It had to be them, just had to be. The planets were
aligned, the stars pointed towards it. Didn’t seem like it would come together,
their home form dipped, we gave 'em their first MLS loss at BBVA Compass Stadium
ever. But they snuck in, just like last year, you just can’t shake 'em off. The
Houston Dynamo are like that lingering cough you sometimes catch in fall or
winter, sticks around long after you think you’re well and off antibiotics,
then it sneaks up on you and you’re bedridden again.
The situation of Kansas City vs. Houston is odd
enough for me. Some of my best US men’s national team supporter friends are
from American Outlaws Houston. Hell, I enjoy their company more than most of
AOKC these days and have thought about reupping my membership (if I even do)
through their chapter. But I can’t help it that there is that lingering MLS
stink between us, that doubt in my mind whenever they bring up the last two
years, it hurts me ever so dearly.
July 4th, 2009. I remember my first in person KC-HOU tilt, my
first year as a season ticket holder. Don’t remember much of that match,
probably another CAB drab affair, but I remember that one thing. That prick Kei
Kamara, man, back then, screw that guy. What a chump. The white glove tribute
on the pitcher’s mound. That guy could have went down in KC infamy after that,
who would have known how beloved he’d become.
September 22nd, 2010. Oh, that home matchup though. That was my mom’s
first Wiz game since I was a kid. Middle of the week nondescript matchup
against a Houston squad in disarray with no playoff hopes whatsoever against a
Wiz squad still clinging to a dismal chance at any postseason play at all. The
Houston goal scorers for that game were either crazy good on their way out like
Dominic Oduro, a player with hope that never panned out like Cam Weaver (heh,
he’s still at Houston somehow), and Adrian Serioux, who knows where the hell he
ever ended up, it’s not in MLS at least.
Oh that game though, the chaos. Going down 2-0
early, and then fighting back with a Kei goal followed by 3-1 two minutes later, it
looked all but over for the Wizards. My mom was probably the only person around
us in the upper part of the CAB Cauldron who didn’t give up. She couldn’t have
predicted Pat Onstad to fuck up like he did though, slipping and basically
passing the ball right to Teal and handing him a goal. She couldn’t have
predicted Ryan Smith’s right footed effort to be deflected by ADRIAN FREAKIN’
SERIOUX HIMSELF past Onstad to tie the game at 3-3. No one in history could
predict Nielsen long ball to “Mikey Mo Money Kitty Kat” Harrington to Josh
Wolff’s head to back of the net either. I celebrated hard with a wanker in a
Newcastle jersey, he was the first person in sight that wasn’t my mother. What
a night.
Then the curse began, November 6th, 2011.
It crawled in upon us as The Terror. The
team provided the beers and food in the Sprint Plaza, Chiefs game being
broadcast over the speakers. A certain person made the worst Jaeger Bombs ever
and proceeded to mostly drink them by himself and throw them up. The Chiefs
lost 31-3 to Miami at Arrowhead that day, the beginning of a 4 game losing
streak and the beginning of the end for Todd Haley. Across the metro, Sporting
Kansas City were the overwhelming favorites, I won’t even joke about how close
it was. I had nearly booked my flight to LA earlier that week, my confidence
had been that high.
But there was a lingering doubt, The Terror, that
stopped me from doing it. 52nd minute, Seth Sinovic gives up an easy
foul on Calen Carr, Helmet Boy. No problem right? Brad Davis is out, injured,
Adam Moffat steps over the ball instead. Our defense can hold this, easy.
Powered in from the right side, Jermaine Taylor headed into the far post, dinks
off and right to Andre Hainault, 53rd minute and you’re down 1-0 at
home in the biggest game since MLS Cup 2004. The game winning goal has been
given and you don’t know it yet, you still have the hope, the lingering hope
that you’re going to LA.
87th minute, Carlo Costly blazes past a
lazy Aurelien Collin, slots one quite easily past Nielsen. 2-0, you’ve lost it at
home, you were the favorites. Creamsicle celebrations abound. Awful, your body, soul, mind, hurts everywhere. This was supposed to be the dream, to fulfill it. I lingered around
too long, helping put up flags, trying to take my mind off of what has just
happened. I start to leave but I hear Don Garber’s voice congratulating those
orange folks, right in time to see the fireworks and confetti. They were
orange, all orange, in a sea of blue. I went home and slumbered for a long
while, hurt too much from what should have been.
November 4th, 2012. Been a pretty good
year, eh? US Open Cup Champions and just a game or so short of Supporter’s
Shield, damned Goonies of San Jose. But for me, this hasn’t been the best week.
Halloween night, I sit at my friend’s house, having commandeered the TV to put
the Chicago-Houston wild card match on. My friend, Jesse, has been to a few
games with me and mildly enjoys the sport but enjoys just drinking and hanging
out more. We all have a grand ol’ time, the old gang back together again. I
curse my luck, a planned Chicago playoff trip for that weekend is voided by
those sneaky peeps from Houston winning 2-1. Oh well, I’ve got my friends and
plenty of beer.
I walked home in the early morning, about an hour
after another friend and I try to dissuade Jesse from driving home and sleeping
in his truck or in the house instead. Later that morning, I’m woken up with a
phone call that Jesse died in a drunk driving accident not long after leaving.
The games no longer seem so important, I put off any attempts at trying to get
to Houston for the game and figure out where to go from there. I watch the away
leg from my couch, no alcohol, deep in my thoughts. 18th minute,
Adam Moffat’s volleyed screamer, I can’t even get mad but I feel my bloody
boiling, that dreaded curse is building. 75th minute, Will Bruin
takes a ball from Calen Carr, Nielsen again fails to save. 2-0, blouses. See
you Wednesday, because The Terror won’t take me.
November 7th, 2012. I leave for Orlando
the next day on a long planned family trip, perfectly timed. If we win, I’ll
miss the first leg in the next round, but at this point, I don’t even care. The
Terror is nowhere to be seen, too numb from recent emotions. Only one thought
in my head: win. Just win. And was I right, we won! We won the game! Yay! Oh
wait, it doesn’t count for shit since it was only a 1-0 win, in the 64th
minute, a goal from Seth “I Only Score in the Playoffs” Sinovic with the only
chance the team finished. No orange fireworks, no orange confetti, we didn’t
even make it that far. It was a good season, but I need to be far from here.
November 9th, 2013. We’re all idiots, a
discussion that started in earnest at 11pm Wednesday night turns into a 12 hour
car drive starting late Friday night. The members of what would later become
known as Team Shart are on their way to Houston, Texas for the first leg of the
2013 Eastern Conference Finals. No one can ever doubt our commitment ever
again, we are dumb thickskulled diehards and there isn’t a thing anyone can do
about it. A solid hour and a half to two hour tailgate full of the best Texas
BBQ ribs I’ve ever had and the worst pumped keg in the history of men later and
we’re in BBVA Compass Stadium itself. I actually like the stadium, nice
downtown setting that you can tailgate at, going to have a light rail
connection soon, nice views from inside. I don’t care though, I’ve come for one
thing only, a result.
90 minutes of the most unsavory sorry ass jet lagged
soccer I’ve ever seen, but you wouldn’t be able to tell that from the way the
Cauldron celebrated at the final whistle. We got what we needed, we didn’t give
up anything in Houston, unlike the season before. Our future is in our own
hands now, we are in the driver’s seat. Team Shart celebrates with the best
deep dish pizza Houston can offer and plenty of beer, all while avoiding the
most bizarre wedding party you’d ever encounter. We are now legendary, but at
this point, we’re just glad to have gotten a hotel room.
12:01am, 11/23/2013. The game is 14 and a half hours
away and I can’t sleep. Sporting Park will host, by far, the coldest game it’s
ever seen. We are now in a situation like 2011, somewhat like that one legged
encounter. But there is something missing, The Terror is gone. Unlike last year’s
numbness and the year before’s terror, I feel only confidence and pride. I
believe in this team, I believe they’ll get past Dom Kinnear’s stoic bus
parking defense and allow me to buy one more ticket to a 2013 MLS game on
December 7th. I feel like everything is right in the world, not just
in Sporting, but in my life as well. I’m happy, I’ve finally found my passion
in life, and I’m in the best relationship I’ve had in my life. The team and I
have grown older in the past 3 seasons together, we’ve finally matured to the
point where we can get through this. I’m one voice in the crowd, but put
together with 20k+ others, we’re “louder” than you’d think.
See you at 6:30pm.
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