WM 2006--Round of Sixteen (Part II)

Servus Mitglieder,

Just between you and I, this prizefighter’s pissing blood. All of you have me so worn out I can hardly see straight. We shall not equate worn out with burnt out, however. Keep the towel in your pocket and don’t even think about cutting my gloves off. JJ I thank each and every one of you for my current state of utterly satisfied exhaustion. More fabulous football beckons. Keep those wagers, e-mails, and calls coming. You wanna ring the bell, my collective Apollo? Time for Round Six.

“Ding Ding”

Editor’s retroactive notes:

Get back in the ring, Vicey. Wake those legs up! Stay off the ropes and keep punching! Join the Nintendo Fun Club today.

Four teams to say sayonara to:

Sweden

Tough luck there, Big Yellow. In the words of ABBA, “Mamma Mia, there you go again.” Lägerback and his troupe of aging “ssons” will almost surely return for one final push in Euro 2008. After that it’ll be finetto for a 37-year-old Henrik Larsson, 38-year-old Nicholas Alexandersson, and 34-year-old Matthias Jonson. See you in two years time for the last hurrah.

Mexico

Man, am I going to miss Ricardo Lavolpe. In case you missed it, he was caught lighting up a cigarette on the sidelines during the Iran match. I was unaware that he had done this and promised FIFA that it would never happen again until he lit up again at the start of Extra Time against Argentina. You tell em, Rico! We need more smoking in Football and indeed all of Athletics. I for one miss the days when players and coaches took performance-DEGRADING drugs. Fuck steroids doping. Let’s see some more coked-up pitchers like Steve Howe. We need another Doc Ellis to pitch a no-hitter on LSD or another Lenny Dykstra to swallow his mound of chewing tobacco while swinging for the fences. We need hockey players to once again get drunk before the opening face off. We need American Football players to start doing lines during TV timeouts again. In the world of real football, we definitely need another George Best freshening up for the second half with a Whiskey Hi-ball and a cigar.

This focus on strength and conditioning perfection really pisses me off. When will athletes be allowed to resemble normal human beings again? In the 70s virtually all athletes smoked, on and off the field. It’s called LIVING, people. Let us live the only life we get. My utmost gratitude to Ricardo. Viva Mexico!

Editor’s retroactive notes:

An energy slump then prohibited Vicey from further expanding on how much he missed the 1993 Philadelphia Phillies. Fortunately the Vicey of six years later has more gas in the tank J Ahem. John Kruk was a drunk along with Darren Dalton. They were no ordinary drunks. They continued drinking even after being involved in a nearly fatal car crash back in ’92. Shortly before Veterans Stadium was demolished, John Kruk gave a tour of the locker room. Upon entering what had been refashioned into a weight room replete with exercise equipment, Kruk remarked that this had once been the official post game drinking area. After every home game Kruk, Dalton, Dykstra, David West, and Larry Anderson would all sprawl out on the coaches, crank up the music, and proceed to get shitfaced together. Sometimes Pete Incavilia and Curt Schilling would drop by for a good time and a few laughs. Danny Jackson, Ruben Amaro, and Terry Mulholland swung by towards the end to help the boys polish off another twelver. Coaches Jim Fregosi, Larry Bowa, and Johnny Podres were also regulars.  Announcer Harry Kalas even stopped by to shoot the shit on occasion.

Half of the team either smoked or bummed cigarettes off the guys who did. Dykstra was frequently spotted either puffing on Marlboro Ultra Lights in the dugout or distributing to others who felt like one. This team that drank and smoke far more than the cats at Sterling-Cooper were a close-knit bunch that never relinquished first place in the NL East. They made it all the way to the World Series and would have won were it not for that dumb shitkicker Mitch Williams. We’ll never see a team like that again, and I’ll tell you why. The 24-hour, 24-network sports media loop will never allow for a team not comprised of a bunch of ultra-fit athletes that take separate limousines to their steroid injection appointments. Players that are friends with one another and frequently get together for a rollicking good time with mind-altering chemicals are sure to draw the ire of that douchebag Jim Rome, who will pull together a smug self-righteous commentary piece on how he alone is fit to judge them. Look, I’m all for the irreverent and witty sort of sports commentary pumped out by true nerds like Bill Simmons and Chuck Klosterman. I think we could all do without the sort of shows that everyone stuffing their face at an all-you-can-eat Pizza Joint is now dumber for having watched. I refer specifically to “Around the Horn”, “Pardon the Interruption”, and most especially “Jim Rome is burning”. Where the hell is Jim Everett when you need him? He needs to stroll on set every day and punch that sissy prick right in the goatee he grew to pretend as if he’s a man! 

Ecuador

Suarez vows not to resign even though the pressure is on. For the “nth” time, this bookie must emphasize how absurd it was to cede first place in the group to the Germans without a fight. This is the WM! You’ve got to go for it! The American Football equivalent would be punting on First Down. Take as much pride back to Quito as you see fit. Take the knowledge that you might of made the Quarterfinals with you too.

Netherlands

Surely we’ve seen the last of van Basten. Had he started van Nistelroy, I would be writing about the Portuguese now. My apologies to all who tuned into the Portugal-Netherlands match expecting an epic battle. That match was a fucking abortion. So ashamed to be a football fan today. LL The Dutch lose no players and will return possibly as the top contender for the Euro 2008 title. Catch you next time, Orange. It’s scary to think what sort of player van Persie will be in two year’s time.

Dispatches from the Penthouse (Fit the 6^th)

A silver kitchen constructed entirely from chromatic stainless steel. I spend less time in the kitchen than I spend at the bathroom vanity mirror. A bathroom vanity mirror with eight soft-glow luminescent bulbs. I spend less time in front of the bathroom vanity mirror than I spend doing the laundry. One’s own personal washer, dryer, and generously long drying rack. I spend less time doing the laundry than I do lounging by the pool. A kidney- shaped heated spa filled with crystalline water. I spend less time lounging by the pool than I do on the roof. A brilliant panoramic view of Downtown Baton Rouge. The buildings, the lights, the river. The breeze, the temperate weather, the faint sound of music springing forth from the nightclubs. The almost imperceptible anachronistic Bon Jovi covers emanating from the Karaoke bars. I’m the luckiest man alive, climbing even higher than the level of my penthouse to observe the world from even greater summits. Douglas Adams once wrote that we appreciate life at “boundary conditions”. We tend to derive the most inspiration from areas where land meets water, where earth meets sky, where fire meets rock. I say we must all witness the majestic power of loftiness. Climb as high as you can in the literal sense. It sure as hell beats doing so in the allegorical manner. Don’t climb over the backs of your colleagues. Climb to the top of your apartment complex. You’ll feel better. I promise.

Editor’s retroactive notes:

Yeah. How much time have you spent on the roof lately? A very important question.

Monday

Italy vs. Australia

 vs. 

Sniff. Sniff. Gentlemen I have something to say. For the final time in this tournament, welcome to Kaiserslautern. One last time we ascend the Betzenberg, home of the newly relegated Pfälzisch Rote Teufel. Sniff.

“When you walk

through the storm

hold you head up high

and don’t be afraid of the dark

at the end of the storm

there’s a golden sky

and the sweet, silver song of the lark”

“WALK ON, through the wind

WALK ON, through the rain

Though your dreams be tossed and blown

WALK ON

WALK ON

with hope in your heart,

and you’ll never walk alone

YOU’LL NEVER WALK ALONE”

God, I love that stolen Liverpool anthem. JJ Tough times for my hometown club. FC Kaiserslautern have not only been relegated to the Second Bundesliga, they’ll probably drop down further to the semi-professional netherworld of the Regionalliga Süd. This will thus be the last time the gleaming Fritz Walter is showcased to a large audience. I’ll watch the entire match with burning butane in my right hand. Over under on the number of cigarette lighters I’ll go through shall be…6.5.

And what sort of match shall it be? Let’s begin with injured Wops..if only because the phrase itself brings a smile to my face. Stick a fork in Allessandro Nesta. He’s more well done that the steaks they serve at Drusilla. We won’t see Zaccardo again, so I’ll project a three-man line of Grosso, Cannavaro, and Zambrotta. Francesco Totti is rumored to have a screw loose. He’s also rumored to have aggravated the pin screw in his leg. Lippi will likely need another striker. He has options in Filipo Inzaghi, Vincenzo Iaquinta, Alessandro del Piero,  Luca Toni, and Alberto Gilardino. Don’t be surprised if he employs one of them as the lone striker and one or two others in a midfield role.

   

All of this may be academic as they face a Socceroo Squad without Harry Kewell or Bret Emerton. The former is suspended while the latter has a case, no kidding, of “gout”. What century are we living in? Hiddink’s improvisational skills, genuine Aussie heart, and some good old-fashioned Wop underachieving will keep it close. Sadly, the final meaningful match in Fritz Walter belongs to the hated pasta-munchers.

THE LINE: Italy +1 Goal

Editor’s retroactive notes:

RESULT: Italy 1, Australia 0. Lippi started Toni, Gilardino, and del Piero, bringing on Totti and Iaquinta in relief to maximize the potential of his striker abundance. It was all Azzuri in the opening minutes as Schwarzer kick saved first-rate efforts from Gilardino and Toni. Schwarzer’s overall play seemed heighten, perhaps in part thanks to Hiddink’s radical benching of him in the previous match. Prospects improved for the Socceroos after Marco Materazzi was sent off for a reckless challenge in the 50^th. Reduced to ten men, the Wops resorted to their favored tactic: flop, flop, flop. Andrea Barzagli flopped over Luk Wilshire in the 61^st. Andrea Pirlo flopped next to Mark Viduka in the 72^nd. Fabio Cannavaro flopped after Timmy Cahill grazed him in the 87^th. Finally, Fabio Grosso flopped over a Lucas Neill dumb enough to put his body in the vicinity of a striding Italian footballer in the 94^th. Substitute Totti converted the 95^th minute penalty for the win. Five minutes of added time is rare for most games, not for games involving the “floppin Wops”  

Switzerland vs. Ukraine

 vs. 

Hi Lebensraumers! I need a favor. The Swiss must not make the Quarterfinals. I cannot, in good conscience, continue to write about tournament involving the Schweizer. We’ve thus far cut out all sorts of worthless regions. We’ve taken out CONCACAF. All of our Latin American baggage has been cut loose. Time to take out the trash in our own backyard. I hear so many good things about this Shevchenko character. He’s scored two goals thus far. How about a fully functional brace in this round? Your task is by means easy. They've got Alexander Frei, Phillip Senderos, and Tranquillo Barnetta. I would still appreciate it if you could have them discreetly eliminated. Get my drift? Sleeping with the fishes. You’re Eastern Europeans. A mafia hit should present no significant problems. I’m glad we came to this understanding.

UPSET ALERT!

UPSET ALERT!

UPSET ALERT!

UPSET ALERT!

THE LINE: Ukraine +1 Goal

Editor’s retroactive notes:

RESULT: Ukraine 1, Switzerland 0. (3:0 PSO) Shevchenko came as close as anyone could hope for with a header off of a Tymoshchuk set piece in the 19^th. On the other side, Barnetta struck the bar in an otherwise midfield “Battle of the Bulge” type game. The drama of penalties left Köbi crying. First up was the Köln substitute Marcos Streller. Shovkoski saved competently to his right. Blohkin gave Shevchenko first dibs. He too was saved by a rightward dive from Zuberbühler. After Barnetta hit the crossbar and Cabanas produced a weak ground effort that Shovkoski guessed correctly on, all the Lebensraumers had to do was hit her high. Oleg Gusev provided the heroics. The sight of Swiss players crying was unforgettable. 

Tuesday

Brazil vs. Ghana

 vs. 

You beat the U.S. for this? Yes, I’m afraid so. The only remaining African team reaches its Terminus here. It may be nowhere close to the end of the week, but we’re holding another “Extended Lunch Hour at Vicey’s” for high-scoring mayhem. Prop bets are welcome. Come on by to see if Ronaldo passes Pele or if the day belongs to Lucio or Ronaldinho. Welcome all for an a.m. Lunch Hour featuring some great footballing skill.

THE LINE: Brazil +2 Goals

Editor’s retroactive notes:

RESULT: Brazil 3, Ghana 0. Finally a well officiated game, during which both Adriano and Asamoah Gyan were booked for diving in the box. Ronaldo kicked things off early, shaking and baking his way past a proactive Richard Kingson to break Pele’s tournament record in the 5^th minute. John Mensah came close to leveling five minutes later with a flashy little header directed groundward that Dida knew very little about. After trying to cheat his way toward a goal, Adriano called for a legitimate ball during a 3-2 counter in first half injury time. Kaka obliged and the Samba Kings amassed a two-goal lead. The final tally showcased just how brilliant ze Roberto’s first touch can be. He threw his left foot up, trike style, to steady a through ball that both he and Kingson were vying for. This slightest of touches was enough to give him the edge. Ronaldo and Cafu could have easily made it 5-0 after the issue was decided. All invited guests reveled in the fast-paced game never lacking exquisite play.

Spain vs. France

 vs. 

Can’t get enough of those “Border Battles”? Slake your thirst with this gem. This may finally be the year for La Roja, served up a soft French team on a platter. You don’t even have to chew your food, Amigos. These Bleus have the consistency of crushed pate. Swallow this mushy tray of cat food whole.

There’s comedy, there’s high comedy, and then there’s watching Zidane and Thuram shuffling up the pitch as if someone stole their tennis ball walker. They’ve virtually no chance of thwarting an attack that features Raul, Torres, and now David Villa. Fabregas and Xabi Alonso will play keep away with Sagnol and Makelele all afternoon. Make way, old timers. Retirement on the Rivera summons thee. It’s a double-header over at Vicey’s. First the Brazilians’ll awe us, then we get to watch the French fail. What a day!

THE LINE: Spain +2 Goals

GENTLEMEN, ENTER YOUR WAGERS

Editor’s retroactive notes:

RESULT: France 3, Spain 1.  Early on it seemed as if this prophecy would be fulfilled. Frustrated and outplayed, Liliam Thuram took down Pablo with a reckless challenge from behind in the 27^th. David Villa finished off the ensuing penalty with a low shot to Barthez’s left that reminded everyone of how ridiculous an idea it was to put a midget in goal. Nevertheless, Les Bleus were not surrendering on this day. Ribbery and Viera worked a nifty give-and-go to tie things up in the 41^st. Aragones brought on three sets of fresh legs to reclaim the lead, but it was the diminutive Ribbery and old-man Zidane who pelted Casillas with the best chances in the second half. Seven minutes from time Viera emphatically headed in a Zidane cross to give the underdogs a startling lead. Zidane himself released a fine sweeping strike two minutes into injury time to cap the unbelievable upset. In the end Aragones simply proved too haughty, pulling Villa, Xabi, and Raul minutes after the restart. He evidently thought his unquestionably superior bench would carry La Roja to the victory everyone anticipated. Instead we all witnessed the forever immortalized touching moment when a Thuram grabbed Zidane as he headed for the locker room and coerced him into a curtain call in front of a sea of French flags.