Enter, it says.  And he says, Yes and does as he says.  He doesn’t wait on the stoop.  It is the door that spoke.  It spoke without a tongue, as if the wind blew through it.  And he walks over the threshold inside.  It feels like love to enter and find the furniture arranged as if it, too, awaited a guest to arrive.  Sit, I say.  And sit he does.  And so we talked all night like flames.  The morning opened up the room.  It hadn’t seemed close.  Dark makes everything close seem far away and the far away seems near, like stars.  The dead have come to me at night.  And hate, which had rooted in my heart, unmoored.  I said some of this to the guest.  And some of this in particular he already knew.  Together we arrived at the solution.  Forgiveness is as easy as to ask.  But knowing who should start troubles me still.  Perhaps he keeps a souvenir.  Perhaps.  Perhaps he might never return.  The house regards his departure just the same as it regards the blooming and the blowing of leaves.

Coalesce has been one of those bands that I’ve listened to for years, but all that listening has been via one album that I can’t get tired of:  Functioning On Impatience. They have a decent discography, but I just haven’t been able to move on from that album.  Same thing with Nick Cave & The Bad Seeds.  Let Love In is one of those albums that hit my ears at just the right time in my life (going into a serious relationship and then getting dumped fucking hard), so it held some precedence in my life for quite some time.  Not until two weeks back or so was I able to jump ship with Murder Ballads.  Holy shit… Nick Cave is a storyteller to say the least.  That man has the ability to weave words with music and it creeps under my skin.  Like telling ghost stories and giving yourself goosebumps, that’s what Murder Ballads has been doing for me.  Let’s bring this around full-circle though.

Coalesce has the OXEP streaming from lambgoat (a great news source on heavier music, but sometimes you gotta sift through garbage soda-drinker bands to find the real meat).  It’s their new EP, which is following up the recent OX full-length that I’ve only put to my ears once – earlier today – and it jammed along just fine.  I gave the EP a run through twice and it seems like I may be making the move onto a new album finally.  The stream is only up for a short while, so don’t be lazy about it because you gotta do this “thing” for a friend, when we all know you’re just gonna get high and whack-it.  It’s obvious.

I found this in a book of illustrations at my buddies place today.  Kris went and saw Where The Wild Things Are at IMAX and apparently got a lot of free swag.  Skinner Davis is the man with the skills here and the work he has up on his site gave me a decent lot of eye-boners.  I’ve always dug bright colors in art, especially neon, dayglo, blacklight bullshit (beginning of Belly is the bees-tits, not knees) so it makes sense why I’d watch Busta Rhymes video for Put Your Hands Where My Eyes Can See countless times in middle school.  I doubt it had anything to do with the big, busty, bouncy, Black ladies though.  Oh Pam Grier, why won’t you return any of the imaginary phone calls I make to you in my mind.  She’s such a tease.

Shit son, music and art all in one swing.  I’d call that a God damn success in culture if you ask me.  Don’t you feel better about yourself now?  You can pour out all that Tang you’ve been drinking and stop munching on partially cooked fish sticks.  Even though you say, “I don’t mind that it’s cold in the middle,” we all know you’re full of shit.  It’s kinda sad.  You needa’ head down to the corner store and pick yourself up a 40 of Steele Reserve, OJ, and peanut M&M’s.  Now that’s a meal for refined people, which you can now classify yourself into.  Just find a nice stoop to post up on and share what you learned with a stranger or two.  Hell, offer them some of your drink too.  I don’t know anyone that dislikes a good ol’ Brass Monkey.  Except maybe Canadians; they only like the band Rush.

I dreamed I died.  And that was a relief.  There isn’t any trying after death.  My soul was made.  How could death unmake it?  The book couldn’t fit inside the grave.  It had grown in the night.  The wind blew its pages around.  Had I been the tree after all?  A little of my former self remains.  And after all the storms and sunny days, was I the only one who couldn’t attended?  Last night, I dreamed I died and then awoke, not on the other side of death, but to see: the room exactly as I left it.  The furniture standing in its place.  An empty space beside me.  My wife busy downstairs.  My whole life lives inside this house.  My house contains what I call home.  The world lies where my stoop begins.  If I should die again tonight, I know exactly what to do.  If I should wake to find I am alive, then who knows what happens next.

Let’s pretend I wrote a book.  Let’s pretend you are reading it now.  Let’s pretend we were childhood friends.  Let’s pretend that sometimes when you dream you dream of me.  And there, where we find each other, you ask me finally, Who?  And I go on circling and circling.  Or I stoop, and when I light, between two talons I hold my food.  Later, when you wake and try to retell what you dreamed, I am there.  Not as I was but in some new form.  A fly scaling the chandelier, a leaf the wind blew inside the house, a noise of engines roaring far away, a loose hair fallen from your head.  Hold me, as the blessing says, in the hollow of your hand.  For now you will be my god, and I will pray to you.  It is your job to listen or turn away.  Here are the first words.  Here are the last.

sold my scooter last night, now have a little cash in my pocket and must decide how best to invest it. but groceries will be the first purchase.

this weekend i have hopes of pumpkin carving, wine, curried sweet potato stoop, and anything fall. this weekend should prove to be a nice example of what fall feels like- and will try to get a bit of bike riding in as well.

if i said i was excited, i’d be UNDERSTATING THE HYPE OF THIS WEEEKEND. i can’t wait. i’m clocked out, and ready to catch the next bus to FUNTOWN.

fridays make me exceptionally happy, especially when i have a positive balance in my checkbook.

I lived with my very dear friend Abbie in a great apartment in Lincoln Park from August 2002-September 2003.  We had one of those really great, really Chicago apartments that was longer than it was wide and had a really great screened in back porch as well as a front “stoop”, big, drafty bay windows in the living room, 2.5 bedrooms, a huge kitchen and a pantry (which might have been my favorite part).

Abbie was (still is, I guess) a nurse when we lived together, and she worked nights.  She had to work something like 3 nights per week (12 hour shifts) and every third weekend she had to work 2 nights (Friday, Saturday & Sundays).  I worked at DePaul – where I went to Undergrad – and worked Monday-Friday, 9-5 (usually anyway), so our paths crossed in the evenings when she was getting ready for work and I’d finish making the dinner she started that we would share before she went off to work.  It really was a great arrangement: we shared the rent and bills but we each had plenty of time and space to ourselves whilst the other person was on a different schedule.

Anyway, that July, I was accepted into the Master of Film Studies program at University College Dublin (Ireland) and was planning to move to Ireland for a year, and Abbie had been accepted into a traveling nursing program and planned to hit the road the same time I was leaving for Europe.

That was one of the greatest summers of my freaking life.  I was young, and living in a great place, and many of my friends lived within a few miles, and I had some money saved, and I was leaving a dead-end job for what was the biggest adventure of my life to date.  I knew where to get dinner for under $5 and drinks for $3 or less every night of the week.  Happy hour was from 5:01pm – whenever I got home.  It was a blast!

I decided as, one final send-off to my life and to my life in Chicago, and to close the coffin on my 6+ total DePaul years, that I woulod have a big party.  And what party isn’t even better without a theme?  So I decided on “Punch and Pajamas”.  I served several varieties of punch and requested that people wear pajamas.

The night was fantastic; tons of people showed up, and everyone had a great time.  Some highlights included:

Jordan hiding up on a shelf in the pantry.
Mark showing up with a group of Swedish au pairs who locked themselves in the front room listening to Abba.
Me swigging champagne directly from the bottle with Darrell in the middle of my kitchen floor.
Staying up till the sun came up.
Dance party in Abbie’s empty bedroom.

It was a great party.  People still talk about it, and it was back in 2003!

Screen cap from www.stoopstorytelling.com

Center Stage drew crowds for its Stoop Storytelling series. The interactive shows feature unscripted stories by community members, offering a glimpse into the city unseen through the lens of popular media. Solidifying its position as Charm City, Stoop provides scores of laughter and heart-warming experiences sure to make you feel right at home. Read the story >>

I felt so crappy yesterday that I didn’t even want to participate in my regularly scheduled girls’ night. My calf muscle was still killing me from my Wednesday morning attempt at showing off my wicked butterfly skills, and my heart was heavy from missing my good morning love. Will the Bobbers think we’ve abandoned them? I sure hope not. I’m not quitting. Never give up on someone/something you can’t go a day without thinking about. I’m just saying.

My girls — and special boys who have permission to join girls’ night — were not going to abandon me. No way. They got the wine and came to me for an evening of stoop times. I was wearing black, because black is how I felt on the inside. I opened the door to find my girls wearing black, too. We looked like a fierce alt-punk girl band, or three sassy crime-fighters.

Lyssa, Candace, and Darla -- photo by Daniel

We opened the wine, I started to cry. Our darling gay boyfriend arrived — not in black, but a cute owl T-shirt — and it’s hard not to smile when he’s in the room. Especially since he is a klutz like me and immediately spilled wine on said shirt. We made him take it off so that we could bleach it right away — and stare at his delicious body. (I love you, DSW!)

Once on the stoop, we talked, laughed, drank wine, took photos and I cried intermittently. We busted out the Hello Kitty radio and put on a fabulous “Gossip Girl” mix my friend Joey made. Then the stoop became a beauty salon, with me getting a fabulous chignon and my girl Darla getting her hair cut by the fabulous Candace, who’s no beauty school drop out. My eyes may have been puffy, but at least my hair looked pretty.

Next came the cupcakes from Lucy & Leo’s Cupcakery, and Darla was sweet enough to let me have the cream cheese frosting off of the carrot cake one. (Yes, I have bunnies and I like carrots, but I do not like carrot cake. No, I do not.) And after eating the cupcakes, I knew I had to get back in the pool.

And I did. This morning. I wanted to sleep, but I got up, put on my suit, and dove back in the pool. Again, with a little help from my friends.

The other day, the lifeguard asked me if I was a swimmer at Emory, to which I replied, “No, my ex-boyfriend went to Emory and all I got was this lousy sweatshirt.” I was flattered. She thought I was young enough to be a college swimmer. Today, Darla brought one of her daughters, and the same sweet lifeguard said, “Oh, I see you brought your sister today.” Darla said, “Nope, she’s my daughter.” The lifeguard smiled and said, “You look good, mama!” Loves that.

I swam my mile, but I skipped the butterfly. My calf still hurts, my heart is still heavy. And I’m still wondering about the weird guy who was sitting on the bottom of the pool. Yes, sitting. I’m trying not to think about him watching us swimming breaststroke. I’m trying.

Sprawled-out over some Spanish stoop: a sack of ice on the top step, mixers on the second and vodka on the third.  Oddly, we waited late (real late) before starting activities for La Feria.  Bottles were opened from 3am, a time that in print reads fashionable yet in reality is a drag.

I work on the logic that the Spanish push everything back by three hours: chow-down for lunch at 3, dinner at 8, nights reaching a peak at 6.  Still – my bodyclock found it tough: 7am is no hour to be dancing.

So – here I was, socialising with a gaggle of Spaniards on the doorstep of a friend’s friend’s parent’s house.  I understood very little, with people trying to speak to me the entire night… I could only smile, splice-in a “no hablo español” then juggle some conversation based only on my ability to mime words.  I managed.

This weekend was the weekend for Arriate.  It was la feria.  Throw-up a handful of marquees, bundle some carnival rides into an adjacent field and serve 1 EUR beers… sit back, wait and everything falls into place.

I’m now awake, dry and tired.  Oh – it was a good night.

***

And H-, I have followed your advice and apply the lisp… when in Rome and all that.

Grovel – verb, describing another’s actions, especially in terms of begging. Synonym of beg, beseech, cower, crawl, bootlick, bow and scrape, brown-nose, butter up, cater to, court, eat dirt, eat humble pie, fall all over, humble oneself, implore, kiss one’s feet, kowtow, prostrate, snivel, stoop, suck up to.

"Don't make me grovel more, I just need that sweet, sweet poonanny!"

(Grah-vul)

1. Grovelling is the act of putting yourself at the mercy of others, especially during the act of apology or begging. To grovel is to literally beg at someone’s feet with your face down – an expression of abject failure, or complete submission. Usually men grovel at their women’s feet after being caught cheating, or forgetting their anniversary. Grovelling does work, as long as the violation isn’t so severe as to be unforgivable.

"President George W. Bush's farewell address was replete with grovelling."

2. To grovel is to delight in a base lifestyle. Someone perfectly happy with living in squalid conditions, with nothing to their name, screaming profanities at passing cars is grovelling – or at least a hobo.

"Saddam's final free days were spent grovelling in a stinky, cramped fox hole."

retrieving some feathers…

Fixed the flat.  Off to Red Hook.

Breakfast at Fairway

Wine and cheese on the stoop with neighbors.

“In this is love, not that we have loved God but that He loved us and sent his Son to be the propitiation for our sins.”  -1 John 4:10

“The crucified Christ has irresistible attractions. When He stoops into the utmost suffering and scorn, even the brutal must relent. A living Savior men may love, but a crucified Savior they must love. If they perceive that He loved them and gave Himself for them, their hearts are stolen away. The city of Mansoul is captured before the siege begins, when the Prince Emmanuel uncovers the beauties of His dying love before the eyes of rebellious ones.”

- Charles Spurgeon, The Power of the Cross of Christ (Lynwood, WA: Emerald Books, 1995), 15.

I was on my way to Rhode Island Avenue Station to get to work this morning and I waited at one intersection. When the light changed I proceeded to cross the street, but not without some driver beeping at me like mad as I tried to cross. It startled me, and I was livid.

“Fucking asshole,” I said, under my breath. I tried to maintain my composure and continue on. Another driver, who was waiting at a light, decided he wanted to be smooth and try to get my attention. “Hey, howya doin’?” he said. I ignored him.

As I continued on, two guys were hanging out on their stoop. This is 9 in the morning on a weekday — don’t they have jobs?

“Ooh girl,” the one in his underwear (yes, you can see he’s wearing nothing but boxer briefs) said. “I like the way you work it.” Then he and his friend started leering at me and snickering. What made this incident worse is that there was a third party — a woman (behind the door in the shot) — hanging out with them and laughing it up as well.

“That is so disrespectful,” I said. Their laughter turned to anger.
“Ain’t nothin’ disrespectful about that,” the guy in his underwear said.
“Yes it is,” I said. “I’m trying to go about my day and I don’t need guys I don’t know talking to me like that.”

It went back and forth like that. It sickened me that these men (and that woman) found nothing wrong with their behavior.

“I should’ve said ‘Girl, I like how you walk’,” Underwear Guy continued, just not getting that talking to a woman he doesn’t know in a sexual manner is not respectful. No matter how many times I told him he and his group were tacky, disrespectful and tasteless, it went in one ear and out the other.

When I bent over to pull my cell phone out of my bag to snap their photo to submit to Holla Back DC, they freaked out.

“Aw, shit! She about to pull her glock out!” they yelled while ducking. I shook my head in disbelief. It shows we’re of two different mentalities. I can’t get over the fact that they thought I was going to pull out a gun.

I got my cell phone out and snapped their photo. “Why you takin’ our picture?” Underwear Guy asked. I didn’t give him a response to that. I was tired of dealing with shiftless losers who were hanging out on their stoop harassing women. And I was irate that another woman found no issue with these men doing this. I know she wouldn’t like it if she walked by and guys talked to her like that.

I continued on my commute, and these men continued to catcall at me even when I was halfway down the street. I felt my body turn into jello. The composure I previously had was long gone. My body was shaking and I could barely walk. Thank you so much, harassers, for giving me a hideous start to my day.

The incident made me late for work, and I had to go in there and pretend that nothing happened. When a co-worker asked how my morning was going so far, I put a fake smile on my face and said “fine.” No, it’s not fine! To be degraded, humiliated, and treated like a piece of meat during my morning commute is not fine. I frequently take this street to get to Rhode Island Station in the morning, and there really isn’t another option. One street puts me further back than where I need to be (and shootings have occurred on it), and the other streets are dead-end alleys. I could take Brookland Metro in the mornings, but my direction is Shady Grove and going to Brookland Station is heading towards Glenmont, and putting myself one stop backwards adds to my commute time.

Many of my relatives are very concerned about what I have to go through each morning I leave my house. They’re fearful that I take photos and document what happens to me. They’re afraid I can be killed if I respond to the wrong guy the wrong way. I just think it’s unfair that I have to 1. change my commute to avoid walking past Underwear Guy’s house again and 2. have to kowtow to these harassers for fear of violent retaliation. I shouldn’t have to change my behavior, the harassers need to change THEIRS.

Location: 2700 block of 10th Street NE

Submitted by Anonymous

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This photo was taken on that wonderfully sunny day when the amazing future Dr. Heather gave me a tour of South Philly and the Italian Market.  There was just something about that sleepy, sunny street with the bicycles leaning against the stoops that was screaming, “Take a picture of me!!!”  So, here we have it.  Taken with the amazing G7 and softened to create the pretty glow and muted colors in Photoshop.  Enjoy!

Happy Mother’s Day

Eggs benedict.

Wine and cheese on the stoop.

My neighbor, Eric Rochow, is a cook, gardener, handyman, host of Real World Green & Gardenfork TV. He’s an interesting guy to follow on Twitter and he’s part of the Ford Fiesta Movement. (I don’t think there’s much he doesn’t do.)  My favorite reason for him being our neighbor are his beautiful Labradors. There’s now a new puppy in the hood and we’re all falling over ourselves with cuteness updates:

I was enjoying the Spring sunshine while walking down Clinton Street yesterday, trying to sweep the ickiness of a bad day out of my head. I had my camera in tow and was snapping away at whatever struck my Brooklyn-style fancy.

I happened upon a brownstone’s tiered stoop, on which rested a dusty old turntable.

I promptly picked it up and was suddenly enormously happy to be bringing it home.

I still haven’t tested it to know if it works, but to be perfectly honest, I don’t really care.

Oh now, today was some day.

It’s not easy to put into words the sense of occasion which was thick in the air at Croke Park on May 2nd 2009. Right from the moment I left my house and boarded a heaving Luas at 2:30pm in the afternoon to the final whistle and subsequent gracious wishes of good luck from many a deflated Munster fan, it was always going to be a special day. An Irish team was guaranteed to reach the Heineken Cup Final; a world record for attendance at a rugby union club match was about to be set; the sun was beaming down; the banter was brisk along Jones’ Road; the talk of revenge for 2006 and two drubbings this season was the spur for Leinster; the defence of their hard-won crown egged Munster on. Before this game began, there was so much to hint at a glorious encounter.

If the early 90s saw Jackie’s army conquer the world in terms of support if not actual silverware, the Golden Generation have certainly made the naughties their own, pocketing trophy after trophy and finally delivering on the years of unfulfilled promise with a Grand Slam this year. We have already been spoilt this year with that historic victory over Wales, but then Munster kept the Magner’s League “in the family” last weekend so the crowd which descended on Croker today were hungry for another display of Irish rugby’s rude health. And boy, did they get it.

The first manifestation came off the pitch. The IRFU outdid themselves with the arrangement of the ticket allocations, the banks of fans arranged in a patchwork around the stands - red, blue, red, blue. It was as dramatic a sight as one could imagine. The stadium was awash with the two colours and with little to no interloping – it seems that Leinster fans have learnt their lesson and tickets will never be allowed to slither south again as happened so dramatically in 2006.

Entering Lansdowne Road’s North Terrace that day, I was blown away by the red invasion, an obvious portent of things to come. Since then, however, Leinster’s season ticket ranks have trebled and the support at matches has become more vocal, more passionate, more (dare I say) Munster-like. I had the pleasure to be part of the small band – about 2,500 – who travelled to Twickenhem Stoop for the gritty win over Harlequins 3 weeks ago and the Leinster travelling support was nothing short of magnificent, singing non-stop, standing for the entire game, drowning out the home support 4 times greater in number. It was as passionate as the team’s defence that day and it was clear that that defence would be necessary again today if Leinster were to overcome the odds against the heavy favourites. However, their 16th man was not going to be found wanting.

10 minutes before kick-off, there were no streams of people coming in through the entrance-ways: The stadium was already full. The roars, the flags waving, the march of the drummers and brass players towards each other – every little detail built up the pre-match atmosphere to an incredible high. We Irish love our sport and we love our all-Irish, inter-parish rivalry more than most. This was it – Dublin v Kerry, Cork v Kilkenny, the arch-nemeses facing up to each other with scores to settle.

But enough preamble. What happened?

Leinster 25 - 6 Munster

Wow.

Now, I did not see that coming. No one did. Not even Michael Cheika’s most orgiastic of wet-dreams could have sprung this fantasy. Not even the most die-hard of Leinster fans – and those who thought that they could even win were few and far between, many dreading another Munster steamrolling – could have envisaged a display like today’s.

This was one of those matches which simply pulsated from start to finish, dragged every watching soul around in the mud behind it, shoved their heads underwater for unfeasibly long periods of times and flung them, gasping for air, miles skyward with no inkling of when they might land. There was the underlying edge, the extra intensity local rivals feel when pitted together. There was the O’Connell over O’Driscoll Lions captaincy call. There was the memories of the clash at Lansdowne Road. The context was matched by an awesome game, full of hard running, hard tackling, hard yards and hard luck.

The scoreline is misleading. Munster battered at Leinster’s defensive line all day, dominating the lineout, retaining possession like a sponge retains water, recycling and recycling like a crazed Green Party member. The offloading, the pick-and-go, the abrasive backline – Munster at their aggressive best were certainly there. The thing is, the unstoppable force met an immovable object in the Leinster team. The defence against Harelquins in that second half, as wave after wave of attack was weathered, was surpassed in this performance. The entire team made itself felt. There were superb try-saving scrags by Luke Fitzgerald and the man-of-the-match (although officially it was O’Driscoll, I don’t know that anyone would argue against this) Rocky Elsom. Gordon Darcy was out to prove a point to the Lions selectors and certainly delivered his best game in 2 years. Chris Whittaker and Felipe Contempomi, before his sad exit, controlled the game and were unforgiving in defence. Jennings, Heaslip, O’Kelly, even Stan The Man delivered his finest display in the blue.

Brian O’Driscoll was, of course, at his peak. The man is, without doubt, a rugby legend. Two years ago he was being written off – no pace, missing tackles, poor kicking, blah blah blah. Over the hill, they said.

Well, what do they know? Sweet F. All it would appear. Paul O’Connell might be the Lions Captain, and maybe deservedly, but come the IRB Player Of The Year Award, I would be handing the trophy to O’Driscoll right now. He has been simply superhuman this year. He is as wily as he ever was – think of his line-breaking try against France, his chip, chase, gather and near-try against Harlequins, his brilliant pass to Nacewa to set up Darcy’s first try. He is the hardest tackling, hardest rucking back in world rugby bar none, worth two number sevens. He has lost some of the extra muscle which he never needed in the first place and burst away from the entire Munster team to score Leinster’s third try today. He is a Grand Slam winning captain, an exceptional captain and, should he cap his list of honours with a Heineken Cup and a Lions Tour win, he will be safely enrolled as Ireland’s greatest ever player. He is already Leinster’s. God Bless BOD.

Leinster scored two excellently-worked tries apart from Briano’s breakaway, the backline rediscovering its seemingly misplaced spark, and credit to Alan Gaffney. Munster’s backline is, without question, far better than it was in 2006, and Keith Earls and Doug Howlett always threatened, but Lifemi Mafi did Leinster a bit of a favour with his incorrigible tendency to step back inside today. Facing a midfield of Gordon Darcy and Brian O’Driscoll, Mafi thought his best bet was to continually charge at them. Grist to the mill, Lifemi.

The battle of the outhalves didn’t materialise as people had expected with Dr. Phil leaving the field after he contributed one peach of a drog-goal. Instead, it was left to his replacement, Jonathan Sexton, a player who has occasionally flattered to deceive, to give the performance of a lifetime. Jonno was excellent, directing the game like O’Gara himself, kicking well, passing swiftly, making good, clear calls. We may at last have a successor to the Irish number 10 shirt. O’Gara was quite muted all day, bearing the brunt of several attacks down his channel and hustled all day by Shane Jennings. 

Back in November, when Munster humbled Leinster at the RDS 18-0, I told Brian Roche, a Munster friend of mine, that I fel that the result would have been the exact opposite had Leinster had O’Gara. I simply didn’t feel the gap was that wide. A few weeks ago, Munster pasted Leinster, again without Leinster playing all that badly. There was still something missing. Today, finally, Les Bleux found it. I’m not going to say it was passion because, contrary to what many observers might say, I think this is a Leinster team which has had a drive about it for some time but not always the execution. Certainly, the defeat in Lansdowne in 2006 has been a catalyst for the new, improved Leinster.

No, what Leinster found today was something like the Cowardly Lion’s courage. They had it all along, they just needed to see that. The Munster Men have been at the top of the game in Ireland for so long. Leinster has been slow to grow, always that step behind. They needed to stop asking why this was so. They needed to stop questioning themselves. They needed to realise exactly how good they were – not in a self-congratulatory way, but as part of thinking and playing like winners. Winners – like Munster – don’t EXPECT victory. They demand it. It is not to be granted, it is to be grasped. Leinster, as players, are not inferior to Munster, but as a team in the past errors and inconsistencies have let them down. Today was a perfect 10 display. There could be hardly a fault picked out in Leinster, apart from some poor lineout work.

And what a great thing it is too. Munster have bred this monster which ate up their Heineken Cup hopes this year. Their success has demanded that Leinster raise their game. The Munster ethos which has permeated to the national team also bled into the Leinster psyche. Today was the denoument. There would be no point in Munster dominating Irish and European rugby – we NEED Leinster to emulate them. The path they have trampled down is the one which Leinster have taken. Success breeds success as they say, and often it is the success of your rivals which inspires ones own triumphs – look at the English teams in the Champions League since Liverpool’s win in 2005. Brian O’Driscoll, Girvan Dempsey, Shane Horgan and others must have been green-eyed as they witnessed Munster taking home two European Cups. That can only have been the basis for the drive in the Leinster team today.

There is nothing better than watching two teams play a great game of rugby. One thing which is better though is watching two teams play a great game of rugby in a great setting with two great sets of fans and one great rivalry behind it all. Ireland should be so proud of its rugby players. The whole country has suffered the highs and lows with Munster, loving their passion and prowess unconditionally. Today, we saw first-hand the fruits this love has borne – a second, great rugby team which, with the sort of will and vigour and great skill we saw today, is worthy of such love too. It will be a love hard-earned but much deserved – Munster had to endure 2 lost finals, Leinster finally won a semi-final today at the fourth time of asking. And what a great feeling it would be for Munster’s crown to pass to the heads of Leinster on May 23rd. It would be hard to top today, but that might just do it.

Peregrine entered
my dream — folding his wings he
plummeted toward earth.

This is the life, my friend...

So I went to the Quins-Manly game at The Stoop today for the offically titled London Rugby League Challenge and had a thoroughly enjoyable day. Manly ended up running out 34-26 victors, but only after Harlequins had ran out to a 20-0 lead. Given the circumstances and the quality of the opposition, and the fact that I’ve seen them give up comparable leads in more meaningful games, I don’t think they should feel too disheartened.

Essentially the game was actually two games in one. In the first half a full-strength Quins side took on a group mostly made up of Manly reserves or usual interchange players, and certainly the backs the only real mainstays present were Michael Robertson and David Williams. Manly didn’t really offer much threat whilst Quins went through a few spells of offering loads, and wen’t 14-0 up in what seemed like a five minute period (they certainly scored off back-to-back tackles, as Manly conceded right off a kick-off when Luke Dorn went wide straight away to Will Sharp, who broke around David Williams and fed Chad Randall to go under the posts). Manly’s attack seemed devoid of any creativity and their kicking game was one-dinensional (and their ploy of putting up high bombs seemed misjudged when Jon Wells covered them all admirably). At half-time, Quins found themselves with a twenty point lead against the NRL champions.

Then I noticed Jamie Lyon, Matt Orford, Steve Matai and Brett Stewart (to name but a few) warming up (to this point having not been seen at all) and I realised that this game was far from over. Add to that the fact that Brian McDermott did the opposite, taking off several of his starters and giving some new recruits the chance to show what they could do, and it seemed like everything now ran in reverse, with Manly’s 1sts completely tearing apart the Quins 2nds. Actually, that’s not quite fair; what really impressed me about Manly was that for a side still essentially in preseason mode they were extremely clinical. Steve Matai gave Tony Clubb problems consistently, and Brett Stewart added a threat from deep missing up to that point. With Matai and Jamie Lyon both throwing out wonder passes to put people over the Quins advantage was overtaken in no time. It’s to Quins’ credit that they got a try in the second half, because the defensive effort of Manly also stepped up a few gears in the second stanza.

If Manly play like they did in the second half today in the World Club Challenge then Leeds have got a real struggle on their hands. However, if they play like they did in the first half then Leeds will rip them apart. I’m expecting them to be a lot nearer to the second half performance. As for Quins, it was hard to fault the first half but I’m sure Brian McDermott will be disappointed with the drop-off in the second half, where they did Manly a favour by being unable to maintain the defensive pressure they had applied before. Squad depth has always been an issue with Quins, although it seems a little unfair to judge this squad when the reserves suddenly had to play against a side loaded with fresh internationals.

If Leeds are looking for any potential weaknesses then I didn’t really see any in attack, as Manly exploited Quins’ defensive errors ruthlessly. In defense though they did seem a bit susceptible to the grubber kick close to the line. Manly seemed to be employing a high-octane version of the umbrella defense system, which is usually high-risk for high-reward, but it’s hard to change momentum when charging forward and Quins were even able to use the grubber kick effectively in the second half when Manly had their good players on. Nonetheless, Leeds have definitely got their hands full next Sunday.