3こんにちは!
Banzai, bitches! Welcome to the elimination round. The
ceremony is about to begin. We’ve dropped our dead weight and all that remain
are sixteen lean, battle-tested nations with a rapacious dream of lording over
the football universe. Knock back another shot of Saké and watch the rest of
this spectacle unfold. Great job by our pancake-faced hosts in entertaining us
thus far. Their dream endures…as does ours. First some business to get out of
the way:
My Updated Stats:
Spread: 20-19-9
Straight up: 29-9-10
Editor’s
retroactive notes:
Blah.
“a rapacious dream of lording over the football universe.” Blah, blah, blah. I
place the blame for this rhetorical brainfart squarely on excessive “Sons of
Liberty” playing. I specifically recall yearning to write something which would
capture the grandiose tenor of the momentous matches before it. I stood on the
cusp of making the proper neural connection. Suddenly. Raiden! What happened?
Talk to me Raiden! Raiden! SANAAAAAAKE!!!
Now shall pause for a brief moment in commemoration of the
fallen:
Saudi Arabia (32nd place) 
Allah ain’t so Akbar. Three defeats by a combined 12-0
margin. I implore women around the world to laugh at these “men”.
China (31st place) 
Someone should check on this. I do believe we find ourselves
in “The year of the retarded lemming”. Three defeats by a combined 9-0 margin.
This team barely even got near the goal.
Editor’s
retroactive notes:
It was
actually “The Year of the Horse” Ma, ma, ma. The Chinese Zodiac is
exceptionally cruel. Some are arbitrarily assigned badass tattoo designs and
cocktail party icebreakers with “Year of the Dragon/Tiger/Snake”. I’m stuck
with the fucking “Year of the Pig”. Xie, xie you ancient astrologist assholes.
Slovenia (30th place) 
Not a bad debut for the Yugoslavs. The dreaded Hungarians
didn’t even make it this far.
Tunisia (29th place) 
Another four years of desert wandering for this diminutive African enclave. They came oh so close to finishing ahead of the French!
France (28th place) 
Our first bombshell. Head Coach Roger Lemerre has already
been fired and Chelsea Striker Marcel Desailly stripped of his captaincy. Time
to regroup over a bottle of Sauvignon and rebuild this team from scratch. We
just witnessed the biggest disaster since “Euro Disney.” Watch out world, the
French are pissed…and likely to detonate a nuclear device at your next Caribbean
Vacation locale just for shits and giggles.
Nigeria (27th place) 
Super boring Super Eagles. They’ll be back to dominate the
next Under 20 African tournament. Somehow this realm produces young superstars
who level off once they spout chest hair. Odd stuff.
Uruguay (26th place) 
Another powerhouse bites the dust. And another one gone, and
another one gone…Christ I love that song. I know Freddie Mercury’s original
intent was to call attention to AIDS, the disease that later claimed both him
and John C. Holmes. Nevertheless, this anthem shall persist so long as human
beings are mortal. And another one gone, and another one gone. “Dust in the
wind”, “Bite the Dust”, “Ashes to Ashes”. Who doesn’t love a good song about
our existential reality? Where was I? Oh Right. Uruguay. A very
uncharacteristically young squad. Look for them again in four years.
Editor’s
retroactive notes:
A
young man wrestles with the great questions. A notion that regularly annoys me
is the presumption that, somehow, there are human beings out there who haven’t
pondered the great metaphysical questions. Yes, I know you’d prefer to isolate
yourself from your fellow 7 billion citizens. I know you’d prefer to think that
most of them are simpletons who aren’t kept awake at night by the same
fathomless torments that cause you to toss and turn. You’d prefer to construct
a reasonable paradigm in which you are simply “different” and learn to accept
your exclusiveness only after a “long struggle” during which all you really did
was decide to ignore everyone else. I’ve news for you, professor of Late
Medieval Poetry. You're only slightly different from all the others. The
internal peace you’ve achieved is nothing more than an illusion. You struggle
as they do. The only true difference entails the unfortunate fact that you’ve
convinced others that your bullshit is worthy of a salary…maybe tenure. Sleep
tight, bitch.
Poland (25th place) 
Frederick the Great knew how to handle Poland. Two hundred
and ninety years later we’ve not heeded his advice. This country continues to
embarrass itself. They did manage to beat the United States when it no longer
mattered…..sort of like the playground bully who decides to punch a girl in the
face after the really big boys shoved him into the mud. What a sad tale. What a
sad country. We’ll see you next time around.
Editor’s
retroactive notes:
What a
coincidence that “Der alte Fritz” recently celebrated his 300th
birthday! Yes, the Berliners came in out force…not quite in the numbers that
they came out for the “Slut-walk”…but they still showed up. Old Prussian
descendants were happy to commemorate the “Spirit of Potsdam”. In times of
great uncertainty, even modern man can be possessed by the yearning for an
“enlightened despot”. Hmmmm….best of luck to those spearheading the “Arab
Spring”!
Ecuador (24th place) 
Salve, oh Patria. That means : “God Save our homeland”.
That’s all I know and ever care to know about Ecuador. Our debutantes ended up
doing better than eight other teams. Not bad, mi hermano carnal. Welcome to the
World Stage. Go home and tell all of your fruit-vending relatives about the
experience!
Croatia (23rd place) 
A very disappointing performance from 1998’s Bronze Medal
Squad. I’ll miss this teams red/white checkered kits…in addition to ruing their
unbelievable choke job against Ecuador. My finance rectum remains rosy red
after that one. Ouch.
Russia (22nd place) 
For the third consecutive World Championship, the former
Soviet Union came agonizing close to breaking through the group, only to
stumble at the last moment. Too many Cossacks on this squad. Most of them still
play in the domestic league where they can literally gain no traction playing
on grassless pitches of mud with the occasional dissident femur sticking out.
Hard to see how this country has much of a future in international football.
Even if they were able to obtain some talent, the mafia would certainly step in
and pay them to dump matches. Get these players out of your eleven time zones!
The Iron Curtain no longer exists! You don’t have to worry about them
defecting. Ah fuck it. Just rebuild your hockey team, and see if you can get a
Cosmonaut or two back up without running into our sophisticated Star Wars
Shield.
Editor’s
retroactive notes:
Ten
years on we’re hitching rides up to the ISS in Soyuz capsules and sabotaging
scientific Martian probes. Look, it’s your own damn fault comrades. History is
unequivocal: The Soviets get Venus, the Americans get Mars, the Moon, and
indeed everything else in the Solar System including and especially Uranus.
Twenty three years after the end of the Cold War the U.S. stands accused of
fomenting democracy protests, interfering with the Russian satellite
communications, provoking mother Russia with missile defense systems in Eastern
Europe (something else we haven't stopped talking about since 2002), and
ramming through unacceptable sanctions through the Security Council. Fuck.
Perhaps things would be better if McFaul has known how to spell “Reset” in Cyrillic,
Yeltsin hasn’t incurred that dramatic brain injury after falling down in
pursuit of the Ice Cream Truck, we had managed to get Lavrov laid more often on
official visits, or know-nothings like me hadn’t been seduced by Putin’s
flawless German and intriguing Russian placid face. IT WAN”T MY FAULT! Germans
cannot help but be inveigled by someone who comes to our country and addresses
us in our own language. JFK said four words and we immediately dropped our
pants! Oh well who knows? The next Astronaut/Cosmonaut team to head up in the
Soyuz needs to watch “Rocky IV” together. Perhaps we all need to do that more
often. As we all know, “if I change…and you change…than…….EVERYBODY CAN CHANGE”
Yes, I
realize there was no coherent flow to that entire last section. It’s late.
Portugal (21st place) 
Un-fucking-believable! What happened to the Navigators? Both
Korea and the U.S pushed them around. This was supposed to be the team to
reclaim the honor of ’66. Instead, they appear rudderless and primed to fade
into perpetual obscurity. Farewell, my Prince Henrys. Who the hell knows when
we’ll see you again?
Editor’s
retroactive notes:
Of
course I could not foresee the rise of Christiano Ronaldo. Nineteen-year-old
Ronaldo burst on the scene in ’04 and within two years was on such an upward
trajectory that he could only be spoken of in hushed terms. He led Portugal to
a third place finish in ’06 and was easily the best footballer in the world in
both ’07 and ’08. Messi eventually matured to knock him off his perch, but
Ronaldo refuses to relinquish the number two spot. Now 27, one might say he’s
slightly past his apex. He’ll still lead Portugal in at least three more
significant international tournaments before he’s washed up. So long as this
beast remains in the lineup, this country need not fear fading into obscurity.
Cameroon (20th place)
Winne Schaefer and crew have no cause to hang their heads
low. They turned in highly competent execution in a stacked group. We’ll see
this football-mad nation again. Expect great things from this Eto’o kid. He
scored the
Editor’s
retroactive notes:
Although
he pieced together a fantastic career playing for Barça and Inter, Eto’o never
quite fully realized his promise for his national team. Although he racked up
Caps and goals, he never quite electrified the pitch and elevated his teammates
in the way that Ronaldo could. He presently pisses away what talent he has left
in the Russian League. Too many football stories have unsatisfying endings L
Costa Rica (19th Place) 
Not a bad finish for a CONCACAF Qualifier. The Turks advance
in their stead only because of goal differential. This team demonstrated a
tremendous amount of heart not relenting in the face of a Brazilian onslaught.
This Wanchope character can boot it!
Editor’s
retroactive notes:
Smiles
all around. I had completely forgotten that I wrote about Wanchope this far
back. I would write extensively about him in 2006 and compose a song for him in
2010. Wan-a-chope, don’t you wanna, Wan-a-Chope, don’t you wanna, Wan-a-Chope,
don’t you wanna?
Argentina (18th Place) 
Speaking of un-fucking-believable, the team that received my
personal seal of approval is already inanimate and cadaverous. LL
A bit of post-mortem is in order. How the fuck did these team manage to score
only two goals?!? I derive the following lessons:
1) Juan Sebastian Veron runs like Clinton. I don’t give a
good god damn whether he plays for Man U or not. This loser exhibits no hustle.
I would say that he should be viciously murdered, but my one South American
reader may take it literally.
2) Losing to England is the same thing as getting beaten up
by a girl. NEVER bet on a team that let’s those Impotent Islanders have their
way with them.
3) Never bet on a team whose average age is 29. While this
may seem young to us, ten to twelve years of playing football multiple times a
week wears down the body in ways that only someone with an advanced medical
degree can understand. These pinstriped pussies moved around like hulking
panzers: inelegant, crawling, and apathetic. It was painful to watch these
slugs slime their way across the pitch. Not since the NHL “Old Timers” game
have I seen such tortoise like lethargy.
4) Next time, this bookie simply won’t pick an overall
favorite to win it. This isn’t the NFL and I can’t even grow facial hair.
Editor’s
retroactive notes:
1)
Veron turned out to be a complete dud and was shipped back to Argentina not
long after the tournament.
2) I
stand by this statement. England will never compete at anything beyond darts,
cricket, and self-loathing.
3)
Having recently turned 29….that was one perceptive nineteen-year-old. My knees,
calves, shins, Quads, and ankles hurt like hell. This would be reason we have
“Over-30 Football Leagues” Your lower body can only take so much pounding.
Jogging used to be a contest of will. Now it merely an exercise in pain
management. L
4)
And…..of course he did. What fun is life if one cannot be recklessly bold? To
answer your burning question, my ability to grow facial hair still sucks.
Certain sections are fine, but a full beard is out the question.
South Africa (17th place) 
How can one not feel for this team? The one country that desperately
required something to rally around falls short of the Round of 16 because of
one measly Paraguayan goal. Dry your tears, Africa.
Editor’s
retroactive notes:
The
announcement that South Africa would host the 2010 Cup came shortly after. The
oft-utilized phrase “Dry your tears, Africa” came from the movie “Amistad” a
moving if not somewhat hackneyed film from ’98. Watch it if you get a chance,
paying special attention to the depiction of the Middle Passage.
As sad as fetishists may be, our attention now turns to the
future…..
Saturday
Deutschland vs. Paraguay
vs. 
Time to call the country by its proper name. Put a bit of good music on the stereo and I’m ready to tell you why the Fatherland will prevail. Paraguay possesses an undeniable talent for scoring goals when playing 3-4-3 formations. They will encounter great difficulty playing against four quality fullbacks with the stalwart ability to commit to their position.
Metzelder, Linke, Zieger, and Rehmer will hold their ground.
Frings may not have scored a goal yet, but he’s the super-midfielder. Bode and
Jancker still know how to move, and can be replaced by Ballack and Klose if
circumstance dictates. Deutsches Fatherland has the superior team. Blüh
deutsches Vaterland!
THE LINE: Germany +2 Goals
Editor’s
retroactive notes:
RESULT:
Germany 1, Paraguay 0. This game turned out to be a nerve-wracking tight rope.
Oliver Neuville earned his reputation as the “Super-sub” in this game. Years
later he would score a last minute goal off David Odonkor’s cross…and the
legend would continue. The irony was that he actually started this game and
only was subbed for Gerald Asamoah in the 92nd minute. The birth of
this legend was nothing more than a fabrication! Later he would perform magnificent
accomplishments as a substitute. In the game he was merely the lucky
beneficiary of a Bierhof pass. The rest is…as those who never look back will
tell you….history.
Denmark vs. England
vs. 
A colony battle stands before us. The Danes colonized England between the 7th and 12th centuries. Lest we allow ourselves to precariously slip into some sort of medieval homage reminiscent of a drunken piss ant at the Renaissance Fair, I propose we undertake an in-depth analysis of these two teams in the ecumenical quest for “The Holy Line”. Dammit…we’ve already succumbed to the enticing song of the sirens! Onwards….
The cautious and responsible English will have the privilege
of presenting their full squad. No players fall victim to suspension. The Danes
will miss Midfielder Brain Steen Nielsen and upstart Christian Poulsen. The
Danes also fail to inspire confidence that their lineup is capable of out-maneuvering
the first dimension. The score-sheet reads Thomason…and not another soul.
Helveg and Jensen have made their contributions, but there is no evidence to
suggest that they may pick this team up and carry them on their shoulders. The
Limeys retain an infamous reputation for faltering at this stage, but one has
difficulty foreseeing how they may do so against such soft competition. In
spite of their underwhelming group stage antics, it would appear as if the
choke will have to be delayed until next round. The Queen-worshipers move
forward after a hard fought match.
Cole, Ferdinand, and Beckham score.
THE LINE: England +1 Goal
Editor’s
retroactive notes:
RESULT:
England 3, Denmark 0. Ferdinand scored in the fifth minute. Shortly after
Helveg left with a harsh injury and fate was sealed. Youngster Michael Own and
Emile Heskey notched the remaining goals and ensured their place on the
national squad eight years thereafter. Weak form or no, England will call up
capped players with an international goal to their credit. The Germans also
demonstrate such fealty. Prove yourself on the stage and you can spend the rest
of the time off of it guzzling Tequila and snorting Baconnaise off a
prostitute’s landing strip for all we care.
Sunday
Sweden vs. Senegal
vs. 
C’mon, Cinderella! No time to turn into a pumpkin now. We’ve something far more important to accomplish! I thank this tournament for introducing me to Papa Baba Dioup. Something about an enormous black man forces even a baseball card guy to believe in Comic Book Superheroes. This cat stands tall at 6’5. Stashing away no visible body fat behind his prominent muscular physique, he represents the dream of every over-sized defender. Long-range shots galore! He stays at home and makes prudent tackles when necessary, only to slowly skulk forward when he sniffs an opportunity. Place the ball on his foot and what follows is a thunderous laser that leaves the keeper wondering how the quiet, shy dude in the back of the class swiped his lunch money and stuffed him into a locker.
Arcing shots are by far the most beautiful and this French
League Phenom has put on a display that leaves any observer wondering how such
bends can be geometrically possible. He manipulates the laws of Physics! For
the fourth time I must emphasize that this is a defender I speak of. The
Senegalese front five, although thus far docile, also radiate talent. Henri
Camarra, Moussa Diaye, Pape Thiaw, and El Hadji Diouf! The Swedes may have
topped the most pathetic group ever, but they won’t top this passion. Much like
the Danes, the Swedes lean too heavily on one player whose name ends in “on”.
Henrik Larsson is the Swedish team.. Not good enough.
UPSET SPECIAL!
THE LINE: Senegal +1 Goal
Editor’s
retroactive notes:
RESULT:
Senegal 2, Sweden 1. Viva Africa! The vindication of allegiance to Africa has
earned everyone (including myself) a Boko Haram rant. Ahem. Loosely translated
from the Hausa, “Boko Haram” means “Western education defiles”. Among the
favorite targets of this Northern Nigerian terrorist sect are schoolchildren
and football fans. Their stated purpose is to impose the implementation of
Islamic values on an already suffering populace. Sorry to be the radical
atheist, but we simply don’t have time for this nonsense. Nigerians face
economic exploitation in the form of a fertile natural gas delta that robs
resources from them while flaring out excess resources in their electricity
lacking faces. The removal of the fuel subsidy means a majority in this country
of 167 million must deal with untenable inflation when they trudge to the
market for their food staples. In the midst of all this struggle and sorrow,
some group claims that the real problem is one of cultural delegitimization
that somehow offends the invisible farce in the sky?!
Sorry
to be so candid, but over 600 innocent victims whose only crime was looking to
better their situation either through accrual of skills or the distraction of
leisure deserve to be heard. Fuck you. Fuck your culture. Fuck your God. Fuck
your mother, your dog, your sister, and all the fetid, steaming pile of shit
that is you. This self-avowed pinko refuses to tolerate intolerance. If your
mission is to destroy lives, I’d gladly cut your testicles off and stuff them
down your throat so that you can die slowly, painfully, and with great
salinity. We’re all in this together. Either get on board with humanity and try
to help people or elect to wage war against it. I don’t give a good fuck what
your excuse for killing people who have nothing to do with your worthless
religion is. The fact is you’ll die…and that’s it…..There a’int no paradise for
you to go to, brother. You die and that’s it. Nothing happens.
Spain vs. Ireland
vs. 
Straight from one upset special, I’ve another tasty offering on the board. The Spanish Setback is nigh…and I’ll tell you why. Slovenia, South Africa, and Paraguay were nothing but confidence boosters, a chance for the talented to tune up. One tune-up fight works. A second tune up fight is better. Once you arrive at three, you’re overdoing it Jocko. This Spanish Squad is far too homogenous and far too comfortable. The entire lineup plays in La Liga, for fucks sake. They face an exclusive Premiership squad. They are coached by Mick McCarthy, and experienced Premiership trainer. Roy Keane plays for Manchester United. Robbie Keane plays for Leeds. Duff plays for Blackburn and Quinn plays for Sunderland.
Though the English may never put a decent team together,
their league upholds its unquestioned status as the “top-flight.” I plan to
drink copious amounts of alcohol and bet on the Irish. What could possibly go
wrong?
THE LINE: Ireland +1 Goal
Editor’s
retroactive notes:
RESULT:
Spain 2, Ireland 1 (SOG 3:2). Robbie Keane came through in the 90th
after a flagrant foul. Football overtime doesn’t resemble overtime in any other
sport that you are accustomed to. A sport with little to no breaks and a
maximum of three substitutions truly tests both the fitness and endurance of
its athletes. Okay….”fitness” and “endurance” may be construed as the same
thing. Whatever.Casillas pushed Kilbane aside and that was that. One hundred
and twenty minutes came down to some fingertips. So it goes.
Monday
USA vs. Mexico
vs. 
This is a huge match….in Mexico. I want nothing more than to pretend as if Americans view this as a clash of the CONCACAF Titans, but they won’t. At a recent party I did everything I possibly could to elicit some views on the upcoming USA vs. Mexico match, only to collect some blank stares, a paltry assemblage of bumbled words, and offers of another beer.
It’s not as if the proposition of another drink offends me
in some way. I’m somehow troubled by the voluntary dismissal of flag-waving.
The U.S. finds itself tasked with a “Border Battle”. Your rivals touch you, cupping
your balls if you will. Where is the excitement? Where is the war paint? Where
are the girls willing to go topless? (That last question had nothing to do with
this match). In any event, I’d like to see some more intensity and much more
devotion. I feel as if we’re privy to an epic battle and can find no one else
who shares this opinion. That, paired with the abysmal play of the U.S. in the
last game, forces me to pick Mexico.
THE LINE: Mexico
+1 Goal
Editor’s
retroactive notes:
RESULT:
USA 2, Mexico 0. A historic victory….that no one noticed. The pick was unfairly
based on my immediate experiences…and the triumph was unfairly based on the
notion that someone might give a shit. To be even-handed, support for the U.S.
Football team has burgeoned in a way that nobody (including myself) could have
ever possibly conceived. Suddenly the U.S. Football Team has become the popular
summer fashion. Fair enough. This is an occasion for joy, not condescension. JJ I sincerely hope that all U.S.
semi-fans will someday realize that Claudio Reyna, Brain McBride, and Landon
Donovan once showed up the Mexican Side with their sublime skills. Since then
it’s been all downhill. Sam’s Army hasn't managed to advance further.
Brazil vs. Belgium
vs. 
The mismatch of the century. A fire-breathing dragon stares down a whelk! A supernova faces off against a terrestrial planet. These sneaky Belgiums don’t even belong here. They cheated the Ruskies with spurious goals! I’m thinking Rivaldo, Ronaldo, and Rivaldo again.
THE LINE: Brazil
+2 Goals
Editor’s
retroactive notes:
RESULT:
Brazil 2, Belgium 0. Hmmm…reality dictated Rivaldo and Ronaldo. Have to get the
rhythm right. Ronaldo, Rivaldo, Robinho, and Ronaldo. C’mon, Vicey. Only two more
years before you have to have it down pat! Luiz, Fernandinho, Dudu, Caesar,
Gustavo, Luiz, Alvez, Luiz, Luiz!!!!
Tuesday
Japan vs. Turkey
vs. 
Logic says that the hosts shouldn’t bow out this early. History indicates that the Japs won’t fray in response to Middle European opposition. The game will take place in “Miyagi Stadium” for fucks sake. The Blue Samurai will control the tempo on the pitch, possibly to the tune of “You’re the Best” from the Karate Kid. The Turks most certainly boast more talented and experienced players…however experience in losing shouldn’t really count as factor. The Japs already cold-cocked the Tunisians, people for who all intents share the skin hue, eyebrow convergence, and distinctive Mediterranean odor of the Turks. French coach Felipe Troussier chooses his lineups with a keen eye and makes deft substitutions.
For the time being Miyamoto will sport the captain’s
armband, though Morioka and Santos may be deemed the fittest. The philosophy of
this team appears to favor merit over sacred cows and bold changes over an
established comfortable rhythm. In a highly unorthodox strategy, Troussier
tends to reap the rewards of Inamoto running full steam, and then subs him at
the start of the second half. No other trainer has used all of three his
substitutions in every match, and it is unheard of for halftime subs to be the
norm. One is left with the persuasive impression that this unique
results-oriented approach keeps the players sharp and aware of what is at
stake. Pure adrenaline pushes footballers playing in front of their nation to
perform above their natural skill level. In this instance, an intriguing
X-Factor of a “Zen Master” manager with unpredictable hunches may push this
Dark Horse all the way to a storybook finish. Are we ready to back the Bushido?
Believe in the sword.
THE LINE: Japan
+1 Goal
Editor’s
retroactive notes:
RESULT:
Turkey 1, Japan 0. This was a bad a letdown as my first breakup L Troussier employed two 46th
minute subs and then suddenly elected to brood around the tunnel with a
contemplative hand over his mouth and a ponderous look on his face. One comes
to expect this from the French, who frequently deal with hopeless situations by
lapsing into some sort of catatonic state while doing their utmost to convince any
onlookers that they are actually focusing intense energy into some sort of
forgotten and enlighten form of telekinesis. In the fairest of senses, this was
an atrocious excuse for a game. The Japs simply didn’t come to play. What can I
say? I bought into the myth that an Asian team that played on its toes would be
capable of standing tall. Now we know that Asians must do more than stand on
their toes to even come close to appearing tall. A sad day indeed for all the
rabid fans who came to back them. I recall watching a plethora of little
children looking precisely like Shorty from Indiana Jones….after someone pissed
on their weekly rice-ball ration. Not good times! LL Time to load up the rickshaw
with all our vanquished dreams and file out of the Arena.
South Korea vs. Italy
vs. 
The Wops won’t go down without a fight….and by that I mean they will fight by going down. This team plunges to the deck to feign a crushed spleen if you happen to look in their general direction. This shapes up to be a battle of Good vs. Evil. In one corner we have a bunch of wildly gesticulating cheaters who employ dramatic antics to bluff their way past superior opponents. In the opposite corner sit eleven national heroes who fight, scrap, and claw for every last morsel of respect Vegas lists the Azzurri as two goal favorites, providing us with an ample underdog narrative to guide the legs of every Red Devil who finds himself afflicted with a touch of fatigue on the pitch. They shall press on in honor of all those who worship the spirit of the game. Hey. Where’s my pan flute? I need my fucking pan flute!
Am I the only one who sees a Hollywood ending as the
invariable outcome? How about if a throw in a cliché or two to boot? Legends
are born on the World Cup Pitch! Eh? History is made by the fans! Nothing?
David is destined to slay Goliath! Okay…that one even made me cringe. L
In the end you must accept that the Italians are the football equivalent of the
Charlestown Chiefs. Sure, they’re likable. Ultimately, however, they remain but
a circus act. Truth and beauty almost never prevails in life, but it will
triumph on Tuesday in Daejeon! You think me too quixotic? Let your money do the
talking!
THE LINE: South Korea +1 Goal
GENTLEMEN,
ENTER YOUR WAGERS
Editor’s
retroactive notes:
RESULT:
South Korea 2, Italy 1. It was a 120-minute slugfest that featured more floppin
wops than a wrecked cruise ship. Ahn Jung Hwan, a little-known player from whom
nobody has heard anything since, scored in the closing minutes of the overtime
period to avoid a shootout. The reaction from the stands was so sensational I
almost slipped into a militaristic German salute. How incredible. It is not the
unforgettable “Korean animation domination” that forces me to now fight back
tears. Nor is it the fact that I roped a load of Wops into betting on their
team while their more skeptical secondary counterparts placed the money on
Korea and I made out like a bandit. No, none of that factors in to my suddenly lachrymose
mood. If you must know, it’s the subtle “Slapshot” reference. Maybe our green
little lad hasn't quite mastered the art of being a semi-entertaining writer
just yet. At least he voiced impeccable taste in movies. J “Slapshot” stands the test of
time, still one of the greatest lampoon pieces ever. Paul Newman at his
absolute acme! A script so laden with barbs that one picks up new wrinkles even
after the twelfth viewing. Minor league hockey in the age of southward
expansion and ape-like new audiences. Though the movie was made in seventies,
it applied all the way through the Kingfish days. When the hapless and
insincere sequel to this classic came out I honestly considered organizing a
lynch mob. How dare you fuck with “Slapshot”? How dare you?!?!
