STREAM OF CONSCIOUSNESS: FC DALLAS v METROSTARS

PART I: BEER, SOCCER, AND VISITS FROM UNCLE LAMAR

So, I hit the road at 4:40 Friday afternoon in my tan '05 Chevy Cavalier rental ('cause that's how DJ rolls), heading to Big D for the 24-hour tailgate leading up to the opening of Pizza Hut Park and what should have been a jackslapping of the Metrostars (but we'll get to that later).


After taking a solid hour to get clear of Norman (about 30 minutes longer than it should take on a non-OU football day), I put that baby in cruise control, put The Clash in the CD, and started eating up the pavement in a way that only a rented Cavalier can (did I mention it was tan? Sweeeeeeeeeeeet).


Never having been to Frisco, things could have gotten tricky once I left I-35 and ventured into unknown territory, especially since I asked for directions on the BigSoccer FCD forum and got no less than five different versions of how to get there. But I have to tell you, when I turned right on to the Dallas Parkway, and saw the distinctive lights blazing in the distance, I knew I was home. It was not unlike the scene in "Field of Dreams" where Kevin Costner and James Earl Jones see the lights of the field in the distance as they returned to Iowa with the young Archie Graham. Except at this point in my life I identify much more with the Timothy Busfield, cranky brother-in-law character. Which is sad.


Anyway.


The Tailgaters were in full swing, smack dab in the middle of what will be one of the swanky, high priced "Blue" parking lots, but which that night resembled nothing so much as a construction site. Which, oddly enough, seeing the stadium was within 24 hours of opening, it was. I had apparently missed a visit from Ronnie O' Brien just moments before, which was a drag, but I was handed a Newcastle Brown Ale by Mudpoet (Great American and Prince Among Men) at the same time I received that news, so it was a wash, disappointment wise.


Both Greg Elliott and Lamar Hunt would also stop by that evening and the next day, for no other reason than to check up on us and see if we were doing okay out there in the wilderness. I mean, one is a billionaire, and the other is a sports executive with about a thousand-and-one tasks on his plate and pressure by the boatload on his back, and they took time to come by and visit. I can't tell you how much more my love the team grows when I am constantly reminded that it run by people who are not just competent, but also genuinely wonderful human beings.


Speaking of wonderful human beings, the Inferno, as a group, qualify for this distinction. Someone came up with the idea last week that the tailgate would be a great opportunity to raise funds for a worthy charity; Within just days, it was a done deal. That's the kind of people we're dealing with here. Fun loving, fanatic about The Hoops, and with a collective heart as big as all Texas. Infernites, I love you folks.


The evening rolled on. Animals were cooked and consumed, grain-based alcoholic beverages were drunk. Speaking of drunk, so were most of us. Along about 1:30 in the morning someone had a brilliant idea. What that idea was, I don't know. But I do know that at about the same time someone else got the idea that we should all go find a field and go play soccer. Thus the first game in the history of MLDMS (major league drunken midnight soccer) was played. It was a singularly un-aesthetic affair, which was fine, because there was an announced attendance of zero. I'm still trying to decide whether it's a tragedy or a blessing that no one was there to record the game on videotape for posterity. I'm leaning towards the latter, the more I think about it.


Have you ever seen about a dozen inebriated, unskilled, out-of-shape adults play soccer in the middle of the night? No? Well you haven't lived until you do, and don't claim otherwise, because you'd be wrong.


My team, which had no name, was playing, in the words of Parrish, "What can only be described as a 1-1-4-1 formation, with only one defensive strategy, which was to leave Kevin Lindstrom unmarked". The other team, which had no name, was playing a swarming, attacking minded style that would have been reminiscent of the Dutch "Total Football" concept of the 70's, if the Dutch had played with middle-aged drunken fat guys with limited skills.


The girls of the Inferno Posse Assembled played with heart and tenacity, being neither drunk nor out-of shape, and a young man named J. R., being 13 years old, ran circles around everyone in attendance. I played goalkeeper for a while, the skills of my youth long having deserted me, and only grit and determination on my side. I made a handful of good (dare I say great?) saves, but unfortunately gave up two hands full of really soft goals. At one point, out of breath and on the verge passing out, I instructed my main man Parrish to give the following statement to the press, should I croak right there on the field: "DJ left this world exactly the way he would have wanted to - drunk, playing soccer, and having given up only a half-dozen goals in a thirty minute game". Fortunately, a eulogy was not in order.


The final score of the match, unfortunately, has been lost in the mists of history. I'm pretty sure my team won though.


We returned to base camp, celebrated with a few drinks, and by about 4:00 am, most of the crew was asleep, dreaming sweet soccer dreams, not unlike good little children on the night before Christmas.


Coming up in Part II: Hot Hot Heat, Red Plastic Hats, And A Game For The Ages.