I have to admit, this is the first time in a long time that I have felt sorry for Crew head coach Greg Andrulis. This has to be the bottom of the barrel: losing on a holiday weekend, at home to the scum on an own-goal, a disallowed goal, and a missed penalty kick. If I were him I would seriously consider taking the fan's advice of finding a dark cave, crawling inside then getting mauled to death by and ending up in the stomach of a angry grizzly bear.
Another missed PK.
His central midfielder pulls a gigantic brain fart while chopping down a scum player, earning himself a one-match vacation.
Instead of looking like an attacking team for, well, most of the entire game they watched the scum string pass after pass together then tried to play long-ball when down a goal, where the defense simply sits back and needle points waiting for the ball to come in. Low percentage. High futility. Even in the last ten minutes of the game there seemed to be no urgency whatsoever. There was nobody running to the ball on throw-ins or trying to work the ball down the field without resulting to ineffective long balls.
So I would imagine late in the game, as GA is mulling his substitutions he probably doesn't feel too confident; a bunch of rookies and two individuals that would probably give their left testicles to be healthy and in the match trying to help.
But alas, the clock shows 93 minutes. The scum are still controlling in the Crew end of the field, "sack Andrulis" chants are ringing out, and the general feeling of crapitude sinks in. He probably plucked at his beard hoping to get off the field before the news vultures circled in or he got pelted with something from a disgruntled teenage fan. Once inside the locker room he probably looked at the demoralized nakedness in front of him, wondering if he should offer constructive criticism, condolences, or just go postal on him like some psychotic wookie. Instead, he probably waddled off into a room desperate to sugarcoat the obvious questions facing him post-game.
I tell you what, GA. If you still have your job next week, please try the following.
I want five individuals to go through super secret penalty kick ninja school. These individuals should be money in bank when the inevitable spot-kick situation arises. I want these players to be able to make a penalty kick time-after-time, repeatedly; while blindfolded with Ritchie Williams strapped to their head. Nothing else is acceptable.
Second, I want shock therapy for all the stupid, dumb ass, idiotic plays some of those players made. Show Buddle that long, floated back-pass my dead-grandmother (God rest her soul) could have intercepted (the pass that led to the own-goal). Buzzzzzzt. Martino, see that Hejduk-like achilles slicing scythe move? Buzzz-nuh-hey-man-nuhuhuhuhuhuhuh. Etc.
Lastly, select a starting eleven; players that won't get called up and can realistically make an effort to either make a run for the playoffs or at least play well for home games. Select four subs plus a reserve keeper. Tell the rest they aren't good enough to play for the suckiest team in the eastern conference; go back to Burger King and Home Depot. Then turn to your remaining players, sigh deeply, then say "play for these fans like you want to win for them or so help me you are all going down with me. If you screw these fans over one more time I'll grab hold of your balls, twist, then squeeze them until you're dead."
Dear lord what a depressing mess. This match was like the fight scene from "Raising Arizona" in it's comic futility.