It was the best of games, it was the worst of games, it was a game of wisdom, it was a game of foolishness. It was Mother’s Day, it was Game Day, it was Derby Day in Harrison as NYCFC crossed the Hudson River and took on the Red Bulls in what pundits and other panderers had spent a week or more arguing about the name of. The New York Derby? The Hudson River Derby? The NY Clasico?
I don’t know where you were on Sunday, but I hope it was really important, because pal, you missed it. You missed the energy, you missed the drama, you missed the passion. You missed the noise – a noise so palpable, so tangible, so overwhelming that when Bradley Wright-Phillips scored in the fourth minute, I am convinced that Red Bull Arena actually lifted five feet off the marshy North Jersey railroad yard it calls home, and hovered there as the 25,000 in attendance (save the 1,500 in blue) lost their soccer-loving minds.
And while this reporter – who has carried the torch for the Citizens since even before the season began – is not even remotely happy with the result (no matter how inevitable it was), I cannot ignore the fact which many seem to be disregarding, that this was a real Derby.
It had everything. It had the huge insulting banners that the home crowd not only waved before the game started, but dialed to 11 at kick off. It had the smoke and the flares. It had the singing and the chanting, as songs rang from each end of the pitch and fought for prominence at midfield. It was so loud in the first half that Sacha Kljestan couldn’t hear Jesse Marsch’s directions as the Red Bulls tried to form a wall against an NYCFC free kick – a free kick that resulted in an equalizing goal for NYCFC that was called back for offside.
It had altercations on the pitch – not just Matt Miazga getting two yellow cards in 36 minutes as he struggled to control Khiry Shelton, and not just BWP getting leveled in the 68th minute, but something just short of a good old fashioned donnybrook in the first 17 minutes as the two teams began taking exception to each other’s physical play.
It had young guys stepping up – like R.J. Allen and Patrick Mullins who combined beautifully for the Citizens’ goal. It had stars stepping up, like Wright-Phillips and Lloyd Sam for the Red Bulls. It had missed opportunities and tremendous saves. It had players who left everything on the pitch. It had fans who did too.
Before the game, I asked the NYCFC fans I saw if they were optimistic about the match. There were concerns about the level of the Citizens’ play (one fan predicted a blow out, then said, “well, 2-1 probably”. Good guessing, Jose), and wishes that Kwadwo Poku would start. But everyone was completely behind their team, excited for them, ready for this match.
And during the interval, when I ran from the press box up to where the NYCFC fans were sitting, to hear what they thought then, I got the same earful. Excitement. Enthusiasm. Optimism. Passion. Every one of them thought NYCFC were going to win. Some were more optimistic than others, of course – like the guy who predicted a hat-trick “either Villa or Mix, I’m not sure which” – but that’s fine. That’s what fans do. That’s what fans are.
Look, I’ve read the rants saying that head coach Jason Kreis is in over his head, that David Villa is a whining, overpaid has-been, that we were sold a bill of goods with Mix. I’ve heard people say how NYCFC didn’t “want it” enough. How they had no passion, and that the Third Rail was outclassed in the stands. But malice, as the fella says, is only another name for mediocrity.
The fact of the matter is that, right now, RBNY are just a better team than NYCFC are. Full stop. They anticipate each other’s moves better. They pass better. They finish better. They defend better. NYCFC simply got beaten by a better team.
All the sound and fury that has been swirling since Alan Kelly blew the final whistle misses the bigger point. That what happened on Mother’s Day in Harrison, New Jersey was tremendously great for American soccer. This was one of those games that people will remember. This was one of those games that fans of both teams will say, years from now, “Were you there, at the first one? Was it as loud as they say? Could you feel the energy racing around the arena like a coked up rabbit at a greyhound track? Were the hits as hard, was the magic as mercurial, was the passion as true as they say it was?”
It was.
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