Third Place Match:
vs. 
A reprint of some rather disorganized thoughts written in a drunken stupor:
Do excuse me for one moment, as I appear to have a nugget of
battered schnitzel stuck in my eye. Sob
sob Once again a bunch of portly
gentlemen named Hans, Holger, Heinrich, Helmut, and Uwe and waddling towards
the exits sorrowfully mumbling “Na, ja. Ja, ja, At least we made the
semifinals.” Bleh. Looks as if the Divining octopus has turned the daily German
shower into a thunderstorm of despondent tears and hailing empty pfandgläser. I
consumed no fewer than 13 beers (lost count at some point) watching the
Spaniards dismantle my beloved Mannschaft for the second tournament in a row.
And don’t even get me started on what I had to do to get an afternoon off work.
LL
In spite of the fact that there is far “too much blood in my
alcohol system”, I share the urge of Germans from Düsseldorf to Dresden. Einer
geht noch rein!!! To the neighborhood pub, Karl-Heinz! We must drink away mortgages one AND
two. We must keep quaffing until our livers issue and emergency cease &
desist. Heute ist mein leverwurst Tag. Heut ist mir die Lever würst! Es muss ja
nicht…(belch)….es muss ja nicht, der letze sein!!
Losing always hurts. Not necessarily as much having to sit
through one of your girlfriend’s poetry slams, but it still hurts. As you
stroll back into the office hung over and unshaven the next morning, it hits
you around 8:55. No more international football for another two years. Oh well.
We can still ecstatically blow on our Vuvuzelas for a little while longer! By the way, I will not be talked into
another poetry reading unless I can bring my Vuvuzela with me! I don’t care how
hot she is! Someone has to produce some less irritating clatter!
I issue an earnest invitation to everyone. Take some time
Saturday afternoon to watch the German reserves beat the everlasting piss out
of Uruguay. You’re sure to the squad unrelentingly demolishing a tiny nation
when it doesn’t really mater. Back with some final thoughts and a championship
pick tomorrow.
THE
LINE: Mannschaft + 1
Editor’s
retroactive notes:
RESULT:
Germany 3, Uruguay 2. Fine farewell turned in by the Jungs. Starts for Cacau,
Aogo, Jansen, Boateng, and….everyone’s favorite keeper: Hans Jörg Butt. Müller
showed the greatest attacking intent early on with a fine header off an Özil
corner in the 14th and s superb finish in the 19th ruled
offside. He would score again within a minute, this time in compliance with the
rules. Schweine, looking nearly identical to the audacious distance sniper from
the same match for years ago, sent in a swerver from 40 yards that Muslera
couldn’t handle. Müller scooped up the seconds for the early lead. Özil,
Schweine, and Friedrich seemed determined to settle matters early by
sacrificing any defensive positioning. Diego Perez, Suarez, and Edson Cavani
made them pay in the 29th. Perez picked Schweine clean off the right
flank and shoveled forward for the returning Suarez. Together with Cavani, the
pair rushed forward on a scintillating counter with Mertesacker and Aogo
playing catch up. Suarez waited until the last moment to link up with Cavani,
who buried it after a deft touch.
Butt
made the most of his audition, but could do nothing to save a Forlan tricycle
in the 51st. After the Athletico Madrid superstar but La Celesta
ahead shortly after the restart, the recently dubbed “Yogi Bären” took control
never to relinquish until the full time whistle. Jansen put an arching Jerome
Boateng cross to bed five minutes later for the equalizer. Substitutes Stephan
Kießling and Tony Kroos flirted with the game winner, but Khedira provided the
exclamation point. Another top class corner from Özil in the 81st
found Friedrich, Lugano, and Godin before Sami drove it into the back of the
net with an emphatic header.
Another
tournament and another third place finish for my beloved Krauts. The World Cup
bronze was their second in a row and fourth overall. Immensely satisfied and
fully sated, I trudged into my office to write my final words to my most
esteemed syndicate brothers. The terminal communiqué remains an emotional
exercise, best completed under the light amber haze of one and half Keystone
DryIceLites. The piece that follows contests the title of my finest work to
date. I well up at the mere realization that I must re-read it.
