A Night At Joe's

Warning: Self-indulgent, whimsical writing ahead. Contains no actual DC United information you want.

That was the thing about Joe, you never knew which one would show up to tend bar that night. Some nights his smile could not be erased no matter how many glasses the patrons dropped. "I understand," he'd laugh, "no hands!" The customer relaxed and ordered another round. Two, if they still felt some residual guilt. Those were the nights the staff would set up one of the enormous SuperDraft glasses at the edge of the bar, and Joe would pace to the other end. Carefully, he'd place a hackeysack right on the edge in a semi-circle embedded into the varnish. The spot, it was called. Then, he'd spin on his heel, a leg would come up and propel the sack towards the glass, its maw open and waiting. As the hackeysack skidded into the glass Joe pulled his shirt over his head. "Golazo!" he proclaimed. "Golazo! Golazo!" the patrons would respond. A bell near the register would ring, and drinks were on the house. At least, for a few minutes. It was still a business.

Then there were the nights his mood turned dark. He'd scowl as various names were mentioned: The US Soccer Federation, Michael Owen, the Chicago Fire. One such night a misguided customer tried to present Joe with an autographed US National Team jersey to accompany the others that decorated the bar: Beasley, Adu, Keller... Joe smiled until he saw the name "QUARANTA" stitched on the back. The help restrained Joe from attacking the suddenly confused patron with the corner flag he pulled from the corner of the bar. The moment passed, and later there were apologies, and a free SuperDraft. Still, the word was out. Not just any player would hang on the wall at Joe's SOCCER Bar.

Despite the occasional beating with the touchline equipment, you always went back to Joe's. The Richie Williams' Midget Shrimp were excellent, the hot wings unsurpassed when ordered at El Diablo spiciness. And the game was on. The game was always on.