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So, the Philadelphia Union won. That’s what the Philadelphia 2-2 Chicago (Oct 26, 2025) Ga... So, the Philadelphia Union won. That’s what the Philadelphia 2-2 Chicago (Oct 26, 2025) Game Analysis - ESPN says, anyway. They’re up 1-0 in the series, Jesús Bueno is the hero of the penalty shootout, and the Supporters’ Shield winners are marching on. Hooray.
Give me a break.
I watched that game, and calling that a "win" is like saying you passed an exam after the professor took pity on you and graded on a curve so steep it was basically a vertical line. For 80 minutes, this was the team everyone expected. The best team in the East, at home, against a Chicago Fire squad that hadn't seen the postseason since 2017. It was a foregone conclusion. Newcomers Vassilev and Iloski looked like they’d been playing playoff soccer their whole lives, putting the Union up 2-0. It was comfortable. It was dominant. It was… boringly inevitable.
And then the clock hit the 84th minute, and the Union decided to perform a live, televised demonstration of how to set a winning lottery ticket on fire.
The Champion's Curse is Real
Let's be real for a second. Winning the Supporters' Shield is supposed to be proof of concept. It means you were the most consistent, most dominant team over a grueling season. It’s the marathon, not the sprint. But in MLS, it's also a curse. It’s like being the smartest kid in class all year, acing every pop quiz and homework assignment, only to show up for the final exam and completely forget how to hold a pencil.
That’s what this felt like. The Union had the answers. They controlled the game. Chris Brady, Chicago's goalie, didn't have to make a single save in regulation. Not one. That tells you everything you need to know about how one-sided this was.
But then, complacency. Arrogance? Maybe. Jonathan Bamba scores for Chicago. Okay, a little late-game drama, fine. The crowd at Subaru Park gets a little tense, the players look a bit rattled. It happens. But what followed was a total meltdown. No, 'meltdown' is too simple. It was a systematic, self-inflicted implosion, capped off by the most perfectly ironic gut punch imaginable.
Who scores the equalizer in the 93rd minute? Offcourse, it’s Jack Elliott. A guy who played six seasons in Philly, a guy who knows that stadium better than his own living room, comes back in a different jersey and shoves their season to the very brink of disaster. You can’t write this stuff. It’s too on-the-nose. What do you even do as a fan in that moment? Do you curse him or just stare into the abyss, wondering what sins your city committed to deserve this kind of sports karma?
And don’t even get me started on the new playoff format. This whole best-of-three thing is a solution in search of a problem, designed for TV slots instead of sporting integrity. It feels less like a playoff series and more like a focus group’s idea of what a playoff series should be. It just adds another layer of weirdness to an already chaotic system.
A Victory Built on a Prayer and a Crossbar
So we go to penalties. The great equalizer. The coin flip that we all pretend is a test of skill and nerve. Andre Blake, a guy who has let in 20 goals in his postseason career, suddenly has to be the savior. Both keepers make a save, trading blows like tired heavyweight fighters in the 12th round.
Then Joel Waterman steps up for Chicago. You could feel the tension through the screen. The entire season, for both teams, felt like it was resting on that one kick. He strikes it, and for a split second, it looks good. Then you hear it. That hollow, metallic CLANG as the ball smacks the crossbar and flies into the night sky. It's the sound of hope dying. The sound of a sure thing evaporating. It's the sound that saved the Philadelphia Union from complete and utter humiliation.
Jesús Bueno slots his home, and the place erupts. But what are they celebrating, really? Survival? The fact that they got bailed out by a few inches of aluminum? This wasn't a display of championship mettle. It was a lucky escape. They didn't win because they were the better team in the clutch; they won because Chicago's luck ran out one kick sooner than theirs did.
This win doesn't feel like a foundation for a championship run. It feels like a warning shot. It exposed a fragility that the best team in the league simply shouldn't have. They go to Chicago on Saturday, and now the Fire know something they didn't before: they can break this team. They found the cracks. What happens when they start hammering away at them again on their own turf?
So, Are We Pretending This Was Good?
Look, a win is a win in the standings. I get it. The Union lead the series 1-0 and that's all that technically matters. But anyone who watched that game and thinks this team is on a confident path to the MLS Cup is kidding themselves. They didn't snatch victory from the jaws of defeat; they tripped, fell face-first into the finish line, and got the medal anyway. This wasn't a triumph. It was a warning. And if they don't fix whatever caused that last-minute collapse, their next game in Chicago won't be a celebration—it'll be an autopsy.