Matchday Diaries

Early August is sports no man's land. The MLB is in the very crotch of its thick, viscous, 162-game season. The NBA's major transactions have occurred and been pored over. NFL training camp and pre-season are dull, besides the stories about fights in intra-squad practices. Worse, the content I desire and require—Simon Jordan, Bill Simmons, Colin Cowherd—is in short supply.

So why, on Thursday, the day before Arsenal were to open the season, did I find such a supreme lack of excitement, fear, anger, or relief within? And why didn't release from these weights of expectation make me feel lighter?

After finishing World Cup coverage, I felt sun-poisoned. Football all the time. Then I started this website. Football even more of the time. It seems very human to no longer desire what you have access to. But calling something human is another way of explaining a biological imperative to an illogical disposition.

I was meant to meet Cesca at the City Winery on Pier 57 to watch Bebel Gilberto's concert at 8:30, and then hang out after. Hearing about Bebel's egomaniacal yet sort of feckless tirades interested me on an interpersonal level, but the singing I felt ambivalent about.

Taking the L to 14/8 and a ten-minute walk. Fine. Or that's the writing trick, anyway: I'm lightly misleading you. It wasn't fine. The rain was going apeshit and the train wasn't coming. My yellow rain jacket sat folded across my forearm. It was way too hot inside the station to keep layers attached and I was already sweating profusely.

After 15 minutes, I checked the MTA website. Delays. I scanned my phone for other options. Taking a series of buses would take an hour-twenty. An Uber fifty minutes, and $85. Walking fifteen minutes through the rain to the Lorimer MJZ, transferring at Delancey-Essex, and taking the C to 14/8, forty-five minutes. From where I was, the Montrose L, were the train to come, it would be twenty-five.

It made sense to wait. So I waited. I waited and I scrolled my phone. Twitter, Instagram, Facebook, Letterboxd, MDC Discord. Around and around and around.

Then I wondered about why the train might be stopped. Was it the rain? Did someone kill themselves? Every time someone kills themself on or using the train, there's a delay. Sometimes it's really quick. Which is harder to deal with, when someone jumps on the tracks, or when someone jumps in front of the train? What about when someone slips between the side of the train and the small gap from the platform? Or even inside the train? The MTA and NYPD must have detailed procedures to deal with stuff like this because it happens so regularly.

Maybe it's only right, I thought to myself. Maybe if you're hurting so badly that you want to die and do die, we should all be delayed so we can consider the severity. Google says there are about 100 suicides by train every year in New York. So when there's a delay it's probably not because of a suicide. But I always assume it is.

Regardless, everyone fucking hates waiting for the train. The bodies, the heat, the frustration. It feels third world.

I arrived almost an hour late. Once inside, Cesca found me and sat me down in the seats parallel to the side of the stage. It was a decent enough view. There were lots of tasks that needed doing, so I watched maybe half of Bebel's last thirty minutes on stage alone.

Sometime toward the end of the performance, a smirk formed across my mouth. I hadn't been all that interested in watching Bebel perform, and God had conspired to shorten her performance for me. My price of admission was a different hell—dealing with public transport in inclement weather. One has to marvel at the perfection of the narratives of our lives. It's the only way to enjoy pushing the rock up the hill.

After Bebel finished her encore with an interesting rendition of "Harvest Moon," the jostling for backstage access began. Cesca, 5'5 in her three-inch clogs, was manning the door. I was instructed to wait out the initial forays in my seat. So I did. I transported to other worlds within my phone. Twitter, YouTube, Instagram. The good stuff.

Eventually I was beckoned backstage. It was an utter bore. Maybe that's because I don't speak Portuguese. Maybe that's because the average age of the crowd was 63. Maybe it's because I'm not that interesting to them. The boredom of exclusion.

Somewhere between my feigned interest in six rather basic framed festival posters and intermittent Cesca check-ins, I was introduced to Bebel. She planted two thick kisses on either cheek. Then she scampered elsewhere. Then she repeated the same action three minutes later, like she had forgotten we'd already met.

I resented not being memorable. Even if it was to a coked-up, Jchain-smoking Brazilian heiress and star. I want to be seen, I need to be seen. Why? Why is the idea of being irrelevant so intolerable?

In the time it took six people to smoke three joints, the non-binary stage manager had shuffled the majority of people outside. Cesca said it and it's true: they are usually terrible at their jobs. Uniformly arrogant and spoiled baristas and I assume very bitchy library clerks. But this they/them "ran a tight fucking ship."

There was a next location. An after-party. Before we could go, Cesca and I had to drop off Bebel's bags at her hotel room.

Once there, we found an elderly lesbian Brazilian woman watching Bebel's dog, a stunning blond shih tzu. She spoke no English but it was clear she was complaining the entire time. The woman kind of looked like my grandmother, Eileen, but a bit taller and with dyed black hair, though lacking my grandmother's FDR-esque light blue eyes and utterly charming debonair. Apparently, the dog food was lost. I didn't think twice about it.

The after-party was the same crowd as backstage, but without the frenetic closeness tight quarters inspire. Frenetic by the mobile, cool, elderly overclass standard, that is.

Downstairs, Cesca and I joined Bebel, her friend, and the 75-year-old drug dealer, whose name I can't remember, to smoke. The old man talked a lot. He said he was a writer for Penthouse Magazine and a manager for KISS and Wishbone back in the day.

"What's with Jews and glam rock," I asked, but really stated. He began to stumble through a few words before registering my tone with a laugh. I told him I was also a writer. This combination made me worthy of his esoteric spiel about the creative process, apparently. What it was to connect. What it was to create.

The energy behind his pleas to be seen and admired teetered as he neared conclusion. Maybe he could see my eyes glazing over. Maybe he found his own words tedious and rehearsed. He asked me if I felt similarly. I told him I didn't think about it. He said of course not, neither did he.

Once removed from the basement hot box, I was informed that I was to head back to the hotel to bring the dog's food from behind the desk to the room. With Cesca, of course. I was informed by Cesca. She informs me of many things. I didn't mind. I found the ever clever and spry Ella more captivating than my spurts of limited and disconnected conversation and elder drug abuse voyeurism.

While walking back to the hotel, I got a call from Adam. It was clear from the off this was about Arsenal.

Talking to Adam about Arsenal is one of the most invigorating things. He's one of the few people, alongside my longtime friend Henry, who operates on a similar wavelength of understanding and integration with the club. It's a part of who we are. And so is talking about it. All the time.

Within ninety seconds I was invited over to his place to hang out and discuss the team, the game. I broke the news to Cesca. She looked at me, only half surprised. My love of hanging out with Adam was not news, but its timing was rarely ideal. I was leaving her at 1am to deal with Bebel and the dog and find her way home.

Kissing goodbye at the Hotel, I asked her to remember to grab my new Yellow Rain Jacket from the bar. She did not. I suppose God priced that into the negative externalities of my decision.

Once at Adam's, we fell into a familiar pattern. Monologues about his life, followed by watching an episode of the show. This time, Ann Coulter. He really does remind me of Larry Sanders sometimes.

Adam is getting married in a month. Tensions with in-laws were running high. His brother-in-law, Jonas, told his parents that Adam was doing too much cocaine, something revealed in confidence. This was a betrayal, no doubt. Questions of pyschosexual dynamics with his sister, the fiancée, were brought up, as were stories of oddly aggressive physical confrontations they had when they were children. I suppose my writing this is a betrayal, too. Though that would require me to have an audience of import.

I have met Jonas only the once. With Adam, we watched Arsenal beat Liverpool 3-1 in February of 2024. I found him pleasant enough but he made me slightly uneasy. But that could have just been my nerves in meeting someone new. A few weeks ago, Adam sent me a screenshot of Jonas' reaction to my Liverpool Summer Treatise. His entire response was, "Wow." It made me feel good. It made me like him.

More family dynamics were discussed, but they mostly fell in the WASP family social-emotional connectivity category of issues. By discussed, to be clear, I mean told. When I attempted to relate my own father's experience in the matter, I was met with disinterest. After a bump or two, the Ann Coulter came on, and I happily listed while listening in the background, occasionally interrupted by Adam's interjections and rewinding.

By 2pm the next day, I was back in Fort Greene to watch the Friday Night Football. Still sunburnt, my body was itching all over. This was naturally met with ironic comparisons to crackhead-dom. I was certainly as excited as one.

Seeing Bukayo Saka and Declan Rice in the opening XI was a bit shocking. Most stars from the World Cup have been involved from the start, but given the load on both players over seasons past, I was under the assumption the club would be doing more to protect its best players from themselves.

Upon kick-off, Adam retreated into his bedroom, ritualistically unable to watch the opening moments. Our record when watching together at his apartment is remarkable. 23 wins, 2 draws, 1 loss.

Declan Rice, Myles Lewis-Skelly and Martin Odegaard handled the game physically and technically, all three breaking lines as carriers and passers. Each has a slight tendency to overplay, to take that extra touch, but the combination of their individual capacities was overwhelming. The dynamic looked fluid and balanced and the team was connected in all phases.

Riccardo Calafiori and Ben White were masterful in the final third, both adding an assist and offering constant threat. Gabriel was generally unbothered, though the Brazilian was cheaply beaten just outside the penalty area on the flank by a below-average Ellis Simms. He will have to sharpen up to keep his place, with Ezri Konsa now officially unveiled and Cristhian Mosquera looking capable of real minutes through the center.

Piero Hincapie, who replaced Calafiori, looked quite inferior in direct contrast. The Ecuadorian lacks an elite skill, but his versatility and floor of play make him a very effective depth piece, much like Nathan Ake was for more than half a decade at Man City.

Christos Tzolis was a standout performer. Decisive and controlled in the final third, the Greek again showed grace under pressure. He plays like a turbo-charged Trossard; a much smoother athlete and dribbler, though Leo's 'herky-jerky' style was incredibly effective and fun to watch. Arteta naming Tzolis 'Leonidas' is quite the endorsement. Both in its relation to the man he is replacing and the esteem to which Arteta would likely hold the Spartan King. Leo on the left works for me. For now.

Bukayo Saka doesn't look himself, still. His first touch is breathtaking, and his intelligence is unmistakable, but he seems to lack the same burst and decisive step to ball-striking he once had. This current iteration is still one of the best players in the world, but the way he plays may have to change over time. He has always felt more 'Ryan Giggs' than 'Mo Salah', on the field, that is. A slow transition towards a more midfield role makes sense.

Kai Havertz was fantastic, sweeping Calafiori's cross/cut-back into the bottom right corner first time. His general play was also excellent, and most importantly, he looked incredibly fit. This meant he lasted the 90. Which meant no Gyokeres. Thank Hashem.

Eberechi Eze and Noni Madueke each got a run on the wing. Neither made a huge positive impact, though to Noni's credit, he was very involved. Unfortunately, these involvements led to a lot of mockery.

Madueke has every trait Bukayo Saka does not currently have—straight-line speed, reckless abandon, and street-ball teqs. He also lacks every trait Saka does possess—decision-making, final-action consistency, defensive discipline and combination play. This makes for a very "And-1" style hooper. Adam put it perfectly: He's Russell Westbrook if he couldn't get to the rim.

On the whole, the display was comfortable and enjoyable. Arsenal were up 2 within twenty-five minutes, and made it 3-0 five minutes after half-time. The result never felt in doubt and the game was played with freedom and joy. The experience watching mimicked that. Grins and high-fives were abundant. Adam and I even did a brief AMA in the MDC discord server.

On my walk back to Boerum, I felt the sun echo my happiness. Or something gay like that. It felt good. I felt good.

I went to my phone, scouring YouTube and Twitter for more post-match content. It was within an hour of the final whistle, so it was still sparse. I had already spoken to my brother Carter about the game. Over the years, his interest in soccer has waxed and waned (he used to be a Chelsea fan, switching his allegiance after their 2016-17 Premier League title), but since our Dad died he's been more involved. He never played like Jack, Casey, and I did, but he understands sports well and has historical context to his purview.

Unable to find my fix of Arsenal, my inner monologue was left to wander, and I couldn't help but remember my father. In a moment like this, I would call him and we'd talk about the team for ten minutes and my life for thirty seconds. I've adapted to living without him but when his memory returns I still can't help but capitulate. It's a helpless feeling.

Peeking my head up from my trough of sadness, a black, Muslim family dressed in kanduras passed me on the sidewalk. A father and his two children, a boy and a girl, both pre-teens. Even in New York, dressing so religiously must be an entirely different life experience. What would it be like for me if I wore a kippah, just in everyday life? What looks would I get? That might be worth trying and seeing about. I've been feeling too pro-Palestine lately, anyways. Is it possible to be such a thing?

Waking up Saturday morning and watching the Premier League in bed is a treat. It's still a treat when your girlfriend is in bed with you, but you're not allowed to watch with volume. That's not as fun. But I shouldn't complain. It's better than not having a girlfriend. Or worse, not having a Cesca.

I was in and out of sleep watching Hull blunt Man United. New signings Konstantinos Tzolakis and Nobel Mendy looked good. For Hull to stay up, they'll need to continue to be able to keep clean sheets. Oli McBurnie also played quite well, from what I saw. He's quite mercurial, and while I'm not calling him Jamie Vardy, I think there's a version of his late-prime that involves an extended stay in the Premier League and maybe a few 10+ goal seasons.

Seeing United fall into the Ole Gunnar Solskjaer trap again is a great relief. As is their middling summer. Carlos Baleba, the newest addition, is a very decent signing, but the additions of an aging Youri Tielemans and an inept Andrey Santos are poor recruitment.

The entire back 5, including the goalkeeper, are also due for an upgrade. Matthijs de Ligt and Lisandro Martinez can't stay fit, Harry Maguire is decent but not Champions League level, and Leny Yoro and Ayden Heaven are largely unproven. Noussair Mazraoui and Diogo Dalot are exceedingly average, Luke Shaw can't be relied upon to stay fit, and Patrick Dorgu lacks a position, and consequently any sort of tactical nous. Senne Lammens is a spiller.

Michael Carrick will have quite the challenge managing a European campaign alongside a full Premier League season. The difference between a 55-game season and a 40-game one is startling.

Next up was Brentford v Spurs. A pure hate watch. It did not disappoint.

Roberto De Zerbi's XI was shocking. Archie Gray captaining the side. Marco Senesi preferred to Micky van de Ven. A midfield trio of Sandro Tonali, Lucas Bergvall and Conor Gallagher, leaving Mateus Fernandes and James Maddison on the bench. Mathys Tel and Mikey Moore were selected wide, with Richarlison picked ahead of Dominic Solanke.

Tonali struggled to dictate play and Bergvall was careless with the ball, leading to numerous Brentford chances. Conor Gallagher huffed and puffed but has severe limitations in a team as technically limited as Spurs. Rather than playing Archie Gray at RB, De Zerbi ought to try Gallagher. This was the genesis of Spurs' lack of foothold in the game. From the first minute, Keith Andrews' side were like white on rice. Or Rice on Spurs. They didn't let them breathe.

Tottenham were lucky not to lose 5 or 6-0. Igor Thiago missed a penalty and a load of breaks were left wanting. Still, Brentford were excellent. Athletic, clever, disciplined and increasingly talented. New signing Mamadou Sangare embodied this, showing swagger and intelligence on the ball and devastating athleticism and timing off it.

Further development from players like Nathan Collins, Michael Kayode, Yehor Yarmolyuk, Antoni Milambo, Dango Ouattara and Kevin Schade, as well as a lack of European football, make the Bees an intriguing candidate to challenge for a Champions League position. An additional full-back and striker would solidify their depth.

During the second half I texted my Spurs buddy Zak:

Their misery and humiliations never end, though as Bill Simmons would say, I'm still a stockholder on Marmoush Island, so I don't hate that transfer. Savinho, on the other hand, I fail to see the logic in.

Marc, the Executive Producer of TAFS and also an Arsenal fan, for some reason loves Savinho. He thinks he's fucking amazing. It's really unclear why. But he's steadfast. 2 goals in 2 seasons, doesn't matter. Marc knows what he knows. I don't know if he'd pay £85m for him, though. That fee, for what is essentially a 'potentially nice little player' feels violent. It feels abusive.

After the match ended Cesca and I set off on our errands. We were to visit an antique/vintage shop in Bed-Stuy before picking up boxes at Home Depot and getting lunch. Errands with your girlfriend are as hellish as they are wonderful.

When she walks through the Home Depot flower section and says, "Oooh basil," you're meant to reply "oh wow, that smells great," so she can say, "I'd love to have that in the new apartment," and you can say, "yeah, that would be really cool." And it just goes on from there forever. I played this exact interaction out for Cesca and she was unimpressed. She smiled a little, too, I think. While walking, we ran into a filmmaker she worked with during the Middlebury Film Festival. God rewards those that go outside.

Naturally, my Sunday was spent almost entirely indoors, it being quite the slate of matches.

The day began with another iconic Unai Emery pre-match interview, responding, "Silence," to questions over Ollie Watkins' lack of availability for selection.

Emery's rage at the Englishman, if he truly made himself unavailable despite the absence of an injury, is justified. But the Basque manager should also look inward at the reasons why Watkins may feel justified in his decision. He was denied a dream move to Arsenal in January of 2025 when Villa quoted £60m for his services, £20m more than what was being offered. As is the clubs right to do.

He was also moved into a secondary role for Jhon Duran despite posting 19g and 13a in the previous season. Perhaps that's the nature of football, but it's understandable why Watkins may have felt he earned more of a standing within the club. 14, 11, 15, 19, 16, and 16 goals in his six Premier League seasons is the output of a top level striker. Regardless, heading into a Champions League campaign, Emery will have been devastated to lose Morgan Rogers, Youri Tielemans, Ezri Konsa and Ollie Watkins in a single summer.

The opening fixture was disastrous for Villa, who were blitzed by Brighton at the AmEx. Maxim De Cuyper and Jack Hinshelwood ran the game ragged, each contributing to two goals. The Villans missed Brian Madjo, who despite being 17, already looks a Premier League ready centre forward, reminiscent of a young Romelu Lukaku during his stint at West Brom.

With many players missing, it would be a mistake to read too far into this result. But Brighton have set a marker—if you aren't ready to play, they will give you a hiding, and quickly.

Man City v Bournemouth was mostly a snooze. Bournemouth scored a nice goal on the counter in the first half, but offered the match very little. They ceded territory and possession to City, who, after the introduction of Rayan Cherki, turned the game on its head.

The diminutive Frenchman made little impact in the World Cup and has started the season behind Phil Foden, but it's hard to imagine that continuing throughout the season. Foden struggles to connect in possession and has only ever proved elite in one area of the pitch: in the right half-space +/- 5 yards from the 18-yard box. He will need to do more to justify regular inclusion. I don't believe him capable.

There wasn't anything particularly impressive about the City performance, but they looked relatively competent against what should be a very decent side. The blue Mancs don't project as title contenders, but following the sales of Omar Marmoush and Savinho they will strengthen their attack further, as well as their midfield. As many as four players could end up arriving at The Etihad. I don't expect this to change the title odds calculus, but it will undoubtedly make them more fearsome and flexible.

My Premier League Sunday finished with the draw at St. James between Newcastle and Liverpool. The chorus of boos seemed to affect Alexander Isak, who failed to make a mark on the match. The midfield trio of Ryan Gravenberch, Dominik Szoboszlai and Florian Wirtz was predictably fragile, getting sliced open on the opening goal through the two-man counter of William Osula and Anthony Elanga.

Osula, for the first thirty minutes, was an absolute menace. Tall, fast, skilled, powerful, confident. The Dane has all the tools to be one of the best strikers on the planet. Yoane Wissa, who started the match just under Osula in the '10', had his best game in a Newcastle shirt. He was positive, aggressive and showed great skill in turning midfield play into threatening attacking advantages. Wissa was, of course, greatly aided by the lack of steel and defensive mobility in the Liverpool midfield.

Jeremie Frimpong and Milos Kerkez once again showed themselves an enormous downgrade from the previous Trent-Robbo axis. Frimpong lacks the size and power to defend at the Premier League level, and Kerkez's lack of on-field intelligence makes him a maddening LHS partner for Virgil van Dijk. A positive for Liverpool were the debut of Jeremy Jacquet, who looked calm and assured on the ball, as well as dynamic and intelligent in his reading of play and Victor Munoz, who looked a versatile and threatening attacker.

With some time alone on my hands, I watched Party Girl, starring Parker Posey, to finish my day of mass media consumption. I found it light and fun and intermittently profound. "One must imagine Sisyphus happy." I, too, think I'm an existentialist. I do.

On to the next week of football.