As we stood among an anxious, hoarse throng waiting for Toronto FC to set up a final corner kick, my neighbour turned and said, "Hey, Toronto might be the first team to have it's first-ever goal scored by a goalie."

An interesting and timely observation, in light of two recent goals scored by European keepers - Paul Robinson of Tottenham Hotspur and Andres Palop of Sevilla. Seeing Toronto's lanky Greg Sutton arrive at the top of the Kansas City box, we wondered if history was in the making.

But the corner kick was cleared away, the final whistle blew and the likelihood remains that Toronto's first MLS goal will come in more orthodox fashion, probably less of an embarassment for all concerned.

The observant neighbour is my friend, Vanooch, a title created by dropping the vowel from the final three syllables of his Italian surname. 'Noochi was too much like Gucci, not really him. His countrymen often do that with their first names - Enzo, Renzo, Cenzo, etc. - so I did it with his surname.

We've shared many soccer sojourns the past few years, our boys growing up in our downtown neighbourhood, opponents in house league, teammates on competitive squads. Mine, a tall, two-footed left or right back, his, a darting striker in the mold of an Inzaghi or a Rossi, a right-footed stiletto. They were with us on opening day.

Vanooch figured to be the perfect seatmate for the four season seats I secured before Beckham's transfer announcement triggered a ticket-buying stampede, selling out the stadium for the year and creating a waiting list already two years long.

I heard him before I ever met him, an Abruzzi accent ringing out instructions or booming in goal celebrations from the sideline of an under-7 game one night. He only quieted down when his son's coach asked if he could be allowed to coach the team his way.

He's been lke that for each of the eight years since, an unofficial manager's assistant or referee's 'helper', the only man I've seen get red-carded as a volunteer linesman, for defying orders not to coach while carrying a flag.

He made himself a welcome sight at practices on cool, wet spring mornings, hauling a hamper with a stack of paper cups and carafes of dark, sweet espresso coffee. That recipe would get an octane boost at tournaments when he'd spike it with Italian grappa liqueur and have us all fired up.

And as soccer dads got into animated soccer discussions about international events, you could count on detailed, up-to-the-minute info on Serie A matters and how it all pertained to his beloved AC Milan. He still expects the prodigal striker, Andriy Shevchenko, to escape along the Hernan Crespo trail and return from Chelsea. Any day now.

Owning season tickets for the first time, I wanted the whole rowdy fan experience - the cheering, chanting and singing - and a manic sidekick to join me in tranforming tepid Torontonians into scarf-twirling tifosi. Vanooch had the track record to make him an automatic choice.

So it was something of a shock when the Campobasso Cannon went quiet at kickoff and stayed that way through much of the match. But his eyes were firmly fixed on the details, picking out flaws in certain players' games, debating tactics, deploring unforced errors and accurately forecasting in the first ten minutes that U.S. natonal team striker Eddie Johnson would eventually beat Toronto's defence with his quickness.An hour later, he was right.

I'm not sure I'm comfortable with this. If he wants to be serious, we can always record the game telecasts and study the details later. But I want the real Vanooch for company. Our section underperformed in its first game. They need us.

The way I see it, there's only two ways to bring out the soccer animal  in him.

In the good old days of NASL, we used to have one of our buddies bring a couple of wineskins to the back of the stadium. When we got in, we'd take a long string out, throw it over the railing, haul them up and enjoy a little refreshment at our leisure.

Maybe Mrs. Vanooch could bring a thermos of their high-octane espresso to the back of our section and I'll haul it up.

Or his son's just gonna have to make the team. Soon.