Jumpers for goalposters, and millionaire sports stars in a Lower Manhattan kickabout.
Vanity Fair Culture & Celebrity blog reports on last Wednesday's celebrity charity game that took place in a small fenced-in area in Chinatown.
In the red corner, Steve Nash - stalwart for the Phoenix Suns, Spurs supporter and Communist Manifesto reading NBA all star (of course, the last bit gives it away that he's Canadian) - who brought with him fellow NBA superstars such as Jason Kidd, Raja Bell, and assorted other tall blokes I've never heard of and, in the blue corner, Claudio Reyna - born in Livingston . . . . New Jersey, played for R*ngers, Man City and Sunderland (then his career got a boost by signing for the New York Red Bulls) - who discovered Robbie Fowler, Thierry Henry, Salomon Kalou and, erm, Jozy Altidore, who's also from Livingston . . . New Jersey sharing a poke of chips - with Irish Curry Sauce - at Pommes Frites in the Lower East Side and thought the impromptu game would be a good way of burning off some off season calories.
What with the preening, showboating and playing to the gallery of the multitude looking on, Julian Sancton, the Vanity Fair blogger, is sort of right when he rights that: "The game had the feel of a live Adidas commercial, with a mix of sportsmanlike bonhomie and goofy grandstanding . . ." but I won't be too snarky towards the assembled sporting celebs because anybody who has walked past a court in the Lower East Side when a handball or a streetball game is going on will know that preening, showboating and playing to the gallery of the multitude looking on comes part and parcel with the shorts, sneakers and the funny sized ball.
And, anyway, who am I kidding. I could concoct some lame arse rant about the double whammy cyncism of secretly thrilled East Village hipsters feigning boredom whilst watching overpaid and overexposed sportstars swallow their own PR bullshit of keeping sport real on the urban streets (insert modern day hovis commerical here of David Villa and Christian Ronaldo playing football with street urchins on the cobbled streets of a rainswept Spennymoor) , but if I'd heard about the game beforehand I would have turned up with my autograph book and thermos flask.
. . . and if I found out that Charlie Nicholas was playing keepie-uppie within a hundred miles radius of my good self? I'd walk barefoot over a broken Stephen Glass to go watch him perform.
Back to the game at hand. Where's YouTube when you need it:
"Later in the game, he [Baron Davis] body-slammed a prostrate Robbie Fowler, who is half his size."
Robbie Fowler's bad rep seems to get around.
And is just me, but what's with Steve McManaman morphing into a young and chunky Tim Robbins? (Click on the pic to see the uncanny resemblance.)
I was only joking about Pommes Frites earlier on, but, with Macca, now I'm not so sure.
Hat tip to Will Rubbish, who found out about the game because of Reyna's Black Cat connection.