You Are A Legend: Jack Keane

Manager? He's the Sheriff

It might seem a bit odd to feature a Manchester United supporter on this very biased Arsenal corner of the web-o-sphere, particularly to open this series properly. But for myself, the rest of the NY Gooners, a whole slew of New York based supporters groups, expats, tourists, and recurring visitors, Jack Keane is more than a legend. He's a fucking institution.

His support of football culture in this city is unrivaled, and he has nurtured the scene here for longer than the eleven years I've been in New York. He was the bartender at Nevada Smiths for many of those years until he launched the Football Factory at Legends in the Fall of 2010. Throughout the time I've known him he has always been quick to share a word about his team, your team, or any club inbetween, and do so with the utmost respect for and love of the game. His presence behind the bar encourages a vibe that I doubt exists many places in the world.

Here Come The Arteta

Well won Arteta. He might fancy a dip here.....YEESSS!

I think a lot of Gooners were well pleased as news filtered through late on the 31st of August that the Arsenal had prised Mikel Arteta away from Everton. Having just released one of the best midfielders on the planet back to his little home town side, and let the chinless androgynous mercenary many thought would replace him go as well, we were looking well short in the middle of the park. And I'm not just talking about Jack's height. To make Mata's worse, our target to replace Cesc in the market went to Chelsea instead.

The talks stalled in a typical bit of brinkmanship from our club, and in the end it took a transfer request and a drop in wage demands from Arteta to push the deal through at the eleventh hour. Typical Arsenal. After a loyal stint at Everton and despite being central to their plans, he was desperate to take the chance to join us and get his shot in the Champions League and to push for the Premier League title. Before he even took the pitch he took one for the team.

We All Took The Red Pill, Now We're Dodging Bullets

from the factory floor

BARCLAYS PREMIER LEAGUE

Ashburton Grove

Referee:  Anthony Taylor

Arsenal 3-3 Norwich City         5 May 2012
Benayoun [2]           Hoolahan [12]
Van Persie [72,80]   Holt [27]

                                     Morison [85]

Now I know that in the twittersphere and other places of cyber-angst the build-up to this last home match revealed some proper jangling nerves, and on evidence of the ground atmosphere at the Grove and the flat performance on the pitch, that anxiety was very much alive in the physical Gooner plane,  if not just a little worse. When I arrived at the Factory after another lovely unannounced subway diversion it was 2-1 Norwich, prompting me to quote Rashida from earlier in the week as my greeting to Steven, Ed, and the Captain, already seated at the lower level bar: What in the actual fuck?

Apparently Benayoun scored a pearl of a goal from the dressing room and we felt the job was done. That early score belied our recent trend of coming out in the last handful of games flatter than an old white man’s ass. As if to make up for that, in the following fifteen minutes we conspired to gift the visitors two goals and with it the deficit that we apparently need to stir us from our perennial late season torpor. The Captain explained that while we deserved to be behind, the goals still had that special jammy quality that only the Arsenal concede. As to make up for that unique talent, we seem to do it with alarming regularity. This whole improvement of the hospitality at the stadium on match days is going just a bit too far.

Not Your Father's Football

"Foreign glory hunter." You get this a lot if you tour the comments sections of many Arsenal blogs or other football fora. I'm long enough in the Gooner tooth to understand that Arsenal are a club many a neutral love to hate. I can understand that. In the thirties Chapman took a team from the 'soft' south of England and transformed them into the best club in the land, dominating in a manner that the likes of Liverpool and Manchester United wouldn't do for decades.

In the late nineties and early naughties a bookish looking, diet-conscious, tee-totaling Frenchman came along and upset the holy equilibrium of lad football culture by taking the same glorious club to still unequaled heights. In less time than it took Alex Ferguson to get his hands on a league title, Arsene Wenger did so three times and along the way produced an unbeatable team, rocking the throne of Ferguson's United with a bunch of hardly known cast-offs from the continent and beyond. When money was proving the way in the newly anointed Premier League, Wenger showed them a cheaper solution without sacrificing all the swashbuckling style.