By Jared Chausow
By Katie Toth
By Elizabeth Flock
By Albert Samaha
By Anna Merlan
By Jon Campbell
By Jon Campbell
By Albert Samaha
But, alas, that's how it works with soccer, even after all these years. So, in this context, which image from Saturday is most appropriate? The crowd of 16,000 showing their knowledge of even the most arcane soccer laws, screaming at the referee the instant he screwed up the advantage rule, mistakenly stopping play for a Chicago foul while the Metros had the ball? Or the sight of Chicago's Bulgarian star Hristo Stoitchkov sitting alone and naked in the postgame dressing room, utterly unattended by reporters in the same area where, at the World Cup in 1994, he fielded questions in four languages from roughly 100 writers? The standing ovation the Metros got for prolonging this semifinal series until Friday's decisive Game 3? Or the 60,000 empty seats that two decades ago were filled by fans dying to witness Pele, Beckenbauer, and the Cosmos?
That's a tough one to answer, just as tough, if we may digress for a moment, as the question of where the U.S. men's national team stands after the Olympic squad finished fourth last week in Australia. The coach, Clive Charles, and everyone else connected with the team said that getting to the bronze-medal game showed that the Americans can play with anyone in the world. "We've played European teams," Charles said. "We've played everybody. The gap is closed."
Problem is, the Olympic tournament signifies little, if anything at all, in terms of a nation's footballing strength. If it did, Germany and Britain and Argentina would have shelves of Olympic soccer gold medals. But if you do want to use the Amerk men's Olympic showing as a barometer, look out, because the Americans actually finished with one win, three ties, and two losses down under. That is, onecount 'em, onewin, over mighty Kuwait. But back to the MetroStars.
As noted here before, the Metros, after four and a half seasons of boring, miserable soccer, are playing competently, even brilliantly at times. Facing elimination Saturday against the Fire, they were as brilliant as they have ever been. The first half was extremely rugged, with at least 30 fouls called and four yellow cards issuedclearly, playoff soccer is as intense as playoff hockey or playoff basketball, only no Metro fan would know it, since the team has never gotten this far in the postseason before.
But what really stood out was how fast the Metros looked without the injured Tab Ramos in the lineup. In his absence, the playmaking role fell to Clint Mathis, who should be starting for the national team instead of warming its bench. He distributed the ball frantically, if not smoothlybut extremely accurately. With Mathis in midfield, Alex Comas started up front in tandem with Adolfo Valencia. Comas is one of those big-chested guys on the verge of plumpness, the kind you see playing on a dirt field in Corona on a Sunday afternoon. He helped create the first goal, working the ball in the corner with Lothar Matthäus, then crossing it just outside the penalty area to Mark Chung.
What Chung did with that pass, if you know him only from his listless national-team stint of the early and mid '90s, defies belief. He took the low pass on the volley, and slammed it toward the net. The ball hit a Chicago defender, rebounded right back to him, and while everyone else stood frozen in a moment's indecision, the 5-7 Chung rumbled forward and ripped a grass-level screamer into the corner. Like the new Metros, the new Mark Chung is tireless on the ball, creative, and full of jump.
In the second half, Chicago slowly but surely wrested control from the Metros. The old pro Stoitchkovthe mainstay of the surprising Bulgarian team that lasted until the semifinal round of the '94 World Cup, and the best player in the world for at least a couple of years in the last decademade trouble everywhere for the Metros defense. But each time he threatened, he was stopped by the ancient German sweeper Matthäus. Earlier this season Matthäus, himself once the greatest player on earth, was theatrically unhappy to be here; he had come to New York mainly to help further the career of his fashion-model girlfriend, and once he got a look at the sparse crowds, media apathy, and general small-timeyness of the MLS, he wanted out.
But now, with the Metros on the verge of the MLS Cup Final and his old nemesis Stoitchkov opposite, the 39-year-old Matthäus was galvanized. He roamed the backline superbly, sent laser passes 50 yards downfield right onto the chests of his forwards, and stood disdainfully over fallen Chicago players, barking at them to get up and quit rolling around melodramatically in search of a foul call. Matthäus, both physically and temperamentally, looked like a smaller version of Mark Messier, circa 1994, the year the Rangers won the Stanley Cup and also, not coincidentally, the year Stoitchkov's Bulgaria eliminated Matthäus's Germany on this same Giants Stadium field. That latter memory must have been on Matthäus's mind on the play when he matched the still-speedy Bulgarian step for step over 20 yards, stripped him of the ball, and sent it back upfield to the Metros attackers.