Soccer Bar, 7:30 a.m.

I promised a post on my NY soccer bar experience.

Two Saturdays ago I set my alarm for 7:30 a.m. for a 7:45 match between my team, Liverpool, and the bloated carcass of a champion, Manchester United, which was being featured at Nevada Smith's (3rd Ave and 11th) at 7:45 a.m. It was a painful wake-up call, the same reason I guess my friends who run races wake up at 6:00 in the morning to go to Central Park to run half-marathons.

The East Village is a wondrous place at 7:30 on a weekend morning. All of the hangers-on and keeper-ups have swept away, and shopkeepers are sweeping up their sidewalks. On the weekends, no delivery trucks clog the streets or the uncharacteristic quiet.

I walk into Nevada Smith's and the sunlight and calm get swallowed by the darkness, heat and humidity pouring off the metabolizing fanatics that line every sweaty joint of the place. As my eyes adjust to the darkness, I see the entire main floor is packed gill-to-gill, and I'm ushered downstairs. I saw maybe 20-25 people on my 7-block walk, and there are 300 people stuffed inside this place.

I showed up 6 minutes late and Manchester United had already scored following a pass from their new acquisition Dmitri Berbatov, who looks like a cross between Andy Garcia and Gargamel. He's evil. The goal was scored by Carlos Tevez, an Argentinean with the worst underbite I've ever seen. The Argentineans are the worst cheaters I've ever seen. Tevez works hard, but since he won't spend any of his millions on orthidonture, you kinda wanna punch him in the lower jaw.

About 30 minutes into the game, the place was so packed that they turned on a gigantic rotary fan. It's a crazy atmosphere. We're 3 games into the season, and people live and die by each near-miss. These people understand the game. It's not like an American football bar where dumbass Soc stockbrokers buy their bleach-blonde girlfriends beers and promise to take them to Clone Beach next weekend to make up for it. Everybody here legitimately loves the game and their team. It's an awesome sight to behold.

Liverpool is playing without their two best players, Steven Gerrard, their captain, and Fernando Torres, who is also a bleach blonde. Hmmmmmm. But they outplay the better Man U. squad for the better part of the match. And in the 77th minute, when Ryan Babel puts Liverpool up 2-1, the bar erupts. The downstairs bartender is pumping his fist, he's a Liverpool fan. More than half the crowd are wearing their team's jerseys, so I know who to high-five. And they're quick with hugs. It makes or breaks the weekend for these fans.

On my walk home I spy a few guys in Liverpool jerseys. I congratulate them on the win, and for a few seconds, Manhattan shrinks a little bit more. We're all a little pissed. I ask them where they're headed and they say they're hunting for food. I say I'm going home to sleep for several hours and we all laugh. And that's it. And it happens every weekend.