Real Salt Lake vs LAFC: MLS Absurdity as a Mirror to Global Chaos

Real Salt Lake vs LAFC: A Riot in the Rockies, a Ballet in Beverly Hills—And Why a Kazakhstani Goat Herder Should Care

SALT LAKE CITY—High above the Great Basin, where the air is thin and the liquor laws Byzantine, two Major League Soccer franchises prepared to do battle last night with the solemn urgency of UN Security Council members arguing over whose turn it is to veto lunch. Real Salt Lake—an outfit named for a condiment, because nothing screams sporting grandeur like seasoning—hosted Los Angeles Football Club, the league’s designated Hollywood darling. From the vantage point of a press box that smelled faintly of fry sauce and existential dread, the match felt less like 90 minutes of football and more like a referendum on the American experiment itself.

Globally, of course, nobody was watching. The Champions League had already monopolized European eyeballs, Africa was busy crowning a new AFCON champion, and Asia had moved on to calculating how many carbon credits it takes to air-condition the next World Cup. But in the Intermountain West, where polygamy is retro-chic and snow arrives in July, this was the Super Bowl, Met Gala, and Papal Conclave rolled into one. Tickets on the secondary market fetched sums that could ransom a minor royal in Liechtenstein, proving once again that scarcity plus alcohol equals irrational exuberance.

On paper, LAFC appeared the obvious favorite: a roster curated like a Spotify playlist of South American wonderkids, European castoffs, and one American midfielder whose surname sounds like a Silicon Valley start-up. They arrived in Utah fresh from a tactical masterclass that resembled a TED Talk delivered by caffeinated velociraptors. Their coach, a man whose hairline recedes faster than Antarctic ice shelves, had promised “verticality with emotional intelligence,” which in layman’s terms means they kick the ball forward while feeling slightly guilty about it.

Real Salt Lake, meanwhile, countered with a squad assembled from the MLS equivalent of a consignment shop: one Croatian who once nutmegged Modrić in a dream, a Ghanaian whose passport contains more stamps than the US Postal Service, and a homegrown striker so polite he apologizes to goalposts after missing. Their style is best described as “Rocky Mountain Gothic”: lots of long balls, dramatic weather delays, and the persistent sense that divine judgment is imminent.

The match itself unfolded like a Scandinavian noir: slow, brooding, and periodically interrupted by scenes of graphic violence. LAFC scored early via a move that involved 43 passes, three feints, and what looked suspiciously like interpretive dance. Real equalized when a cross deflected off a seagull—local ornithologists have already named it “Bobby”—and looped over the keeper with the tragic grace of a stock market crash. By halftime, both fan bases had achieved the kind of emotional exhaustion usually reserved for Brexit negotiations.

Second half substitutions introduced fresh legs and fresh despair. LAFC’s $15 million super-sub attempted a rabona cross that sailed into orbit; somewhere, Elon Musk added it to his satellite count. Real’s teenage winger, fresh from high school algebra, skinned three defenders before being hacked down by a Venezuelan whose yellow card came with a side of ranch dressing. The referee—an Oregonian barista moonlighting as fate’s middle manager—consulted VAR for so long that spectators aged visibly.

Then came the 89th-minute winner: a 35-yard thunderbolt from Real’s journeyman midfielder, a man whose career arc resembles a Greek tragedy performed by sock puppets. The stadium erupted with the primal scream of a populace that has endured decades of Jazz playoff disappointment and polygamist documentaries. LAFC’s bench looked like they’d just audited their crypto portfolio on a Tuesday.

In the mixed zone, players offered platitudes about “character” and “moments” while reporters asked questions so bland they could qualify as war crimes. Outside, Utah’s midnight sun cast long shadows over tailgates where fans debated whether the victory merited upgrading their temple recommend.

So why should the aforementioned Kazakhstani goat herder—or anyone beyond the Wasatch Front—give a damn? Because MLS, for all its artisanal quirks and salary-cap socialism, is quietly becoming the world’s most honest league: a place where ambition collides with geography, where money can’t always buy coherence, and where every match feels like a census of human folly. Last night in Sandy, Utah, two teams proved that even in an era of global superclubs and sovereign-wealth-fund cosplay, 22 confused millionaires can still produce something magnificently, absurdly alive.

The final whistle confirmed what we always suspected: the universe is indifferent, but occasionally it lets the underdog win—if only to keep the gambling apps in business.