Welcome back members of one of the globe’s most exclusive
clubs,
Editor’s
retroactive notes:
Fumbling
toward the word “syndicate”
Such a touching response. Put a bow on a piece by placing
your soul on the table and suddenly you’ve been transubstantiated from a lowly
bookie with beady eyes to a contemporary salon pontificator capable of
inspiring the world. J Amen, brothers. A pleasure to hear from you all,
even those too feeble-willed to sprinkle the collection plate with a bet or
two. Before I allow the priest metaphor to carry me away on the blessed ass,
I’ll illustrate how humble and bruised my own ass is:
My Stats:
Spread: 4-4
Straight up: 5-1-2
Some startling results have given me a black eye. No
worries. I’ll soldier on through. The developments of this exciting tournament
only hit me because they love me. I refuse to run away! Far from sprinting away
from the surprises that abruptly cracked my mandible, I plan to wipe off the
blood and openly embrace them. Round one warrants a Rambling Section:
--Following the unholy mess that was the Portuguese opener,
I’m overcome by the urge to concoct some sort of betting mantra. No easy task.
Thus far the best I’ve been able to devise: “Don’t bet on Catholic Countries
when they face Eastern Orthodox countries occupying the same latitude.” File
that away.
--With respect to the Croatian uniforms, if you would kindly
return my dead grandmother’s tablecloth, it would be both respectful and mature
of you.
--Otto Rehhagel is truly a man who knows where his towel is.
Anyone else catch the Greeks taunting a Portuguese crowd in a Portuguese
stadium with chants “Otto über Alles”? We almost had another European war on
our hands.
--Washing the bitter taste of the Germany vs. Netherlands
match out of my grill began with the observation that one could interpret
player names as dishes in an exotic three-course meal. Start off with some Lahm
with a side of van Bronckhorst. Trade up for a plate of Frings and
Schweinsteiger. Wash it all down with some van der Meyde and expel a van der
Vaart. I’m hungry. L
--Someone needs to explain to me how Barthez saves that
penalty, or how Beckham managed to choke that badly. How the sheep-shagging
fuck does Warwick Davis best Val Kilmer?
--I’ll be the one to say it: Zidane looks like a strung-out
version of Big Bird.
--German trainer Rudi Voeller will be faced with some tough
decisions in the coming days. Among them, when he plans to find a toupee that
actually matches his moustache.
--On the topic of facial hair, why is Kevin Kuranyi doing
his utmost to resemble a gangbanging prison rapist named Julio?
--Looks as if the Swedes still know how to rape and pillage.
Thought those barbarian hordes retired into a quiet life of designing angular
furniture schemes? Think again. The Vikings live!
--Only Adam Sandler’s “Opera Man” can adequately describe
the lethargic play of every Italian outfielder. “Shhh….el dozo. Shhh….el dozo.”
--Let’s get our shit together, Czechs! If you can’t handle
the Latvians, how in the hell do you expect to get that American backpacker off
your couch? Show some more resolve!
--Watching the Spanish and listening to Miles Davis’s
“Sketches of Spain” correspond in that one finds oneself waiting for a
crescendo that never comes.
--Some fine additions to the “fascism on the force” arrow
included anecdotes of seat-belt tickets, teenagers breaking city curfew, and
half-a-dozen run ins with the impotent yet assertive Campus Police. “Do you
want me to call the real cop, son? If you don’t tone down your expletives a notch
I might start to consider deliberating on it!”
--A thrilling French victory sent their manic coach over the
edge. Someone get this cat some Juju beads and an Enya tape. As usual, nothing
the French do threatens to make remote sense.
Editor’s
retroactive notes:
Meh. I’d like to claim that this bit was funny at the
time, but truthfully it still blew and I spent an entire afternoon intensely
disliking myself for it. This being something of a frequent occurrence, perhaps
I could use some Juju Beads and an Enya tape.
It may be too early to make any grand predictions, but we
can still rank all sixteen teams based on their debuts while fitting in a
superfluous ethnic slur or two.
1) Sweden 
The Swedish Steamroller is out of the gate and off to their
best start ever. Can’t wait to see if they can replicate their high-scoring
hijinks against a non-beer league team.
2) France 
The defending champs carry all the momentum along with a
certain je ne sais quoi. They’re poised to make another run for title, sulking
all the way.
3) Greece 
Are they for real?
The Greeks are nothing if not persistent salesmen. String together some
more victories and you might even wear me down. “No, my friend, my friend, my
friend, my friend. Dis very good team. You some very much like this team, my
friend. Good team for you. Nice fit for you, my friend. You buy team. I give
you good deal my friend. My cousin is on team and you like deal I you give.
Very, very good team. Team fit you and deal fit us” What choice do I have?
4) Spain 
No points for style, but they got the job done. With a win
worth three points and style worth the jeans you wore on a night out on Bourbon
Street, La Roja are off to a respectable start.
5) Czech Republic 
They secured three points they could not afford to lose.
Czech P.M. Vladimir Spira reportedly wants to call a press conference during
which he downs a German lager next week and Schröder is prepared to do the same
should the Krauts prevail. I don’t consider this evolving European tradition to
be blasphemous at all. What’s truly sacrilege is when U.S. mayors wager a crate
of Oranges against a box of cookies. You sully the fine name of gambling!
6) Netherlands 
I’ll admit it: The goofy Germans were the fitter team on the
pitch that day. Still a good result for both sides
7) Deutschland 
So much more work to do, but I liked what I saw.
8) Portugal 
It a’int over by a long shot. Though their confidence must
be in tatters, they’ve got the gifts
9) England 
A nasty knock delivered by the French. They got knocked
down, but they’ll get up again. Take a deep Limey breath and focus on thrashing
the rest of the pretender’s in the group. The worst is behind you.
10) Russia 
They hung with the Spaniards and might yet still be hanging
around come quarterfinals. We remain in the dark, much like the plethora of
fans bringing Soviet Union flags to the games. Er….guys…there’s something you
need to know.
11) Denmark 
An outside chance remains. They looked the superior side
against the Italians.
12) Italy 
Big trouble in Dago-land. If they can’t fend off the surging
Swedes, it’s practically over.
13) Croatia 
Not good enough, my Adriatic Amateurs. The Anglo-Franco
competitors won’t be so forgiving. Book your flights now.
14) Latvia 
Bet you guys are tired after that defiantly spunky
performance. Might as well take the next two games off. Don’t forget to visit
the Port of Lisbon before you head back home. In fact, just forfeit the next
two matches and spend the next week touring beaches.
15) Switzerland 
Ach, Hans. Louie and Faro are gorgeous this time of year.
You might even have time to squeeze in a trip to Gibraltar. There’s really no
point in showing up to play.
16) Bulgaria 
Can we do just a bit better than a 0-5 drubbing? I suggest
you guys put in an appearance for no other reason than to improve on that,
which you can’t really help. After you’re done with Friday’s match, put in an
appearance at some low country vineyards.
ALERT: WE’VE COME TO THE LINES. YOU MAY START READING NOW
Wednesday
Greece vs. Spain
vs.
vs.
Can lightning strike twice? The land of Zeus says fuck yeah.
Thunderbolt their asses. Looks like we all swallowed a boulder when we wrote
this team off. This bookie, however, remains reluctant to drink the kool-aid.
The Press maintains that both sides are fit and will likely trot out the same
starting eleven. Greek strikers Vryzas and Charisteas were non-factors in the
opening match and should be comfortably neutralized by in form full backs
Carlos Puyol and Albeda. Raul Bravo also had a stellar debut. Of course, the
only Raul on the Spanish team that is so commanding that he doesn’t even need
his last name printed on his Jersey is Real Madrid striker Raul (Gonzalez). He
and Morientes make for an especially intimidating pair up front. It’s unclear
if the Greeks can find an answer to this duo.
The Hellenes are woefully outclassed in the midfield, where
Basinas and Giannakopoulos lacked any fluid ability to open up some space.
Spain often plays a 5-2-3, keeping only Vicente and Baraja in the midfield,
with Albeda the X-factor that can creep up. This trio should be able to own the
entire portion of the pitch. Spanish trainer eternally known as “That guy they
hastily promoted after Camacho resigned” has options of the bench too. The “Two
Xavis” can step up to reclaim the midfield should there be any unforeseen
problems.
Otto occupies a special place in my heart, having coached my
hometown FC Kaiserslautern from promotion to the Bundesliga Title in 1998. He’s
still no magician and has a depleted bench to work with. Athetico’s Demis
Nikolaidas is still unfit for a full match and the rest of the bench are
nothing but a bunch of grizzled has-beens. I’ve a patented bookie hunch that
we’ll be talking about this team deep into the tournament. For now the laws of
football gravity dictate they must come crashing back down to earth.
THE LINE: Spain +1 goal
Editor’s
retroactive notes:
RESULT:
Spain 1, Greece 1. How could I have ever doubted “Rehhakles”? He ended up
benching Basinas and yanking Giannakopoulos at halftime. The unexpected
adjustments led the Hellenes to engineer some scintillating forward runs and La
Roja spent much of the final 45 on their heels. Moriente’s goal was a clinical
finish, but the Greek equalizer was a sight to behold. The Bundesliga’s very own
Vassilos Tsiartas was the midfield presence I failed to account for and he sent
a sailing assist 50 meters directly to the toe of Werder Bremen’s Angelos
Charisteas. To his credit, “guy who was hastily promoted after Camacho
resigned” pulled out all the stops to finish the Greeks off, including subbing
in Joaquin at halftime and later bravely pouring attackers Valeron and Torres
onto the pitch. The kill shot simply eluded them. The legend of “King Otto”
began to gather steam.
Portugal vs. Russia
vs. The road to restoration starts right here. Beat back these inferior gnats and take back your honor! Europe is looking to hire Portuguese P.M. Durai Barrosso as European Commissioner. We shall withdraw our nomination if you fail to defend the continent’s dignity! Battle for the West, Navigators. Fight for consumerism!
Hardly an original pep talk, every last national daily
newspaper has some choice words for Scolari: Win big or cart your arse back to
the southern hemisphere. Scolari remains poker-faced, tight-lipped about the
massive lineup overhaul he’s surely contemplating. Some are so brash as to
suggest the entire defensive backfield will be culled. No word on whether Rui
Costa, Simao, or Figo will retain their starting spaces. We bookmakers are
forced to admit that the only thing we know for certain is the reality that we
know nothing.
Whatever combination Scolari chooses, his task pales in
comparison to the one facing “Hey” Georgi Yartsev. He’ll have to do without his
dirtiest trench warrior Roman Sharonov, suspended after double yellows attained
last match. He’s also booted Alexander Mostovoi off the team. His chief striker
Dimitri Bulykin runs like Clinton and Marat Izmailov seems to be more spaced
out than some of the players in Rodney Dangerfield’s “Ladybugs”. The Russians
limp into a contest against a drunken brute severely pissed off that he tripped
over a nail and fell flat on his face in front of his girlfriend. For the first
time in recorded history, Russians are poised to lose an intoxicated adversary.
THE LINE: Portugal +2 goals
Editor’s
retroactive notes:
RESULT:
Portugal 2, Russia 0. Before analyzing this stomping, I’ll take a moment to
apologize to anyone outraged that European (and for that matter Women’s)
tournaments tend to contain more technical scrutiny at the expensive of a
morbidly lewd sense of humor. There are two central reasons for this. First, a
smaller tournament affords me more space to get slightly wonkish with the whole
spiel, even if my reasoning exhibits gaping holes. Second, the audience for a
more circumscribed collection of countries differs markedly from the global
audience which perilously flirts with losing interest during a World Cup
Tournament. It did not take long for me to realize that I was speaking to a
different group of bettors when covering the Euros. This cohort appreciates
some finely focused material. The World Cup more closely resembles a huge
multivariate global rave for big money. It behooves me much to keep my
cognitive exposition to myself in favor of the most universally understood
sexually charged topics. I broach the subject only as a polite foreshadowing
intimation to more tepid fans. Plenty more insider football talk to come.
Plenty of dick jokes too if you’d care to stick around.
Scolari
dropped only Rui Costa, giving Deco his big break. Within the first seven
minutes Deco linked up with Maniche for a crisp opening tally. Three starting
defenders were parked on the bench, allowing Ricardo Carvalho and Nuno Valente
a chance to shine. Though Pauletta and Simao were permitted to keep their
starting spots, the slighted Rui Costa and Nuno Gomez replaced them in rapid
succession after the hour mark. The motivational tactic worked wonders as Rui
Costa ran hard and ultimately reclaimed his self-belief, stroking in a
Christiano Ronaldo cross in the game’s dying moments. Figo also retained his
starting spot, but was swapped for Ronaldo as soon as was appropriate for the
morale of both players. The Navigators received some serendipitous assistance
from Russian keeper Sergei Ovchinnikov. In one of the most profoundly stupid
plays I’ve ever seen, he was sent off for handling the ball outside the area
shortly before halftime. A further weakened ten-men Russian ship of fools may
have constituted an easy target, but Scolari’s careful management of his talent
stock was most impressive.
Thursday
Switzerland vs. England
vs. Here’s another team that looking to climb back in the saddle, muster atop their valiant steed if you will. The Swiss thankfully provide appallingly pathetic opposition. So meaningless are the Helvetians that even their font is of no use. England’s John Terry will return to give a demoralized side just the boost they need to put the freakishly twisted defeat to the French behind them. Beckham and Owen will play better simply by default. Frank Lampard and Gary Neville had solid enough initiations that they can build upon.
The Swiss will play absent PSV Eindhoven’s Johann Vogel,
suspended after his dismissal in the Croatian match. Kicking a sick dog is no
pastime for a romantic softie such as myself….unless the dog happens to be a
way of allegorizing the Swiss. Go home, ye yodeling mountain men and take your
“Köbi Coach” with you. Watching animated coaches is part of the fun. This man
blinks less than Steve Forbes. I imagine he’ll wear the same placid face even
as he dies of agonizing renal failure. God save the Queen!
THE LINE: England +2 goals
Editor’s
retroactive notes:
RESULT:
England 3, Switzerland 0. The time had come for young Wayne Rooney of
Liverpool. This will forever be immortalized as his breakout game. At that time
he was but an overly freckled little Evertonian aspirant with natural hair.
Twenty some odd minutes in. Gerard to Beckham, Beckham to Owen, Owen to
ROOONEY. WAYNE ROONEY! THE YOUNGEST PLAYER EVER TO SCORE IN THE EUROPEAN
CHAMPIONSHIP! The Swiss threw most of the back line forward, much to their
detriment. Paul Scholes should have made it 3-0 by the time “lil Wayne”
consternated everyone with a fake return pass followed by a firecracker of shot
from an impossible angle. 2-0 England off a Rooney brace. Roughly one minute
after Steven Gerard finished off a Gary Neville drop, Sven gave Rooney a
much-deserved curtain call. The Limeys rose from their seats to applaud their
new savior. The Beckham Era was over. “Admiral Rooney” would steer the course
from now on.
France vs. Croatia
vs. The entire armchair community is riding this pretty blue pony. I know of only one EU Football expert who thinks France won’t repeat as Champions. His name is Bjorn and he’s a very sad and lonely character whom everyone secretly dislikes. The Froggies are riding high after the thrilling last-minute attestation of their credentials. Who da champs now? Who dat say gonna beat them Frogs? The French fucked the English over with all the kinky flair of that irresistibly doomed circus freak girl you just knew you should have never brought home. After heaving and screeching on top for a half hour she reaches her orgasmic climax and punches you in the face. Stop pretending as if I’m the only one to have this happen to him. You just don’t want to talk about it.
The French will get Descailly back and lose Makelele. The
former has fully recovered from his injury while the latter re-aggravated his.
Mums the word on Santini, who may very well not even be in the stadium. None of
this is relevant for the French, for whom Henry and Trezuguet appear in
spectacular form. Even old man Zidane looks six years younger. Let Les Bleus
times roll.
THE LINE: France +2 goals
Editor’s
retroactive notes:
RESULT:
France 2, Croatia 2. Silvestre conceded yet another penalty and the Croats demonstrated
how one shoots a spot kick past a dwarf keeper. AIM HIGH! Descailly played a
miserable match, allowing the Monaco striker Dado Prso to treat him like a
turnstile moments later. The French were fairly lucky to escape with a point
from this one. Trzeguet received an auspicious bounce that enabled him to coax
the ball into an empty net. Henry seemed to be shooting for some other net
positioned closer to the parking lot. The other French goal came courtesy of
Croatian Defender Igor Tudor, who whiffed on a clearance and ending up putting
the ball in his own net. Everyone dismounted from the pony after this game. The
prurient sexual dynamo put her clothes back on and sauntered over to a dark
corner where she could broom amidst the haze produced by chain-smoking
Gauloises.
Friday
Denmark vs. Bulgaria
vs. The most interesting thing about this match is the name of the Bulgarian Keeper: Zdradkov Zradkovo. Those must be some really cool monogrammed towels stacked up in the linen closet. Some of you have written me with the fair criticism that I utilize too much hackneyed alliteration. I accept this objection you “nattering nabobs of negativism”. Now allow me to humor you haters with a complete breakdown of this meeting between the “Dashing Danes” and the “Blundering Bulgarians”
As noted above, the Bulgarians will play better…if only
because their mothers would be capable of playing better. They still don’t
stack up against a Danish side that will have Everton’s Thomas Gravesen back
from suspension and Chelsea’s Jasper Gronkar back from a family funeral. The
Danes performed quite well absent their midfield stars last time out. The new
additions will only further heighten the play of established super strikers Jan
Dahl Thomason and Dennis Rommedahl. The Danes possess plenty of verifiable
weapons. The Bulgarians possess…well….Zradkov Zradkovo.
THE LINE: Denmark +2 goals
Editor’s
retroactive notes:
RESULT:
Denmark 2, Bulgaria 0. The memorable moment from this match occurred some
twenty minutes in when Rommedahl essentially snapped his right leg in two after
coming down from an aerial challenge. Scary stuff. As much simulation takes
place on the pitch, it’s important for casual fans of the game to know that
lower limb injuries incurred during a game, in point of fact, fucking hurt like
hell. Next time you spring forth from your horizontal position on the couch and
spit out a mouth full of Cheetos to express outrage over a player grasping his
shins as he rolls around on his back, recall the infamous scene from “Family
Guy”:
Sweden vs. Italy
vs. I wish I had a button to press. No button in sight. Hmmm…..I suppose I’ll just bang on my desk emphatically. UPSET ALERT!! UPSET ALERT!! Wooooooo—hooooo! UPSET ALERT!! My dearest forlorn Italian Stallions, I’m feeling remarkably magnanimous today. It is my benevolent pleasure to give you an opportunity to win your money back. I’ve taken your head and with it your power. What distinguishes a football tournament from the Highlander Series is that you’re still alive. We’ll make this a pick, meaning your cherished Azzuri only have to win by ONE TRIFLING GOAL. Before making it official, I’ll afford myself some trash talk space.
Trusting your team proved impossible even before they laid
a heaping steaming pile of shit on the pitch against the Danes. Have I
mentioned that your head coach is completely in his cups? Zanetti and
Cameronesi in midfield? Bahahahahaha. The jig is up. I heaped praise on your
predictably underachieving forwards del Piero and Viera just to lure you into a
false sense of security. Pannucci and Zambrotta are the only true talents. In
front of them sit an unfit group of primadonnas with no chemistry. Priceless
how I had you fooled! You buffoons ate it up. Ahahahahahaha. Now you’ve lost
Totti to a replay suspension and you’re about to get smacked up by the Swedes.
Forza Italia! Sei un po babbeo o dici solo delle sciochezze?
You may find yourself mollified by the fact that I am in the
minority among bookmakers. Vegas, Bodog, and practically every online gaming
site still have the Wops as odds-on favorites. I happen to know something that
the more experienced odds makers don’t. Namely, busting you guy’s balls is
always an effective strategy. Want to see me eat my words? Wouldn’t it be more
satisfying if some cash were flowing in your direction?
THE LINE: Pick em’
Editor’s
retroactive notes:
RESULT:
Italy 1, Sweden 1. You honestly haven't lived until you’ve bathed in money.
Ever dump some fat stacks in the tub and loofa up your course skin with bills?
We going sizzlin’, goin’ sizzlin’. So much money. You can’t stop that. After
this match I was lighing' up cigarettes again, if only to relish in the please
of setting bills on fire like a true king in the counting house. Cassano took
Totti’s place, giving the Italians an early lead and me a spot of indigestion.
Low and behold, however, Ibrahimovic knocked in a loose ball after a scramble
in the 85th minute. I’ll never forget that moment, voiced by Javier
something-or-other-o on the Spanish Channel. “Iiiiibraaahiiiimooovic. La
Fuerta. La fuerta. GOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOL. GOL. GOL. GOL. GOL. GOL.
G-G-G-G-Gooooooool”. To this day I refuse to watch a contest involving
Ibrahimovic unless I can hear the Spanish announcers string out every last one
of the surfeit of vowels in his name
“Iiiiibraaahiiiimooovic.” Alas, the ecstasy was fleeting. L Less than twenty four hours
later, it was time to run a large chunk of that the money through the dryer and
send it back.
Saturday
Deutschland vs. Latvia
vs. What a great game to entertain some friends with on a Saturday morning. By the end of this round, Portugal, France, and the Good Ship Fatherland should be right back on course. My frustrated Jungs can find an outlet for the blatant obstructionism the faced against the Dutch by lighting these losers up, Saudi Style. What part of “über alles in der Welt” do you fail to comprehend? As heavily favored as my Mannschaft is in this mismatch, we are in dire need of some modifications if this shutout is to be the convincing romp we require:
1) Kuranyi can’t do it alone. We need another striker.
Voeller has been tentative to use Klose as he’s recovering from a knee injury,
but if there was ever a time we needed the man who scored five goals last
tournament it’s now. We should sacrifice a defender (probably Wörns) and trot
out a 4-4-2 formation.
2) Hamann and Schneider appear non-existent on the flanks.
Klose will be rendered completely useless unless we can exploit the width of
the pitch and whip in some crosses. Schweinsteiger may not be ready for the
start, but Kehl or even blast from the past Jeremies might complement Ballack
better.
3) Should Klose start, either Bodic or Bradic must be ready
to come on around the hour mark. Though the two Yugoslavs are way over the
hill, they might still serve as emotional catalysts during the final push.
4) Schweinsteiger needs to come in at the restart and no
later.
So there we have it Herr Völler. We’re all waiting to
exhale. Know what? I’ll go ahead and exhale now. I’m so confident in my Jungs
that I’ve invited two lovely ladies to come by the apartment to watch this
massacre with me. I know you’ll deliver!
THE LINE: Deutschland +3 Goals
Editor’s
retroactive notes:
RESULT:
Germany 0, Latvia 0. Having a strong memory really is a curse. Oh but I could
only forget this wholly forgettable match. After spending a week extolling the
virtues of the beautiful game and touting the amazing skill of the Mannschaft,
I ended up screening a goalless draw for two football virgins. They left much
chagrinned that they even elected to come in the first place. Bloody hell. Had
the Jungs actually put on a show, there’s no telling how it might have ended! Goddamn
it. Reliving this fiasco will surely be as internally painful as watching the
tape of my field sobriety test. Nevertheless, both are excruciating journeys
one must embark upon should one wish to better comprehend this world. Fuck me.
Here goes:
Jens
Nowotny’s injury enabled Völler to play a 4-4-2 without benching any of the
backs. In a curious move he started Fredi Bobic alongside Kuranyi. The pairing
was a complete disaster, as the younger and hungrier Kuranyi’s timing was
incompatible with Bobic’s and he ended up in an offside position no fewer than
12,290 times. As faintly presaged, Frings and Ballack played strongly while
Hamann and Schneider did absolutely nothing to spark the midfield. Lahm and
Friedrich did their best to compensate for the lack of any forward momentum on
the flanks, creeping forward in that audacious way that would become their
calling card. This only led to some embarrassing defensive errors including a
handball booking for Friedrich. “So they’re really not allowed to use their
hands?” asked my guest. Towards the end of the first half, Ballack and Kuranyi
managed to put some attempts on target and both curled long-range efforts that
narrowly missed the crossbar. Any appreciation of the subtle beauty of such
shots was lost on my company. “So they don’t score often in this game I take
it?”
Schneider
was subbed for Schweinsteiger at the half, Völler being obviously as concerned
as I was that we weren’t getting any balls out wide. The switch succeed in
initiating more offensive play, but all of the blasts from Lahm, Frings,
Ballack, and Schweinsteiger were either well over the bar or directly at the
keeper. The pressure persisted for the next half hour. Although the ball spent
90 percent of the time in the German attacking third real quality chances were
lacking. There was no shortage of free kicks, almost all of them directly at
the keeper Kolinko. Klose replaced Bobic shortly after the hour mark to no
effect. When it became apparent that Kuranyi couldn’t stay onside he was pulled
for Brdaric with a quarter of an hour left. He could do nothing but lurk close
to Kolinko, waiting for gifted rebounds that never came. So it went until full
time. “Well, Peter. It’s been fantastically boring. I think we’re going to
leave now.” Bloody hell. Fuck me.
Netherlands vs. Czech Republic
vs. Nothing between these two very talented sides, both fully healthy and off to strong starts. The Brilliant Orange look to start the fleet-footed youngster Robben, placing the Sneijder/Zenden carousel on hold for the time being. Other than this leaked morsel, the plans of eccentric and unconventional coach Dick Advocaat remain a complete mystery. “Rockin Rud” is conveniently tearing shit up. Stam, Bouma, and van Bronckhorst are keeping things tight at the back. Keeper Van der Sar appears as adroit as any other fourth defender. The Dutch are an impetuous side capable of catching fire at any moment.
Not to be outdone, pushing the Czechs will be as easy as
coaxing my grandfather into admitting the argument is over. Koller and Barros
work well together up front. Their defense mirrors the Dutch approach. Three
Strapping stalwarts and an above average keeper do the work of four. In this
case it’s Grygera, Bolf, Jankulovski, and Cech. Two assault-minded teams can produce
essentially any result. It’ll be a shootout in Aveiro. I’d be pleased to pick a
favorite once I saw the final lineups. Since I don’t have that luxury…..
THE LINE: Pick em’
GENTLEMEN,
ENTER YOUR WAGERS
Editor’s
retroactive notes:
RESULT:
Czech Republic 3, Netherlands 2. You couldn’t have stayed for this one, girls?
A five-goal match that concluded with one of the greatest comebacks in European
Championship History? By this time I had processed the grief, “cleaned the
pipes”, and pleased to watch the team that the Germans would surely beat in
Round Three. A helluva show put on by so-called “German Sandwich” countries. As
promised, Advocaat came through with the surprises, picking Milan’s Clarence
Seedorf to be his midfield general. The Surinamese cyclone delivered,
facilitating the famous “Orange Crush” of unrelenting Dutch pressure. They were
rewarded already in the fourth minute, when Bouma headed in a perfect free kick
from Robben. A quarter of an hour later it was van Nistelroy’s turn to benefit
from Robben’s service. Seedorf could have easily made it 4-0. He hit the post
twice. Advocaat looked like a genius for pairing the two together. Barros
immediately stepped up his game and picked off Dutch captain Cocu. He linked up
with a sprinting Koller who effortlessly beat Van der Sar.
Dick
Advocaat’s keen sense for talent alchemy would not go unnoticed. He eventually
went on to coach South Korea, Belgium, and Russia. He became such a regular
fixture in international football matches that I lovingly christened him with a
German name (Schwanz Befürworter). In defiance of his well-earned reputation,
he made a crucial mistake in this match. He tinkered too much with his
well-oiled machine, subbing Robben out for the innocuous Paul Bosvelt at the
hour mark. Czech coach Karl Brückner sensed his opportunity and brought on
Marek Heinz as his third striker. Heinz drew double coverage, freeing up
Nedved, Koller, and Barros to work an exquisite equalizer. Five minutes later
Dutch defender Johnny Heitinga was sent off on a double yellow. The Dutch had
to reorganize their defense, taking out Andy van der Meyde. An offense-oriented
team reduced to ten never fails to look the hideous sight. Nedved hit the
crossbar, Ujfalusi had a scorcher blocked, and Heinz forced Van der Sar into an
acrobatic save. As supple as Van der Sar proved to, he couldn’t keep from
relinquishing the rebound. Pobrovsky scooped it up and laid it off squarely to
Smicer, an ambitious offensive substitute brought on shortly after the Dutch
took their 2-0 lead. In the 88th Minute all the moves of this
semi-chess match clicked into place. Zack, zack, zack. God I love football.
