On the banks of a river named for Native Americans and not a North Holland town, an Englishman wrote that these are the times that try men’s souls. That the summer soldier and sunshine patriot, will, in this crisis, shrink from the service of his country; but he that stands by it now, deserves the love and thanks of man and woman.
And while what’s been dogging the New York City Football Club this season is not a war waged on these shores by a vengeful European elite (wait, maybe… no, couldn’t be), losing, like tyranny, is not easily conquered; yet we too have this consolation, that the harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph. That what we obtain to cheap, we esteem too lightly – that it’s dearness only that gives everything its value.
When Thomas Paine wrote those words more than 230 years ago, he wasn’t writing about soccer, of course. And in truth, he wasn’t even really writing about the American Revolution.
He was writing about confidence.
And that is exactly what NYCFC are severely lacking up front.
Nice Guys Finish… Hopefully: NYCFC 0 – Timbers 1
Not so much in goal – Josh Saunders has clearly won the trust of his back line and of the faithful who turn out in the Bronx week after week.
And certainly not in the midfield where the Citizens have an embarrassment of riches, with an attack that can, and has, come through any number of players –Diskerud, Grabavoy, Jacobson, Ballouchy, Calle, Velazquez, oh, the list is bloody endless, isn’t it?
And even, after Sunday’s game against Portland, not in the backline. Certainly it’s been a bit dicey there, and yes, NYCFC did give up another late goal, but it was a deflection, and these things happen. And for much of the game, the combination of Watson-Siriboe, Calle, Wingert and Brovsky was aggressive and cohesive, communicating with each other, covering and backing each other up, and overlapping in key moments.
But up top? As we complained after the second Philadelphia game, there was palpable indecision whenever NYCFC got within 35 yards of goal. Again and again, one extra pass, one extra dribble, one extra move looking for that absolutely perfect, heaven sent, golden opportunity. Shelton was guilty of it, Velazquez was guilty of it, Grabavoy, Mullins, Poku, Ballouchy were all guilty of it. The only two who weren’t, actually, were Calle (who looks like he might shoot from the parking lot if given the chance) and Alvarez, who made some brilliant runs when he was brought on in the second half.
The thing about finishing is, it’s all about confidence. Two kinds, actually. One, the personal confidence that you can make whatever shot you’re faced with. This is the same confidence that made Brett Favre throw into double coverage, made Pedro Martinez hang curve balls and makes Zlatan Ibrahimovic say the insane things he says. It is a confidence born of a necessary faith in one’s abilities that, frankly, trumps evidence. You don’t get to the show unless you’re good. You don’t stay unless you believe it unquestioningly.
And the second confidence is the confidence that this is not the only shot you – or your team – will get. A confidence that you will be back, shooting again, shortly. Or your team mate will. Because if you don’t have that confidence, the pressure becomes overwhelming. The pressure that this is it and by God you better make it otherwise you – and everyone on your team – is taking that long walk back to Palookaville. It is a confidence that you’ll get another shot, even in the final seconds of the game, even if, in truth, this IS the only shot you get.
If you don’t have these two forms confidence, you second guess yourself. You hesitate. You lay off shots. You basically do everything NYCFC have done since about half way through the Colorado match on March 21.
How do you regain confidence? Man, if we knew that, we’d bottle it and spend all our time in private jets hanging out with supermodels. We don’t know. But we know it can come back in a nanosecond. A goal, a shot, a save, a pass. It can even come from an argument. We remain convinced that the confidence that powered the Red Sox to their first World Series championship in nearly a hundred years showed up when Bronson Arroyo plunked A-Rod, who mouthed off to Arroyo, prompting Jason Varitek to, as the police report would later say “get all up in A-Rod’s grill”, and which ended in a bench-clearing brawl. And, eventually, a Red Sox championship.
That game was played in Yankee Stadium, a veritable shrine to confidence. If the Red Sox could find it, there’s got to be some of it floating around that NYCFC can grab onto.
