You Don’t Deserve Wondo

Chris Wondolowski is a genius, universally respected by his fellow players, and as important to Quakes fans as the franchise itself. He is almost certain to pass Landon Donovan this season to become Major League Soccer’s all-time leading scorer. His is an incredible, inspiring story that could only ever happen in American soccer.

And yet for countless numbers of USA fans, he’ll always be a punchline, whipping boy, or pariah, because of a single moment that intersected with one of the more regrettable aspects of human nature.

Those people don’t deserve him.

Then again, I’m not certain that those of us who adore him deserve him either, so I’ll try and do my best to describe why he means so much to the fans in black and blue.

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My favorite Wondo stat is that he’s only bagged four hat-tricks on his way to 144 career goals.

Four. And none since 2012.

There is nothing more fitting for the 36-year-old than the fact that he’s dinked and dunked his way, one and two goals at a time, to the precipice of US Soccer immortality.

You know how they call certain comics a comedian’s comedian? That even if the wider world doesn’t recognize their genius, they’re superb at their craft and the experts in their field can’t get enough of it? Wondo is a bit like that. He’s a soccer player’s soccer player. A footballer’s footballer.

His playing style can only be described as “old man game.” You’d describe it like that even when he was just breaking through. He’s only barely quick enough to survive as a forward, he’s not big or strong enough to be a target man, and he might literally not be able to jump over a phone book. All he has, in terms of physical gifts, are tireless lungs, legs, and heart.

It’s not like he’s some technical virtuoso either. He’s not karate kicking goals in like Zlatan. He doesn’t have David Villa’s breathtaking touch. He can’t dribble anyone out of their socks like Seba Giovinco. He’s a strong finisher, no doubt, but you wouldn’t describe him as world-class even in that category. His finishing is merely adequate for the task.

The thing he has, and the thing that is so breathtakingly beautiful for the purists who have had the pleasure of watching him, is a preternatural ability to find himself unmarked in scoring positions when receiving the ball. The uncanny urge to be in exactly the right place at exactly the right time, long before anyone else has noticed, least of all the defenders tasked with marking him. It’s the same skill that Wayne Gretzky had. It’s a rare form of spatial genius that separates the lunch-pail pros from the all-time greats.

That famous clip of a mic’d up John Terry complimenting Wondo during the MLS All-Star game, describing his movement as “incredible,” is a fairly accurate portrait of how those who have played with and against him feel. His runs are borderline symphonic, like an opera singer exploring the space of a concert hall. I’ve always described him as King of the second watch of the game tape, because only then do you really get to see when he started making his run, one or two passes before it actually reached him. It is, in the truest sense of the word, a sublime experience: it’s humbling.

Somehow, despite every player in the league knowing exactly what he’s good at, he still manages to pop up unmarked, 6 to 12 yards from goal, as balls bounce vaguely in his direction only be tucked away, with little ceremony, over and over again. One at a time. Day in and day out.

Other players understand the incredible value of a guy who knows exactly what run to make, and especially one who has the will and ability to actually make and finish that run every single damned time. That latter part cannot be overstated; it’s not that other forwards don’t also see good runs, but for Wondo there is no such thing as a lost cause, and his goalscoring record reflects it. His indefatigable motor, just as legendary as his movement, is the necessary yang to his tactical yin, enabling it full expression

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And that gets to the very best part of Wondo: he’s indomitable. In everything.

We’re talking about a kid from Danville, California who was more highly recruited out of high school as a cross-country runner than as a soccer player. He chose the soccer path anyway, heading to nearby Division II Chico State, and didn’t exactly dominate even at that level. He was drafted in the fourth round of the 2005 MLS Supplemental draft, the 8th round overall for new entrants, making him the 89th player overall to have his name called. Suffice it to say, that’s not a position from which a lot of future stars are born.

Once in MLS, with his hometown San Jose Earthquakes, he got off to a slow start, with just two appearances in his rookie year, before getting uprooted with the rest of the franchise, bound for Houston, in one of the most cynical chapters in MLS history. Texas wasn’t all that much more fruitful for Wondo, where he made just 11 starts across more than three full seasons for the Dynamo, scoring a paltry 4 goals. He was traded in 2009, back to the rebooted version of the Quakes, by his first and only coach at that point: Dominic Kinnear. I asked Dom a few years back about the trade, and he more or less described it as an act of mercy, saying that Chris was a good dude who wanted to be home, so he did what he could to make it work.

What happened next was nothing short of a supernova, starting at an age of 27 that many clubs around the world regard as too old to have any remaining untapped potential. He immediately started bagging goals, and within three years had two Golden Boots, a league MVP, a Supporters’ Shield, and a share of the single-season goalscoring record to his name. He was called up to the national team, where he carved out a nice international career for himself, hitting 11 goals in 35 appearances. He became a favorite call-up for Jurgen Klinsmann as a consummate professional and passionate worker to bring along the younger players. He became the first tribally-registered Native American to represent the US at a World Cup. He’s currently on a streak of nine consecutive double-digit scoring seasons in MLS, a record which may well never be broken. He’s San Jose’s eternal captain.

A lesser person, well, just about any person, could have given up at dozens of points in those difficult pre-2009 years. “Goonies Never Say Die” may refer, for MLS fans, for the 2012 San Jose team’s penchant for getting late results, but it’s probably more accurate to say it reflects Wondo’s attitude throughout his entire life. His hunger, to win and to score, is insatiable, and away from the stadium floodlights he works exactly as hard as you’d expect to sate that need.

One of those remarkable ways that has manifested itself is how he, ultra-competitive Wondo, has not only stayed sane but managed to pour all of himself into a team that has managed just two winning seasons in the ten years since he arrived. If anything, the dreadful talent level around him makes his goalscoring all the more remarkable. Any lesser person, even a fairly extraordinary person, would feel beaten down by the remarkable amount of losing the team has done since being rebooted. In games that are long out of reach, though, Wondo is still there, popping up in the box. In seasons out of reach, he’s still there, bagging at least 10 goals a season, no matter what.

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That loyalty, which goes hand-in-hand with his perseverance, gets to why his personality and character inspire so much admiration. He’s a guy who sticks to his principles and his people. You can see that in his personal life, where he married his college sweetheart Lindsey (with whom he now has two daughters). He’s been a model citizen off the field, never causing trouble or making headlines, and giving back to his Kiowa tribe.

His personality is also just about the platonic ideal for a striker. He’s incredibly humble, never talking himself up or shirking responsibility, yet also has unfailing self-confidence that allows him to keep taking another bite at the apple no matter what’s happened. He’s a genuinely nice guy that other players like, but my word is he intense. Even on the practice pitch, he’s screaming his head off and swearing spectacularly. He has no chill, and it’s awesome. He despises losing, but expresses that in a deeply selfless, team-first ethos. He’s willing to do whatever it takes to win, but he’s incredibly fair. You don’t see cynical challenges or flops from him. I don’t think, in my years of watching him, that I’ve ever seen him do anything I would consider unsporting. I would be willing to wager that there are very few, if any, in the league who have a higher “approval rating” amongst his peers than Wondo.

Those are all reasons why he’s such a leader in the locker room, and why the fans adore him. He’s the kind of guy who will wait after games until the media arrive, even if he’s already showered and dressed, no matter how rough of a night it’s been for him, because he knows the reporters will want a quote from the captain (even though he’ll tell you, he’s not exactly Winston Churchill when it comes to quotes). He treats people with respect. He’s worthy of the love that Quakes fans have for him, and then some.

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And it’s with that context that we must inevitably turn to the event that will likely always be attached to his name for the rest of his life.

As the clock turned over to the 3rd minute of second-half stoppage time, and the ball descended from the heavens, Wondo arrived in a position that is so on-brand for him that he might as well have had it trademarked. The ball bobbled for a half volley, and Belgium’s human Gumby, 6’7″ Thibaut Courtois, was closing him down. Wondo couldn’t get his boot fully over it and the skied the ball over the bar from just 6 yards out. The game remained a draw through the end of regulation, sending it to extra time, where a superior Red Devils side finally put the Yanks to bed.

True to form, he didn’t duck reporters after it happened, resulting in one of the most painful, tragic quotes I’ve come across in my sportswriting career:

I’ll always think about it. I think about every miss. I think about misses I had against Real Salt Lake three years ago. It was such a big moment on a big stage. I really do wish I had it back. I play it over and over. But it is what it is. That miss is going to help me. It’s one of those things that will be a driving force and help motivate me. In offseasons, and during hard times, I’ll go back to that and really push through it, because I don’t want that feeling again.

Immediately, we had Bill-Buckner-like scapegoatery. It was intense. And it persisted for many years, helped along by media bottom-feeders who to this day describe any fluffed chance as “pulling a Wondo.” Any tweet about him from a national account will reliably draw a slew of replies that are nothing but the gif of the miss.

Of course, like all infamous scapegoatings, it ignored all sorts of other factors. First off, the US was utterly outplayed throughout the match and didn’t much deserve to win. Second, there were other “gimme” chances missed, like Clint Dempsey’s 114th minute mistake that no one seems to remember. Third, it wasn’t actually a gimme chance: it was a difficult descending ball that he had to catch on the half-volley and knock it into a tight, rapidly closing angle. Only a casual fan would call it a tap-in. Ironically, if Wondo wasn’t such a genius at making runs, he probably never would’ve been in a position to mis-hit that strike in the first place. And all that was on the line was advancing to the quarterfinals, territory the USMNT had found itself in before.

Why, then, did Wondo become the enemy? Perhaps it was a channeling of fan anger about Landon Donovan’s omission, since it represented a plausible counter argument to Jurgen Klinsmann’s still-controversial decision. But more likely, it reflected a well known psychological tendency that leads to scapegoating: it’s much easier to see the world in terms of individuals and moments when assigning blame than it is to engage in the messy and ambiguous analysis of entire systems. It’s easier to make a gif of a missed shot than of barriers to player development. I don’t blame fans for wanting to avoid looking into the abyss of all the flaws of the administration of soccer in America when analyzing a failure to advance. Wondo’s error is a simple answer to a complicated question, and those never go out of style.

So Wondo was Bill Buckner. He was Steve Bartman. He was Andres Escobar.

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Perhaps the vitriol from outside is what brought Quakes fans and their talisman closer together. When it comes to redeeming the San Jose legend, however, the responsibility falls with every other American soccer fan to reach deep within their hearts to forgive him, and their reward will be the ability to enjoy a beautiful, improbable footballer as he celebrates a truly remarkable feat.

It shouldn’t be too much to ask. Red Sox put Bill Buckner in the World Series victory parade in 2004, after all, didn’t they?