Photo by Paul Rudderow

It was the kind of soaking Tuesday night in Northern Liberties that feels like the tightly-packed row homes are leaning over their respective sidewalks, blotting out even the yellowed street lamps.

A gathering was underway. Some Philly Soccer Page originals, some newbies, a photographer, a filmmaker or two, a contributor, and an out-of-town editor were deep in discussion in the smokey back room of a Mexican restaurant, at a table full of sweating drinks and sweat-inducing chorizo tacos. There were 5 o’clock shadows and the varied, creative iterations of facial hair fitting for this type of group in this type of place. There was even an empty chair for a particular midfielder-turned-tactician-turned-television superstar who was an 11th hour scratch.

The conversation bounced from the pleasantries of catching up to each attendee’s own on-pitch hero story, including “the one about the Uruguayan and the elbowed-out tooth” and “the one about the lovely-weighted through ball and the blown Achillies.” There was also the one about the missing midfielder’s uncanny ability to pick up fouls by the handful but never a red card, his off-brand mismatched socks, and the wouldashouldacouldabeen title of his recurring column that sadly never was.

Eventually, the topics of conversation coalesced around the juicy bits of inside “football” that can only truly marinate amongst one group who has been covering a club for the better part of a decade. From the best players to interview to the ones who never seemed to stay in the locker room long enough for a microphone to arrive, from the disabling impossibilities of Chester Park and the Nowak regime to the warm and personal humanity of John Hackworth and Jim Curtin, from the rumors which shall not be verified to the ones that everyone knows and loves, from Rainbow FC to Jay Sugerman, not a story was left untold.

The stone walls and tin ceiling kept the decibel level buoyant and bright, as did the continually flowing weeknight drinks and bottomless tortilla chips.

A mariachi song was marking time in the dimly lit room when the record scratched to a halt. The editor said, with all honesty and clarity, “I really think the Union are one player away from being a genuinely good team.”

Scrrrratchhh

The pause and accompanying group nod-and-uniform-drink-sip was more in support of the proclamations of an old friend than it was one of complete agreement. But the din of chatter picked up quickly where it left off with this hypothesis, a trope that seemed as old as the Boys in Blue themselves.

“It’s Sapong,” said someone quickly. An obvious answer, he of the expected goals number with a depth akin to the Mariana Trench.

“No, it’s Accam,” said someone else, a player whose contribution to his new team has been teasing the squad’s underwhelming new jersey, a single league goal, and an ever-lengthening series of might-have-been moments and touches to forget.

“It doesn’t matter which one it is, no one is spending actual money on a difference-maker for this team,” said a third, deriding the Chuck-e-Cheese token and Monopoly Money strategy the Union have employed in their recent big-money transfers.

There was no mention of goalkeepers or defenders, knowing that Andre Blake has seemingly found his forever home between the Talen Energy Stadium pipes, and if ever there were a place wherein the proverbial process might be McTrusted, defender is it.

It wasn’t in the central midfield either, where the trio of Bedoya, Medujnanin, and Dockal were roundly considered the team’s highest quality players on the field and its most engaging personalities off of it. It wasn’t on the left wing, where the ever-charging Fafa Picault has done nothing short of leave everything on the field despite leaving several goals there too.

Was it really one guy? Maybe. Maybe?

Maybe.

If it was one guy and it was one position, was he really the third division French winger rumored to be Snapchatting from Philadelphie? Well…

“He fits the, ‘If you’ve heard of him, they spent too much,’ theory of Moneyball,” said the filmmaker, “but that’s about it.”

“I’ve certainly never heard of him,” chimed the photographer, “and he’s apparently free…”

“That’s in our price range!” joked the empty chair.

“He’s got a hell of a beard,” said the contributor. “My wife will appreciate that.”

“It has to be a striker,” said the original, definitively. “Everybody else is good enough for this league, even if they’re not doing their job… but the team can’t score. That falls on one guy.”

He was right. Or, at least he wasn’t wrong.

The striker was good once, even great for a fleeting few months. Whatever black magic had befallen him had done so with a vengeance though, and he had become a shell of his former self. Sluggish and always a step late, it had become unbearable to watch.

Maybe it wasn’t his fault, maybe. Maybe it was. The fact of the matter was it wasn’t working for him. Something had changed for the worse and wasn’t changing back.

If you can’t change people, change people…

Was it really one guy? Maybe.

As the gathering began to splinter into the still soupy Philadelphia night, the question lingered.

“Sometimes,” said the original,”it feels like the same stories every year.”

The group looked up from their arriving Uber maps for a brief moment.

“They wait too long to prepare, start slow, get hot for a few matches, make a Cup run but fail, and ultimately either fall short by a match or make the playoffs by a match. Either way they’re back home the following weekend to do it all over again a few months later.”

There was a collective grunt before phone screens and arriving drivers were the focus again.

“It’s the same story every year,” he reiterated to no one in particular.

Every year, one player away.