Attending The Church Of Scholes...

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.