Chad Smith

In 1994, when I was too young to really appreciate it, my dad took me to World Cup group games in Orlando, where I got to see counties like Morocco and the Netherlands on the pitch. Even though I don’t remember much about the actual matches, I clearly remember the masses of painted and screaming fans thousands of miles from their home countries. And I remember my dad getting my brother a yellow vuvuzela from a street vendor. That’s a noise you never forget. You’ll see if you haven’t already.

I have been to a lot of sporting events — two Final Fours, a number of national football championship games, a handful of Daytona 500s, Olympic events in 1996. I have been to Fenway Park and Dodger Stadium, and I’ve witnessed a Premier League match. I saw Mike play the Magic and was there when Earnhardt was killed. And the Cup in ’94 is still among the highlights. More than the Olympics, it creates this sense of national anxiety, that it all rests on the lads on the pitch. In the Olympiad, one country might be a traditional power on the track while another is a force in gymnastics. But in the Cup, it’s all equal. Not to mention the sport is universal. Likely no one in Mozambique gives a shit about the uneven parallel bars, but you can be sure the whole country will be watching to see whether the continent’s best player, Didier Drogba, is in the lineup for Ivory Coast.

More than in 2006, when the United States limped back home with one point after the group stage, I am anxious about this tournament. Part of that is my trepidation about how well the U.S. will fare after watching some shaky performances in qualifying and after a number of injuries. Another part is my torn allegiance.

Given my love for Morrissey and my fondness for the British in general, I have been described more than once as an Anglophile. Just about everything English appeals to me — the cars, the accent, the Tube, The Guardian and, of course, the footy. Because of my keen interest in Manchester, I naturally adopted United as my club. (I chose the Red Devils over the Blues because of my hero’s tribute to the club and because of Old Trafford’s proximity to his hometown of Stretford.) I love how Wayne Rooney plays, and I love the history of 1966 and Bobby Charlton.

Then again, there was that tea tax and the massacre in Boston.

In the end Saturday, I would love to see us — the U.S., that is — win 2-1 on a Dempsey goal in the 88th minute. Then, after we have flamed out in the quarterfinals, I want to see Rooney wearing a grin on his weird, ruddy face as he hoists the trophy for the Three Lions.

Nevertheless, despite my English envy, I’m glad that Revolution didn’t turn out that way.

People are assholes, and given the chance, they rarely fail to prove the rule.

Last night, my friends Beth and Adam and I were standing in the middle of the crowd to watch The Mountain Goats at Harvest of Hope Fest in St. Augustine. Keep in mind, The Mountain Goats is a dude with an acoustic guitar. Despite this, a group in our general area — who paid and packed into a crowd supposedly to see said acoustic guitarist — continuously did the following:

a. Talked. (As Beth said, “Each word more useless than the last.”)
b. Checked their phones.
c. Smoked.
d. Passed around a bowl, looking far more interested in the weed than said guitarist.
e. Checked makeup.
f. At least one girl stood, back to the stage, looking at her boyfriend. The whole time.
g. Yelled stupid shit. (For example, when the singer explained one of his songs was about the mental health care system for juveniles, one stoner yelled, “George Bush.” Right.)

When Beth asked this one chick (with that obnoxious mullet thing that hipsters are into), the girl said, “It’s a concert. It’s not a library.”

The sole reason I went, aside from seeing my friends, was Billy Bragg. The legendary Englishman (who went on to make fun of American football in his charming way) played after The Mountain Goats and put on a phenomenal performance (though he was cut off, I presume, before playing “A New England”).

During the set, I was up front near the barricade. A girl who stood front and center was singing along with most songs, a total fan girl (that’s not a slight since we’re dealing with Billy Bragg; quite the contrary, it’s an attractive quality). Nevertheless, her tool of a boyfriend, about halfway through the set, got a phone call that just couldn’t wait I guess. He answered and proceeded to yell that he was at the show and hung up.

Ladies and gentlemen, I give you my generation.

Bragg talked a lot, which I loved. He talked about meeting legendary activist Stetson Kennedy for breakfast that morning at the Casa Monica. He played a Woody Guthrie song dedicated to Kennedy. It was an endearing moment. Bragg said Kennedy asked him that morning that if the young people going to the concert were doing so to support the cause of the fest (aid for migrant farmworkers) or otherwise gave a shit about political affairs. Bragg assured him that they did. It’s a nice thought, but I don’t know if he’s right. Not that assholes can’t be politically inclined. We know that’s not true. But, from where I’m sitting, very few care about anything. At least the people we were around Saturday night were more concerned about getting high and looking cool in their knock-off Ray-Bans (posers).

Beth, Adam I sound like the proverbial (and literal, given the rain the night before) stick in the mud. But a like-minded girl earlier in the evening, during Kimya Dawson’s set, asked this loud-as-hell dude to shut up. I’m pretty sure he called her a bitch and went on blabbing. Until Dawson played a song he liked. Then he got into it and started singing along.

What an asshole.

As Bragg sang in his opening song: “Help save the youth of America. Help save them from themselves.”

On Friday I wrapped up Week 2 in my new gig as the city government reporter at The Gainesville Sun, so this blog, University of Florida basketball, cleaning my new apartment and everything else has been on the back burner and will be until I get my sea legs.

I had my first marathon meeting the other night, but I’m not much worse for the wear. I’ll start posting stories soon. Meantime, I am starting to get The Sun’s city beat blog going again, so read that.

Since freshman year of college, my CD collection was back home in Port Orange, but I brought it up to the new apartment since I have more room. I just alphabetized it, and good god. I must have spent thousands of dollars on music in high school, and I have a horribly embarrassing collection to show for it. Think Mustard Plug, Senses Fail and Poison the Well.

C’est la vie. That’s how people grow up.

I got to do some cool shit this year. I visited two countries I’d long longed to, England and France; went to Texas; saw the Gators win their third football championship; saw them beat Louisiana State in Death Valley; went to a Premier League match; was interviewed on MSNBC; had a few stories featured on Bizarre Florida; had the pleasure of visiting Disneyland Paris; and so on.

But I don’t think I will remember 2009 fondly. After all, it was the year that left us with these enduring images: a seemingly occupied balloon floating over the Colorado desert; the mug shot of the governor of South Carolina, who was thought to be missing in the Appalachian Mountains but was really off bopping some South American broad unbeknownst to his staff (not to mention his family); Tiger Woods’ smashed-up SUV; a Texas military base in chaos; thousands mourning Michael Jackson’s hardly untimely death; protesters around my age dying on the streets of Tehran.

Continue reading

After my first full year as a reporter at The Record, I’ve put together a list of my most interesting stories of the past 365 days.

For each month, I’ve selected my “best” article (based on only my obviously misguided judgment). On the police beat, there is an endless influx of weird — people, crimes, situations, mug shots — so I’ve also picked the most bizarre story for each month. Some months were better than others.

Enjoy.

Continue reading

This photograph was taken of me outside the Wurstkuchl, a 500-year-old tavern overlooking the Danube in Regensburg, Germany, in November 2007. I think about the city and this river all the time, particularly when I need to think about somewhere else to remind myself everywhere isn’t so horrible.

I wonder about the waiter at the tavern who, after learning we were from Florida, said he had been to Tampa once. I wonder about the record store where I bought a Vision LP — mainly to support a German record store that wasn’t into techno or any of that weirdo metal bullshit — and wanted to buy an American Nightmare poster that wasn’t for sale. I wonder about the people we passed by over the footbridge and the people zipping around the cobbled streets in their Volkswagens and Citroëns. I wonder about the cafe once visited by Napoleon where I had the most rich piece of cake (the flavor now escapes; something vanilla) I’ve ever had. I wonder why more restaurants here don’t serve wiener schnitzel.

Bobby and Hank Hill digest their Longhorns’ heartbreaking loss to the Cornhuskers:

ATLANTA — During warmups, my dad and I settled into our upper-deck seats at the dome here, anxiously awaiting kickoff of one of the biggest games of the past few college football seasons. Our Gators had come out in all-white outfits, including an untraditional white helmet they had worn the previous week as part of a Nike promotion.

“The good guys,” a guy behind us commented. Maybe. But you know what they say about good guys and where they finish: maybe not last but certainly not first.

Continue reading

For about 10 months, since a beautiful January night in Miami Gardens, my dad and I have talked many times about what will come to pass Saturday: Tebow’s last stand.

We’ve talked about the decibel level when No. 15 runs out of the south end zone to greet Urban and his parents at midfield. We’ve talked about the bittersweetness. We’ve talked about the chills that will run through some 90,000 people (save for the few thousand in garnet and gold, and even they will likely be awestruck) as the greatest college football player EVER takes the field for his last home game.

Yeah, I said it. Greatest ever. Not the greatest of this decade or at Florida or in the SEC. Greatest. Ever.

As one of the only die-hard Gators in the Record newsroom, the sports writers like to give me a hard time. The other night they were making their case again for their Anti-Tebow for Heisman campaign. They have their points: Timmy hasn’t had the statistical season as a senior that he had during his sophomore and junior years. And after Thursday’s performance, Colt McCoy deserves it.

But take his career numbers into account:

8,335 passing yards
2,743 rushing yards
81 passing touchdowns
54 rushing touchdowns
46 wins to six losses
3 SEC East titles
2 national championships
2 SEC championships
2 first-team Academic All-American selections
1 first-team All-American selection
1 Heisman Trophy

All that with three games to spare.

You can compare those numbers to anyone’s and they will hold up. But to really determine how great he has been you have to watch him convert a fourth down or complete one of those crazy jump passes or get a whole stadium roaring with a jerk of the arms. You have to read about his mission work and his speeches at prisons and look at his GPA.

He’s been the entire package for four years, and we’ll be sad to see him go.

“Heroes get remembered, but legends never die. Follow your heart, kid, and you’ll never go wrong.”

I don’t know why this gives me hope, but it does: ESPN’s preseason Bracketology predicts the Florida basketball team will earn a No. 9 seed in the tournament (the real one, not that invitational one) and play Wake Forest in Oklahoma City in the first round.

The fact that we’re merely predicted to make it has me more excited about Sunday’s opener against Stetson. But I’m not any less nervous about playing Kentucky and, well, any other team ranked in the Top 50 of the RPI.

I really really really just want a season that doesn’t end with me thinking, Since we’re in the NIT, we might as well win it.

To sum up the last three weeks: Oh my. A last-minute, game-winning field goal against Arkansas; a sloppy victory in Starkville; another rout of Georgia; and now Gougegate.

I don’t condone what Brandon Spikes did. But football is a violent, violent game, and when Georgia players were blatantly taking their own cheap shots, who knows what Spikes might have been responding to (that the cameras and the officials didn’t catch)?

And: Pat Forde is a douche.

Spikes’ action reminded The Dash of a moment from the 2006 Colonial Athletic Association basketball tournament. Namely, when George Mason guard Tony Skinn groin-punched Hofstra’s Loren Stokes.

Going after a guy’s eyes is more serious because of the potential damage. But the two acts are similarly classless.

Really? Punching a cat in the groin could cause significantly more damage, given Stokes hoped to continue to have testicles in working order. But I digress.

Speaking of working order, this blog will be back in such a state soon. Bring on the Commodores.