WM 2006--The Curse of the Syndicate

Editor’s retroactive notes:

It is my supreme pleasure to welcome all to the Summer of 2006 and to the momentous festival that reanimated the Fatherland! I would be moving back there in a short matter of months, but hadn’t touched down just yet. What the vellicating fuck, Vicey? The World Cup is in your own country and you’re not? Where the hell were you? Living like a prince in a luxurious downtown penthouse overlooking the Mississippi. Er…an especially broke prince. I had very little money for a getaway to a land that was already familiar terrain. Having no clue how long I would be babysitting a rent-controlled chateau the intuitive course was to hang back and run the operation from my ostentatious villa. I would not regret it.

It was a summer of extravagant parties and unfettered debauchery. I sincerely doubt Berlusconi could have kept up with us at our exorbitantly wild galas. The Pool’s filtration system probably still hasn’t recovered from all the…no way of putting this delicately…”passion secretions”…that water had to endure. Should anyone elect to illuminate a black light over the clubhouse, one will find more…er…once again there’s no classy way of stating it…“love stains” that at the Kennedy Compound. A shy and introverted straight-A student throughout my undergrad years, I was now thrust in the role of the “Hef” of my very own “Playboy Mansion”. The responsibilities of such a role were not lost on me. In one instance I even donned a bathrobe and dusted off my pipe, spending the entire evening wandering around making sure everyone was having a good time. Ordinarily I commence these notes by thanking all who were involved in the festivities. No names this time. I certainly do not wish to implicate anyone else in this primal licentiousness. JJ

Most of us are bestowed a very short window to be recklessly young and foolish. At the age of twenty-three I had my brief shot. It was a bloody miracle I didn’t contract Syphilis in the process. Those fortunate others who’ve lived through their own Seasons of Absolute Euphoria know that when the time comes to leave paradise behind it almost doesn’t even matter. You’ll gladly strap on your boots and get back to the mundane responsibilities of your quotidian life. In principle holidays are supposed to serve this function; A blissful Rest Cure of reflection and recharging. One doesn’t have the impression that the average human being obtains this during their two annually allotted weeks. What purpose does cramming the screaming kids and nagging wife into a car so that you can spend a few days sitting your increasingly expanding ass on the beach dumbly staring at nothing particular while you fret about the work you left behind serve? Sorry if any of you are prepared to commit suicide after reading that last sentence.

Your friendly bookie was extraordinarily lucky to experience a summer of youthful indulgence. Furthermore, he was even more blessed to discover precisely the form of holiday that always left him brimming with new friends, ideas, and hope. Can you infer what’s coming? Yes, it’s called the “International Football Holiday”; a four week carnival of resplendent ridiculousness during which he gets to catch up with everyone who ever meant a damn to him in his life via the beautiful game. Subsequent Sportsbooks have not emulated the glorious summer of 2006, nor have I desired them to. A reoccurrence of endless sexual gluttony is not what I’m after….though if anyone’s interested JJ Irresistible lines aside, the pleasure of writing a Sportsbook trumps any endorphin-driven activity I’ve ever known. Having lost count of the number of women I’ve been with, I’ll never lose sight of a line. Let’s play.

The installment you presently entrain upon is rife with references to my late-great mentor. In a deliciously amusing twist, the other common vein you’ll encounter are “Dispatches from the Penthouse”; an irreverent postcard from the halcyon perspective of a serial-fornicator. Verbose scholarly admiration juxtaposed with puerile and crass facetiousness. Actually, we might as well call it business as usual.

Reformatting this tome meant that I had to delete literally hundreds of hyperlinks. In the early days of Youtube, highlights from around the globe popped up within minutes of the matches and remained there for months. Eventually the Copyright Gestapo caught up with technology and imposed martial law on what was one of the true delights of the experience. In its original form, this book contained links to goal calls from announcers in China, Taiwan, Japan, Spain, Germany, Holland, Brazil, Denmark, Argentina, Mexico, Australia, England Croatia, Belgium, France, Spain, South Africa, Iran, Turkey, Russia, Portugal, Canada, Nigeria, and even Iraq. Youtube was in its nascent infancy. Users from all over the world posted their local highlights, capturing the calls from every goal in every language. The first page of my black book contains all the usernames so that I might immediately hop online, review the calls, and post my favorites. How amazing it was to watch a match and then observe how people all over the world saw it! Shame on you FIFA! You destroyed something that called attention to how inspiringly unifying your main tournament is. Volunteer heroes were promoting your brand for all to see! On the offhand chance that anyone reading this makes a living as a FIFA Copyright Comptroller, I would like you to know, from the bottom of my heart, that you should kill yourself without delay. Slit your waste of a throat and ROT IN HELL!

Introduction

Syndicate members,

The time is nigh. Within 72 hours the greatest sporting event the universe has ever known will launch. Nothing will ever be the same. I cordially invite you to join me in witnessing the spectacle of 32 nations vying for the ultimate prize. I welcome both your bets and your banter. I welcome your stories and your savings. While other idiots are preoccupied with the NBA or NHL Finals we shall occupy a higher plane. The beautiful game goes global but once every four years. Let us all unite and rejoice. Hosting duties fall to the Fatherland and the Germans shall manifest to us all what a true party feels like.

Herzlich Wilkommen to those returning and those who have no fucking clue what your casual acquaintance will shortly unleash. My name is Peter Weis. I am not merely some whimsical weirdo begging to defy expectations with his erratic behavior. I’m an experienced bookie who doesn’t need to beg to take your money. For the third time in four years, fate has brought us together. Welcome to the summer of “Penthouse Pontifications”

Editor’s retroactive notes:

Errrm. Not exactly sure who that guy is, but I think I just shit myself J

I humbly dedicate this year’s book to the memory of Dr. Stephen Lucas. While in no way a third parent to me, Dr. Lucas long ago gave me the greatest gift one cerebral human being can give to another: He expressed confidence in my abilities. Thanks solely to him I am now a Summa Cum Laude College Graduate. I know that some of you have similarly succeeded as others continue to toil. All of you owe whatever accomplishments you’ve managed to scrape together to someone who once assured you that you can do it. Before we begin, I request that you let them know how much their support meant to you….so long as there’s still time. While you’re at it, please assure all that share your surroundings that they are capable too. Express confidence in your colleagues, your teammates, your family, and your close friends. Your assurances will be more than empty words. Anyone can be propelled to amazing heights by a sincere affirmation. Stick your neck out if you can. If you mean it, they will sense it.

Editor’s retroactive notes:

Knew this would be the hardest one to comment on. Look at this guy. He shifts from S.S. Officer to Stuart Smalley within the space of one paragraph! How the hell does he do that? Okay. Let me add a few words on the topic of confidence in your fellow man. We all have doubts when analyzing those who sit before us. Blindly telling another human entity that they can accomplish anything they set their mind to would make us all Pedantic Kindergarten Teachers. We should all retain the right to be suspicious, if for no other reason than our own personal safety. No one human being should consider himself or herself entitled to a vote of confidence. Nevertheless, I retain some of the spirit of the man I affectionately knew as “Bwana”. As a ghostwriter and advisor my primary task is to make a mental inventory of positive attributes. Different clients/students will possess different arrays. The key word to concentrate on when reviewing the ramblings of this “Boy in Transition” is “sincere”. A sincere assessment of strong suits communicates to the listener that you were actually paying attention and have something pertinent to contribute. The listener senses this respect and will fight harder to preserve it.

Dearest Dead Bwana,

I have never and likely will never achieve the accolades you spoke of. Even though you personally cannot hear me, others deserve to know that your spirit lives on in a Shadow Scholar who works with those in dire need of supplementary assistance. Hundreds of others have attained their degrees thanks to the imperfect incarnation of your unique character. Though such numbers cannot compete with those of a professor, know that they were all served by a person whom, much like you, forever refused to be a narrow-minded self-centered asshole.

Sincerely,

S.S. PJW

Time to dive in. Here are our 32 countries from all six continents. No one reading this can purport to be unrepresented.

Africa

Ghana

Hey…who are these guys? Why it’s Jerry Rawling’s “Black Stars”, four-time African Cup of Nations Champions qualifying for their FIRST EVER FIFA World Cup. They’re situated in an extremely difficult group, but may turn a few heads with their starpower. They’ve got Chelsea’s Michael Essien, Dortmund’s Matthew Amoah, Rennes’ Johnny Mensah, and Udinese’s Asamoah Gyan, and Copenhagen’s Razak Pimpong! This talented bunch looks to galvanize the African continent by beating the U.S. for a place in the Round of Sixteen. West Africa rises!

Editor’s retroactive notes:

Oh man. This team assumed the mantle of “The Great African Hope”, eliminating the U.S. both this time AND in 2010. Some players I neglected to mention included future Fulham star John Paintsil. Juventus’s own Stephen Appiah, Non-German related Derek Boateng, and soon-to-be Inter specialist Shelley Muntari. These boys gave us quite a show, complete with Israeli Flags, improbable smackdowns, and downright blatant straightforwardly entertaining football. Expect nothing less from one of Africa’s finest democracies. Can’t wait to see my Black Stars back in action!

Togo

On the subject of debutantes, a hearty welcome the “Sparrow Hawks”, coached by the man from Cologne Otto “Iron” Pfister! What? Oh this just in….Pfister has resigned over the government’s refusal to pay the players their promised World Cup Bonus. Poor, poor Togo. The most any of you have heard about this sliver of a former German Colony is probably the coup d’etat that took place last year. Togo exports predominantly tires, most of which were burned after Natchaba was diverted to Benin. Now this leaderless team is everyone’s pick to finish dead last. Ooops.

Editor’s retroactive notes:

It only got worse for poor little Togo. After being thrown out of the AU, they had to scrounge for four long years before a 2010 Election lifted the most sever sanctions. Pfister came back at the players’ request, but none of them ever saw their rightful bonuses. In 2008 a helicopter crash wiped out the entire administrative echelon. In 2010 their bus was attacked by Angolan Separatists, wounding keeper Kodjovi Obilale with career ending injuries, and fatally shooting three assistant coaches along with the driver. Togolese superstriker Emmanuel Adebayor, who has starred for Arsenal, Man City, and Real Madrid, sustained minor injuries but never returned the same player. The incident understandably led to the withdrawal of the Togolese Football Team from the African Cup of Nations. The ruthless CAF then banned them for an “early forfeit”, a ban that remains in effect. Next time you feel inclined to bitch about the “lack of justice” in your world, won’t you take a moment to consider the Togolese Football Team? Never paid, shot at, and suspended. Yeah, the result of your job interview really sucks. Try your hand at their job.    

Tunisia

The “Eagles of Carthage” return for their third straight World Cup, this time hoping to make it past the group stages. They’ve hired former French Coach Roger Lemerre in a determined attempt to punch through a group of that features Brazil and not much else. Top tier players include Ajax’s Hatem Trabelsi, Nuremberg’s Adel Cheldi, and Premiership starters Mehdi Nafti and Radi Jaidi. The team, two years removed from a sensational capture of the 2004 African Cup of Nations, is poised to stir some Mediterranean ripples. Hmmm..as you can see I thought it clever to come up with a geographical correlative to the clichéd “make waves”, but it just didn't come together. L

Cote d’Ivoire

You’ve seen the commercial. Bono reminds you that President Laurent Gbagbo called for a truce in the nearly four-year-old civil war between the Ivorite and the Northern Bouke rebels, all because the Elephants qualified for their first World Cup! Of course no official cease-fire has been signed yet, fair elections are at least four months away, and the team appears unlikely to make it out of the group. Let us not concern ourselves with such nuance. The team qualified and a temporary truce holds! Captain Didier Drogba is fresh off a 33-goal campaign for European and FA Cup Champions Chelsea. The prolific strikers Aruna Dindane and Bonaventure Kalou join him in attack. Arsenal Backstops Kolo Toure and Emmanuel Eboue shore up the defense. Unfortunately this extremely talented squad sits in a group with the Dutch and the Argentines. Within a couple of weeks, the North and South of the country will be trading small munitions fire again LL

Editor’s retroactive notes:

Tsk Tsk, Vicey. Why so cynical? The cease-fire mostly held until fair elections were finally held in the Fall of 2010. You may recognize the name Gbagbo as the man currently facing War Crimes Charges in the Hague after he refused to hand over power, plunging the country into a second nearly year-long Civil War. The arbitrarily xenophobic ethnically pure “Ivorite” standard he and others had imposed on the country finally collapsed after the legitimate election of the northerner Alesssane Ouattara, fascist excluded from government for over a decade thanks to an inaccurate “Burkinabe” label. Oh I’m boring you aren’t I? Over the course of six years a country miraculous overcomes two Civil Wars and seven delayed presidential polls to emerge as a functional democracy with full international accountability for the atrocities committed. The triumphs of a football team set the entire process in motion. Blah, blah, blah, blah, blah. Hurry up and get to the lines, Vicey. You people…  

Angola

Such an exciting year for Africa. Four of the five teams have not qualified before. Rounding out this list are the “Black Antelopes” of Angola. Since gaining independence from Portugal comparatively late in the decolonization phase, this other Civil War ravaged country has had little to cheer for. 2006 marks only the third time they’ve qualified for a tournament of any sort. The team consists almost entirely of domestic league players with only the captain Akwa earning a decent paycheck in Qatar. Expectations for the tournament’s great unknown may be low, but they sport some classy uniforms and should provide an entertaining look.

Editor’s retroactive notes:

Afro-philes will note that it was Cabindan Rebels of the FLEC that later shot up the Togolese convoy in 2010.  One of the darkest days in recent international football history began with an renegade ambush of Angolan Security Forces leading the convoy by the Cabinda Liberation Front. Woe, Africa. Those damn 1884 borders. LLL 

Asia

Australia

Guess who’s back? Gus Hiddink! And the former South Korean manager has brought someone new with him: The “Socceroos”. Yeah, I hate that nickname too. The Aussies return to the World Cup Finals for the first time since 1974. They’ve changed back into their old retro duds, fielded a team of six Premiership and three Serie A players, and FINALLY beat their old nemesis Uruguay in the Oceania-Latin America Playoff. Shall we go a-waltzing? Lead striker Harry Kewell serves a utility role for Liverpool. From the other side of the Mersey, Everton breakthrough midfielder Timmy Cahill is along for the ride. Hiddink has shown everyone he’s not afraid to shake things up, tapping five new players who demonstrated late season form to add to the tournament team. With a masterful maverick of a coach and a very deep bench, one expects this team to go as far as the Quarterfinals. Following this tournament the nation will complete its transition into the AFC, meaning we’ll be seeing them for years to come.

Iran

All of Persia will be pumping their fists to cheer on their lone representative…except for the women, who are not allowed to go to the games…and president Ahmadinejad, who cannot set foot in Germany without being arrested. Holocaust denial remains an imprisonable crime in the Fatherland. Guess who’s not going to be there? If you answered rabid U.S. Soccer Fan David Duke, you’re only half right. Looks like Mahmoud and Khameni will have to settle for watching the spectacular failure of their team from the comforts of Tehran. Have fun, boys. Let me know when those Jew bombs start falling!

Of course one should take care to separate the team from the regime. The Shia Strikers have a Croatian coach and five German Bundesliga players. One of them, midfielder Ferydoon Zandi, even plays for my hometown club FCK. I wish not to spew venomous vitriol at a multi-lingual group with Fatherland roots. Nevertheless, those with German eligibility are representing the WRONG side. My feelings are adequately conveyed in a zinger I exchanged with Ferydoon himself.

Peter: Knock, Knock

Ferydoon: Who’s there?

Peter: Ayatollah

Ferydoon: Ayatollah who?

Peter: Aya-toll-ah to get the FUCK OUT OF MY TOURNAMENT!

 Editor’s retroactive notes:

One should continue to draw an important distinction between team and regime. Although the Iranians failed to qualify for the 2010 World Cup, the players in the qualifying rounds strapped on green wristbands in support of the “Where is my vote?” uprising. This salient factoid, along with the verifiable truth, documented above, that Israel was threatened to bomb Iran back in 2006, forces me to now prattle out a rant.

WARNING: Totally unrelated wonkish interlude.

Ahem. NO ONE IS GOING TO BOMB IRAN. Everyone got that? What is wrong with our discourse on this subject? Has everyone lost their mind? Back in 2006 Olmert, Livni, and Petertz expressed worry over the “point of no return”(enrichment capacity). Six years later the central talking point of Netanyahu and Barak is the “zone of immunity.”(the construction of an impenetrable underground bunker in Qom) Meanwhile, all credible N.I.E.’s have been broadly consistent: Iran keeps its options open with weapons grade enrichment while maintaining no discernable weapons program. Unlike the Sorties against Syria and Iraq, tactical constraints and incomplete intelligence preclude the Israelis from conducting surgical strikes within the country. A pre-emptive military option entails enormous risk, particularly considering the vast terrain and the likelihood of as of yet undiscovered sites mean the chances of successfully hitting the right facilities are dubious at best. Lethal espionage, industrial sabotage, vice-grip sanctions that have rendered the Rial essentially worthless, and the slow choking off of the country’s oil exports have all worked reasonable well. Have we mentioned that there exists enormous discord between the rival factions within the Guardian Council? Internal politics is a mess and the greens will rise again as the country’s economy descends further. The West is supposed to risk everything with a belligerent show of force that will give the weakened Regime an excuse to rally its disaffected population? NO ONE IS GOING TO BOMB IRAN. Let it go, people. When will we learn that we’ve been talking about an option that has technically been of the table for over six years? Let it go. 

Japan

Legendary Brazilian striker Zico has taken the reins and reconfigured the Blue Samurai. Several cogs such as Yoshi Kawaguchi, Shunsuke Nakamora, and Junichi Inamoto have been retained, but they face stiff competition from up-and-comers Seigo Narazaki, Keisuki Tsuboi, and Misuo Ogosawara. Zico resolutely insists there are no sacred cows or set formations. The immensely flexible coach retains so many options that foreshadowing this team’s makeup proves more trying that making sense of the Xenosaga plot. He refuses to even hint at his starting eleven, shrugging off the immense pressure facing this nation like Koizumi deflecting questions about the War Shrine. The only ironclad prediction I may offer is that I’ll look some Hentai later on this evening

Editor’s retroactive notes:

What a deplorable showing by this team. Zico’s approach was so universally panned that he was blacklisted for the next three years. After spending the next few years in Uzbekistan (or Uz-beki-beki-stan-stan as Herman Cain would refer to it), he parlayed two monumentally bad and brief stints with CSKA Moscow and Olympiacos into a resume fit for the greatest coaching gig the planet has to offer: Manager of the Iraqi team. Loads of fun with that assignment, mate. As noted above, my impressive collection of Japanese announcers inducing seizures when calling all the World Cup Goals has been lost to history.

Saudi Arabia

Back for more anal-raping are we? I thought we made it absolutely clear to you last time! You can buy as many foreign coaches as you like, but a team solely consisting of domestic players will get you nowhere. The latest addition to the “Trainer Harem” is Brazil’s Marcos Pacqueta. He’ll preside over the Green Falcons’ fourth consecutive “Doormat Display”. Why do they even bother qualifying? Plan on scoring a goal this time my precious “8-nil”ers?

South Korea

Former Dutch head coach Dick Advocaat shall henceforth be referred to by his rechristened German name. Gentlemen, I give you the revamped “Red Devils of Asia”, now under the stewardship of the ever-erratic “Schwanz Befürworter”. This is probably as good a time as ever to inform you that I will not, in fact, be skimming over the pond to witness this tournament in person. I do not rue this decision and will inform you as to my reasons later in a section tentatively titled “Penthouse Pontifications”. There does, however, persist a crimpling pang of excruciating pain deep within what passes for my soul every time I think about this country. I could very well be macking the Korean Ladies with my patented “Yellow Game”. Oh well. I suppose it’s about time I outgrew that wicked stratagem.

Editor’s retroactive notes: 
Funny thing. I was just lecturing myself on that yesterday. J

Ji Sung-Park (or is it Park Ji Sung?) returns, now an even more confident and dangerous Man U “super sub”. Ahn Jung Kwan is back after spending a year sharpening his German pitch skills in the German Bundesliga. Lee Young Pyo had another stellar campaign with Tottenham. Ditto for Seol Ki-Hyeon over at Wolves. Hail, Hail. The gangs all here! They’ve even brought the most exciting fan base in the world with them. None of the rosy-cheeked young Korean Mädels will be afforded the opportunity to blush before Vicey. Other than this notable misfortune, it looks to be an awesome tournament for all Koreans in the Fatherland. Can’t wait to watch the team and the fans!

Europe

Deutschland

So much has transpired in the intervening two years. Since the Euro 2004 Debacle we’ve a brand spanking new Mannschaft to discuss, coached by an Americanized German no less. Starting at the back, for the first time in over eight years Oliver Kahn will not be between the pipes. New Coach Jürgen Klinsmann declared the position open and rotated Kahn and cranky Arsenal keeper Jens Lehmann throughout the qualifying round. Based on careful scrutiny of their respective seasons, Klinsman judged Kahn to have lost an edge with Lehmann playing a “notch” better. Of course this was before Lehman’s disastrous Champions League final against Barcelona during which he barbarically tackled Samuel Eto’o in a fit of American Football roid rage. Overall he’s one dirty and moody son of a bitch, and our great national hopes rest on his shoulders.

Apropos mercurial players, the horridly inconsistent Kevin Kuranyi has been dropped. 2002 Wunderkind Miroslav Klose is fit once again and looking terrifying after a 25 goal season for Werder Bremen. We don’t quite have a Rooney-Owen striking tandem, but we’re going to give it a shot with fellow Pollack Lucas Podolski, who netted 12 goals and 46 endorsement contracts for FC Köln. He sure as hell better be ready.

The entire defensive back line has been reconfigured, with Lahm, Mertesacker, and Metzelder elevated to starting positions. All are twenty-two years old or younger, making me their senior! Yikes! Twenty-seven-year-old Arne Friedrich gets to keep his job for now while two other twenty-year-olds, Robert Huth and Marcell Jansen breathe down his neck. Klinsi’s taking a huge gamble with all these Tyros as the last line of defense before Lehmann. Scary stuff.

Some proven veterans return, albeit with their own special set of problems. Newly anointed captain Michael Ballack has been plagued by injuries all season and just doesn’t look fit. Germany’s answer to Frank Lampard, Bastian Schweinsteiger, has apparently acquired a taste for the nightlife and been producing sporadically. Midfielder Torsten Frings managed one goal for Werder this season.

As if all of this weren’t worrisome enough, Klinsmann made some frankly perplexing final additions to the squad last month. I’m unquestionably no Kuranyi fan, but who the hell is David Odonkor? Klinsmann evidently saw something in the kid who has only scored three goals for the U-21 Mannschaft, enough to call him up to the big leagues. Nevertheless, he’s never played for the real Mannschaft before. Is there something the rest of the country is missing? Old hands Gerard Asamoah and Oliver Neuville are even more curious choices.

The general consensus within the Kraut watering holes and in the press predicts the thrill of playing on their home turf will lift this team to an overachieving Quarterfinal Berth. We stand behind our boys, especially after an overtly racist commentary in the Bild Zeitung suggested Klinsmann picked the final Mannschaft using an “affirmative action mentality”. These are OUR black and brown Krauts. We love you Jungs, Make us proud!

Editor’s retroactive notes:

A significant amount of original research went into this section. I confess I spent an entire morning reading, an entire afternoon writing, and a fair bit of the evening editing. The resulting passage reads more like something you would find in a professional sports journal than anything else you’re likely to encounter in one of my Sportsbooks. What prompted such an earnest and unscrupulous effort? Well, my father’s unceasing whining about the feeble German Team certainly motivated me to seek information from as many disparate sources as possible. The more exploratory impulse involved a self-evaluation, six months after graduation, as to whether I could still write something clean and coherent. Was it worth it? Eh. Through studying the sport and strategically hedging the money that comes in from both sides I can ensure that I’m reasonably compensated for time pleasurably spent. Syndicate Members frequently inquire about my professional aspirations. The resolute, and perhaps slightly cantankerous, reply centers around how ecstatic one feels spending at least a few weeks every so often writing how one actually thinks. The Shadow Scholar shall always be available to construct an esoteric academic paper. He can also compose a News Story, a blog post for popular consumption, and indeed whatever else comes with a reasonable set of parameters, basic instructions, and a paycheck. I’ll write Hallmark Cards should you give me a fair hourly wage. It just feels altogether too gratifying to let a “ hemorrhaging fuck” slip here and there.

Odonkor turned out to be an inspiring choice after all, as did Neuville. The two linked up for one of the most memorable German goals ever. The jury remains out on Klinsi until we see what he can do with the Yanks.  

France

Raymond Domenech has coaxed more old guys out of retirement than Peter Hartz. Do we behold a truly competitive team or a farewell tour? Zidane, Wiltford, Makelele, Barthez, and Thuram. These relics belong in a museum. For fuck’s sake most of them were alive when the Moon Landings took place. There’s more decrepit fossilized geriatric French scrotum here than on a nude beach on the Riviera. Ugh. Quick sidebar here. Why is every European nude beach 80 percent Octogenarians? Anyway, sacre motherfucking bleu! This is one ugly club. Even the fresh faces are hideous. Frank Ribbery looks like he was hit by a truck. What’s that? Oh…he and his family actually were hit by a truck? He refuses to undergo cosmetic surgery because he believes in hard work over vanity? Well....that’s quite respectable. Ribbery, Henry, and Saha. Three young virtuosos must inspire the antique furniture to hop up and move around. Chances are better that “Beauty and the Beast” will really happen someday.

Editor’s retroactive notes:

Somehow they made it to the Finals, coming within an incredibly executed head butt of forcing me to accept that Disney’s Belle was not really merely hot, but really real. My most devout apologies to Frank Ribbery, who now speaks excellent German. 

Spain

Please allow me to get this out of the way right up front: Luis Aragones is a bigoted asshole. He made comments about French striker Thierry Henry that even I can’t risk transcribing. He’s an irrefutable dick; the latest in a long line of Spanish cock suckers to coach underachieving teams. Let’s see who’s sagging underneath the cock this time.

We’ll see Athletico’s young captain Fernando Torres again. Unfortunately he hasn’t been developing in precisely the way his talent would ordain. Other striking options include Real’s breathtaking Raul and Valencia’s new miracle David Villa. One is in the ascendancy, the other in a noticeable decline. Puyol, Albeda, and Xavi are back. Same goes for Senna, Joaquin, and Xabi Alonso. How about the new crew? Oh they’re salaciously good. Twenty-one-year-old Sergio Ramos has already scored five times for Real. Nineteen-year-old Cesc Fabregas and twenty-two-year-old Jose Antonio Reyes will lead the Gunners for years to come. Twenty-two-year-old Andres Iniesta has done everything for Barça but score.

For the third time in three tournaments, I give La Roja props for having one of the more talented teams ever assembled. Does this mean they’re going somewhere? Bah. As usual they’re going nowhere, thanks in large part to their bastard of a coach. Brace yourself for more heartache, Amigos.

Editor’s retroactive notes:

What a total bust Torres has become. Abramovich would have done well to examine his early washouts before paying Dagleish & Co all that money for him. Reyes was also never heard from again. Conversely, the trio of Fabregas, Villa, and Iniesta are the triple-headed Hydra that could very well lead Spain to yet another European Championship this summer. Be Afraid. Be very afraid. Aragones broke the curse then stepped back into his coffin. That revolting undead creature somehow made the Spanish Lion aware of their strength. No telling where this will end.

Portugal

The side that narrowly lost the European Championship to inferior opponents returns; bigger, stronger, and incredibly pissed off. You want my favorite to win it all? This year it’s all about the Navigators. Christiano Ronaldo matures better than a voluptuous corn-fed farmer’s daughter. Ricardo Carvalho, Nuno Gomez, Deco, Simao, Nuno Valente, Miguel, Feirrerra, and even Pauletta had fantastic seasons. The only obvious soft spot is Scolari’s nostalgia. He kept Miguel and Costinha on the squad even though they are both long past their prime. Such a predilection should not dissuade one from espousing confidence in the 2002 Champion Coach. Much like Prince Henry, he knows where he’s going.

Editor’s retroactive notes:

Er….for those keeping track…yes I picked the wrong team yet again. One of these years the Navigators will rise to punish everyone for their Greek Grief. 2012 might well be their year. A fresh incorrect pick takes shape. 

England

Can Sir Rooney finally deliver St. George the vindication they so perilously crave? No. He broke his Metatarsus. What the screaming hell is a Metatarsus you ask? Well, the Metatarsus bone is connected to the “he’s fucked bone”. So there you have it. Mother England is motherfucked, thanks to an injury to your star player’s “Mother Love Bone.” And don’t give me this Beckham crap. He scored all of three goals last season. Owen has been hurt for most of the year. Hargreaves runs like Clinton after he inhaled and Peter Crouch is one tackle away from being snapped like the walking branch he is. There endures but one stray beam of light: Newly secured Arsenal signing Theo Walcott. The seventeen-year-old might yet take Rooney’s place and beat his record. Best of luck, St. George. Without Rooney you stand about as much chance as the Welsh.

Editor’s retroactive notes:

Rooney’s rehabilitation bordered upon the most historically preposterous, nonsensically ridiculous, bizarrely comical shit anyone is ever likely to witness. At one point they had him in an oxygen tent being listening to self-esteem boosting tapes while being fanned by adoring England supporters. When this somehow failed to work, Rooney returned to the pitch only to play an atrocious tournament. In 2006 the English had perhaps the best forward duo ever to be paired. Both of them were injured come tournament time. It doesn’t get much more disastrous than that. Perhaps in the summer of 2012…….wait a second……my new incorrect pick has already taken shape! Okay…a word or two concerning “whatever happened to Theo Walcott?” He’s finally finding his form at the age of twenty-three. What the hell is wrong with that? I found my form at the age of twenty-three! Perhaps in the Summer of 2012…….wait a second……my new incorrect pick has already taken shape twice in this paragraph.

Poland

You’ve got to be kidding, right? Yes Europe’s “kick the can” country couldn’t resist getting kicked once more. Need I remind you that even our throwaway country kicked the shit out of the U.S. in the 2002 Group Stages? Need I remind myself that the Vaterland presently relies upon two Polish strikers? Oh. Okay. It’s not as if I don’t empathize with this country. They’ve still never won anything, they will never win anything, and their finest hour came when the Irish decided they could be absorbed into “The United States of Europe.” With all this talk of Europe punching its weight on the international stage, the Poles may want to consider being absorbed into another….never mind. Forget I said anything.

Sweden

So I tend to place too great an emphasis on age? Guilty as charged. If I may offer two counters. For starters, I will engage in sex with a woman of any age below sixty anytime the moon shines and the mood strikes. More importantly, Henrik Larsson refuses to slow down. He just had a phantasmagorical year for Barça, scoring four goals in four Copa del Rey games. His partner Ibrahimovic exhibited a drop in form. Keine Ursache. These Swedes may prove the ultimate alchemists. Can a captivating mix of experience and speed turn lead into gold? An affirmative answer awaits provided they can best England for first place in the group. Should they only scrape by with second they’ll face the Krauts in the Round of Sixteen. We all know how that will end.

Editor’s retroactive notes:

And it ended badly. Six years on I wish to modify my age limit. “I will now engage in sex with a woman of any age below forty five anytime the moon shines and the mood strikes.” By no means am I on some inexorable path to ever-younger women. Once I hit forty the age will increase once again. So happy I could bring everyone a peek into the male psyche. I’ll graph it someday. At the moment I’m too tired.

Switzerland

Again, Heinz-Albert? Why must we keep pretending that you are a relevant entity? Once more we dance with the “Schweitzer Nati”. This team the Alpine assholes deprived us of the Irish and the Israelis via a humdrum qualifying campaign. The team does feature some talent that will mildly pique your interest. Arsenal’s Phillipe Senderos, Leverkusen’s Tranquilo Barnetta, Rennes’s Alexander Frei, Hamburg’s Raphäel Wicky, and Eintracht’s Christoph Spycher are worth a look. One cannot help but wonder how much more exciting this tournament would be if the Micks or Jews had grabbed this spot. As averse as I may be to recycling material, I must revive my knee-jerk antiphon from 2004.

The Swiss are here? We-go-blah. (Alpenhorn blows) WE-GO-BLAH!

Editor’s retroactive notes:

Recycling material became a necessity in the summer of 2010 as I struggled to produce content and watch every match while simultaneously holding a  “nine-to-nine” job. Other than the summer of 2008 (two Econ courses and Grad school preparation), I’ve always considered the month-long tournament a legitimate excuse to take an extended holiday. In the event anyone cares to know how troublingly deep my obsession with these tournaments runs, I did quit my 2006 job waiting tables shortly before kickoff and reapplied after the tournament was over. Oh yes. Fuck what dressing you want on your salad. There’s football to be watched! The plan worked seamlessly. 

Serbia and Montenegro

Fellow international news junkies will pose a germane question here. Didn’t Montenegro literally JUST declare independence the day before yesterday? You are correct my info cannibalizing minions. The cleaving of the former Yugoslavia continues. The Kosovars are next. Following the results of the May plebiscite the separation is complete. In five weeks this team will be dissolved. Knowing full well that no one wishes to hear me blabber on about how fascinating I find the developments in the Balkans, I’ll do my level best to stick to the subject at hand….for once in my life.

In football terms the split means little. Schalke’s Mladin Krstajic is the only Montenegrin on the team and he’s surely the lone athlete tired of receiving menacing glares from the captain Milosevic. Yes you read that accurately. The Serbian team is captained by an “S. Milosevic”. I haven’t witnessed such an unfortunate coincidence since Adolf Stalin dove for the East German Olympic Team. Savo Milosevic led “S & M” to an astounding thrashing of Spain in the qualifiers. Together with Athletico’s Mateja Kezman, the two strikers propelled the soon to be defunct “country” to the top of the group. Other red-hot commodities on the “S & M” Side include Man U’s Nemanja Vidic and Inter’s Dejan Stankovic. Somehow “Stankoivic” and “S & M” leave me feeling a mite past the “dirty-guilty” line.

Editor’s retroactive notes:

My complex infatuation with Balkan events only worsened as Kosovo declared independence in the Spring of 2008. Buoyed by this watershed moment in contemporary conflict resolution, I spent an intense two weeks formulating research directives for my Graduate School application essay. After finally perfecting the piece and sending it out, the acceptance letter came back in a matter of hours. I was forced to contend with the reality that no one on the admissions committee ended up reading the damn thing. I imagine the acceptance process went something like this.

“Are his grades decent? Cool. Let’s get that money. Money, money, money, money, money….MONEY!! Yeah, we pimpin. We got that fire. Been gettin’ that money. We fixin’ to get paid! You know dat’s true. So much MONEY”

The Shadow Scholar has worked with over 60 nervous students fretting over their application essays.

After they’ve calmed down, they’re capable of producing some of their finest work. Relax, everyone. They just want your money. Time does not permit them to give a pebble-sized shit about anything else.

Croatia

The Blazing Blazers shall once again compete, this time with significantly toned-down Bistro attire. As galvanized as I am by the notion of Asian fans pouring into Germany, I grimace at the thought of allowing these putrid hooligans within our borders. Thank heavens their chances of advancing out of the group appear slim. This year’s captain is none other than Herta’s Niko Kovac. Igor Tudor, Marco Babic, Ivan Klasnic, and Dario Simic are also back. Keep an eye on the tyro midfield pair of Luka Modric and Niko Kranjar. They are the future, after this squad meets with timely elimination.

Editor’s retroactive notes:

Damn Croat fans. I’ll take special care to avoid them at Euro 2012. Lighting flares within an enclosed stadium does NOT constitute acceptable behavior. What flowers Modric and Kranjar have bloomed into! Their success owes everything to Harry Redknapp’s keen eye and patient hand. If he’s not named the next England manager, someone should bomb the FA. 

Czech Republic

Despite a somewhat torpid qualifying round, Brückner’s Boys have played with uncommonly inspiring flair in the preparation friendly matches and stand one American mauling away from attaining a path deep into the tournament. The midfield menace of Karel Pobrovsky, Pavel Nedved, Thomas Galasek, and Thomas Rosicky all return with an extra 30-40 Caps under their belt. Together with strikers Jan Koller and Vratislav Lokvenc, the Prague Princes sport the most experienced team in the tournament.

Experience does not necessarily herald success in the bruising game of football. This supremely talented squadron of greybeards remains one twisted ankle, bruised knee, or sudden onset of fatigue from returning to the languor that dominated their interim campaign. The first major test will be against the United States. For two hours, Proud Prague natives and their slacker American tenants will suspend their uneasy sense of camaraderie to tune into the clash of civilizations. With any luck some of the Czechs will perspicaciously penetrate the more mundane logic of their smoke-filled haze to arrive at a euphonious deduction. Namely, that Yank from the Hostel who swung by the apartment three years ago is STILL HERE. Moreover, he’s sleeping on my couch, writing obscenely bad poetry and not contributing any rent. Sho nuff about time to dust that broom.

Ukraine

No, they won’t be wearing Orange or meticulously braiding their hair in the cunilingus Julia Tymonschenko style. Many of us have only recently been introduced to this failed Lebensraum State through perhaps the most massively over-covered political events of 2004. International journalists appear beset by the same affliction that ails recovering Kremlinologists. Anything that brings a hint of the bi-polar global order from the previous century receives a gratuitous amount of sensational coverage. Perhaps the Vicey doth judge too much. Any story that involves poisoning is worth reading.

Netherlands

Here’s the team that will be decked out in all orange attire. New head coach Marco van Basten has selected some tantalizing strikers to keep Rambling Rud company. Roy Makaay and Patrick Kluivert have been dropped. They’ve abdicated in favor of the surging Feyenoord whippersnapper Dirk Kuyt and Arsene Wegener’s shiny new toy Robbin van Persie. The new look Orange will rely heavily on players that have received tutelage under van Basten’s aegis. Kew Jaliens, Tim de Cler, and Hedwiges Maduro are other faces.

The Dutch share much in common with the Germans, besides their farcical interpretation of the beautiful language of thinkers and poets. Their paramount players are coming off lackluster seasons with their respective clubs and it falls to a young coach with eccentric proclivities to weave together an atypical stitching of potential and performance into some sort of coherent entity. Arjen Robben has contributed suitably for Premiership Champions Chelsea, but courted far too much controversy for his on-field antics. Rafael van der Vaart had atrocious season for Hamburger SV, quite possibly solidifying his place as the biggest Bundesliga flop of all time. Mark van Bommel, Giovanni van Bronckhorst, and Phillip all Cocu all exhibited the pronounced dip in form that their advancing years dictate.

Much the same manner Fatherland hopes rest squarely on the shoulders of tenderfoots Podolski and Schweinsteiger, Clockwork Orange must hope that Van Persie and Kuyt find a way to make the issue of their age academic. I’m quite to eager to stop looking up absurd synonyms for youngsters such as “tyro”, “tenderfoot”, and “whippersnapper” and see what the boys have in store. Seriously, “whippersnapper”? Who the fuck am I all the sudden, Tennessee Williams?

Italy

It just wouldn’t be an international football festival without the “Floppin’ Wops”. The dastardly dagos are back for more….of my verbal abuse. Note to the Anti-Defamation Wing of the “Sons of Italy”. Save your stamp you greasy pricks. There are two Italians on the Supreme Court. They share the bench with one black and one woman. There is no racial bigotry here. I merely point out that your entire sense of misplaced ethnic identity amuses me. Pathetic feeble creatures, I ask you, parla l’italino? No? Then shut your worthless traps. Goddamn over animated hubris-filled…grumble…grumble…grumble.

Well. Now that cleared that up let’s extend a hearty welcome to the Azzuri for their next appallingly embarrassing failure. This team sucks harder than Nancy Reagan on a coke binge. Lead striker Francesco Totti has been sidelined for over three months with six metal bars in his ankle. Trainer Marello Lippi has called up Alberto Gilardino and Luca Toni to fill the void, both of whom have struggled with their own form issues this season. New defensive additions include the Palermo triplets Christian Zaccardo, Andrea Barzagli and Fabio Grosso. The Italian Modus Operandi remains that the team should consist entirely of Serie A players and the formation should pair as many club teammates as possible. Apart from being patently and woefully sectarian, I’ve yet to see this strategy work. Looks to be another disconcerting campaign for these fucktards.  

Editor’s retroactive notes:

Evidently it worked at least once…fuck. Ruminating on this “world championship” never fails to bring on a bout of “agita”. THEY CHEATED THEIR WAY TO THE CROWN! We’ll never know to what heights my Mannschaft would have ascended to had these meddling guineas not appealed for Torsten Frings’s suspension. Ah..to hell with it. No sense allowing myself to be perpetually embittered. As sure as Eros Ramazotti will always being playing in the background of a European Pizza Parlor, the Wops will get lucky sometimes. Poetic justice was served in two subsequent tournaments, and the country remains the ridicule of Europe. At least the Italian victory enabled the tenuous coalition of Romano Prodi to hold on for an improbable two plus years! Football can bolster even the most fragile of regimes. A Danish victory this summer would not be unwelcome at all.

CONCACAF

Costa Rica

We’ve finally traversed the European Swamp to pop in for a quick visit to CONCACAF, the football Federation pragmatically known as “The U.S., Mexico, and…er…why not throw in two other countries?” La Sele joined us for some enlivening group stage action back in 2002. Their back in large part due to some epic performances turned in by their two international superstars Paulo Wanchope and Gilberto Martinez during the qualifying stages.

First task for “The Selection”: Glorious Fatherland. Yeah, that about sums it up. Nevertheless they stand a decent chance of claiming second place in a group weaker than Kerry’s response team. Viva Costa Rica! They may very well turn some heads/raise some eyebrows/elicit some guttural affirmations/purse some lips/do something very clichéd to otherwise placid facial expressions.

Trinidad and Tobago

Who precisely are these guys with the dreadlocks leading the drum circle? Why it’s the fans of a hashish-smoking Caribbean nation here for the first time! Some five hundred years ago, Chris Columbus kept hopelessly listing South (or “to port” in nautical terms) and struck this pair of islands off the coast of Venezuela. Every seafaring colonial nation has since had its turn to govern the islets, leaving a population of French, Portuguese, Spanish, British, and Dutch to mix with a whole cohort of African slave labor alongside Indian and Chinese migrant workers. The whole color gradient was fairly fucked up even before global businessmen started setting up the tax shelters and sowing their oats while in the neighborhood. The makeup of the “Soca Warriors”, as they are known reflects this ridiculous diversity. Premiership players, Bundesliga Players, Welsh players, French players, Brazilian players, Argentine, American, Australian, Scottish, Domestic….you get the idea. It’s a multivarigated clusterfuck.

True football fans will recognize Glasgow Rangers’ fullback Marvin Andrews, Pompey forward Kenwyn Jones, and perhaps even Fallkirk midfielder Densil Theobald. A less likely to ring a faint bell is Gillingham’s Brent Sancho. All one needs to know about him is that he is Sancho. You are not Sancho. Scott Bayo? He is not Sancho. The Football League One defender. He is Sancho. No one else is Sancho.

With a population of just over one million, T & T is officially the smallest country ever to qualify for the World Cup. Simply incredible that such a miniscule state produced so many top-flight players. In the event anyone finds themselves curious, the island of Trinidad is a sizeable chunk of land with ten major cities. Conversely Tobago is the slenderest of rock outcroppings with one settlement. One wonders if the one Tobagan player on the team gets mercilessly ridiculed in the shower. “Hey Jungle Boy! Size matters!” 

Mexico

Today’s Spanish lesson: “El Tricolor” translates to “The Tricolor”. South of the Rio Grande and East of the Elbe, countries cannot seem to come up with clever names for their sides. Everything involves the uniform tint. A strong side once again looks to advance out of its group, possibly setting up a rematch with the very Yankee neighbors that disgraced them last tournament. Then President Vicente Fox declared the loss to the U.S. in 2002 a “national day of shame”. He proceeded to get openly shitfaced Yeltsin style. Something about ending decades of one party rule seems to beget leaders that are anything but furtive about their alcoholism. Go figure. Anyway, everyone, myself included, will be anxious to get the U.S. Side. Accordingly, I’ll merely deliver the broad strokes to those who don’t enjoy coming home from a night of heavy drinking and flipping on Mexican Primera matches on Telemundo to lull them to sleep.

Mexican powerhouse CF Monterrey contributes three players including the legendary talismanic midfielder Jesus Arellano. League Champion Guadalajara chip in a smattering of Josés, Guilermos, Carloses, Raphaels, and Franciscos. Most noteworthy are captain Rafael Marquez from Barça and Villareal’s striker Guillermo Franco. The most capped player is thirty-seven-year-old Claudio Suarez, who now enjoys a pleasant retirement playing for Chivas USA in MLS. Argentine coach Ricardo La Volpe has selected an intriguing attack spearheaded by Bolton’s Jared Borghetti and Cruz Azul’s Francisco Fonseca. Look out my beloved patriots. Danger pulsates from your southern flank.

Editor’s retroactive notes:

The American “Monterey” of California’s Central Coast distinguishes itself from the Mexican “Monterrey” by leaving off a superfluous consonant. Apologies, but I’m frankly tired of reading this mistake. Should you send me an e-mail with the subject header “Life in Monterrey”, I’ve no choice but to assume that you’re in Mexico. Don’t ask me when I’m coming back to “Monterrey”. I’ve never traveled to Mexico and have no plans to. Actually..we’ll amend that slightly. I’ll gladly schlep on down to “Monterrey” before even considering a casual weekend in “Monterey”. I’ll surely be pleased to learn that there are less mediocre professors in “Monterrey”. 

USA

Welcome to all my brothers who have skipped through everything else and commence reading with this section! No, I take not even the slightest umbrage that you’ve sprung over the preceding fourteen pages. So glad you elected to join me. JJ

I’ve so much to tell you about your team. We’ve more ground to cover than a Mexican border hopper. Er….let’s forgo the poorly-written taunts and dive right in. Head coach Bruce Arena has tinkered around quite a bit. He’s also ballooned out to become a revolting fat tub of goo. Apparently he mulled over every decision so strenuously that it required at least six trips to the all-you-can-eat lunch buffet at PF Changs. In goal the pendulum has swung once more in Kasey Keller’s direction, if only because Brad Friedel opted to retire from international football. Keller appears to be as on top of his game as he was a decade ago. In spite of his splendid season for Borussia Monchengladbach, he had to fend off young Manchester United upstart Tim Howard. The competition kept him even more finely balanced on his toes. Very little should get by him.

Moving away from goal to the actual significant positions, Carlos Bocanegra, Steve Cherundolo, Oguchi Onyewu, and Jimmy Conrad are ready to step up in defense. Funny how only the final player in that list has a conspicuously American name. Jimmy Conrad may well be alter ego of a DC Comic Book character or a Marine Medal-of-Freedom recipient. Pablo Mastroeni and Claudio Reyna are the only holdovers in a midfield that will now feature Clint Dempsey, Brian Ching, Eddie Olsen, and Bobby Convey. Demarcus Beasley experienced a profound drop in form. Same went for Clint Mathis, Eddie Lewis, and John O’Brien. Earnie Stewart retired. Speaking of natural midfielders, 2002’s summer surprise Landon Donovan has been moved up to forward so as to assist the aging Brian McBride and the sporadic duo of Eddie Johnson and Josh Wolff.

This is unquestionably the best U.S. team ever assembled. Expectations soar. Their groupmates, however, are no pushovers. Italy, the Czech Republic, and even Ghana will make life difficult for this collection of Premiership and Bundesliga Stars. “Beware,” read the Nike billboards yet again. Sam’s Army would do well to “beware” their first three opponents. Arena must pick his sides carefully in addition to motivating the eleven in ways that no other morbidly obese coach has ever done. I wish you luck, Yanks. Hell, I invite you all to come watch the match at my villa. Here’s hoping the proportion of broken hearts is convincingly eclipsed by the proportion of sated sexual longings!  

Editor’s retroactive notes:

Christ did this squad ever bellyflop! Clint Dempsey scored the lone goal of three matches. Ghana initiated the anti-U.S. vendetta with a crisp 2-1 victory. Donovan and McBride showcased nothing of even remote worth. Mastroeni and Reyna played like sub-human pieces of garbage. Arena got fatter and dumber with each passing match. A partially interesting side note: Both Kasey Keller and Brad Friedel continue to play for club teams well into their forties. How iniquitous that the U.S. possesses a surfeit of keepers and a dearth of strikers! Jozy Altidore looks to be the man to buck this trend. His presence allows Donovan to drop back to his more comfortable midfield slot. Relax, U.S. Fans. Your team improves exponentially. When Klinsi gets dismissed after the 2014 debacle, you’ll be a force to reckoned with. 

Latin America

Argentina

Scary, scary stuff. Careful scrutiny of the bracket leads me to believe that the “White and Sky Blue” shall be the ones to knock my cherished fatherland out in the quarterfinals. Gabriel Heinze and Esteban Cambiosso are absurdly talented players. Maxi Rodriguez and Javier Mascherano scare the bejesus out of me. As if the “three-headed-hydra” striking trio of Carlos Tevez, Herman Crespo, and Javier Saviola weren’t frightening enough, they’ve got……”the kid”

For those of you not privy to football circles, “the kid” has been tapped to be the best football player in the history of the game. Pelé, Maradona, Müller, George Best. None are purported to respectfully approach the skills of “the kid”. As diminutive as he might appear, “the kid” dazzles so effortlessly that FC Barcelona signed him to a six-figure contract at the tender age of TWELVE. At the age of twelve I had barely discovered my dick. Somehow “the kid” was making millions before he learned to properly masturbate. So what, Vicey? Gymnasts are scouted before they turn ten. Tennis players mature well ahead of their bodies. Basketball players show promise before they sprout pubic hairs. Well, the real football isn’t quite the late-bloomer sport that American Football is. The NFL “mounds of flesh” rarely develop until their senior year of college, after a four-year-regimen of steroids and Kinesiology courses. Soccer players are often signed on to a youth academy at the age of fifteen or sixteen. Twelve constitutes something of a stretch. The name of this virtuosic prodigy? Lionel Messi. Watch as he sets the world on fire.

 Editor’s retroactive notes:

Ahem…”the kid” never even flirted with disappointment. He’s on track to be the first three-peat “Footballer of the Year.” Messi struggled from the ages of twelve to sixteen. This was not entirely surprising as he has a growth-hormone deficiency. His contact with Barça stipulated complete medical attention. The care enabled him to properly attend to his internal organs while he perfected his touch. He still hasn’t grown an inch, but no one can possibly propose to give a shit. The 5’5’’ Dwarf exerts prolonged dominance over any defensive corps that stands between him and the back of the net. His size precludes him from being any sort of an aerial threat, but the little fucker can weave straw into gold with his feet. What an electrifying ball of energy!

As prognosticated, the Argentines faced off against the Fatherland in a quarterfinal matchup that came down to penalties. Ze Germans were extremely lucky to slip past this side, equalizing with a blind header and hanging on by the nape of their cuticles for a shootout. Four years down the road they again booted the White and Sky Blue out of the quarterfinals. This time they were blessed enough to face a team coached by Diego Maradona.

Brazil

The defending champs have the two-time “Footballer of the Year” marshalling their squad. His given name is Ronaldo. To prevent confusion with the outgoing legend he adopted a new handle. You know him as “Ronaldinho.” Another player was also born Ronaldo. Again, in anticipation of the disorientation a Western audience might experience, he’s designated himself “Robinho”. In a service to the casual fan who might still be perplexed, I define these three as follows:

1) Ronaldo = The fat one

2) Ronaldino = The guy with a face like a horse

3) Robinho = The token black dude

The “Three Ronaldos” are but the tip of the iceberg on this insane throng of sickly talented players. Cafu now wears the captain’s armband. This thirty-six-year-old artifact still starts for Inter. Lucio, Juan, and Roberto Carlos, and Gilberto join him at the back. Juninho, Bayern staple ze Roberto, Kaka, and Emerson join Ronaldinho for an unrivaled midfield menace. Ronaldo still has gas in the tank. In all likelihood he’ll surpass Pelé’s record over the course of this tournament. Should his increasingly thick legs fail him, Robinho can be plugged in to stoke the fire. Adriano and Fred also smash through the “adept and capable” ceiling.

And yet the team is not favored. European soil prohibits me from believing this team can capture glory. They will not prevail. Peaking players means nothing in Old Europe. Fans can will players to perform through an odd variation of osmosis. Lula will extend his copywritten (or copyrighted?) hug to a dismayed and dejected bunch flying back to Rio via Sao Paulo empty-handed. Who will slay the dragon?

Editor’s retroactive notes:

Why it was none other than the Frogs who slew Goliath! The “EU-Wing Theory” gains yet more traction. At this juncture I wish to comment on how Ronaldinho could have undergone such a precipitous fall from grace. At the time this passage was written he was a Football God. Within fourteen months he suffered two major injuries and Barça alertly offloaded him to Inter. It wasn’t long before Chelsea Sage Jose Mourinho relegated him to the bench permanently. He never fully recovered from his wounds. Moreover, he demonstrated a drop in form that one might expect……from a thirty-three-year-old. At the age of twenty-eight he was already being labeled as a “has-been”. Brazil dropped him from the 2009 Confederations Cup Squad and left him off for 2010 as well. Only in the last few weeks has he regained his standing as an international, out of pity more than anything else. An analogy for U.S. Sports Fans eludes…..until I recalled Ken Griffey Jr. So much talent, all squandered before he could attain his apex. The current “Ronaldinho” is but a shadow of his former magnificence. Less than half the man he used to be. The reformed “Stone Temple Pilots” should dedicate a song to him. John Bobbit should pick up the rotary and instigate a sympathy call.

 

Ecuador

Will there be a resurgence of Ecuadorian Ecstasy? Considering that they only need to best the Costa Ricans and the Poles, I’ll offer an emphatic “ci”. This year the “other” Tri-colors have Ivan Kaliendes and Ulises de la Cruz. I say they get pummeled in the Round of 16. That’s about all one can say about Ecuador. I could crack wise about my ex-girlfriend’s ex-boyfriend, but that would just be petty.

Paraguay

Fuck…I’m exhausted. Any goofball who inanely decided to read this entire spread surely feels fatigued as well. Imagine how enervating it is to write this crap. The Albiroja are back with us once again. Roque Santa Cruz steals the show as a Bayern Superstiker. His teammate Julio dos Santos similarly earns my attention. Other than that…..yawn….I don’t give the most piddling of shits about Paraguay. Time for a siesta.

Editor’s retroactive notes:

How blighted it was in the days before Fernando Lugo. The future president of Paraguay gave me gave two nuns and me the greatest gift of all. He sired two children while he was a Priest. Two lives exist solely because of his horniness. His fervent desires also granted me something to say about Paraguay. In thanking him for such a concession, I wish to….yawn….I don’t give the most piddling of shits about Paraguay. Time for a siesta.

Dispatches from the Penthouse

Another beautiful Summer Evening in South Louisiana. This morn I awoke at the crack of 11 a.m. After brewing some perfectly proportioned Community Coffee, I sat on my balcony for a half hour consuming caffeine blissfulness while I chained smoked Marlboros while staring at the Mississippi.  The true measure of how pimped-out your crib is literally pertains to the activities you may engage in your bathrobe. The breeze beckoned me. After reading the paper and hitting up the clubhouse treadmill, I favored a quick swim in the pool followed by the pure euphoric ebullience of a sun-dried anhydration. How wonderful it feels to revel in the sensation of every last hair on your body standing straight up courtesy of a mystically burning nuclear furnace over 3.5 Million miles away. A read some more of the essay-centric book “A history of the world in 10 ½ Chapters”. When that began to bore me, I rifled through some more of “The Last Hayride.” When that too failed to sufficiently captivate me, I read two chapters of Madeline Albright’s “Madame Secretary”, did the NY Times Crossword and fell into a deep tranquil sleep. I awoke as the hour drew late and the gentle afternoon breeze wafted over me. A modest dinner and a few glasses of delightful Pinot Grigio later I was back on the balcony re-reading my Oxford Companion to Philosophy with the occasional glance toward the flare from the nearby oil refinery, wondering what in the hell I did to deserve such a peaceful and reflective day. Yes, my friends. Life’s great when you’re a guy who’s privileged enough to be left alone.  Hope you’re all jealous. God may not be great, but life certainly is. JJ

Editor’s retroactive notes:

Now I’ve figured it all out. I must publish my own “Catcher in the Rye” and retire to a quiet life of Salinger Solitude. My dearest women, you thoroughly fail to comprehend what a man needs. We crave silent isolation. A good book and a gentle breeze are enough to restore us. Okay…for some men it might be an American Football Sunday and some cold beers. Close enough. Just leave us alone for a minimum of one day per week. Let one day be “Underwear and Couch Day”.  There’s no point in being lazy when another human being obliges you to put some interactive work in. Just one day to lounge around naked reading something totally impertinent. I ask nothing more.