meal). Yet whenever the New England Revolution scores a goal, about half dozen portly men in colonial garb lumber to the edge of the pitch and fire off muskets. We have come full circle as a nation: fat versions of our ancestors now celebrating the most cherished sport of the foe we defeated for independence.

Incredibly, the New England Revolution still do not have a shirt sponsor. Thus soccer purists following Major League Soccer must endure the sight of yet another team name on the front of a shirt. Yes, thank you. We are aware of the teams playing today. Of course, the font chosen for the Revolution name is in a style that begs the words “Viva La” to precede it. Now that would be something – if they went a different way with the team identity. Imagine after a goal, Che and Fidel coming to the edge of the pitch to fire off pistols?

The Revs are owned by Robert Kraft, owner of the New England Patriots. Patriots and Revolution: we all know the Boston area likes to consider itself the authoritative bastion of two things: colonial Americans and belligerently drunk Irish-Americans. However, these days Kraft should rename the teams ‘Medical Professionals’ or ‘Syllabus’. That’d be more regionally appropriate, I say.

2 comments:

  1. Wait... you're criticizing the team for not having a sponsor's name plastered on the front? This from the guy that once championed ripping the roof off the Carrier Dome to bring back the frost-bitten, snow-blinded days of Jim Brown and Ernie Davis?

    Before I read too much in to your attempt at biting irony, I would simply assume that the cause of your ire is some unceremonial drubbing of your beloved Red Bulls at the hands of said Revolution, remeniscent, of course, of their recent playoff encounters. I would assume this, of course, if I actually remembered who won what in any recent MLS playoff tie.

    Underlying this unwarranted, baseless attack is clearly some pent-up, spent-up frustraion, eating at your core and rendering the mere sight of Taylor Twellman's yellow boots enough to send you into epileptic fits. You might assume your ranting has my tri-cornered cap askew but really... it's soccer.

    Go Bruins.

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  2. There is nothing I love more that igniting that powderkeg of witch-burning Puritanical rage that lies within the heart of a true New Englander (or should we call you "New Englishmen"?)

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