Liquid diet melancholy

By Jimmy Conrad
Special to ESPNsoccernet
(Archive)

September 4, 2006

Masochists,

I feel your pain. Not only in my jaw, where my broken mandible resides, but also in this odyssey of precarious positions I like to call life. On top of the world (cup) one moment and eating through a straw the next, it's hard to describe the indelible marks of humility I've encountered once I thought I had it all figured out. But here's a picture of me trying:

Jimmy Conrad/Other

Jimmy Conrad's teeth are all bling.

If you look hard enough, you might notice two things:

1. I'm sporting a beard, the male body's metaphor for wisdom and a sign that I know something you don't. And I think we can all agree that this is true.

2. I've got what rapper Paul Wall defines as a "grill" in Nelly's hit song, "Grillz,"

I got my mouth lookin' somethin' like a disco ball,

I got da diamonds and da ice all hand set,

I might cause a cold front if I take a deep breath,

My teeth gleaming like I'm chewing on aluminum foil,

I got da wrist wear and neck wear dats captivatin',

But its smile dats got these on-lookers spectatin',

My mouthpiece simply certified a total package,

Open my mouth and you see mo carrots than a salad,

My teeth are mind blowin' givin' everybody chillz,

Call me George Foreman cuz I'm sellin' everybody grillz.

I couldn't have said it better myself. Let us pause a moment to reflect on and admire my beautiful smile.

Jimmy Conrad/Other

Jimmy Conrad's flashes his world-renowned smile.

Allow me now to tiptoe past my liquid diet melancholy to the bubbly recollection of my 2006 MLS All-Star Game experience.

The Bubbly Recollection

Preface

You might be expecting me to talk about my matchup with Chelsea and their world-class forwards, Didier Drogba and Andriy Shevchenko. I could describe my battle with Drogba, his propensity to kick me, and my two-footed retaliation. Or I could enlighten you to the distinct body odor that followed Shevchenko around like PigPen from Peanuts (you make a gajillion dollars, buy some deodorant!). But something happened to me two days before our match against (arguably) the best club team in the world that will resonate with me much, much longer.

The Story

I'm in the lobby of the W Hotel in downtown Chicago, stationed among the myriad chic furniture, and my eyes are absorbing the ebb and flow of energy that is all around. This makeshift Mecca for the MLS All-Star Game is alive with a contagious excitement that weaves through the patrons, employees, and guests and I delight at the opportunity to witness it pass me by.

I sit like a fly-on-the-wall, with a hotel brochure in hand and slightly open like I'm interested in the details of the W hotel's minimalist/post-modern style. I'm not. I'm watching this guy at the bar take down what has to be his second or third shot of the hard stuff and chasing it with a bottle of beer from his other hand. He mistimes a high-five with a passer-by. I grimace and look down at my naked wrist to check the time, but since I don't wear a watch and the arrival of my parents from the airport is imminent, I'm guessing it's close to four.

My gaze reverts back to my near-drunk target and what my expert psychoanalysis (I have a degree in people watching) tells me about him is:

1. He is definitely associated with MLS on some level and he is here to watch the MLS All-Stars take on Premier League Champions Chelsea.

Why I can make that assumption: Tucked-in Adidas polo. Dead giveaway.

2. After checking in and setting his bags down in his room, he came straight back down to find alcohol.

Why I can make that assumption: Nobody wears a wrinkled, tucked-in Adidas polo to a bar to meet people. It's about the drinks.

3. He's not an alcoholic.

Why I can make that assumption: I believe true alcoholics appreciate their poison. Every-once-in-a-while drinkers want to get drunk as fast as possible because, well, the stuff tastes like gasoline -- and he's been chugging whatever is set in front of him at an alarming rate (two shots and a beer in the last few minutes).

4. He's coming off a tough stretch where he's become more comfortable with uncertainty than stability, he's seen talent underperform beneath the banner of "potential," and he's endured infinite questions where there should be answers.

Why I can make that assumption: The hopeful yet dejected look on his face; he's willing to pound alcoholic drinks alone at four in the afternoon; and because this is my game and I make the rules.

I lean back in my chair, put hand to chin, mentally review my checklist and match up my perceived facts with what is continuing to play out in front of me.

"Of course," I think to myself, "this poor guy is a Wizards fan."

I move toward the bar to offer some encouragement to my assumed Wizards supporter. But before I reach him I am cut off by a bundle of restless energy, alive and in my face, and ranting about the state of soccer in the United States. I take a step back to create the proper space between two parties in conversation and display a look of intent listening but it's hard to keep up. All I want to say, all I want him to know, is how easy the game must look when you're watching from an air-conditioned studio, sitting in a leather chair, getting your hair and makeup done by a stylist. Instead I utter,

"You're pretty fired up today, Mr. Wynalda."

He continues on, fueled by my statement, and manages to touch upon a variety of topics regarding his future, my future, and our futures together. I chuckle at his unbridled enthusiasm and manage to maneuver toward closure as an associate of his whispers something in his ear.

"We'll talk more later, or shall I say, you'll talk more later," I state with a smile.

He laughs and pats me on the back as I make my way past him and out of the lobby. A bellhop opens the glass door to the outside world and I nod my appreciation and step into a menagerie of moving cars, stacked luggage, and shouts from the valet. Taxis come and go with no sign of my parents, so I settle on the curb and await their arrival.

My cell phone rings and the caller ID indicates that it's my mom on the other end.

"Where are you guys?" I answer and ask at the same time.

A white taxi pulls up with tinted windows and my parents spill out of opposite sides. My mom has a cell phone tucked between her face and shoulder. She has one hand in her pocket seeking money to pay the driver, and her other hand clutching a bag I know contains more than she could possibly need for a weekend-away. She looks content in her multitasking, so I hang up my phone with no goodbye and head in their direction. Hand shakes and hugs commence upon our meeting and I direct them to the nearest bellhop.

"He'll take care of your bags until we get back," I assuage and lead them down the sidewalk, "I'm starving."

We spy the various eateries along our route, looking at menus and discussing what sounds good. We're confident that we'll find something better a little farther down the way. I break stride as we happen upon a stoplight and as I rattle off a few restaurants that I have frequented before in the Windy City. A white Honda Civic coming through the intersection catches the corner of my eye and slows down in front of us. The passenger side window edges down and the driver, a woman, leans her body across the seat and yells,

"STOP BEING SO MEAN TO ME!"

As the car speeds off and before I have to time to digest what happened, the passenger sticks his head out the window and yells,

"You better watch out, Conrad!"

I turn and look at my folks, they look back at me and my mom says,

"Who was that? And what did you do?"

Still in shock and at a loss for words, I remain in place even though the light has changed from red to green. I shake my head and regroup.

"Did that really just happen?" I ask rhetorically.

The pedestrian sign flashes "Don't walk" again so we stay put and I offer up a brief rundown as to what just happened:

"At the end of last year, I wrapped up the MLS season by writing a series of lists for Espn.com. One of the lists was 'the most annoying injury/ailment to soccer-playing Americans.'"

"Okay...?" Questions my mom.

"And the driver of that white Honda Civic -- the one who orchestrated the drive-by screaming -- was the number one most annoying injury/ailment: Brandi Chastain."

"James Paul Conrad!" My mom scolds.

"She's an easy target," I explain. "I was just kidding."