The Crew's Quest for Redemption

Matt Rolf
November 14, 2008

It was always going to be this way.  If the Crew were ever going to shed the mantle of almost-men and coulda-shoulda boys, they were going to have to systematically exorcise each and every one of the demons that had haunted them in their 12 year existence.

It started with the New England Revolution in September.  The team that had taken apart the last good Crew sides in the playoffs of 2002 and 2004 were steamrolled 4-0 in Crew Stadium and 0-1 in New England.  It was clear then that the Revs' season was over, and that if they had the audacity to show up against the Crew in the playoffs, more of the same would be waiting.  New England responded by winning just one more game over the next two months.

Next to be exiled was the New York Red Bulls.  Columbus's history with New York doesn't involve much pain, but it was nice to roar back from a goal deficit to win 3-1 in September, and be competitive with a reserve side for the reverse scoreline later.  Partly thanks to the Crew's work against other teams, the Red Bulls were condemned to the western conference, where they find themselves on a strange quest for an MLS title that has taken on Penelope-esque characteristics.  They could still come back around, but would find a Crew team that is more Paris than Antinous at this point.

Next, and sweetest to fall was DC United. The once (and still) proud franchise found itself playing for it's whole season on the barren, windswept field of Crew Stadium late in October. In a move calculated to strip, insult and disarm the visitors, the Crew played the game in black uniforms, denying DC of their traditional color and forcing them to play in white.

As DC pushed forward again and again, they hit the post once, twice, three times, the wood work tolling like the bell summoning the reaper to do his unholy work.  As the dark clouds gathered behind him, Brad Evans summoned all the powers that the gods had given him that day and unleashed a shot from his left foot that hit the post, but found the back of the net in the 79th minute.  Jubilation rang out in the stands, for everyone knew DC's fate had been sealed.

As time ticked away, the chant of "No more playoffs!" washed over the defeated DC players.  It was a judgement, a condemnation, a verdict that implied a permanence of condition upon the hated foe.  When the final whistle blew, the DC players trudged off the field as though they'd been sold into slavery.  These are the sorts of games that exorcise the demons, that unlock doors, that turn franchises from the worst to best and visa versa. Everyone in the stadium knew it.  It gives me immense joy that on this day my newborn daughter saw her first game at Crew Stadium.

Moving on, the Kansas City playoff series lacked drama and the tenor in the other contests. The WIzards were the extras in this drama, a lower grade Tybalt, who lacked the class and skill to keep up with the best team in the league.

And now the Chicago Fire are the only team left standing between the Crew and a birth in the MLS Cup game.  The Fire are a giant of the league, a hated foe who looks upon Columbus with disdain and dismissal, who envision themselves walking to another MLS Cup final.  But something is not right - It is not a normal version of the Fire that has been conjured.  In a strange and unnatural way their core has been edited, parts of it hollowed out; in that place have been machined in two giants of Crew lore,  Brian McBride and Jon Bush.

At separate ends of the field, these two accomplished, skilled, proud men epitomized all that was right and proper about the Columbus Crew at the start of the new millennium.  Busch played his way onto the national team before being ravaged by injury, and McBride served the Crew and his country for eight years at the highest level before taking off to England to see how he  would play against the best in the world.

In what amounted to little more than a power struggle, Busch was cast out from the Crew by coach Sigi Schmid under the flimsiest of circumstances, exiled to Toronto FC's bench before catching on with the Fire.  Always the gritty underdog, he fought his way back to his starting position, and then, to the top of the league and the top of his craft as Goalkeeper of the Year.  When he looks across the field at the man who cut him, wrapped in the colors he sweated and bled and worked back to health for, the fires of revenge dance brightly in his eyes.

In McBride's days, the wars with Chicago were bitter, spiteful, and high stakes, with the 1998 Open Cup fiasco ripping a trophy from the hands of his team, and fights routinely breaking out between rival fans.  Teammate Jeff Cunningham would later comment how he'd never let a Chicago Fire shirt touch his skin. But when McBride came back, he and his wife wanted to be closer to home, and he had no qualms about pulling on the shirt of the Crew's most natural rival.

Earlier this week, McBride dismissed his time in Columbus as a "sidebar,"  exposing the apathy and lack of respect he has for a city that treated him as nothing but a hero through all his injuries, the playoff collapses, and the rumors of his departure.  In this one moment he went from being full of class to just another selfish player who lives apart from the fans and couldn't be bothered to take their feelings into consideration.  The story of McBride's innocent daughter, who couldn't understand earlier in the season why her daddy wouldn't be wearing yellow when he played the Crew, is a striking illustration of how wrong it all is.

So these two men, Jon Busch and Brian McBride, inhabit a weird alternate universe, one wearing a rabbit suit and talking to Duncan Oughton through a mirror, the other being crushed by a jet engine in his bed during his nightmares.  One is faultless in his exile, the other chose his path with a cold rational calculation.

For the Fire as a team, the very presence of Busch and McBride has to unnerve them.  It's clear that the team and fans they must face are playing for more than mere victory in a conference final.  In a very real way they are playing against their own past, against their own failings as players, coaches, fans, human beings, in just one more game in a long line of tests to rid themselves of the nightmares and self doubt once and for all.  And in this drama the Fire become a more dangerous Kansas City, a team that had exactly one victory over playoff teams not named New York and New England all year long, a team that is facing a Crew side who are 13-2-2 at home and 14-0-0 when scoring the first goal, a team that looks destined to be just another casualty at the hands of a Crew team who have been playing soccer on a higher plane for months.

So rich with story is this game, I haven't even bothered to talk about Blanco, Chris Rolfe's proficiency, the immense talent, drive, and depth of the Crew squad, Sigi Schmid's insane quest to redeem the last 4 years of his life, or the amazing support of the fan groups in the Nordecke.

To say this is the biggest game in Columbus Crew history is to understate the importance.  The franchise, the fans, the owners, the city are facing themselves and the darkest parts of their past in addition to seeking a birth in MLS Cup. And providence has given us all a choice:  With the will to power ready to be seized, will you grasp it?  Will you be immortal?  Will you break free of the shackles of the past?  Will you conquer the parts of you that drag you down?  Will you walk into the light?  Will you accept the challenge?  Will you break through?

The choice is ours at this very moment, and if we chose wisely, there is nothing the Chicago Fire can do about it.

The Crew may lose.  It may not be their destiny to win the Cup.  But this year, it is well and truly in our hands.

Go Crew.