Attending The Church Of Scholes...

he consoled himself with the fact that, in the real world, when he looked closely into the darkness he might find the presence of a light, damaged and bruised, but a little light all the same.

-colum mccann, let the great world spin

this writing project has suffered from neglect for the last few months as a result of the massive commitment required for my new local team as well as the busy writing season at work. i had hoped to pick it up again after the winter break and start it going strong in 2010, perhaps working some of the elements within and some of the stories floating around my head into some fiction. well, this won’t be happening. 2 weeks ago i got some terrible news. after many, many years, the pub is closing. after 14 days of sheer shock and disbelief and and anger, i am finally coming to terms with it.

it fits in with the narrative arc of hell that is 2009, but that doesn’t make it any easier on me. on any of us.

the lease did not get renewed, landlord is a prick, recession is still inflicting local casualties.

the taps are being turned off for good on new years eve. bottles stowed. perpetually-ringing payphone disconnected.

saturday morning was the last manchester united match i will ever watch there. we lost.  fulham clobbered a hapless and confused united squad 3-0.

for 4 years, pretty much every weekend, in the early morning hours, i’ve been frequenting this quintessentially western queens establishment. i started going alone, for a while i went with someone who turned out to be no one, and for the last 12 months i really fell into a community— a totally dysfunctional group of tipplers and sots with questionable liver functionality, yes— but a solid community nonetheless.

in 2009, after one thing after another piled up on me to contribute to the most evil year in existence, i knew each weekend morning that i could find solace for 90 minutes in the pub. i would groggily wake up, put on my personalized tevez and rooney shirts, and stumble a few blocks over to take my spot on one of the withering bar stools, anxiously awaiting the kickoff. during the days and weeks that blended into each other and blended into nothing, during the times that getting out of bed and pretending to be functional was a tall order, i knew i could escape the present reality of my ghosts and fractures— both metaphorical and literal— by venturing to the pub for a few magners over ice amongst my red-clad united compatriots. much of my pain was in plain view, the guys at first could not understand the breakup, neither could i. in the end it was all lies anyway. “fuck her,” they said. when the suicide went down, i was similarly visibly shook, even when i was in the pub. it was talked about, these guys had been hit by similar events both here and back home. it helped put things in perspective.

i never thought i would be writing a eulogy for the bar i just wrote a eulogy in.

in the late spring and this fall when things started looking up, the comments would fly when i would bring other girls to the pub— it was like seeking the approval of a big, extended, foul-mouthed, shit-talking, manchester united-loving irish alcoholic family. “good night huh?” “what did she order?” “just a ‘friend’ or something more?” “you know her from work or that’s just a coincidence?” “wait, did she just say she was a chelsea supporter?!?” this colorful vetting process contributed to my swearing off emotions, commitment, and relationships for the year. maybe for good.

this pub and those within it helped me get through some of the worst times. i found my new queens-based irish team and a whole new group of teammates and friends and neighbors at this spot. “we signed him from a stool at the pub,” the coach announced after my debut match against a team of fiery cypriots where i scored a wonder goal in the first half. finding and being a part of this team and playing at such a high level again was one of my few positives in 2009. i have the pub to thank.

this past saturday was painful. the understanding that the end was near, in the middle of the season nonetheless, was compounded by the absolute shit play taking place in london. paul scholes had a nightmare of a match. on his last day at the church, the little guy let me down. i imagine, somehow, that he was depressed about the pub himself and this accounted for him gifting fulham their first goal and, of course, getting a yellow card in the 5th for an patented ill-timed horror challenge. the pub fantasy league was even being abandoned early, participants talking about cash payouts. patrons, whispering about where to take up residence nearby for the early setanta games, were left dumbfounded. questions and brainstorms wafted through the chilly interior of the darkened wood-covered pub. it was like an unspoken collective sadness and fear of displacement had washed over us all.

and it had.

“is there anywhere around we can go?” “i know a place in woodside, i think.” “with setanta?” “bar34 might show them, the owner is a fucking liverpool fan though.”

nothing was really resolved.

during this exchange one of the light fixtures illuminating the bar fell, inexplicably, onto the bar and then crashed loudly on the floor, unleashing a mini-mushroom cloud of old memory-littered dust.

“well, even the lights are done with this place,” a regular exclaimed, half bemused and half visibly spooked.

there are plans for the pub to rise again, like a magners-intoxicated mythological phoenix, somewhere on greenpoint ave, at some point in 2010. “the same but better,” quipped the bartender/owner who went through his own share of shit this year on my way out.

a silver lining, no doubt.

even so, like so many other things and people in this neighborhood in 2009, it is now gone and will survive only as recollection by those lucky enough to have been a part of it. a recollection that…

we return to the moment to experience it, i suppose, but we can never really find it, only its memory, the faintest imprint of what it really was, what it meant.

-colum mccann, let the great world spin

i have been too busy all week with moving and day job writing to write about this match. i’m still too busy, so i will sum it up in one ginormous run-on sentence…

the parental units, fresh in from the oh so cold d, lovingly accompanied me to the pub for this glorious occasion to see two midfielders in their mid-30’s, scholes and giggs, put on a vintage performance to win this tricky away fixture for united despite a frustrating start of the match that saw the visitors stymied in front of the net by a team full of brutes and ogres and giants and a special teams player with rocket launcher arms for throw ins who oddly enough did not even throw the ball long on that many occasions and instead opted to throw the ball short as my madre enjoyed a coke and my father and i enjoyed brew from ireland and a few of the drunken regulars pounded drinks in the front of the establishment after visibly (and audibly) being out all night drinking without souring their deep appreciation for john o’shea’s goal despite their slurring celebrations which followed berbatov’s goal which were both supplied from super-sub’s ryan gigg’s lovely passes that seemed to be suspended in a time and age free realm but also reinforced the fact for my father and i that there will be a time when sir alex will not be able to put on a 35 year old and 36 year old as game-changing impact subs and count on another little ginger 34 year old who goes by the name of saint scholes to put in a vintage man of the match performance with disturbingly crisp deliveries and long balls that were so pinpoint they hurt my eye balls as i watched them on the large retractable but certainly not hd projector screen at the pub and sipped a magners before heading out into the coolish fall air to have a delectable mexican breakfast.

scholes sighting: man of the match.

most terrifying bottle noticed behind the bar: i sat at a table for the first time this season, but i’m just going to say watermelon pucker, b/c i tastes like a mixture of jollyranchers and industrial cleaner and i’m sure it’s somewhere behind the bar.

well little mikey saved the day. and what a glorious day it was. many superfluous tags of the game are being lofted about like a nerf ball at a 3rd grade recess; ‘best derby ever,’ ‘greatest injury time spectacle 4eva,’ ‘best 97th minute goal sure to enrage both man city and liverpool fans in one broad stroke.’

yes, those are all accurate.

the pub was rollicking on sunday at 830 am. busy, but not overflowing. seats available, lights off. i had a match of my own later in the day so i abstained on the alcohol and started out with a large orange juice followed by many ice waters. this, of course, did not stop those around me from hitting the sweet juice hard.

the match was a display of horrid defensive mistakes (ben foster and rio, i’m looking at you).

my feelings were mixed as one carlos tevez (rip) returned to old trafford. he was booed and jeered every time he touched the ball and someone even threw a coin at him from the stands, but hit a teammate instead. i felt bad for him, but he seemed mildly clueless as to why fans could turn on him. regardless, he got fucked over and wanted to play in a wc year, so while i understand the united fan’s position, i also understand his. still, the sight of seeing him in the light blue city strip made me want to vomit the decidedly average oatmeal i was eating out of my nostrils.

but i digress…

losing to nouveau riche man city, at old trafford, would have been a travesty to the highest degree. luckily the ref gifted us with 7 extra minutes of injury time and silver giggsy punished the city defense, carving them up like a drunk uncle on thanksgiving, and providing micheal owen with, what may be, the defining pass of the season.

in those 7 minutes, the mood in the pub was a roller coaster of emotions. after dirtbag craig bellamy scored the tying goal following rio’s atrocious error, the faces were long and the ‘fucks’ were a flyin.’ most people, including me, gave up and began to head home to a week of depression and taunts from the local liverpool fans. then, when owen’s goal hit the back of the net, it was sheer jubilation. every one present, in unison, leapt from their respective chairs and started hugging and screaming and high-fiving and (shock) singing the praises of owen. even the bartender, a bit salty this morning, and not a united fan, seemed genuinely overcome by the spectacle. oh, and a spectacle it certainly was. the best man u - man city game to ever be played.

glory glory.

scholes sighting: the little man was suspended from his previous league red card.

most terrifying bottle noticed behind the bar: ron rico light rum. no, ron rico is not some puerto rican numbers runner loitering outside of a bodega on east 110th street with a hairy chest and multiple gaudy gold chains emanating from under his unbuttoned a-rod jersey, it’s apparently a very cheap rum. if temped, save the time and money and just impale your forehead with a baseball bat instead.

look at that beaming ‘lil saintly ginger. he just scored the winning header (!) and silenced some decibel-shattering ornery turks in a mid-week champions league fixture. our first of the season. i was at work, writing about other things, as this match was being played and the iraqi stream i was trying to watch/listen to it on kept going down. it seemed to be a conspiracy. against me. this vast international conspiracy that kept me from watching the game was a result of a shadowy cabal including, but not limited to, east asian diplomats, television executives in bristol, ct, iraqi ip addresses, scandinavian generals, and the french. why the french? i haven’t figured that out yet but i know they are a part of it. somehow. plus, their president’s wife is way too hot for his happiness-peddling ass. and that makes me mad. but i degrees, the real matter at hand is that now i am trying to write about a game i only saw approximately 7.39384 minutes of. as such, i may as well stop here before my conspiracy theory snowballs out of control and the next thing i know i’ve been drugged, hooded, shackled, placed in a black helicopter, and renditioned to a cia torture facility in uzbekistan. i mean, if that occurred, i would not be able to watch the big derby game v city early on sunday. and no matter what, i will be at the pub for that one.

scholes sighting: winner in the 75th. bow to him.

on this day i went to the pub thinking i was dying. i ended up leaving thinking i was dying even more. no, not the best way to enjoy a smashing victory where a 10 man united thoroughly decimated the tottenham defense and valiantly fought back from being 1-0 down after 48 seconds.

there were many eventful noted events of note going on all around me as my head felt ‘like a troop of vengeful satan-midgets on meth are stabbing the back of my brain, repeatedly, with various sized samurai swords and flaming hot pointy iron prodding implements coated with acid while simultaneously blaring ac/dc songs.’ said events included— but were not limited to— money changing hands while horse racing was going on, shots of gin being taken by two 70 year olds with canes, and an obese man with a working class italian queens speech inflection yelling at the top of his lungs, ‘this is a gay sport for european and irish sissies, turn on some real football!’ only to be quickly rebuffed by the man u contingent towards the back of the bar who greeted this terrible excuse for a fellow with boos and jeers and a few not-so-veiled threats to his person. however, this large and boisterous man appeared to be the one doing the aforementioned horse race money exchanging, which served as a cautious reminder that looks can be deceiving in a queens pub at 1230pm on a saturday. after one first half cider i quickly changed my tune and started hitting the ole h2o, hard.

silver giggsy knocked in a lethal bendy left-footed freekick to bring us level before anderson scored his first (w/ the first team) goal (during the run of play) of his united career just before young wayne made it 5 in 5 with a stunna numba to ice the match. next up, an away trip to turkey for the first champions league match of the season where, if you believe the british media, excitable fez-wearing turks with handlebar mustaches are known to go all ottoman on visiting fans and hurl sharpened donner kebabs down on unsuspecting players in 600,000-capacity stadia.

scholes sighting: yes, paul scholes got a red card. this was his first, but probably won’t be his last of this season. sadly. before his legendary tackling skillz (his reputation preceded him on this occasion) ejected him to the early shower, the little man played quite well along side an anderson with a few things to prove.

most terrifying bottle noticed behind the bar: leroux blackberry flavored ‘polish style’ brandy. it tastes like pierogis and catholicism, apparently.

now, that was a match. it had a little bit of everything. feisty-ness, cheating, performance art (see above), luck, and horror mistakes. for some reason, despite playing like a shadow of the team we were last year, the chips fell our way and we came out on top of the first big game this season.

as these big 4 matches tend to go at the pub, it was a full house. crowded. loud. stuffy. reeking of guinness-stained wood and jameson fumes from the night before, yet welcoming all the same. to me, at least. and also, for that matter, similarly welcoming to the three tatted-up liverpool fans from derry who were taking shots of jägermeister and there solely to talk shit to manchester united fans and root for arsenal. these gents had been out all night long and apparently went from the closing bars to a diner for 2 hrs and then to the pub— knocking on the window before the early game began. now it’s noon and these three slurring, close-talking troopers were in it to win it. luckily, so was the rest of the bar.

another double edged-sword of watching the big games at the pub is that seating disappears rather quickly. for example, i arrived 20 mins prior to kickoff and it was standing room only. no matter, 10 mins of standing by the bar talking to one of the aforementioned derry liverpudlian-inclined drunkards, one of his compatriots decided to leave. for what, i’ll never know. i sincerely hope, however, is that he went to take a shower and go to sleep. i sensed my chance and jumped on the empty seat in the bar. this quick switcheroo left the guy i was talking to perhaps confused since his friend didn’t really say goodbye. he looked at me, shrugged, and loudly exclaimed, “i was gonna buy him a jägermeister, but i gesh now i’m gonna buy you one, even though you’re a real man u cunt.” since it was around noon on a saturday this seemed like a rather bad idea. i graciously thanked him but said i can’t drink jägermeister and was fine. he then gave me a steely death glare that was seven parts ‘i’ve beat a man u fan up for much less than this in derry’ and three parts ‘i understand, i’m a drunk hooligan with crazy tattoo sleeves going on and on about steven gerrard’s clutch late goals who has been drinking for at least 15 hours straight and it makes absolutely perfect sense for you to turn down this shot of jägermeister at 1155am.’ i thought about this formula for a few seconds and came to the educated conclusion that it would prudent to meet him halfway and suggest a shot of jameson (for me) instead.

under these dangerous pretexts, the match began and further drinking commenced. in the first half we played fairly awful, again. this saw the gooners go up 1-0 at the break off a blast from a pint-sized sexist ruskie past a dumbfounded ben foster. fair enough, we were lucky to not be down by 3. second half we again got super lucky with goals via a contentious rooney penalty and then a gift-from-allah diaby own goal from an innocuous giggsy freekick.

this fortuitous scoreline and occurrence of luck led to a markedly raucous vibe in the pub: the most boisterous match of the season this far. somehow, more inebriated shit-talking liverpool fans showed up in the second half and this led to a nearly-violent-turning session of back-and-forth insults over every disputed call and turn o’ events the entire game. as the alcohol consumption increased and the voices got louder, more and more of the man u fans joined in and started hooting, hollering, yelping, and singing when the final whistle blew following an inordinate amount of injury time, collectively taunting the out-of their-element liverpool fans on our home turf. the icing on the cake was when wenger kicked a water bottle in injury time, got a red card, was sent to the stands, and just stood there with his arms out like some sort of cartoon villain, getting heckled by united’s home fans as time and victory seemed suspended in intoxicated folly.

my serial-killer looking liverpool derryman friend, despite his drunkenness, did turn out to be a bit of an oracle. between his various c-bombs and f-bombs effortlessly affixed to descriptions of man u players, he predicted, early on in the first half, that arsenal would go up 1-0 and be ‘fuckin’ shell-shocked by two old trafford bullshit goals.’ this turned out to be quite glaringly correct and at the end of it all, on the way out amongst the ‘glory glory manchester united’ chants, i purchased my oracle-drunkard frienemy a shot of jägermeister, myself a shot of jameson, polished them off, and headed out of the darkened lively pub into the unassuming mid-day sun and towards the unassuming mid-day neighborhood throngs who had little to no idea of all that just transpired through those magical doors and darkened windows.

scholes sighting: curiously did not feature at all, which in a sense, made way for man-o-the-match, darren fletcher. this young gangly scot has aged like fine highland single malt amongst an oak barrel of constant criticism.

most terrifying bottle noticed behind the bar: georgi gin, 1 liter for $8.79. scary.

funny what a difference a few days can make. the boys came back from a humiliating 1-0 defeat to burnley by destroying wigan 5-0 via 5 second half goals that, albeit briefly, illustrated the potency of our attack when it’s firing from all cylinders in the post-ronaldo, post-tevez (rip) epoch.

mind you, this kind of goal bonanza also makes the pub a much more enjoyable and relaxing environment to sip some ciders and cider some sips. the first half was a bit of a tense affair, chances squandered, looked like more of the same. then, following some chastising of the arsenal fan who kept ordering b-52’s (at 10 am) and saying real loudly after the bar tender belittled him for it, ‘i’m just tryna get nice man!,’ the goals just came one after another.

other pubbish highlights included the bartender making 3 side-by-side white russians with milk and as he poured said milk, realized the milk, which was sporting an aug 23rd (the next day) expiration date, was curdled into cottage cheese-like nastiness. a collective groan was voiced by the 4-replica clad irish guys and myself before one of them called out to the bartender in jest, ‘eh, you even got the vintage here this morning!’ to scattered laughter. ‘fuck you, you see some spoiled milk and all the sudden you think you are a comedian?’ the bartender retorted before taking the entire new half gallon of expired milk and storming around the bar and out the front door, leaving the entire pub— and everything behind the bar— to a dozen and a half rowdy, but obviously quite trustworthy, 10 am football hooligans. he came back a few minutes later brandishing a fresh half-gallon and imitating the pakistani man next store who sold him the bad milk. finally, he made the trifecta of white russians with milk in a liquid rather than solid form. note to self, stick with magners and jameson and guinness.

young wayne rooney, who despite his grizzled shrek-like appearance and balding liverpudlian street fighter facade, is actually only 23-years-old. this man-child scored his 100th and 101st manchester united goals on saturday, becoming only the 20th united player to ever hit that many. bulgarian berba-poo knocked in one himself and worked harder in this second half than i’m pretty sure he worked all of last season. li’l mikey owen even got one as well, coming of the bench. to top it off, michael jackson nani scored an injury time freekick and then did some flips and tumbles and such.

all in all, it was a good day. i also got recruited to play with some of the pub regulars on a storied and historic local team in the best league in the city. could cut into my weekend drinking, but it could also drastically increase my weekend drinking. we shall see.

scholes sighting: started and played 71 minutes. added a yellow card from a text book scholes tackle and pulled the midfield strings all game long. the guardian says he was man of the match. i’m inclined to agree as long at wayne rooney doesn’t eat me.

most terrifying bottle noticed behind the bar: clan mcgregor scotch, a beverage so opulent that it features “The Clan badge, a crowned Lion’s head on a wreath, encircled with a belt and buckle, signifies the unity and loyalty of the Clan.”

since it’s wednesday at 2:45 and i have one of those things some people call jobs, i’m not able to be at the pub this fine afternoon to see a curious man u lineup take on newly promoted burnley. instead, i rely on the curious mecca (and medina and the vatican and jerusalem) of online footie streaming sites, iraqi goals, to hook me up with the action on my piece of poop work computer. watching matches on a tiny screen with no sound while pretending to be productive is a rather different experience than being in the thick of the action at the pub. for one, there is no perplexing money exchanges taking place in front of me. also, the only phone that rings results in a superior summoning me to their office to write and/or edit something of various levels of importance rather than a drunk demanding to know the paddy power betting odds or the first scorer.

that said, disgust does not even begin to describe the feeling of witnessing this pitiful performance against a newly promoted team, regardless of the match-watching locale. woeful. dreadful. pitiful. amateurish. i feel so gutted right now that i would even go back to having food poisoning and hives, seriously. right now i have burnley poisoning. yeah, it’s early in the season. but if we play like this against fucking burnley, arsenal (and even wigan) is going to tear us to shreds in the not-to-distant future. 2 games into the season and retaining the title for a 4th consecutive season is, sadly, not looking too likely at all. michael carrick was the evening’s biggest villain as he missed a penalty kick in the closing minutes of the first half. he apparently plays better with his downriver-detroit dirt stash.

just to put this loss in context:

burnley’s stadium seats under 20,000. burnley’s last win against manchester united was in 1968. burnley has not played top flight football for 33 years. burnely’s main advertising revenue appears to be from ‘fishwicks minibus sales.’ burnley’s goalie is nicknamed ‘the beast.’ burnley’s mascot, bertie bee, is more well known for wrestling streaking pitch invaders to the ground than cheering his side to victory.

my shitlist: michael owen. fail. michael carrick, never take another penalty again, you join the berba-evra school of disasters. anderson, you are worthless on the left wing. gary neville, you are done. wes brown? wes brown you looked more rusty than an abandoned datsun on 46th street under the crackhead bridge by the train tracks. ryan giggs is nearly 67 years old and he was, by far, our best player on the pitch.

scholes sighting: did not get on the field, looked rather angry and seemed like he wanted to eat a pint-sized burnley fan after the match. this one.

update: these stats from RoM are the only thing that have made me feel better and prevent me from wielding this knife at all the shit-talking chelsea and liverpool fans.

it was certainly not the prettiest of opening league matches, but as they say, 2 points is 3 points. no, they don’t say that. 3 points is 3 points. yes, that’s it. regardless, getting to the pub at 8:30 am on a sunday after drinking all day on saturday following a grey-goose soaked friday was no small feat. luckily, a few magners over ice is the world’s greatest hangover remedy. that is until leftover turkish food ushers in a case of food poisoning followed by a medically inexplicable case of heat/bad turkish food-propelled hives on one’s torso and arms. no, magners is no match for food poisoning or hives. it’s cider, not cipro. but do you know what is? benadryl. yes, after spending three hours at a hospital monday thinking i had a triumvirate case of ebola/sars/swine flu, the friendly physician at nyu hospital on first ave did some tests and told me to simply take benadryl, go home, sleep, get up, take more benadryl, sleep some more, and drink bucket loads of water. well, that shit knocked me the fuck out, but now my stomach feels more normal, the hives are mostly gone, and i’m ready to tackle the workday like robbie fowler ninja-kicking australians while trolloping on his head in a suspended state of gravity. quite a back-story eh? well, now it’s tuesday and i’m finally in a proper state to write about sunday’s match.

lethargy. this word could both describe my physical state the past 4 days as well as manchester united’s opening of their premiership title(s) defense. as stated above, 3 points is 2 points or something, and it’s well known that united are habitually slow starters (last year we tied newcastle on opening day while i was watching from a friend’s summer home in connecticut, the horror(s)). sure, we won, but it was hardly convincing to me or the boys. i sat with two twenty-something irish construction workers and an older korean man at the pub, and all of us were having minor heart palpitations each time our distribution-challenged keeper ben foster put his feet anywhere near the ball. yes, he did make 1 classy fingertip save, but the team’s performance overall just seemed so unemphatic. rooney worked hard, scored a nice sitter after skying past three birmingham defenders who all appeared to be a least 6 inches taller than him for a header into the post.

some randoms in the pub as well, in addition to a few of the irish regulars who did not make it to the chelsea match the week before. said randoms included a balding man with crusty short shorts and a gnarly unkempt chest hair-flouting wife-beater with a heavy queens accent who kept asking me about the boundaries of the neighborhood and propositioning me for a cigarette. since i had no cigarettes and kept telling him i was a quitter, he did not get very far on the nicotine quest but still found it necessary to tell me that he lived in flushing and was around the ‘hood doing his laundry and decided to stop in and see what all the fuss was about. why not do your laundry in flushing, i thought. “socca is gettin’ big, huh? eight in tha morn’ and all tees guys in here boozin’ huh?” um, yeah man. you are scaring me, please go talk to someone else. thankfully, he eventually did. other standout pub happenings of the morning included the jovial chinese woman who came in just past half time hawking high-quality bootleg dvds (i’m still mad at her for selling me a perfectly good copy of che 2 with dutch subtitles), the pay phone ringing and ringing until the tender of the bar answered it, and the seemingly out of place 12 year old sitting at the far end of the bar drinking what appeared to be a pint of something light. it’s best to not ask questions about these things. he seemed like a mature chap anyhow.

however, more pressingly than pre-teen minors downing pints at the bar, questions still linger about our attack. rooney drifting out wide and berba not working hard. also, we are certainly in an early-season defensive injury crisis already with rio and vidic both out. perhaps the best thing that happened for united on sunday was liverpool losing to spurs 2-1. next up, mighty burnley on wednesday, which, due to employment handicaps, will have to be watched via illegal iraqi streaming sites on a work computer and, sadly, not from the pub.

scholes sighting: started and played the full 90. looked quite youthful commandeering the midfield. i think the new 4-4-2 system suits him better in his older age. he got forward quite a few times and hit a some blinders that got (painfully) deflected on their way to goal, resulting in one of my drinking buddies yelling at the top of his lungs “scholesy barcelona!!!” in a west-irish yelp each time the ginger ninja cracked a shot.

most terrifying bottle noticed behind the bar: crystal palace vodka, “a high-quality vodka, made to satisfy discriminating tastes.” righty-o.

church* is in session…

i walk in and exchange greetings with my peers and united-obsessed drinking compatriots i have not seen in approximately two and a half months. this match marks the start of the new season. this, i realize as i sip a pint glass full of magners irish cider and ice, is my 4th season watching manchester united at this colourful character-filled pub in western queens. today, for some inexplicable reason, the pub smells like chlorine. there is also a fly that is buzzing around, unfettered. it’s 9:45 am on a sunday.

this is the kind of establishment where customers stumble in, fully dressed, and fully drunk, from the night before. this is the kind of establishment where the pay phone rings and rings until someone feels like picking it up and the distant voice at the other end is simply calling to inquire about the score of the match, presumably, b/c they have something riding on it but are in too bad of shape to physically make it into the pub and are surely near no internet. this is the kind of establishment where the dark wood and the black-and-white photos from the old country dotting the walls are taken for granted, despite their rich history. this is the kind of establishment that has never, and will never, accept credit cards. although i.o.u’s scribbled on receipts have been known to be passed to the bartender as legal tender upon occasion. this is the kind of establishment where patrons order coors light and drink them in champagne glasses. this is the kind of establishment where thirsty pub-goers toss down ciders on ice and white wine mixed with a splash of water over ice in the early hours to combat hangovers and dehydration, when they really should be drinking water. this is the kind of establishment where dust collects on the bottles and the old cash register makes old-timey clink and clangy sounds that weave in and out of audibility, mixing with the cheers, curses, and whistles directed at the game. this is queens, but in many ways it feels like western ireland.

despite the usual characters: the handful of personalized replica-shirt garbed twenty-something irish contractors and electricians, the korean computer technician, and the old bitter chelsea-supporting londoner who the bartender frequently puts on ‘suicide watch’ when chelsea are down, there are always new surprises. such as the affable gent with the scandinavian name who i learned was born in beirut during the height of the civil war and whose father worked for unrwa for years.

ultimately, united dominate the first half before chelsea rule the second half and seem destined to victory after fat frank lampard scores on a controversial goal, only to be bludgeoned with an injury time equalizer from a rapidly-balding wayne rooney. this forces the match straight to penalties where ryan giggs and patrice evra seemingly forget they are facing chelsea rather than a team of drunken elderly paraplegics and take two of the weakest spot kicks ever witnessed this side of queens boulevard. i contemplate tears. the korean man senses my pain and buys me another cider while mumbling something about our forward line. i depart, knowing i’ll be back at the very same bar, with the very same folks, in a week’s time at 8:15 am.

scholes sighting: on for fletcher in the 75th, a few good touches and long balls.

*this expression, originally coined by an ex, lives on despite her absence, as it fittingly describes the laborious and pious process of waking up early each and every weekend from august to late may to get to the pub to watch live matches, usually at the very same times when those of a more religious persuasion are worshiping in their varied-denominational houses. this occurs regardless of the intensity of ‘extra-curricular activities’ the night before and provides structure in my weekend life. this is my house of worship. i attend the church of scholes. he is a saint.