On angels with dirty faces.

"You want to know what I've had to eat in the past twenty-four hours? One hot dog and twenty-seven pints of beer." - Eric (last name unknown)


I've been asked a few hundred times in the past seven months whether I miss L.A. My stock answer to such a stock question is "I miss my friends." I love Los Angeles, but New York holds so much more for me. Diverse inconsistency. I wake up each morning to the rumbling of industrial trucks and machinery on a small street in Bushwick, Brooklyn, and then sit up to see the New York City skyline biting upwards into the blue morning. Last night I stood on a roof in Hell's Kitchen with several people, each of us drinking and looking out over a different perspective of that same skyline. Still the Empire State Building, but also the New York Times building- a neatly stacked pile of illumination cresting out of midtown, and most vitally one I had never seen before at night: a tall one topped with the giant red words NEW YORKER, proclaiming not merely a magazine, but a life. A choice. A burden. A struggle. A persona. But now officially my persona, my struggle, my burden, my choice. My life.

I don't miss the city of L.A. with an active longing because I honestly don't think about it except for impulsive palpitations. Wishing that the Hot 97 morning show playing at the gym was Kevin & Bean instead, for one. But this isn't a story about New York or California, not yet. At first it's about Jersey.

First time there. I've refused to go to the Shore, to Hoboken, to.... whatever the hell else is in Jersey. I've let several invitations and opportunities go uncashed. But today my beloved Los Angeles Galaxy were visiting the New York Red Bulls and their shiny new stadium in Harrison, New Jersey, and all the self-loathing hangovers in the world wouldn't keep me away.

The vast majority of people in Los Angeles, no matter how many Dodgers or Lakers games they attend, miss out on the experience of going to a game. My first time was in London, March 2008. I somehow convinced my great friend Jennifer to fly out from Los Angeles to London for the weekend to attend a Fulham/Manchester United game with me, then met up with 2 more friends there. The morning of the game, wearing my brand new McBride jersey at a flea market in Notting Hill, a vendor smirked at the FFC team badge on my chest before delivering his heavy cockney: "Gonna need a miracle today, bruv." A bit later we emerged from a crowded tube ride to see an armada of neon green: dozens of police shoulder to shoulder, cautiously appraising the supporters headed to the stadium. The Three Bells, a pub that we four had been to the afternoon before, was taken over by the Red Army, Man U supporters, nearly a thousand chanting in perfect unison. The Thames to our left, we walked through Bishops' Park, the former hunting grounds of Anne Boleyn, surrounded by children in miniature Rooney and Ronaldo jerseys, families of five and six in matching team kits. In New York five months later, I took the subway to a game at Yankee Stadium, the final one between the Red Sox and Yankees at the old grounds. On the 4 train, there was a lot of light-hearted jawing between fans, but there was also an elderly man in a pinstripe jersey and navy NY hat speaking to a group of teenagers. They were asking him in reverent, almost shy tones about the 70 years worth of games that he had been to. I became a silent addition to his audience as he described the best Yankees outfield ever, obscure players swallowed by history and the brightness of neighboring stars, memories of his father taking him to games, of being seated on his dad's shoulders as they entered the archways. Games in the days when night games and floodlights didn't exist, when every single man wore a hat to a game, and that hat was a fedora.

As for me, today, I caught the PATH train in the financial district, my long-sleeved Beckham jersey drawing glares from those around me in white Henry #14's. Shoulders brushing against two Red Bulls fans drinking tallboys cocooned in paper bags. I began talking with the man in front of me, his persistent questions finally overcoming the silence of my still moderately self-loathing hangover. His jeans, boots, and hands hinted at what he confirmed, that he was a construction worker at the World Trade Center site. We talked very little about sports, instead mainly about the still disastrous job market, hubris, and the causes and realities of falling empires. In twenty minutes we were shaking hands goodbye and stepping out into New Jersey. Into a flood of a lot more #14 Henry's. Into the noise of a lot more heckles from Red Bulls fans directed at me.

I attended the match alone, with a ticket I bought from a scalper minutes before kickoff. Once inside, I could have sat with my good friend Matt, who was at the game as well, but what I wanted most from this game was something that every other afternoon spent on this coast has failed to give me. I listened for the chanting, I looked for the checkered scarves, and after only a few seconds of searching, I spotted them. Beaming, hangover defeated, I walked in their direction.

Back in Los Angeles, at the many games I attended, I never sat with them. I never had a full conversation with any of them. But back when Jared and I would shell out 2 days of income on a ticket in the VIP section of games and would be the only ones down there standing, chanting, holding our scarves aloft during corner kicks or after goals, they noticed us. They hated every privileged golf-clapper in the VIP on principle, but they looked at us differently. They found us after games and shook our hands, nodded with approving smiles. We didn't just have their attention, we had their respect. The LA Riot Squad and the Angel City Brigade, the hardcore supporters groups of the LA Galaxy. The type of fans that stand and scream chants the full 90+ minutes of game time. The type of fans that fly 3,000 miles to give the Galaxy their extremely vocal support on the road. 50 made the trip to New York. But when they started chanting and clapping to the ire of the home crowd, they now numbered 51.

I spoke with Mike and Eric, both middle-aged fans that were more than just blind supporters, but guys that knew a hell of a lot about the game and the team. Mike had flown out for this game from Anaheim... Eric? From England. We talked about past games we'd both been to... the rivalry games, the Superclasico derbies, the international friendlies with the likes of AC Milan. Mike used a hushed tone twice this afternoon. Once to tell me "In 14 years, there haven't been a whole lot of games that I've missed." The other time was to extend an official invitation. Next time I was in LA at a Galaxy game, come to parking lot 13. He'd be there, with the rest of the ACB. Those were two sentences among two and a half hours worth of what felt mostly like catching up with a familiar voice in a familiar surrounding, even though in reality it was neither.

This really doesn't have to do with soccer. It has to do with Venn diagrams. With nostalgia. With something that I experience far less than some might expect because I equate it with a city and not with individuals: this has to do with being homesick. Aside from my friends, there are other things I miss about Los Angeles. Even if I had to go to New Jersey to find that out. When I go back for a weekend in September, I won't be able to make it to a taco Tuesday, or even out to lot 13 at the Home Depot Center. But I'll definitely be seeing Mike and Eric and around 48 other semi-familiar faces again next season, in the exact same section, probably in the same jerseys. Because the Galaxy was winning (did win, 1-0) and because the New York fans were so quiet, a few times during the game we chanted "This is our house." We said it like we meant it. I absolutely did. But for me, it was a phrase that had very little to do with soccer.