The pace quickens. The plot thickens. Insofar as I’m concerned, it’s hailing happiness. Welcome to the “lightning round”. Four games per day as we round out the group stages. Sixteen dead-weight nations are soon to be lopped off. As they say in Karlsruhe “Jetzts gehts los” My naïve brain remains incapable of processing what those dirty hippies were thinking when they declared a “Summer of Love”. I also never understood why those Ravers elected to brand heavy drugs and darkened rooms as some sort of generational unity statement. We’ve got everything we could ever possibly need right here. Football, friends, and gambling. Not to say that some heavy drugs wouldn’t be welcome..I mean if anyone’s holding. JJ
All of the money I’ve pilfered from you cats will barely be
enough to cover my cell phone bill. Very little is more pleasurable that
staying up until 7 a.m. central time arguing with a Spaniard about whether or
not God exists, grabbing two hours of deep sleep, and then getting up for an entertaining
football match to see if he actually does. Same goes for chatting about ECOWAS
with a skeptical South African until the rains come, depart, and then come
again. I could go on forever as most of our conversations do. Please do not be
offended if I neglected our particular conversation in this blitzed out
passage. I still must expend some calories on the dichotomy of exhaustion.
There is the frustrated exhaustion characterized by the inherent sense that
energy is being expended towards a futile and petty purpose. Symmetrically
there is such a thing as satisfied exhaustion, a comforting realization that
while one may not be operating at full capacity, the bulk of one’s initiative
has been directed properly. The latter soothes my weary bones. My love to all
of you.
Editor’s
retroactive notes:
Hmmm…as overly simplistic as he might have been, there’s
something constructive in there. Of course life inescapably tends toward the
former type of exhaustion, a type of which no one should be ashamed. We cannot
expect that hard work or the manner in which we push ourselves will be
appreciated by anyone. In fact it is quite vain and narcissistic to do so.
Woody Allen may have playfully noted, “90% of life is showing up”. That’s a
celebrity’s incomplete vantage. Ninety percent of life is showing up AND
realizing that you have to play by other people’s rules AND accepting the
reality that they don’t give a shit about you AND becoming conscious of the
fact that they have no reason to give a shit about you. Who the hell do you
think you are anyway? There’s a point to be made here. Namely, should you find
some people that really do give a shit about you, give them everything you
have. Hell, should you find ONE person who gives a shit about you, funnel all
of your efforts. With a wink I deliver this message to some unbelievably
intelligent peeps all around the world…and to anyone who recalls my long dead
Bwana.
Now that we’re past the Küschelrock section, onwards to the
hubris-laden segment that everyone looks forward to.
Dispatches from the Penthouse (Fit the 1st)
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
Dispatches from the Penthouse (Fit the 2nd)
When throwing a Football Soiree, how many televisions are
appropriate? A 52-inch plasma tucked inside the private bar somehow doesn’t
seem to be sufficient. Sure eight to ten people can comfortably sip cocktails,
snug in their posh surroundings. What about those who prefer to lounge out by the
pool? To accommodate the dozen or so who prefer to soak up the sun in chaise
lounges, you’ll need to bring down another unit. Careful not to set it too
close to the grill or the hot tub. What of the two extra flat screens back in
the clubhouse? The ones symmetrically situated on the mahogany-paneled wall in
front of the two camel leather couches and four pop-block sofa chairs? Well,
this host believes in making the multilingual contingent feel welcome. Thank
heavens there are two flat screens. Were one operating under more indigent
conditions, it would not be possible to have both the Telemundo and Univision
broadcast on. This concludes today’s homemaking hint from Heloise Vice. Four
televisions should be commensurate.
Dispatches from the Penthouse (Fit the 3rd)
The requisite mezzanine flooring option for the Southern
Intellectual is none other than amber-colored hardwood. The Southern
Intellectual can easily acquire a glossy marble tabletop bedecked with candles
and bowls of fresh fruit. The Southern Intellectual can easily amass
bookshelves full of Faulkner novels, Nietzsche compilations, Allain de Botton
masterpieces, and AJIL journals. The Southern Intellectual may pour himself a
wine refill before striding out to a balcony overlooking an oil refinery,
raising his glass high to make a point less erudite than his surroundings might
suggest. Should this striding not take place across amber-colored hardwood
floors, something is lacking. The great Southern Intellectual is nothing more
than a lucky bastard felicitous enough to fall into, for a brief moment, the
lap of luxury. Faulkner, Percy, Toole, Styron, Fox, Lee, Capote, Welty,
O’Connor, Dickey, and Hurston. A life without undue reward remains incomplete.
Undeserved comeuppance focuses the mind. The mind zeroes in on more than
amber-colored hardwood floor, but that will have to wait until tomorrow J
Dispatches from the Penthouse (Fit the 4th)
Eros Ramazotti normally only pervades the spaces of subpar
European Pizza Parlors. Seriously. Go sit down for a Margarhetta in any
European Italo-joint. If you get through the entire pie without hearing “Dove
c’e Musica” the meal is on me. I’m more of a “Piu Bella Costa” man myself. At
least when this soulful serenade drifts from the Mac to marginally reach my ears
as I sit on a spacious balcony overlooking the Mississippi, the notes properly
modulate the effects of alcohol to foster something of a moonlight nocturne.
“Piu bella costa” roughly translates to “nothing more beautiful”. Hence, I
shall now attempt a very un-poetic translation of Ramazotti’s kitsch in a
shitty, yet heartfelt, “Ode to my Penthouse”
“com’è cominciata io non saprei
la storia infinita con te
che sei diventata la mia lei
di tutta una vita per me
ci vuole passione con te
e un briciolo di pazzia
ci vuole pensiero perciò
lavoro di fantasia”
“I don’t remember how it began
My timeless story with you
You’ve become my girl,
A lifelong love
I experience passion with you
With some insanity as well
I care for you deeply
(enough) to work on this fantasy”
“ricordi la volta
che ti cantai
fu subito un brivido sì”
“Remember the time,
When I sang for you
We both were made to shiver”
“ti dico una cosa
se non la sai
per me vale ancora così”
“I’ll tell you one thing
Even if you don’t know
For me it’s true”
“ci vuole passione con te,
non deve mancare mai
ci vuole mestiere perché
lavoro di cuore lo sai”
“I experience passion with you,
(passion) that I’ll never miss,
I speak from knowledge,
Because you know I speak from the heart.”
“cantare d’amore non basta
mai, ne servirà di più
per dirtelo ancora
per dirti che
più bella cosa non c’è
più bella cosa di te
unica come sei
immensa quando vuoi
grazie di esistere...”
“To merely sing about love will never suffice,
it shall use me,
I must tell you that now
I must tell you that still
There is nothing more beautiful
More beautiful than you
As unique as you are
Endless (love) if you wish
Thank you for existing,”
Editor’s
retroactive notes:
I’ve double-checked to confirm that there were actually
THREE more stanzas. Poor Vicey got tired. Understandable considering how
immensely fucking hard translation work is…even when you speak the language! To
all those who falsely believe I speak a bit of Italian: You’re wrong. I suck.
What you see above took over three hours of online dictionary work, extensive
review of verb conjugation tables, and eventually some frantic pacing to decide
upon the right amount of poetic liscense. Measuring it against other legitimate
translations, I see I took far too many liberties….again. My overreaching
precludes me from even being a German-English translator. The perfected ability
to write in multiple languages fluently is UNIMAGINABLY hard. No, I don’t care
about your drunken conversational skills. Your companions were too
tired/disinterested/polite to correct you. Precision can only be achieved
through hard work. Even my own father can’t write in English without looking
like a fool, and he’s been speaking the language for over thirty years!
International Football tournaments present you with the optimum opportunity to
hug a translator/interpreter. Thank them for their hard work. A sad aspect of
being human is that one has trouble functioning when one doesn’t believe in
one’s own uniquely uncommon and unrivaled genius. A sad aspect of reality is
that one is neither uncommon nor unrivaled. Admittedly I’ve been watching too
much Republican Primary Coverage and thus feel the need to interject some sense
of scope into Gingrich’s enormous head. At least Dubya could string together a
few sentences in Spanish. Newt would have trouble ordering his daily eighth
slice of pizza over at “Ramazotti’s”. Food for thought and thought for
food.
Enough of this shit. Time to set some lines.
Tuesday
Deutschland vs. Ecuador
vs. 
vs.
“Berlin. Berlin. Wir fahren nach Berlin!
Berlin. Berlin. Wir fahren nach Berlin!
Berlin. Berlin. Wir fahren nach Berlin!”
All across the Marktplätze of the Fatherland, this catchy
Easyjetter techno remix of “Scotland the Brave” has the Krauts dancing in the
streets. That is to say…swaying their hips and tapping their feet in a manner
vaguely reminiscent of what might be called “dancing”. We’re not exactly
“flexible” or “limber” people. German dancing usually consists of standing in
one place and bending one’s knees lightly. If we’re feeling especially
spontaneous we might lift our arms a tad, but no promises. It takes plenty of
beers to loosen us up that to that degree. In any event, we are headed to
Berlin for a decisive final group match with the Quito Warriors. We’re likely
also headed to Berlin for the Quarterfinals. The song, however, exemplifies our
explicit hopes in being in Berlin’s Olympiastadion for the final match. Hence
the refrain must be sung at least three times.
“Berlin. Berlin. Wir fahren nach Berlin!
Berlin. Berlin. Wir fahren nach Berlin!
Berlin. Berlin. Wir fahren nach Berlin!”
First place in the group is not yet sewn up. La Tri have won
their two matches by a combined 5-0 margin. They need only a draw to pack us
off to a frightening Round of 16 encounter with probable Group B winners
England. This is a real concern. No matter how energizing Neuville’s last
minutes heroics were, the Poland match laid our shortcomings bare.
In spite of pronounced dips in form, Schweinsteiger and
Schneider are expected to start. No rest for Ballack, Klose, or Podolski
either. Unless the Mannschaft captures an early insurmountable lead, we’ve no
choice but to let the starters run for 90 minutes. Even if we win, we risk
carrying an exhausted bunch forward. You know what that means, Jungs. Take care
of business early. Out onto the pitch with a full out blitz! Sonst fahren wir
keineswegs wieder nach Berlin LL
THE
LINE: Deutschland +2 Goals
Editor’s
retroactive notes:
RESULT:
Germany 3, Ecuador 0. What was immediately shocking about this match was
trainer Luis Fernando Suarez’s decision not even to contest it. He left out
four of his top starters. Lead strikers Augustin Delgado and Carlos Tenorio had
scored four of Ecuador’s five goals. Captain Ivan Hurtado was the team’s
beating heart. All three joined the high-flying Segundo Castillo on the bench
as Suarez waved the white flag before we even kicked off. What the
extravagating fuck? You can’t just surrender to the Germans without even
putting up a….sigh…INSERT YOUR OWN VICHY JOKE HERE.
Ye old
“Surrender Monkey” line rarely fails to elicit a laugh. It’s still little fun
watching a defenseless chimp undergo Mengle-like medical experiments. That’s
how this one felt. As soon as the lineups flashed across the screen one already
knew it was over. Progress may depend upon finding ways to skin a cat, but does
one have to toss the poor kitten in the microwave? Klinsi gave only Metzelder a
break, starting the “Berlin Wall” Premiership star Robert Huth in his place.
Schneider and Schweine recovered from their poor firm quickly, both assisting
on the first Klose goal four minutes in. Ballack finally got involved with a
cheeky little flick on to set up Klose again one minute before the half.
Finally we saw the creativity Abrammovic paid handsomely for. Schneider crossed
square for Podolski in the 57th and the reserves started filling in.
Yawn. Apart from Ballack’s wizardry it was a sad one to watch. The Mannshaft
debuted the “bowling pin” charade after it was all over. Torsten Frings rolled
a ball toward ten White-clad players standing in a triangular formation thirty
yards away, who then proceeded to fall down when the rock reached them. Cute
enough I suppose.
Costa Rica vs. Poland
vs. 
vs.
With only pride to play for, these two teams will march out
the reserves for some pro-active training. The gnawing sense of déjà vu
molesting you has nothing to do with the fact that you got drunk and hooked up
with the ex-girl again last night. You’re thinking about what happened to the
Poles four years ago. They were upset 2-0 by a weaker team in the opening
match. After obstinately standing by their men, they got sucker-punched in the
second match to earn embarrassing elimination before anything really got
started. In their farewell game they managed to pull it together and salvage
some semblance of honor. And we’re just about done here…
THE
LINE: Poland +1 Goal
Editor’s
retroactive notes:
RESULT:
Poland 2, Costa Rica 1. Caught up with this one on Youtube, in between watching
Carl Lewis’s Music Video and coming to the realization that I would need to
work in a “boom goes the dynamite” line at some point. It did not start off
auspiciously for the Poles when Ronald Gomez bypassed their wall’s northeastern
flank with a free kick headed straight for East Prussia. A pair of first-rate
corner deliveries from Zurkowski and Kryznowek found the head of Bartoz Boscki,
whose brace gave the “Football-skis” the edge. The 2002 Rerun was complete.
Wanchope slipped through the porous defense to get jiggy with it two final
times. Only two true fullbacks started for a Poland side determined to throw
everything they had at goal. Acutely aware that they were already appallingly
late for the ceremonies, Polska made the conscious choice to fly straight
through the storm. What? Too soon? Oh come on. Know the hell misses Kaczynski?
Sweden vs. England
vs. 
vs.
As scrotum-scratchingly dull as the Swedes have played thus
far, they shave a chance to finish atop this group. We all know what that
means. Fractured Metatarsus or no, Wayne Rooney will start. Inconceivable that
he won’t be paired with his soul mate Michael Owen, so anorexic equivalent of
Shaquille O’Neal Peter Crouch will take a seat. Gary Neville has been ruled out
for the duration of proceedings so we’ll probably see part-time fullback Jamie
Carragher again. Other than some rumors of midfield shuffling, nothing much
else doing for Sven’s Eleven. The Swedish coach should have no trouble
dismantling his languid home country.
The nattering Nordics are through irrespective of the
result. I’m as miffed as anyone who’s past the “Shitty Ikea instructions Event
Horizon.”. One measly goal? Lagerbäck has tried everyone. Alexandersson and
Wilhelmsson. Svensson and Eriksson. Nilsson and Hansson. Don’t be surprised if
emergency backup forward “this-guy-really-sucks-asson” partners with Henrik
Larsson, as Zlatan Ibrahimovic continues to nurse a muscle strain. The
non-sardonic picks for this confused and limping squad will likely be
Källström, Johnson, Allbäck, and Ljunberg. That’s a significant amount of
players with the Midas touch. Absent their best player, however….
THE
LINE: England +1 goal
Editor’s
retroactive notes:
RESULT:
Sweden 2, England 2. Terrific pace to this one, even as St. George lost both
strikers early. A few seconds after kickoff Michael Owen cracked his knee open
and had to be carted off on a stretcher. Rooney could only take 69 minutes, and
looked genuinely atrocious throughout. Even had he been healthy, the
Rooney/Crouch Combo has never gelled well at all. The bullish finisher and the
aerial master make for an awkward Asterix/Obelix pairing without the magic
potion. Can’t believe I just wrote. We’re a few more paragraphs away from a
Tintin gag LL. With the frontal force mired
in cloddish maladroitness, Joe Cole manned-up to play perhaps the best match of
his career. Ordinarily overshadowed by midfield partner Steven Gerrard, Cole
had the whole left side of the pitch to himself in this one. In the 34th
he chested down a free ball and impulsively elected to send in an effort off
the volley. The astonishing floater traveled a solid sixty yard parabolic path
before brushing past Isaksson’s fingertips into the right corner. Later, after
Gerrard was subbed in, he showed tremendous patience and impeccable touch. A
few meters outside the 18 he unhurriedly sent the Swedish defense flailing in
different directions with three fake shots. All the while he kept his eye on
Gerrard as he moved into break position. With perfect timing he swung it in
directly towards Gerrard’s noggin for the second England goal. The Swedes
grabbed two garbage tallies that had more to do with fumbled Ashley Cole and
Rio Ferdinand clearances than anything else. The Vaterland breathed a
collective sigh of relief knowing that these pretenders would be our next
opponents.
Paraguay vs. Trinidad and Tobago
vs. 
vs.
Hmmm…what’s the “Guarani” for “Don’t even think of bothering
with this game.”? Should the England/Sweden match reach a dull impasse, flip on
over to a “Matlock” rerun. Farewell Soca Warriors. We hardly knew ye. The proud
Albirojja will send your team on their way now. Please feel free to remain in
Germany and we can all use a few more dreadlocked friends. Back to the Pfalz
and Fritz Walter Stadion.
THE
LINE: Paraguay +1 Goal
Editor’s
retroactive notes:
RESULT:
Paraguay 2, Trinidad and Tobago 0. Over 40,000 Pfälzers turned up to ensure
that not even the most mundane of matches would fail to sell out. This Pfälzer
flipped over in the final moments just in time to watch Nelson Cuevas score a
goal that was in no way memorable.
Wednesday
Netherlands vs. Argentina
vs. 
For the third consecutive time slot we arrive at match between two Round of 16 Qualifiers jostling for first place in the group. With one more round to go before the slate is wiped clean of yellows, Van Basten has indicated that he’ll rest Robben Heitinga, and Van Bronckhorst. Van Nistelroy and Van Persie are playing well enough up front to merit only two strikers anyway. The back-to-back “man of the match” is in line for break. Will we see Mark van Bommel, Wesley Sneijder, and Dirk Kuyt? Anyone’s guess but I rather doubt it. Van Basten appears fairly committed to integrating Laadzat and Van der Vaart into the team at any cost. He’s all set to use this match as a confidence booster for them.
Projecting lineups for both of these teams is next to
impossible. Both have a surplus of talent and it’s unclear whether they truly
wish to play for the win. Pekerman will presumably also wish to sit his
yellows, making me tentatively scratch Heinze, Crespo, and Saviola. Gonzalez
and Sorin are hurt. Fuck. Excuse while I go fiddle around with the chalkboard
some more.
Okay. Professor Pete returns, prepared to upgrade his
lecture from “clueless” to “subpar”. Pekerman will be unable to resist calls to
start “the Kid” next to Tevez. Hence, all my speculation about the Dutch is
hereby declared an intensively irrelevant waste of time. The formula presently
reads as follows. “The Kid” crushes a dopey lot of Flemish-Germanic clowns.
Q.E.D.
THE
LINE: Argentina +2 Goals
Editor’s
retroactive notes:
RESULT:
Argentina 0, Netherlands 0. Yes, when I was a child my parents bought me a
chalkboard. Twenty years later they’ve not ceased to drop both subtle and overt
hints about what they feel I should be doing with my life. Until this moment I
hadn’t fully connected the dots with respect to this gift. Who gives a
six-year-old a chalkboard? “Look son, never to early to start preparing your
lectures!” Man. How miserable it is to grow up the only son of two scholars.
They concoct endless theories about you that would make for fine hypothetical
broad strokes yet ignore the reality that you’re a living, thinking entity. Go
to them with your problems and the best they can do is list a dozen more
problems you might not have thought of while carefully eluding any concrete
solution. Bring home your 2nd Grade Science Essay and they’ll
immediately begin to pontificate on its worthlessness. Should you break the
lamp, you get an ACTUAL lecture…on the chalkboard they gave you last Christmas.
The
pain never relents. Before one knows it, one is all grown up, facing the
selection of one’s own corner niche of bullshit to spend the next forty years
toiling in mediocrity. Fighting the urge does absolutely no good. What else are
you going to do there, killer? It’s not as if you can build an Artesian Well or
design fighter jets for Lockheed. Even the army doesn’t want you. Soon raging
against the urge becomes a full-time gig. You’re helping hundreds cheat their
way through school while spewing acrid anti-academic tirades all over the place
like a chronic mental masturbator. Where does it all end? Scale the Ivory Tower
or not, it all ends in the same place. Eventually you return to dust, the very
same dust that collects on your life’s work after people rapidly stop giving a
shit. The very same dust that accumulates on everything that ever mattered to
you after your relatives clean out your office, take out the trash, and decide
where they’ll have the celebratory meal.
Such a
morose monologue fits this game nicely. Professor Pete and his chalkboard did a
piss-poor job of predicting the outcome. The Lineup forecasts were close to
fully accurate. Messi did start along with Tevez, Van der Vaart and Landazaat.
However, the possibility that these teams would simply cancel each other out
was not allowed for. There weren’t even any memorable misses…or so I’m told.
After twenty minutes of stagnation I said, “fuck it” and watched the Africans.
Cote d’Ivoire vs. Serbia and Montenegro
vs. 
This meaningless match won’t be short of thrills. FINALLY, the Africans catch a break. With the two global superpowers in their rear view, they should find plenty of space to turn some tricks against this soon-to-be-dissolved debacle. Sadly, Drogba will be unable to take part after picking up a second yellow against the Dutch. We’ll still have Dindane, Kalou and the two Kones as part of a four striker set…at least I hope that’s what Michel’s planning. We’ll still see Keita, Eboue, and the two Toures. Tune in to give these boys a proper send off.
It just never came together for the poor Serbs, who lost
their captain (Milosevic) to injury, their most prolific striker (Kezman) to
suspension, and their big shot midfielder (Stankovich) to form so poor I’ve no
choice but to conclude he contracted syphilis at a Leipzig brothel.
Nevertheless, the “White Eagles” will play as a team with nothing left but one
Montenegrin to lose should.
They’ve got guns left in Zidic and Klasjnic. By convention, eliminated
teams give their backup goalkeeper a look in meaningless matches. We could be
in for a high scoring affair.
THE
LINE: Cote d’Ivoire +1 Goal
Editor’s
retroactive notes:
RESULT:
Cote d’Ivoire 3, Serbia and Montenegro 2. It might not have been such a
triumphant afternoon for Papa Elephant and the gang had it not been for the
hands of defender Milan Dudic. He blatantly handled the ball in the box twice,
resulting in two successful penalty goals. I’ve been unable to verify whether
or not the urban legend of his house being burnt to the ground was true. In any
event, he was unceremoniously kicked off the team, never to return. Predrag
Djordevic threaded a booming pass directly through a spit defense for Zigic in
the 10th. Ten minutes later backup keeper Boubacar Barry rushed out
foolishly to contest a ball that Shasha Ilic was already on top of. 2-0 Serbs.
Dindane finished the first of Dudic’s imbecilic penalties in the 37th.
He and Arthur Boka were responsible for the two most ferocious of many
ferocious efforts in the interceding half hour. Dindane finally broke through
with a well-timed header in the 67th to level the score. Kalou
finished the second idiotic Dudic blunder in the 86th. Dudic
eventually broke out of the Russian and Serbian leagues to play in Austria. As
noted above, he never received a call from the national squad again. As to the
fate of his wife, dog, car, house, plants, lawn, and overall sense of
well-being, only anecdotal information exists.
Portugal vs. Mexico
vs. 
vs.
Sense a pattern just yet? Of the four groups we’ve covered
thus far, we’ve yet another scrabble for first. Differentiating this fixture
from the rest, should Portugal beat Mexico and Angola best Iran by a sufficient
number of goals, a third place side has an outside chance of qualifying. Okay.
To be entirely blunt, the Angolans have almost no chance. Therefore we detail a
match more or less like all the others.
We’ll see the best that both these countries have to offer.
Well, sort of. The Navigators are already through and Scolari is rumored to be
considering sitting Christiano Ronaldo and Pauletta. He certainly has apt
enough replacements in Petit, Simao, Tiago, and maybe even Porto’s Helder
Postiga. The “Hossas” are still missing Borghetti and Franco. They’ll also be
without Guadalajara’s Gonzolo Pineaida, out on double yellows. Gerardo Torroda,
also said to be hindered by an injury, looks doubtful. These bloody wetbacks
are doing little besides getting crippled, which makes no sense. They’re
supposed to show up for work regardless. I say they give us a show before
giving in to the Navigators.
THE
LINE: Portugal +1 Goals
Editor’s
retroactive notes:
RESULT:
Portugal 2, Mexico 1. Slovakian referee Lubos Michel would before long be
“yellow carded” himself by FIFA for his consistently shoddy refereeing. To the
belligerent and numerous U.S. fans who purport to see a conspiracy every time
Uncle Sam finds himself on the short-end of a call, allow me to emphasize that
bad officiating is part of the game; a part we attempt to police. Michel had a
nightmare in this one and would soon be excommunicated from the cadre. First he
gave the Navigators a questionable penalty when replays showed Rafael Marquez
did little wrong. To be consistent he awarded a bullshit penalty to the
Mexicans when Luis Ernesto Perez tripped over his own feet. Finally he sent
Francisco Fonseca off for diving after Miguel unmistakably planted his boot in
his crotch. Overall he issued nine yellow cards and one red, none of them
related in any way to the actual game he was officiating.
Simao
converted his nonsense penalty with a stutterstep while Omar Bravo sent his
into the fourth row. Maniche and Jose Fonseca scored legitimate goals in a game
that should either ended in a tie or a Mexican win. Great game, ref. You won.
Iran vs. Angola
vs. 
vs.
Ahmandinejad has been permitted to watch this one in person,
provided he doesn’t open his mouth. If only we were shrewd enough to place some
BND NOCs in his box with the aim of casually soliciting his views on 1939-45. I
fear we’re going soft on constitutional principles. I mean, allowing Holocaust
Deniers to pass through our borders? What’s next, Scientologists? What? They
gave Tom Cruise a work visa! Oh Fatherland LL We’ve got a football
tournament going on here. This is no time to invite in bad karma!
The match? No sense setting a favorite. I’ll miss the Black
Antelopes, but I’m not betting on them.
THE
LINE: Pick em’
Editor’s
retroactive notes:
RESULT:
Iran 1, Angola 1. Tom Cruise’s work visa was actually a hotly contested issue
back in 2006 as he was scheduled to begin filming “Valkyrie” in early 2007.
German paranoia with respect to Scientologists has subsided appreciably in
previous years. One should not infer from my choice of adjectives that I
appreciate this trend. Scientologists continue to frighten the hell out of me.
I like my Thetans. Lord Xenu placed them in my mind for a reason. Leave my
Thetans alone!!
This
free-flowing game proved a splendid antidote to the Portugal/Mexico farce. Both
sides lost key players to non-tackle related injuries, giving respective third
string subs a chance to shine. After Angolan forward Mateus slipped and tore
his ACL, a little known domestic player by the name of Arsenio Love came in and
lit a fire under everyone’s posterior with three long range bombs and several
sweet crosses. The great Farsi Unknown was Rhasoul Khatabi, who wasn’t afraid
to peel off three ambitious efforts of his own. Always fun to watch nobodies
with nothing to loose throw everything they have into the game. Tarika’s headed
in a gorgeous cross while Bakhtiarizadeh nodded in a nicely curled corner. Fine
runs, plenty of space, fluid passing, and intriguing set pieces. A game like
this was sorely needed as the officiating continued to deteriorate.
Thursday
Ghana vs. USA
vs. 
vs.
It’s morning in America. Your friendly bookie Vicey shall
serve as your alarm clock. Ahem…
WAKE THE FUCK UP EVERYONE!!
GET YOUR LAZY FAT ASSES OUT OF BED!!
Juice, Coffee, Sausage Links, Crushed-up Nodoz, Irish
Coffee, Wake & Bake. Whatever you have to do to rise up and stay up for
this one, get to work on your strategy. If anyone happens to mention in passing
that they slept in late, I’m going to insert a mop-handle directly up your
rectum you unpatriotic asshole.
I know it’s been trying to follow these foundering
footballers and their regrettably unexciting brand of pitch play. Fortunately
you remain in contention for the Round of 16, where we can put all of this
unpleasantness behind us and look forward to a fresh start. You’ll need to come
out guns blazing. The loss of Eddie Pope is as inconsequential as it gets,
considering Arena will have to deploy a third striker anyway. I’d personally
like to see either Ching or Wolff get a confidence vote, but we all know it
will be either Beasley or Johnson. Donovan will press on the right and one of
those two will fill the left with McBride in the middle.
A suspension of greater concern is Pablo Mastroeni.
Ordinarily his absence would be immaterial, given how shitty he’s played and
the equal or greater worth of John O’Brien. While O’Brien could potentially be
an upgrade, he’s hurt and in a crisis. Thus, we’ll likely see Eddie Lewis
return to his natural position. He can’t possibly perform worse than he did at
left back against the Czechs, but he’s still well past his prime. Dempsey has
certainly earned his stripes. He must start. In terms of the rest of the
midfield, we’ve heard almost nothing from Convey and Reyna this entire
tournament. Convey was indirectly responsible for Zaccardo’s own goal in the
Italy match, but I’m afraid that’s not nearly good enough. Arena would be a
fool not to start defender Jimmy Conrad as the roving midfielder. Someone has
to instigate better movement up the pitch. This would leave Onyewu, Bocanegra,
and Cherundolo at the back. Risky as it may be, you’re asking to lose if you
start five backs in such a crucial match.
The Black Stars boast a more talented team, but must
reorganize in light of two pivotal suspensions. Goalscorers Asamoah Gyan and
Shelly Muntari are double-yellow ineligible. Gyan’s replacement will either be
Razak Pimpong or Alex Tachie Mensah. The two have only nine Caps between them
and neither has ever scored a goal for their country. The Muntari loss is even
more devastating. A plastic-pitch player from the Serbian League named Haminu
Draman is only remaining midfielder available to replace him. Word is he was
called up by Serbian coach Radomir Dujkovic on a preposterous hunch.
So there we have it, Yanks. The preceding paragraph affords
you some hope, a single ray if you will. Chelsea’s 35 million dollar rent boy
Michael Essien will be starting. He’ll get plenty of balls forward to Matthew
Amoah whatever other cast Dujkovic assembles. I’ll give you a low line and wish
you luck. Don’t oversleep on me.
THE
LINE: Ghana +1 Goal
Editor’s
retroactive notes:
RESULT:
Ghana 2, USA 1. “Plastic pitch player” Haminu Draman may not have been such a
“preposterous hunch” after all. He snatched possession from an inattentive
Claudio Reyna just outside the 18 in the 22nd second minute,
propelling the ball forward before catching up for a rifling strike that left
Keller with no chance. Reyna buckled his knees and fell flat on his face. He
tried to play through the injury for another twenty minutes before Arena was
forced to sub in Ben Olsen. For the American captain it was a fitting end to a
disastrous tournament. Two minutes before the half Demarcus Beasley won a smart
tackle of his own in the danger area. He then crossed to a streaking (and
slightly offside Clint Dempsey) for the only American goal of the competition.
The
celebration was short-lived as the Ghanaians pushed to restore the lead before
halftime. Pimpong missed by inches in the 46th. An incontrovertibly
bad call gave Stephen Appiah a successful spot kick in the 47th.
Inside the box Onyewu gave Mensah a slight shove that he shamefully oversold.
Heading into the tunnel, the Black Stars were back on top. As disgracefully bad
as the call was, the U.S. still had 45 plus minutes to rectify matters. During
the second half they failed to even produce a shot on goal, though McBride did
thunk a diving header off an Eddie Lewis cross of the bar. Onyewu, Donovan, and
Bocanegra could only produce efforts that were humiliatingly wide. Substitutes
Convey and Johnson did absolutely nothing.
Czech Republic vs. Italy
vs. 
vs.
What did I tell you? Without Jan Koller the Czechs are
rudderless. He’ll remain on the sidelines once again and the Azzuri will
undoubtedly seal their remarkable collapse. To recap now: Jan Koller is
injured. Marek Heinz is injured. Vlatislav Lokvenc is suspended. Milan Barros
is injured. Jiri Stajner is injured. For those keeping track, ALL FIVE STRIKERS
are out for a 4-5-1 team. What the undulating fuck?
No need for the Wops to employ the clever play here. As much
as it pains me to write it, this will be an easy authentic victory. With the
Czechs sunk, the winner of the USA/Ghana match will head to the Round of 16. So
disquieted am I by the forthcoming Wop Romp that I can’t be bothered to
speculate on Lippi’s lineup. Just get your bets in gentlemen.
THE
LINE: Italy +2 Goals
Editor’s
retroactive notes:
RESULT:
Italy 2, Czech Republic 0. Dammit. Had I only made this line a little higher I
would have made out like Madoff. I suppose I kept it at two assuming that Lippi
would rest most of the first team. Devoid of any other options, Brückner
started a woefully unfit Milan Barros. The then Aston Villa could barely walk
let alone run with any pace. Brückner then subbed in still hobbling Heinz and
Stajner, who also both waddled around lame and flaccid. The three wounded
strikers could only rack up offside call after offside call. Thankfully the USA
Ghana match kept me largely preoccupied as this one was like watching the
Special Olympics version of the Kentucky derby. “Will someone please euthanize
these poor horses,” I recall thinking! To be fair, Brückner had little choice
but “bring out the gimps”. Marco Materazzi and Fillipo Inzaghi went Bruce
Willis on their ass. Inzaghi’s goal counts as one of the most hilarious of all
time. He and Simone Barone found themselves all alone in front of Cech. Instead
of passing to his wide-open colleague for the tap in, he kept it himself so
that he could out-deke the keeper and walk it in himself. Such dickishness I’ve
never seen.
Japan vs. Brazil
vs. 
vs.
Zico faces his home country….and surely a pink slip that
makes its gradual way to him via the newly privatized Japanese Post. Though the
Japs haven’t technically been eliminated, they stand about as much chance of
beating the Samba Kings as I do waking up tomorrow with a miraculous few extra
inches of meat. Captain Tsuneyasho Miyamoto is suspended. Takahara and
Yangisawa have been horrible. Nataka, Fukunishi and Ogsawara have been
something beneath horrible. Even their Brazilian half-breed Alessandro dos
Santos (“Alex”) exhibits all the flair of dwarf Phillipino slapfighter. The
Croatian match only confirmed that Zico has no idea what the hell he’s doing.
He stands there on the sidelines with a thumb up his ass before FINALLY making
last-minute adjustments in the 88th minute. Le sigh. I had such high
hopes for this team. They were supposed to be as entertaining as an episode of
“Takeshi’s Castle” (“Most Extreme Elimination Challenge” for U.S. Readers.)
Instead they’ve been as head splitting as a drunken Karaoke rendition of New
World’s “Living Next Door to Alice” (Journey’s “Don’t Stop Believing” for U.S.
Readers).
To make matters worse, Ronaldo seems to have found his legs
and Parreira wants Robinho to start next to him. “Lulas Lads” are already
through so expect some experimentation. Cafu and ze Roberto need a break,
making room for Junhino and Cincinho. My prediction is Robinho, Ronaldo,
Junhino and Robinho again. Over under on the number of hot chicks in the stands
is 19.
THE LINE: Brazil +3 Goals
Editor’s
retroactive notes:
RESULT:
Brazil 4, Japan 1. And had I made this line a little lower I would have raked
in the cash. What a great game! Zico went bold with Zaki and Tamada. They did
not disappoint…initially at least. No one touched the over/under on shots of
hot chicks, which easily exceeded 30.
Ronaldo
got things started with a spectacular turn that Kawaguchi had to paw off at
full stretch. Juninho, Ronaldinho, and Kaka grazed the bar. The Brazilians were
hungry and dominant, if not quite awake. Events after the half hour mark
certainly jarred them fro their slumber. Just when it appeared a Brazilian goal
was imminent, “Alex” weaved his way past at least four challengers on a
cross-pitch dribble. He eventually found Tamada unmarked, who then fired a
shelver that Dida didn’t even bother to stop. The Samba Kings weren’t about to
allow the Samurai to head into halftime with a lead, however. Kaka and
Ronaldinho exerted sublime control to the left flank of the area. Their
prolonged spell of possession drew in at least five Samurai deifiers. This allowed
Cincinho to creep all the way up unmarked from his defensive position.
Ronaldinho spotted him and delivered an impeccable ball which Cicinho headed
toward Ronaldo, who then in turn headed it into the back of the net. Peerless.
Flawless. Crisp.. Professional. Out-of-this-world play, I’m telling you.
Junhinho’s
breathtaking long-range effort in the 53rd was so overwhelmingly
impressive that I initially thought it was Kaka who had scored. Gilberto bested
Kawaguchi flat out a scant few minutes later to make it 3-1. Finally, the
Ronaldo who for the first time was fit enough to play ninety minutes gave us a
heart-stirring thundersrike in the 81st. The money on Brazil would
come pouring in after this one. They looked unstoppable.
Croatia vs. Australia
vs. 
The Croats get their captain Niko Kovac back and are poised to secure their advancement. Actually, I’m not so sure. The Blazers have hardly been lighting it up. They're yet to score a goal and we've heard nothing from Babic, Simic or Olic. In principle this is an obscenely talented team. Kranjcar shows promise and Klasnic seems to have found his form. Still, they look the diametric opposite of the team that owned the qualifying stages.
I’ve no clue what could possibly be wrong. Does the team
resent Kranjcar’s nepotism? Are there too many English and German speaking
players? By all accounts they should make mincemeat out of the Socceroos,
especially with Tony Popovic ruled out, but something is just off. The Aussies
need but a draw to advance and Hiddink’s reputation as a master tactician has
been restored. In short, I’m totally nonplussed. If only there were some way I
could cheat my way out of this. Oh right………
THE
LINE: Pick em’
Editor’s
retroactive notes:
RESULT:
Croatia 2, Australia 2. Nice payday. Pretty solid game, too. Hiddink caused
much consternation when he replaced Mark Schwarzer with Zeke Kalac, citing
goaltender height as a the reason for the surprise move. We shall never know
how it might have turned out absent this impulse, but I’ll take it.
Kalac’s
first fuck-up came two minutes in when he constructed a poor wall in front of a
set piece. Dario Srna easily curled it around the thin barrier to the gaping
hole Kalac left with his poor positioning. He’d fuck up royally again in the 56th,
failing to secure a Niko Kovac tapper, allowing a goal softer than a….not
feeling the dirty quite yet this eve. An Igor Tudor handball inside the box led
to a Craig Moore penalty and Harry Kewell finally broke through to even things
up. Of course the goals were far from the story of this game. For some it was
the degenerative security situation. After intoxicated Croatian Fans began
striking flares in the stands there were scuffles. Apart from these mini-riots
and a brief belligerent melee among German and Polish fans the tournament was
largely non-violent.
Another
story was, much to my personal chagrin, the shitty officiating. Tim Cahill
should have been credited with a goal that clearly crossed the line before
Pletikosa covered it up. It a bizarre incident, Croatian defender Josip Simunic
received three yellow cards. English referee Graham Poll evidently mistook
Simunic for an Australian player. Simunic was born in Australia and speaks with
an Australian accent. As a result, he was not sent off after his second yellow,
picking up the historic “third yellow expulsion” some time after he should have
already been thrown off. Crazy stuff
Friday
Togo vs. France
vs. 
I don’t even feel like rehashing the Togo situation anymore
and I definitely don’t feel like writing about this match. Yeah, yeah. It’s a
“colonial battle”. More like a “neo-colonial subjugation”. I encourage all
syndicate members to boycott this disgustingly unfair display. What sort of God
permits the French to polish their skills on the backs of their trampled,
tortured, and maltreated former minions? Fucking Frogs. With any luck they’ll
be lured into a false sense of accomplishment just in time to be crushed by the
Spanish. One cannot rely on such a destiny in a godless universe. Only silence
exists out in the ether…silence occasionally ruptured by your resident bookie,
who will happily accept bets.
THE
LINE: France +2 Goals
Editor’s
retroactive notes:
RESULT:
France 2, Togo 0. Yes, it was a detestable slaughter. No, I did not watch. I
was far too busy shouting “Oh, for fuck’s sake!” at the Switzerland/South Korea
feed. Two televisions in the clubhouse enabled me to watch both games at once,
but the one I shall tell you about next was far too engrossing. Later I caught
up on all the highlights and read up extensively. The subject most worth a
mention involves Ribbery’s first start. Marseille’s late edition had clawed his
way up to the starting lineup after only three caps. The tiny scar-faced
scrapper found himself directly involved in two goals, first setting up Patrick
Viera with a nifty flick, then creatively switching for Sagnol who crossed over
to Viera who headed it on to Henry. Okay. I make a bit much of his original
involvement in the second goal. One might say I’m somewhat taken with Ribbery, who
now spends his days setting up “Super” Mario Gomez at Bayern. He happens to be
a rare find: An authentically likeable Frenchman. Henry is amiable as well. The
remaining crew only serves to piss me off.
Switzerland vs. South Korea
vs. 
vs.
Jumbi Ju-bi Koh!
Jumbi Ju-bi Koh!
Jumbi Ju-bi-Koh!
Jumbi Ju-bi-Koh!
You’ve got to come through for me, Taeguk Warriors. Grab
destiny by the short-and-curlies. C’mon Schwanz Befürworter! You’re rightful
place is in the Quarterfinals. You cannot allow a quirky microstate to tyrannize
you. You are the Red Devils of Asia! An army of delightful dainties has
traveled over 10,000 miles just for you.
You’re the real country in this duel. Send the mountain men back through
the Gotthard Tunnel!
The Koreans should function just fine without a tepid
motivational address. Chon Soo Lee and Jae Jin Cho took the day off against
France, but I’m not worried. As the next U.N. Secretary General Ban Ki-Moon can
attest, Koreans are never at their strongest when dealing with the French.
Advocaat only needs to make minor adjustments, possibly starting Ahn Jung-Hwan
and Chu-Young Park, The Swiss will also be forced to make a few changes,
perhaps replacing ineffective deadwood like Daniel Gygax, Phillip Degen,
Ludovic Magnin, and Ricardo Cabanas.
Being too dense to craft any more inspirational passages
involving Hyundai, Daewoo, Kim-Chi and Samsung, I will close by earnestly
proclaiming that I expect you to take care of business. Any further involvement
of the Swiss in this tournament will be a damaging blow to the sport’s
international reputation. The honor of the game dictates that you throw these
bastards out.
THE
LINE: South Korea +2 Goal
Editor’s
retroactive notes:
RESULT:
Switzerland 2, South Korea 0. Fuck me. This was the beginning of unprofitable
day. Even more frustrating, yet another contest fell prey to erroneous
officiating. The scoring began lawfully enough. Hakan Yakin struck a set piece
in the 23rd that Phillip Senderos bravely broke his nose to head in.
The Swiss medical team was only able to control the profuse bleeding
temporarily and Senderos was forced to leave the pitch after the restart.
Shortly after the hour mark, Schwanz Befürworter went into all out attack mode,
bringing on extra strikers Ki Hyeon and Ahn Jung-Hwan. Hwan himself peeled off
two vicious efforts that nearly leveled the score.
Then
the Argentine officiating crew outrageously requested that the Red Devils bend
over. The Linesmen made several impudently false calls that should have earned
the surging Koreans a corner. When the right side judge finally got something
correct, flagging an egregiously offside Alexander Frei, the Koreans took heed
of the flag and stopped playing. In a scandalous move that one rarely sees,
Argentine referee Horatio Elizondo overruled his linesman and waved off the
offside. Such nullification is practically unheard of. Presumably Elizondo
annulled the linesman’s decision because Xavier Margairaz, who was not involved
in the play was further offside, and he thought the linesman had mistakably
flagged him.
It
shouldn’t have mattered. Frei was a good four yards past the last defender. The
Linesman had made the correct call and the Koreans were correct to halt play.
The Latin Americans had a chance to void this criminally heinous decision as
all four officials conferenced. The respectful Koreans humbly approached the
gathering with clasped hands and low-key pleas. To no avail. The refs broke
camp allowing the ignoble atrocity to stand. Free goal for the Swiss. Alexander
Frei had made it 2-0 after keeper Lee Woon Jae had stopped in deference to the
flag. Motherfucker. It took a full 24 hours before I BEGAN to calm down.
Ban
Ki-Moon made his way into the write up after I had read an article that he had
emerged as the new front-runner to replace Kofi Annan at the October G.A.,
vote. Moon’s candidacy, declared six months earlier, had primarily been
dismissed because it was thought his French wasn’t strong enough. I read with
glee how this perceived shortcoming was becoming less germane. Three months
later the U.N. G.A. made the logical selection. Fuck French. Fuck the Swiss
too.
Saudi Arabia vs. Spain
vs. 
vs.
Through to the Round of 16 after clinching first place in
the group, Aragones is set to rest essentially the entire team. We already know
that Casillas, Xabi Alonso, David Villa, Xavi, and Sergio Ramos will get the
day off. Highly unlikely that we’ll see Torres, Raul, Puyol, Fabregas or Senna
either. This will be an entirely different Spanish squad mostly comprised of
Athletico or Villarreal players. Insofar as I’m concerned, Aragones can submit
the Malago C.F. starting eleven if he wishes and it still won’t make a damn bit
of difference. They’ll crush these losers. It’s another beautiful summer’s eve
in….you guessed it…Kaiserslautern!
THE
LINE: Spain +2 Goals
Editor’s
retroactive notes:
RESULT:
Spain 1, Saudi Arabia 0. At the time this was written, Malaga had just been
relegated. They’ve since climbed back up to the first division and are a
reputable middle of the pack team. My apologies if I’ve struck any Andalusian
nerves. It made sense at the time!
Aragones
started Fabregas and Raul. Torres, Villa, and Xavi were kept sharp as
substitutes. Juanito grabbed a goal while Reyes, Joaquin, and Iniesta got some
target practice in a game played with all the intensity of a meaningless
friendly. Didn’t turn a profit on this one, but didn’t lose anything
significant either. Plenty of money came in Spain.
Ukraine vs. Tunisia
vs. 
vs.
We round out the group stages with another match hardly
worth risking carpal-tunnel for. I’ll barely be concentrating on this one,
putting the final touches on the next set of lines instead. The blow of the
final whistle will coincide with clicking the “send” button. The Ukrainians are
also through and have the benefit of fitting in some extra training. Blokhin
will likely rest….blah…blah….blah….blah. Wishing every last one of you the
worst of luck in Round 3. Enjoy the matches. Until the weekend, this is your
syndicate leader saying……
GENTLEMEN,
ENTER YOUR WAGERS
THE
LINE: Ukraine +1 Goal
Editor’s
retroactive notes:
RESULT:
Ukraine 1, Tunisia 0. Shevchecko scored a penalty goal. This concludes the
shortest recap ever.
