Right then, gather round, football fans, because LAFC versus St Louis City served up a match so gloriously bonkers it should come with a health warning and a stiff drink. If you enjoy watching million-pound athletes sprint about like headless chickens while the ball pinballs off shins, crossbars, and the occasional unsuspecting seagull, this was your Christmas come early. The defending? Optional. The drama? Relentless. The final score? Somehow less important than the sheer theatre of it all.
Let us begin with the defending, or as it is more accurately described, the enthusiastic suggestion of defending. LAFC's backline treated the St Louis forwards like long-lost relatives they were desperate to welcome into the box. "Come in, make yourself at home, would you like a cup of tea before you slot that past the keeper?" Meanwhile, St Louis responded in kind, leaving gaping holes so wide you could park a double-decker bus sideways in them, and still have room for a corner shop. Every attack felt like a game of pinball, with the ball ricocheting off anyone within a five-metre radius. The goalkeepers, poor souls, spent ninety minutes developing a nervous twitch and questioning their life choices.
And the goals, oh the goals. They arrived like buses, except these buses were on fire and driven by someone who had never passed a driving test. A hopeful punt forward became a wonder strike. A misplaced pass turned into an assist of pure accidental genius. LAFC scored one so scrappy it looked like it had been bundled in during a rugby scrum. St Louis replied with a finish so cool it practically wore sunglasses, immediately followed by a defensive blunder that handed the lead straight back. At one point, I genuinely lost track of who was winning, who was losing, and whether either side actually wanted to qualify for anything beyond a comedy sketch festival. It was beautiful nonsense from start to finish.
When the whistle finally blew, both sets of fans looked like they had survived a rollercoaster designed by a lunatic. Managers stood on the touchline, hair considerably greyer, clutching tactics boards that might as well have been shopping lists for all the good they did. The takeaway? Neither side can defend, both can score out of nowhere, and if these two meet again, bring popcorn, a cushion to hide behind, and perhaps a defibrillator. Football is supposed to be the beautiful game, but sometimes it is simply the wonderfully absurd game, and this fixture delivered absurdity by the bucketload. Would I watch it again? Absolutely. Would I trust either defence with my car keys? Not on your life. Ten out of ten for entertainment, minus several hundred for basic competence, and a standing ovation for the sheer, unadulterated mayhem of it all.