Philadelphian Beauty
Saturday's 0-0 draw between Philly and Kansas City has me preoccupied by the 1999 film, American Beauty. **Spoilers Abound**
About 15 miles south of Philadelphia, last Saturday night at a soccer game
Around the 70th minute of a 0-0 stalemate played after a storm delay in Chester, a trash can somewhere dispensed with its duties. Gusts of wind took its contents - hot dog wrappers, napkins, an enormous plastic bag- and blew it across Subaru Park.
The ensuing commotion was equally entertaining to any soccer played that night. And the comedic image of a large plastic trash bag- blowing whimsically through midfield like Philadelphia’s lost start to the season- has stuck with me more than the actual game.
The actual, more-forgettable game featured two MLS teams performing below their potential: Philadelphia Union and Sporting Kansas City. Both wait for internal storms to break. Both played a game commenced by the eventual pause of a lightning-straddled, literal one.
To call Saturday’s soccer simply unpretty would be kind. But the season is long, and storms pass on toward New Jersey.
The storm
Now, if you stand at the eastern end of a long hallway where media mill about at a Union game, you can look out toward the Delaware River. The river is lined with trees and grass and a parking lot, beyond it is New Jersey. The centerpiece of this oft depicted scene is the Commodore Barry Bridge— named for a revolutionary war hero buried in Philadelphia, originally from Ireland, responsible for various victories of various kinds.
Even the unacquainted may recognize this bridge. For in lieu of other news, you may find people report the passing of a boat beneath the Commodore Barry. Few events rile the River End more than a ball kicked over them, toward the river the Commodore guards. And if nothing else, the Commodore looms over all the soccer happening below it.
Now, if you stand there while rain clashes, lightning scatters, and announcers instruct everyone to take cover, you might find yourself commenting haphazardly on the storm’s progression. You may find yourself doing so alongside other members of the media. And you may find this is done in a similar manner to how media might comment on the slow passing of the unsavory parts of a season.
Eventually it will leave us, how soon we don’t know— and neither does Jim Curtin.
And so we stood there, unknowing and observing, making our best guesses, like some Delco-infused version of the Lion King: Everything the lightning touches is either Delaware, Delco or Jersey. The game begins when it moves north, toward Medford, and beyond.
Eventually it did that. But not sooner than an hour. Not before photographers waited patiently to capture fleeting light strikes. Not before the press box groaned “no, not that” when the Flyers were put on, “we don’t need another disaster”. Not before Jameer Nelson was somehow brought up. And not before it was acknowledged the Phils also had themselves a disaster that day in Texas.
After all that waiting
The Union’s 8 goals are downwind from 93 total scoring attempts, a number second only in MLS to Vancouver. Only 29 of them, though, on target.
The delayed game began with Gazdag getting a shot off within seconds. Hark! The corner turning! He went down with no foul call. The shot was blocked.
Philly took 16 more shots that night— 8 of them off target, 4 of them on target, 5 of them blocked, none of them in.
The first of a few foul calls arrived in the early minutes as well. One notably unnecessary one sent SKC to the ground, milking it, in the third minute. The call was deserved. The dive wasn’t. The crowd dutifully rained down abuse– an abuse they’d rain on most ensuing foul calls, deserved or not, for the rest of the evening.
Philly added thirteen fouls to a season total of 82 that night, placing them 11th in MLS for fouls committed. All things considered, not terrible! They added three yellows as well (Harriel, Gazdag, Martinez) to a season total of 17. Philly’s amassed yellows place them in a three-way tie for second most in the league.
Harriel and Gazdag had yellows by the half. And though José Andrés Martinez did not have his yellow by the half (he would by end of evening), being José Andrés Martinez, he joined Harriel and Gazdag in remonstrating the ref at the halftime whistle. The scene ended only when one of the refs pointed his flag toward the locker room tunnel, as if to insist that’s where they go now.
The most notable element of that long-awaited half is that for only the second time this year, the Union stopped the opposition from scoring before the 32nd minute. (And for only the second time this year, they’d go on to keep a clean sheet).
American Beauty
With a clean sheet loading, we were hoping to have a Chicago ending. But no last minute goal arrived. There was no Joaquin Torres stoppage time salvation.
What happened instead was a trash can. And then a weeklong reverie about a film.
It should be noted for honesty that brief moments of excitement preceded the blowing trash.
For example out of nowhere- as he tends to- El Brujo conjured a bike kick to clear a ball deep in our half. The instinctive flourish produced a real chance. The real chance produced a real corner. The real opportunities were thwarted by stolid defenders in the way.
And then there was the River End, breaking into melodic questions. They wanted to know, “Hey Union”, if they’d score a goal. They wouldn’t. They let the Union know they’d like three points. Only one was mustered.
In the 62nd minute, Jack McGlynn came on. The crowd remembered joy momentarily.
And then the trash came.
Pieces of it blew across the field at minute 70. Most proceeded on their way, off to litter some other corner. But one large and clear trash bag stuck around, settling upon midfield as though it were a player. The game played on like this.
Eventually, the ref took a moment to grab and remove the large plastic bag. This led to a large eruption of cheers from the otherwise displeased River End.
The collective volume delivered to the referee’s clearance reached a decibel only surpassed by the entrance of Jack McGlynn, and a pregame announcement indicating the Phillie Phanatic was in the house that evening.
As I watched all this from on high, scribing away the evening, I found myself suddenly in 1999— thinking about a film.
Inspired by the trash can affair, I rewatched the Oscar-laden classic American Beauty this week. I’m a long way off from my first viewing, and the era captured within is a long way gone from us. Phone books, *69 to return a call, handheld video cameras, Mena Suvari and Thora Birch… American Beauty aims for eternal truths, but struck me most as a time piece on rewatch.
Though I suppose, in part, art as a form of time-keeping is among its more useful ends.
Be it a film or be it a flowery match report, art attempts to catch that which otherwise escapes us. The escape artist could be an idea. The escape artist could be time.
… The escape artist could be José Andrés Martinez, doing defensive bicycle kicks for no reason; could be fans cheering from covered spaces while out waiting rain; Peter Vermes saying against Philadelphia, it’s always a battle, and a battle it was tonight; Jim Curtin talking about contagious confidence, and the slow growing bermuda grass.
Have I captured it?
Consider this my attempt to have you remember a thunderstorm in Chester, and a draw at the start of a season defined by something we can’t yet name.
Think of last Saturday, with me, as a floating plastic bag. Yes, a plastic bag. For the engrained image of a floating plastic bag is how I got from the runaway trash at Subaru Park, to a movie from 1999 featuring a whimsical bag as key character.
American Beauty’s plastic bag is central metaphor to its core tenet: look closer. For even the mundane (perhaps especially the mundane) is beautiful. We are told to look closer ad nauseum throughout.
In the film, various characters revolt against the cliched jails of American suburbia (retired colonel next door is secretly gay, thinks the country is going to shit, owns Nazi plate; teenage next door neighbors Jane and Ricky fall in love through a window, decide to runaway; corporate America turns the Burnhams into empty shells, midlife crisis follows).
While this unfolds, the nature of beauty - young beauty, lustful beauty, unexpected beauty- is much discussed, and equally sought after. As it tends to, beauty falls differently in everyone’s eye. Just as the Phillie Phanatic may not be beautiful to everyone, but is to Philadelphia.
Neighbor Ricky in particular (pot-dealing son of the Colonel) seeks to ensnare beauty via his video camera. He uses it to film everything from a dead bird to Janie’s unknowing every movement from his bedroom next door. (somehow, not even the creepiest behavior in the movie)
Through this video camera and its grainy film, Ricky goes about reminding himself of all the beauty in the world, which overwhelms him, as he tells Jane. He also tells Jane the most beautiful thing he’s ever filmed is a plastic bag, blowing in the wind.
Showing his new girlfriend the plastic bag footage, Ricky explains:
“It was one of those days when it’s a minute away from snowing, and there’s this electricity in the air, you can almost hear it. And this bag was just, dancing with me, like a little kid beggin’ me to play with it – for fifteen minutes. And that’s the day I realized that there was this entire life behind things, and this incredibly benevolent force that wanted me to know that there was no reason to be afraid, ever. Video’s a poor excuse, I know. But it helps me remember – I need to remember. Sometimes, there’s so much beauty in the world – I feel like I can’t take it, like my heart is just going to cave in.”
Now, the idea that a floating plastic bag is the most beautiful thing Ricky Fitts has ever seen is on its face hilarious. Everybody from my sister (when I texted her this week to discuss the movie) to Family Guy has made fun of it.
“It’s a little on the nose”, my sister added, of the film’s broader message.
And maybe it is on the nose. But maybe I’m on the nose! Maybe, we’re all on the nose.
When I was a young gal, I loved this movie. Rewatching it now, I mostly just felt nostalgic. But if art is meant to make you think, built to stay with you, then I suppose American Beauty filled its role. After all, here I am all these years later, thinking about Ricky Fitts because of floating plastic at a soccer game.
Perhaps the next time I see a whimsical plastic bag, I’ll think also of José Andrés Martinez and his bicycle kicks, finding them absurdly beautiful.
Maybe at some far off end point, we’ll collectively remember the mundane nil-nil draws after lightning storms as fondly as the 7-0 crescendos.
Until then I suppose we’ll go about capturing the in between, hoping for the bermuda grass to grow, and the confidence that’s contagious.
As 15 year old guy in 1999 this film also has special memories for me. Still it’s a odd watch back.
That is one special meditation on a soccer game and a nascent season! Thank you.