The Peter Principle

This has been a tough week for soccer in Chicago. On Monday morning, the internet was abuzz with the rumor. Peter Wilt out at the Fire. Jeff trying to sniff out the leak of the Reiter rumor? Surely he wouldn't jest about something like this. More and more sources confirmed, until the official announcement late in the day. John Guppy, whose legacy to the fans in Jersey and MLS will always be the infamous "Metro Playoff Fever" campaign, is the new guy. Earnest midwestern soccer geek replaced by smooth talking Brit.

First, disbelief. Then shock. Then anger and righteous indignation. Don't they know what he means to this team, to this town? Is there more that they're not telling us? Surely, this can't be about job performance. Especially with his replacement coming from Metro, of all places.

All of this would be on display Monday night up at the Globe Pub, when a few dozen Fire fans congregated to hear it from the man himself. Word came down from AEG, from a guy who has never been to a Fire game. More anger, much sadness, plenty of fear. Later, for some, acceptance. Undoing a decision of this magnitude is close enough to impossible for many, but not for all. Godwin's Law invoked within about fifteen minutes, but doesn't end the debate. The subject moved to an appropriate response. The high road was suggested, as was the low road. There was never any question Peter would endorse the former, and the guys you expected to run with the latter did just that. The meeting was a mix of calls for action and of oral screeds decrying the whole situation as a big ball of wrong. A live-action BigSoccer, in many respects.

Where am I in all of this? Brought the P.A. so as not to facilitate an angry, shouting mob, snapped at a lot of people when things got chaotic, threatened to take my toys and go home at least once. More even-keeled than many, but not as much as usual. I have to explain to Mary why I'm out and not home nursing my head cold. Think of something very important, and this is more important than that. Like anyone else, I want to scream bloody murder about it, but the pragmatist inside me realizes we have to work with the new guy. The new mantra is "if there's to be a fight, let him throw the first punch." Not everyone agrees, but it still mostly carries the day.

Staffers trickled in throughout the meeting, after drowning sorrows elsewhere. A brief conversation got me thinking that I have a unique position as a columnist on the official website, and that I might be able to get away with something as a result. I disengage from the larger group and write an open letter to the new president. Later, an ominous e-mail. Mr. Guppy would like to speak to you briefly about your column. Three days, and I'm already called to the principal's office. Fearing the worst, I take the call. He understands, he says, but obviously, this isn't appropriate for the team's official site. He does look forward to meeting me and the other supporters to dispel some of the rumors. I don't argue, and later wish I had. I do submit another column. The midfield needs to move the ball faster.

I did let some people take a look at the original, though. I wonder what happened to that?

Meanwhile, the sound of a thousand e-mails between supporters, organizing a response to the events of the week. First draft, bad. Second draft, better. Or maybe not. Several thousand copies, to be handed out on Saturday, already printed. Version three, very blunt, too over the top. Finally, acceptable compromise. Message getting out to fans and to the media. Microsoft Outlook not the best tool for large e-mail drops. Overworked supporters eventually get a little sleep.

Then, media day. Guppy doesn't seem terrible, possibly on account of not being terribly tall, but still taller than Sarachan. Likes Britpop, and subsequently would probably like my band. Small talk ignores large elephants throughout the room. Hushed tones abound. Why do swank bars and restaurants have such terrible beer selections? Food is tasty, should have dressed the beef with the au jus. Will remember for next time.

The official program. Microphone feedback, but I resist the urge to step forward and fix it. Guppy used the word "tremendous" a lot. I mean, really, a lot. Apparently the joint press conference on Tuesday was somewhat uncomfortable, and this doesn't feel much different. You can still hear Peter's enthusiasm for this team as he speaks to the offseason moves. Later, I ask him how many job offers he's already gotten. I will tell you it's more than zero.

More small talk. Meeting with the supporters eight days into the job is a good sign in a week that has been lacking any others. Finally, the hard question for Guppy. Cubs or Sox? He punts, but grasps the magnitude of his eventual answer. There's still a slick veneer even when he's being casual, which may be the hardest thing to get used to. He's not one of us, but who is, really? Peter is the exception, not the rule, not by a long shot. He's always a part of this team, no matter what. No amount of corporate meddling can change that.

Surfing BigSoccer, the Section 8 boards, e-mail and instant messages until the repetitive stress kicks in and I can't fell the little finger on my right hand. Naproxen is still okay in small doses, I think. Preparations still need to be made for the game. And now the scary part. How does this play out, both in the short-term and the long? Nobody knows. Which doesn't stop the speculation, but we're bordering dangerously on black helicopters and the relentless self-importance of the Internet community.

Here on Friday afternoon, there's almost a serenity of having collectively done the bulk of the preparation. Significant work has been done by many, and hopefully that will be remembered down the line, and even more so, it all won't be for naught. I wish I knew what happened next. Think happy thoughts. At least beat San Jose.