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Screenwriters of the World Unite...

The WGA has walked-off the job, here's your primer.

It’s normal for people to regret decisions they made in the 80s. From junk bonds to hyper-color, from power suits to parents beating the crap out of each other over Cabbage Patch Dolls, America’s decade of excess was excessively error prone.

Despite the foibles and flights of fancy, unless you knocked-up your secretary during a drunken office Christmas party tryst, the mistakes of the 80s probably aren’t still biting you in the ass to this day. After all, the stock market recovered from Black Monday, our collective fashion sense improved enough to exclude thermochromic shirts and the bruises inflicted by fellow shoppers in pursuit of a doll have long-since healed. However, there is one group--in addition to the parents of the bastard children--who still suffer from their miscalculation of two decades ago: the members of the Writers Guild of America.

In 1988 the writers who bring us the sitcoms, dramas, late-night talk shows and movies that we love and love to hate, signed a contract with the studios which produce their work, which they regret to this day. Back in the 80s a new technology was emerging which threatened to change the way people watched their favorite shows: VHS. However, because home video was in its infancy, the studios argued there was no way to gauge the possible revenue streams, thus they sought to limit the residual payments on VHS sales to writers.

A five-month long strike ensued to fight over the residual payments and a host of other union demands, which ended with WGA begrudgingly accepting the studios’ assertion regarding the inability to estimate the significance of VHS sales. So with a paltry 4¢ payment to the writers per video sold, the studios and WGA ended their long labor impasse. Unfortunately for the writers, this deal on home video sales didn’t foresee the advent of DVDs, the sales of which became covered by the 1988 agreement. The introduction of DVDs to the market sparked an explosion in home video sales, causing revenues to soar whilst under the 1988 contract the writers could merely watch studios disproportionately profit from their work.

Having lost mightily from their fateful contract 19 years ago, the WGA has adopted the mantra “fool me once, shame on you; fool me twice, shame on me,” becoming resolute in ensuring that profits from future revenue streams will not pass them by. The WGA have a profound sense of déjà vu when they hear the studios argue, much like they did in the home video debate, they can’t predict how much revenue internet and new media will produce in the future. They contend the studios’ justifications for not paying writers residuals on things such as streaming video over the internet are at best shortsighted and at worst patently false.

Studios point to a lack of profitability of their current streaming efforts as one justification of their stance against residual payments and further contend such online efforts are merely promotional, thus not warranting further pay to writers. Writers counter that the studios are in fact profiting from streaming video and downloadable content via venues such as the iTunes Store and Xbox Marketplace. They also disagree that streaming videos online is purely promotional, by stating money is being made from advertising being sold in conjunction with the video, thus this isn’t just a promotional tool--it is in fact another for-profit distribution channel for which the writers should be compensated.

Through their efforts, writers have brought to the forefront a discussion over how we will receive media in the future. Will it be streaming through our computers? Will it be on our cell phones? Or will it come at a price through downloads from places like the iTunes Store? Writers envision a world where traditional means of content delivery will no longer take a majority-share of revenues; therefore they need to make sure they can get a more equitable piece of the pie when this eventuality occurs. Just because streaming isn’t profitable now, is not a good enough reason for them to accept a deal that will hamper their chance at its profits in the future.

The two sides’ respective stances concerning the profitability of new media have put them at loggerheads, causing the WGA to commence a strike which began on November 5^th. To this point the effect has been to immediately shut down late night shows of a topical nature such as the Late Show and The Colbert Report. Other shows have ceased production with networks left to air only the new episodes that were already completed when the writers took to the picket lines.

Currently, the effect being felt by people outside of Hollywood has been minimal, with only the shows that rely on daily productions being immediately forced into reruns. The Late Show, Daily Show, Colbert Report, Tonight Show, Late Night with Conan O’Brien find themselves torn between supporting the writers who craft much of the show and the production crews that go unpaid as long as they honor the WGA’s picket line by not producing a show. Eventually, these shows may need to cross the line for the sake of all of the non-writing staff, much like Johnny Carson did back in 1988. Rumblings have been reported that say these shows will coordinate their return to the air, possibly before the end of the year.

So far one variety show has broken with the rest of the group and failed to honor the strike, with Ellen DeGeneres giving a less than sincere effort to justify her crossing of the picket line. Although Ellen was able to skip nearly a week of shows because she was upset about her lapdog Iggy, she only stood with the writers for one day before resuming her regular production schedule. With this the WGA East and West has had a field day, issuing press releases condemning Ellen and accusing her of violating the strike by performing written material for her monologue, to which Ellen denies.

For the rest of television, it won’t be too long until we feel the effects of their halt in production. While many showrunners have refused to cross the picket line the complete episodes already in production, a few have covertly gone back to produce everything they already had a script for. Regardless of whether a show has completely halted production yet, soon scripts will no longer be available and networks will only be able to air what they currently have in the can. So those waiting to find out what will happen with Lost can only hope for nine episodes in the foreseeable future. Anything after those nine air will be left up to when this strike will be resolved.

So what will the networks do if they run out of new shows and grow tired of reruns? Well, a prolonged stoppage will likely lead to further reality programming which will most likely be more ghastly and trite then the current crop of unscripted television we’re offered today. So if you thought Skating with the Stars was a crappy knock-off of an already terrible show, Dancing with the Stars, and you found Fox’s Temptation Island to be a poor use of the airwaves we allow the networks broadcast over for free, then you’ll likely root for a speedy resolution to the strike. But if you’re a reality TV nut who’s been praying for a day when American Gladiators will return, then this strike is the answer to those prayers; the gladiators will be back January 6^th.

Although this is expected to be a protracted strike, there are positive signs being shown that it may end sooner than expected with sides expected to come back to the table on November 26^th to resume talks that broke off back on November 4^th. Whether either side will acquiesce, it can’t be predicted, but for those fans of TV and movies, a speedy resolution is hoped for although not expected.

England Out of Euro 2008

“I read the news today, oh boy…” sang John Lennon nearly 40 years ago. If he were alive and writing the song today, he would have followed that line with “about an England team who shit the bed.”

With everything on the line for a floundering England squad, needing only a draw to qualify for Euro 2008, the men with the three lions on their chest were humbled 3-2 at the hands of Croatia. With the loss, England concludes a hugely disappointing qualifying campaign that finds them on the outside looking in as Crotia and Russia advance from their Group to the finals next summer. So for the first time since the 1994, England will not be playing in a major international and for the players who failed to perform and a coach who failed to inspire, this will be a cross the will have to bear.

The recriminations must begin with Steve McClaren. His term as England boss has been an abject failure, which over the course of the last 14 months, has exposed him as inferior both tactically and in matters of personnel. Today represented a glaring example of his inefficiencies as his big gambles to play Scott Carson, despite him never starting in a competitive England match, and his benching of Beckham both proved to be mistakes.

Firstly, Scott Carson allowed an absolute howler in the eighth minute, letting a ball he should have easily corralled hit his arms, pop up over his head and into his own net. His mistake changed the complexion of the game on a soggy night at the new Wembley as the team’s original plans had to be torn up not even 10 minutes into the match. After going down another goal, the only player capable of turning the tables was given the opportunity coming in after the half. Global sports-marketing mega-icon David Beckham entered the match for the second stanza, infusing the team and supporters with the energy and skill needed to engineer a historic fightback.

And fight back England did. Lampard converted from the spot to bring the score-line to 2-1, then Beckham struck, delivering a perfect cross to Crouch who chested down the ball and slotted it home to send Wembley onto cloud 9. If the match would have ended there, England would have stamped its ticket for Austria-Switzerland ’08, but like much of the time under McClaren, the Three Lions were simply not good enough as they conceded a third goal 13 minutes from time. England couldn’t find a final reply, so as the clock wound down, the former most powerful country in the world watched their dreams of a victorious Alpine summer in ’08 fade away.

Now England must regroup. The Board of the FA has called for a meeting to take place tomorrow morning at 8:30 am, and when they emerge, the only acceptable result will be McClaren’s head on a platter. As to who will take his place, there are many names being bandied about including former Chelsea manager Jose Mourinho and current Portugal gaffer Felipe “Big Phil” Scolari. Whether either of those men will want to enter the maelstrom to fend off the ravenous English media scrutiny that is endemic of England’s top spot remains to be seen.

But there are questions facing this squad beyond who will succeed McClaren, such as: Will Lampard and Gerrard ever be able to play together effectively? Who will be the keeper of the future? How will this setback effect England’s qualification for WC 2010? And was this the last we’ll see of Beckham in the Three Lions?

In the final analysis, the failure of this England squad is at the feet of McClaren. A fan who posted to the BBC’s website best summed up this sentiment and the disappointment of the English people and England fans around the world with this loss when he wrote:

"Without doubt, the defining image of McClaren's short reign. With their backs against the wall, England need blood, sweat and tears, and yet McClaren stood there helpless, umbrella aloft, not even prepared to get his hair wet! What would Churchill say?"

First Person: Andre Brown

Last Spring I sat down with the Sonics Andre Brown just after he was assured of a roster spot with the Sonics for an interview for Soniczone Magazine. He finished out the season well and this season is playing for the Memphis Grizzlies

With a game forged on the Southside of Chicago, nurtured at DePaul University and honed in Europe, the Far East, and America’s Great Plains, Andre Brown has taken a circuitous route to earn his way onto an NBA roster. After spending the fall with the Sioux Falls Skyforce of the NBDL, leading the league in scoring and pulling down the second most rebounds, Brown was called up on a 10-day contract by the Sonics in December. With hustle, determination and an eye-opening block in the overtime of Seattle’s exhilarating win over Utah, Brown made his case to management that his 10-day dream-stint should turn into a roster spot for the remainder of the season. Now that Andre has secured his place in the squad for the rest of 2006-07 we wanted to get to know a little bit more about our newest SuperSonic.

Growing up in Chicago who were some of the great players you balled with?

Guys like Bobby Simmons, who’s with Milwaukee Bucks now, and Quinton Richardson. There are a lot of guys from the Chicago area that are in the NBA now that I kinda looked up to and played with throughout the summer.

What corners of the world has your basketball odyssey taken you to?

I’ve played in Korea, Italy, Serbia and Montenegro and I also played in the Philippines for a short stint so I’ve been a little bit of everywhere.

Which was you favorite place to play?

Probably Korea; they really took care of the players, the people over there were friendly and they treated the league like it was the NBA—I mean good fans and good everything overall. I had a blast over there.

What did the NBDL do for your game?

It improved it—it helped build my confidence and prepared me for the NBA. It was a stepping stone to get here and I’m glad I went that route.

First coming into the league from the NBDL, what was the biggest adjustment for you on and off the court?

I think the biggest thing was having maturity on the court and off the court. Also having the confidence to play with these guys night in and night out and continuing to be consistent on a daily basis. It’s a job, but you also have to have fun with it so I think consistency plays a big part in all of that.

Do you have any pre-game rituals or superstitions?

Nah, not really, I drink two Red Bulls before every game, make sure I say a prayer, that’s about it.

When you enter a game, what’s your mindset? Is there anything you are specifically trying to focus on?

I come in knowing my job and knowing my role on this team and that’s to defend, rebound and be aggressive. If you have that mindset all the time, it’ll make it easy for you.

After Rick let you know you’d be staying with the team the rest of the season, what’s the first thing you did?

I called my mom and told her; she was very happy, very excited. Then I called everyone in my family after that and everyone was happy.

Did you buy anything for yourself?

Oh no, not yet. I think I’ll wait until I get home for the summer.

What do you want to do after basketball?

Hopefully I can pursue my dream in broadcasting. I took Communications classes while I was at DePaul, so hopefully that’ll work out after a long stint in the NBA.

Favorite pair of shoes you’ve ever had?

I think they all had to be Nike. I’d say my Nike Air Force One’s were the most comfortable, I think those are the best ones I’ve had.

Imagine you’re on MTV’s Cribs, what do you make sure you stock your fridge with?

Oh man, haha, probably lots of water and cranberry juice. I’m a big cranberry juice drinker. I guess that’s about it, oh, and make sure you have a fridge for Red Bulls!

What was your favorite thing to do in Sioux Falls?

Hahaha! Go to the movies, because that’s about all you can do!

Besides a family member, who is your role model?

The guys I went to DePaul with, because I looked up to those guys and they paved the way for me. Each summer I was working with them and they always stayed on me about working hard to get to that next level.

Favorite band or artist?

I’m pretty open-minded to all music, but I’m listening to T.I. right now for the most part. When I want to get in my game mode it’s always T.I.

Favorite TV Show?

It’s always been The Simpsons, I love The Simpsons. Everybody gets on me about that, but I like The Simpsons—that is a funny cartoon!

Who does your ink for you? What’s the story behind the large tattoo on your leg?

I’ve got a guy back in Chicago that does all of my ink for me. The one of my leg is Psalm 27, it kind of relates to me and my life but it’s a long verse, I kind of hate reciting it every time so I make sure everyone gets a chance to read it.

If you could have dinner with any one person, who would it be and where would you eat?

Carmen Electra, hahaha, and I’d take her anywhere she wants to go!

No Country for Old Men

The barren, scorched earth of 1980s West Texas is unforgiving, unrelenting; the same could be said for Anton Chigurh, a man who’s chillingly violent pursuit of $2 million cash is the epicenter of Joel and Ethan Coen’s latest film No Country for Old Men.

The Coen brothers’ adaptation of Cormac McCarthy’s 2005 novel find them at the peak of their talents, beautifully conveying the jagged and jaded Texas terrain familiar to McCarthy’s many western novels, expertly building tension in the cat and mouse game that drives their plot and conveying a wariness that comes with watching helplessly as the world changes before you.

Tommy Lee Jones plays Sherriff Ed Tom Bell and it’s hard to imagine anyone else capturing the sardonic, ill-at-ease, old lawman who doesn’t recognize or at least doesn’t want to face the world which surrounds him. Bell is a third-generation officer who longs for the days when his father and grandfather before him weren’t even required to carry guns to perform their duties. He shudders at the ebbing morality in society and the rising tide of violence and drugs which now plague the only place he and his family has ever really called home. The violence he will encounter on his pursuit of the various men mixed up in a failed drug deal will offer him no respite from his world-weary state.

Llewellyn Moss is a poor welder, living in a mobile home with his young wife when while he is out hunting happens upon the failed drug deal which will offer him an opportunity of a lifetime. There amongst the carnage he finds one man clinging to life and begging for water; more importantly, he finds $2 million cash. What he does next forever alters the trajectory of his life—he decides to make off with the money. Although his chances of making a clean break with the cash are slim to begin with, his guilt over leaving the parched man at the scene leads him back to where he must begin to run for his life, leaving behind his truck which through its VIN betrays his identity.

Llewellyn knows people will be coming for the money, however there is no way he could anticipate a man as psychotic and adept at killing as Anton Chigurh would be the one on his tail.Javier Bardem’s portrayal of the film’s unnerving executioner is unbelievably effective. Chigurh moves across the landscape like an unstoppable force. The inevitability of his killing is striking. When he kills there is almost a catharsis to it for him, as we see early in the film when he murders a young Sherriff’s Deputy with his handcuffs. At other times, whether it involves him calmly killing a man with a pneumatic cattle gun or flipping a coin to decide the fate of another, he seems as coldly detached from his violent acts as a banker making a simple transaction.

With the money in Moss’ hands there is only one acceptable transaction for Chigurh, he must claim the cash and as Woody Harrelson’s character explains to Llewellyn, “kill you just for inconveniencing him.” With the three central characters established, the chase is on, but this movie is about so much more than these three men’s pursuit. Sherriff Bell represents an old order and he attempts to prevent the coming violence by trying to find either Chigurh or Moss before they find each other. Anton embodies a cold, impersonal, opportunistic violence that knows nothing but to destroy the lives it infiltrates, just as capitalism tears asunder the traditions of the worlds it inhabits. Residing in the middle we have Llewellyn, a man who is neither good nor bad, more a product of his environment than anything else. He is us. He works, he has a wife and he lives by modest means, however given the opportunity to profit from the very forces which Bell believe are eroding society, he barely hesitates. With the decision to ignore the values of the past, Llewellyn stands to gain everything, but can also lose everything as well.

Josh Brolin as Moss turns in a remarkable performance. You can’t but help root for Llewellyn as he runs for his life, using a mixture of cunning and daring to try to stay one step ahead of Chigurh; this owes largely to Brolin’s infusion of charm, wit and depth into Moss. The same can be said for Tommy Lee Jones, who truly appears pained as he reads the paper to find people everywhere are killing each other. He suffers over the violence; he has no desire to return to the carnage of the failed drug deal when the Feds arrive. For him, he has already seen too much, the decay cuts him too personally.

For the Coen Brothers, this may be their greatest triumph as filmmakers. Their ability to build the onscreen tension to edge-of-your-seat crescendos and their creation of the most disturbing killer I’ve seen on the big screen in the past 15 years is a testament to their skills. And although the violence of No Country for Old Men is disturbing and frequent, unlike Michael Bay’s beloved excessive CGI effects, the violence in No Country has purpose and meaning. It’s meant to disgust you, chill you to the bone--make you fear for the inevitability of the dark force in pursuit of Llewellyn. It also represents a change in the world which Sherriff Bell sees as a dark force, an inescapable destroyer of the world he once knew and longs for. A force which makes the place he has always lived no country for an old man such as he.

30 Rock: "Somebody to Love"

In the decades to come, long after the conclusion of what will hopefully be a fruitful run, fans and TV critics alike will offer up their final analysis of NBC’s 30 Rock. As viewers sit back to wax nostalgic about the show, they may come to agree that 30 Rock’s true comedic voice emerged in episodes four, five and six of Season Two. Where they’ll disagree is whether this increasingly topical voice was too much the zeitgeist to allow for 30 Rock to be as significant and funny in 2057 as it is in 2007. Will Tina Fey and her gangs’ skewering of misguided liberal do-gooderism coupled with their parody of right-winged corporate avarice and a sprinkling of zany humor still be resonant in the distant future? Will 30 Rock be the show of its times or an all-time show?

Although I’m excited about the possibility of the world of tomorrow where I’ll be able to travel in my flying car powered by garbage placed in my “Mr. Fusion,” the prospect of living in a future where people actually feel the need to debate whether 30 Rock is funny or not, is enough to make me embrace the present. It’s in the present where we get to fully enjoy the last three offerings from the show that is establishing itself as head-and-shoulders above its fellow sitcoms, without worry or care about its timelessness.

At the beginning of Season 2, we could see the seeds being sewn for 30 Rock to infuse more social commentary into the plotlines. Early on Liz, Jenna and Jack wrestled over the weight problems of Jenna and thusly were debating social norms for female body image. Although that episode provided a dose of social commentary, "Rosemary's Baby" was the first episode to use an exaggerated stereotype of Hollywood liberalism as a comedic foil that would drive the show’s plot. The approach produced the best episode of the season as Liz struggled with her feminist idol who she finds has beliefs not exactly rooted in today’s reality. In the following episode, “Greenzo,” a failed actor becomes a holier-than-thou embodiment of environmentalism while Donaghy represents a corporate America which disingenuously “cares” in order to profit from people’s increasing desire to seem “eco-friendly.”

Well, if once is an occurrence, twice is a coincidence and three times is a pattern, then the third episode of the aforementioned trio is where 30 Rock confirms the emergence of its political, snarky, subversive tone which has transformed it into a hilarious and non-preachy social satire. In the episodes “Rosemary’s Baby” and “Greenzo” 30 Rock sought to strike a balance between showing Liz Lemon’s struggle to reconcile her lefty ideals with the real world and Jack Donaghy’s indulgence of his capitalistic, chauvinist tendencies. “Somebody to Love” finds that perfect balance of Lemon and Donaghy and keenly adds the exploits of Tracy Jordan, Kenneth, Jenna, Pete, the writers and a couple celebrity cameos for an expert mix of political satire, social commentary, pop culture references and quirky weirdness.

“Somebody to Love,” finds Lemon suspicious of her new Middle-Eastern neighbor Raheem, played by SNL’s Fred Armisen, who appears militant and stand-offish with the two first meet. Pete does little to sway Liz from her mistrust of Raheem, as he explains to her that, “he’s a really nice guy—he’s always helping. He rewired the toaster oven and showed me a back way to the airport!”

Lemon is left torn between her liberal beliefs that she shouldn’t judge people and her gut instinct which makes her exclaim “I think that little pita pocket over there may be a terrorist!”

Meanwhile Jack Donaghy is attending a party in honor of Robert Novak being thrown by Republican stalwarts John McCain and Jack Bauer. While there he happens upon C.C., played by Edie Falco, and the chemistry between the two is immediately evident. After a night of passion Jack learns this promising new lady-friend is--in his eyes--the worst type of person: a Democratic Congresswoman who fights against the very things Donaghy holds dear. We later learn that C.C. took up the mantle of fighting corporations because she was shot in the face by her neighbor’s dog. Her incident was made famous in a made for Lifetime movie: A Dog Took My Face and Gave Me a Better Face to Change the World: The Celeste Cunningham Story.

Liz, after seeing Raheem with another Arab man doing what looks like paramilitary exercises in the park, gives-in to her suspicions and with the prompting of Jack, turns her neighbor in as a terrorist. Then in a move that echoes 1950s McCarthyism, she threatens Pete when he stands-up for Raheem, telling him he could just as easily lumped-in with the terrorists if he didn’t get off her back. Unfortunately, after Raheem is detained and tortured, Lemon learns the truth: all of his seemingly suspicious behavior was in pursuit of entering the Amazing Race.

Just as Lemon’s guilt over turning-in Raheem eats away at her, Jack and C.C.’s mutual attraction gnaws at them as the political gulf between them keeps them as divided as blue and red states, as diametrically opposed as “Capulets and Romulans.” But Donaghy cannot resist his new lady friend and in Tracy Jordan Jack finds counsel to help navigate the chasm which separates him from C.C. After all, Tracy is no stranger to forbidden love, intimating to Jack his similar attempts to find love despite one’s differences, “I’m black, she’s white. I’m black, she’s light skinned black. I’m black, she’s 17.” With Tracy’s help Jack meets C.C. in Harlem where they agree to ignore their differences and stay together while the sex is still good—a true 21^st Romeo and Juliet if I’ve ever seen it.

With a sly, engaging wit 30 Rock has positioned itself as more than merely a show about making TGS with Tracy Jordan, it has found its voice and morphed a hilarious social and political satire. “Somebody to Love” deftly skewered the timeliest of issues—our political polarization, racial profiling, and the fear of terrorism. Hell, they even found time to take a jab at product placements and crappy made for Lifetime movies. Whether these issues will still be resonant in the future, I’m not sure, so who knows if future generations will find 30 Rock funny. But for now, episodes like “Somebody to Love” are so entertaining, I’m perfectly happy with 30 Rock creating a timely voice, even if it may mean the show won’t be timeless.

Field of Screams

Hope, horror, and joy run rampant when Liverpool meets Milan in a Fremont pub

Two years ago I stood under the setting sun amidst a throng of suede-headed, disaffected young men in a stadium in Vienna. Green and white flags waved around us, an incessant drumbeat led our cheers, and we hoisted our scarves toward the sky. Did it matter that it was my first time at the Gerhard Hanappi Stadium and I didn't know a single person around me or understand a word of what we were screaming? No, no, and no. At my first European soccer match, all that mattered was that I was rooting for the home team, SK Rapid Vienna. I belonged.

Over the course of that match I felt all the things that made me love sports in the first place: camaraderie, a sense of identity, naked displays of emotion, and a healthy dose of escapism. More than 5,000 miles from home, I felt at home.

Ever since that memorable match, I've searched Seattle's sports landscape, from the shores of Lake Washington to the stadiums of SoDo and the heart of Seattle Center, trying to recapture that excitement. My quest remained unfulfilled until I learned what hordes of local soccer fans have known for years: that as far as this area is concerned, a modest pub in Fremont called the George and Dragon is Mecca.

I had enjoyed my visits to the George before, but I'd never ventured there for a major soccer match, thus I didn't appreciate the intoxication that its mixture of fish and chips, bangers and mash, and beer and the world's game could produce. That all changed on a Wednesday morning in May when I blew off responsibility to watch the Champion's League Final live at the George.

A little background: The UEFA Champions League is the world's premier football club competition; its television audience nearly matches the Superbowl's. Europe's best teams compete from August to May, when one is crowned the finest on the continent. This year, five-time winners Liverpool FC navigated the group stage and knockout rounds to earn a date with six-time champions AC Milan. In 2005, Liverpool overcame a three-nil halftime deficit to capture the cup from Milan in what many call the greatest Cup Final ever. This rematch had all the makings of a classic.

I thought I'd come early, but 30 minutes before kick-off the George was packed shoulder-to-shoulder. A line formed out the door and the pub began turning people away. I wondered how many of them had jobs.

I waded through the human mass to the bar. Some fans were easing into the morning on coffee or water. Others ordered pints or Bloody Marys. The guy next to me had a Manny's Pale Ale and a Bloody Mary. Something told me this wasn't the first time he'd started drinking before noon.

Pint in hand, the air thick with anticipation, I readied myself for the match. The George and Dragon crowd let out its first collective cheer as the camera focused on the two teams gathered side-by-side in the tunnel the field. If the Europeans have one thing over us, it's their innate ability milk such moments for everything their worth. Entering the field may seem banal, but as the players begin their slow procession, the Champions League Anthem played, and the stadium erupted in cheers, a chill went down my spine. I looked into each combatant's eyes and knew that for the next few hours nothing else would matter to him or me but this game.

At kickoff an odd, tense silence fell on the pub; all eyes fixed on the screens positioned around it. But it took just a few moments for the patrons to snap out of their stupor and begin oohing and ahhing at every minor chance and clever move. Keeping one eye on the match, I glanced around the room and think to myself what great unifying forces soccer and a good pub can be. Race, religion, age, economic status, political bent… nothing mattered except whether you pulled for the Reds of Liverpool or the Rossoneri of AC Milan.

The first half was a roller-coaster ride of emotions. The patrons, mostly Liverpool supporters, went into halftime disappointed at their club's conceding a late goal to Milan's Pippo Inzaghi. But hope still reigned as they returned to the bar. I enjoyed my halftime ale with two 50-something Norwegians who hailed from the same town as Liverpool midfielder John Arne Riise. We started out talking about the game but soon diverged into discussions of our mutual Norwegian roots and the cruelty of the lutefisk my mother and grandmother used to make me eat each Christmas.

All discussion of disgusting lye-soaked cod halted as the match resumed and the fans resumed living and dying with each build-up on offense. Each time Liverpool moved forward their exclamations rose to a crescendo, invariably ending in collective groans as the Reds squandered their chances. Just when they thought it couldn't get any worse, it did: Milan's brilliant midfielder Kakà received far too much space as he dribbled toward the back four and slid a perfectly weighted pass to Inzaghi, who ran onto the ball and calmly slid it under the keeper to score his second of the day. A young Merseyside fan stared into his beer, trying to come to grips with his team's collapse. I knew how he felt, helpless and empty and gutted. The final whistle confirmed our despair.

Most patrons closed their tabs and filed out, unable to watch the triumphant Rossoneri hoist their seventh championship trophy. I felt deflated by Liverpool's loss but triumphant at having finally found all that I had longed for in sport since I left the Hanappi Stadium two years before. Once again I was in a place where the crowd and the play seemed joined as one, where total strangers could share a beer and cheer in unison. I felt at home, and I knew I wouldn't have to travel 5,000 miles to recapture the exhilaration of that Viennese night.