Pozdrowiena Syndicate Members!
Our hour nears. The squads are set. The pitch is tended. The players are fit. The opening ceremony child companions have been selected. The pre-tournament freindlies wind down. All fifteen countries visiting Poland are nearly through with their staged tours of Auschwitz-Birkenau, Belzec, and Treblinka. Wait a minute….oh that’s right.
You’re not getting off that easy, Europe. No recognized
pan-European figures travel to Poland without doing “The Willy Brandt Shuffle”.
If it makes you feel any better, not even innocent slips of the tongue are
permitted. The Sejm (lower house of Parliament) recently condemned the
President of the United States in absentia for mistaken use of the phrase
“Polish Death Camps.” (“NAZI Death Camps” would be the appropriate
designation.) With respect to the Euro 2012 players, it’s wreath layin’ time.
Grab the wide-angle sports lens and grab the EFB Betacam from out of the satellite
truck. Here comes the bus! And we’re rolling…
Thus far no participant has dropped to his knees, welled up
with emotion, or extemporaneously exclaimed, “My Lord! What sort of abhorrently
depraved moral ethos would viciously implement such systematically sadistic
acts?” Presumably the last phrase finds itself listed under the “cliché”
subsection of the player press kits. It all goes smoothly, a well-choreographed
parade at this historical juncture. However contrived or perfunctory a pageant
it appears, we must continue so long as we both shall live next to another. We
shan’t forget Polska. We’ll keep out the NPD so long as you don’t let KPN, PJN,
CPU, or “Nasz Dom Polska” cross the threshold. Deal? Oh..and sorry about those
Silesian Germans and their “German Minority Party.” This will be their last
Sejm.
Editor’s
retroactive notes:
Admittedly,
my initial reaction to the breakup of the PO-PSL Coalition government after the
October 2011 Parliamentary elections was one of great trepidation. I couldn’t foresee
a three-way PO-RP-PSL coalition producing anything other than a lost vote-of-confidence
within eighteen months. Well, here we are an entire twenty-one months later and
the bloc remains remarkably stable. Should one care to examine such metrics as
the number of legislative initiatives passed, the number of constitutional challenges
averted, and the complete lack of any fruitless special sessions, we might even
deem this the most successful Sejm ever!
What?
What are you staring at? So I felt like writing about Polish politics for a
paragraph. So what. Does that constitute some sort of crime? Damn you. Fine.
“Penis”. Satisfied now?
Were I sitting in the UEFA boardroom -- and no one happened
to notice that I had absolutely no right be there – I would insist upon the
concentration camp visits. Ahem.
“Gentlemen, in spite of however trite this ritual has
become, we must honor the legacy of Western society’s most hideous 20th
Century atrocity by emphasizing solidarity among the diverse factions of our
continent with such tasteful symbolic gestures….and shall we call that
lunch?”
Editor’s
retroactive notes:
Indeed
we shall. Consider us adjourned gentlemen. Fred’s managed to cook a tray of
Baklava!
Round One
Whew. Enough of this tortured talk. Who’s ready for some football?
The entire Fatherland stands ready. All the sports betting parlors are
overflowing. Once can tell from the plumes of smoke emanating from their
deliberately opaque windows. Every business has rolled out its “Tipp-Spiel”
promotion. I myself plan to acquire a new washer dryer, dozens of flimsy
T-Shirts, a year’s supply of rabbit food, two months free tanning and all sorts
of other useless crap I have no use for. Every business in the States is
legally prohibited from sanctioning any sort of sports gambling pool for the
commercial purposes. That’s why you’re stuck with the astronomically miniscule
odds of raffles, lotteries, and electronic gaming devices. The American rule of
thumb: Only gambling that preys on the poor, dumb, and isolated is allowed. Sigh.
What a backwater. Once again, it’s your friendly bookie to the rescue. Happy
tenth anniversary, everyone!
Let’s rock some lines!
A QUICK REVIEW OF THE RULES:
Deutschland vs. Italy
vs. 
The Line: Deutschland +3 Goals
The Favorite is favored to win by 3 goals. If you bet on
Italy, there are three ways you can win the bet:
1) Italy loses by less than 3 goals.
2) Match is a draw
3) Italy wins
Conversely, there are two ways to win if you bet on
Germany
1) Germany wins by three goals (This is somewhat
different. Some would say if the line is met exactly, the wager should be
nullified. IMPORTANT: in this system A PRECISE LINE constitutes a win!)
2) Germany wins by more than three goals.
OTHER IMPORTANT THINGS TO KEEP IN MIND:
1) Your Bookie takes bets on FIRST COME, FIRST SERVE
BASIS. Since the lines are disseminated early, bookie reserves the right to
move the lines based on previous bets, conflicts of interest, or new critical
information such as an injury. Lines CANNOT be moved after bet is taken. As
always, all betting closes one hour before kickoff.
2) Speaking of conflict of interest, THERE IS ABSOLUTELY
NO WAY IN HELL YOU'LL GET ME TO BET AGAINST GERMANY!! Don't even try. This
would be analogous to a black man casting a vote for David Duke.
3) Even if you're sitting this round out, definitely give
some of the games a look. In the group stage there are two games a day. The
first kicks off at 11:00 a.m. Central U.S. Daylight Time, the second at 1:45
p.m. CDT. You can watch 100% of the games on basic cable (ESPN 2). Tape delayed
repeats are sometimes shown at 4:00 p.m.
Friday
Poland vs. Greece
vs. 
Who dare doubt the Poles as they debut in the newly renovated “Warsaw National Stadium”? Well…apparently former Polish keeper and current Law and Justice MP Jan Thomaszewski. The outspoken nationalist has publicly denounced three Polish transplants as “Wolves in sheep’s clothing”, in the process openly expressing his hope that the White and Reds fail. Asshole. The three players he accuses of diluting the Polish team’s ethnic purity are French attacking midfielder Luduvic Obraniak, German defensive midfielder Eugen Polanski, and German left back Sebastian Boenisch. World-class asshole. The trio first debuted internationally for the German and French U 21 squads. When it became apparent that there was no room for them on the adult teams,
they used their Polish passports to switch allegiances.
According to some reports, none of them speak even intermediate Polish.
Thoszewski argues that they’re keeping homegrown Poles off the team. Can we put
this lout on a plane to Katyn?
Listen to me you ignorant purple-faced fat tub of goo: One
isn’t supposed to field an ethnically heterogeneous team and more than one is
supposed to have an ethnically cleansed nation. This ignoramus has been
perpetually whining (with great legitimacy) that Germany steals the best Polish
players. Finally we return the favor and he’s still pissed. As punishment for
your indolence, Zwanziger and I will hop a plane over to Warshau, give you an
emphatic dual dope slap, and pilfer what’s left of your promising young
players. How much of bigot to you have to be to earn a suspension from Law and
Justice?
Editor’s
retroactive notes:
Having
had some time to reconsider these remarks….fuck it. Fuck Thomaszewski! This is
Europe. We’re supposed to have fluid identities, jackass.
This one unfortunate news item notwithstanding, all of
Polska rejoices as their moment to shine draws closer. Throngs of adoring fans
cluster around their camp, mauling stars like captain Jakob Blascyskowski and super
striker Robert Lewandowski. This bookie remains quite impressed with the latest
incarnation of Bialo-czerwoni. It’s certainly the best Polish side I’ve ever
beheld. Hence, we’ll act on the assumption that the Poles will furnish a
cracking opener and debut with a high line. Most commentators augur that a
general lack of firepower will lead to a low scoring match. I couldn’t disagree
more. In particular, I love the way Lewandoski matches up against Sokratis and
Avraam. These two countries had something of a rivalry in the late eighties
when they met thrice in separate tournament qualifying rounds. The Poles
prevailed all three times back when a bunch of new wave hipsters were doing the
“Safety Dance”. They shall prevail again.
Should there be any Grecian contrarians out there, I promise
to wire the money you’ve won straight to your escrow account. Bear in mind,
however, that I’ll need about 75 percent of money transferred back immediately
as I collect interest on the loan I gave you last week. If only I were
exaggerating for comedic effect. This is actually how international debt
servicing works. Ordinarily, a lending institution such as the IMF or World
Bank only takes about half of the new money it’s loaned out back as interest on
the loan it doled out last week. Now you see it. Now you don’t. The money flows
in and out before you can even so much think about using it. The whole process
now only takes a matter of minutes. Now that three of them have joined forces
to operate as “The Troika”, they’re even more serious about protecting their
interests. On any given day, between two thirds and three fourths of the money
wired to Athens, goes straight back into the accounts of the IMF and ECB.
Here’s the money we promised. And there goes the d It’s Homer Simpson receiving
his heavily docked Santa paycheck at warp speed.
Editor’s
retroactive notes:
Er…I
do believe I just adequately conveyed the nuance of International Escrow
Accounting in a perfectly comprehensible paragraph accessible to any laymen.
And some people have the gall to suggest I’ve been wasting my life!
The moral of this whole aside: Please just leave the Greeks
alone during our glorious pan-European unity celebration. As I wrote in my
preview sections, German banks are by no means blameless for this whole fiasco.
I personally do not plan to bitch about the Greeks at all…at least not until
June 17th. Remember that this remains one of the few times when all
get together and feel all right. Buy a Greek in your vicinity a drink today.
Furthermore, give him/her a chance to nurse the full glass. As tempting as it
may be to guzzle most of it yourself, hand them your backwash, and cruelly
gloat, “Hehe…..Check it out. I’m the European Financial Stability
Mechanism”…it’s not funny.
THE
LINE: Poland +2 Goals
The remainder of the match belonged
exclusively to Fernando Santos’s men. Polish backup keeper Przemyslaw Tyton
came in cold to save a weak penalty from Greek captain Giorgios Karagounis and
another Salpigidis goal was disallowed by the linesman. In the end, a match
that got off to a cracking start sputtered thanks to referee interference.
Somewhat disappointing, but inevitably satisfying. It was time to go out.
Editor’s
retroactive notes:
RESULT: Poland 1, Greece 1. Nothing quite like the feel
of an opening match. One’s emotional disposition soars beyond the stratosphere,
even as the inevitable frivolity of FIFA’s opening ceremony reminds one that
the whole endeavor remains nothing more than pure silliness.
I faced a grave dilemma on this particular evening.
Having spent over four months retrofitting over 1400 pages of text, revving up
syndicate members old and new, and organizing enough travel to make a
Travelocity Gnome’s head explode, how would I spend my moment? After scouting
venue options in the sleepy hamlet of Karlsrhe, I had initially decided upon
the perfect Greek Restaurant in which to ignite the affair. The additional work
of launching an entirely new syndicate, however, ended up taking its toll.
Weary, gum-eyed, and exhausted from all the phoning, e-mailing, visiting, and
writing, I came to the conclusion that I should spend this one moment alone;
contemplating ten years of football, friendship, and…yes goddamit…a
semi-spiritually uplifting project.
Rushing back from the a visit to some friends living in
the country, there was some question as to whether I would be able to even
arrive in time for kickoff. Thankfully, one can almost always rely on the
German trains to run on schedule. I burst into my makeshift office and fired up
the laptop. Twenty-seven e-mails? Shit. I didn’t have twenty minutes to spare!
Friends tell me they’ve never witnessed someone type as
fursiously as myself. “What did that keyboard do to you?” they’ll usually ask,
“Why does it deserve to be smacked around like a uppity ho?” If my normal
typing speed can be likened to domestic abuse, the next ten minutes resembled
an outright assault. SOMEHOW I managed to confirm every last wager with a full
ten minutes left to grab a beer and unbutton my pants.
Then (of course) Skype rang. Another syndicate member had
some last-minute bets to get in. Done. It rang again. Yes, yes. I assure you
all is well. It rang again. This one couldn’t be fobbed off so easily. One of
the oldest Syndicate Members had a plethora of wagers to submit. As we
twin-checked the lines, more e-mails trickled in (Eight separate e-mail
accounts…..is simply too fucking much). To make matters worse, I hadn’t told my
father when I was returning. He walked into the office to say hello and
suddenly I was macro-tasking four things. Matters looked grim. As the precious
seconds slipped away, I somehow had to figure out a polite way to give my own
Papster the boot.
Mercifully, kicking him out went cordially and smoothly.
Kicking his girlfriend out a few seconds later also went well. Kicking her out
again thirty seconds later, yet again fifteen seconds after that and for a
third after she returned five seconds after that also proceeded without a
hitch. Then the neighbors showed up to greet me for the first time in over four
years. Wonderful people. Wonderfully understanding too. ; )
What might have turned out to be a bloody circus quickly
gave way to a moment of immaculate tranquility. Perhaps what made the very much
limited span of time so special was that everyone involved seemed to
intuitively understand how important this was to me. Within minutes the door
was closed, Skype was off, the e-mail box was cleared, and I had the privilege
of merely watching. Lewandowski and Blazcykowski stode out of the tunnel, their
faces beaming with pride. They joshed around with their respective child
companions, the faces of whom also appeared ready to crack with unbridled joy.
Match referee Carlos Carballo removed the Tango 12 from its ceremonial pedestal
and hoisted it up much to the delight of the already pumped up crowd.
Then our moment was over. We were underway. We all had
our precious few seconds to ruminate on history. Time graciously stood still
for us, allowing our minds to record a memory of seminal euphoria. Following
that, time did what time typically does best. It gave us a nasty knock to the
back of the head and told us to get back to work. Footballers…head out of the
clouds and boots on the ground. Kids…just like we rehearsed. Ref…you’re on the
clock. Fans…time to start worrying. And you…Shadow Scholar…back to your keys.
Ding went the e-mail box.
One had expected a sluggish start from the Poles, who, as
hosts, were unable to acquaint their players with one another via a competitive
qualifying round. The first quarter of an hour saw ambitious long-range efforts
from Lucsz Pizech and Rafal Murawski. They were clearly hungry, but too
anxcious to produce anything other than Lahm-like rockets. Greek keeper Kostas
Chalkias did well to turn aside a few arcs, but they were fired from so far
away he barely had to move. Approximately fourteen minutes in Piszczeck began
working the flanks. He unscuccesfully attempted to square for both Blazcykowski
and Lewandowski, but the timing simply wasn’t there.
Blazczykowski then took up the idea and joined his
Dortmund teammate on the right. Together they drew double coverage from
legitimately frightened Greek defenders, freeing up Lewandowski, Obrianiak, and
Polanski in the center. With all the flair of three players who spent an entire
season leading their team to the Bundesliga Crown, the “magical trio” combined
for a pulsating opener in the 17th minute. Piszczeck signaled to
Blazczykowski that Lewandowski was making a charge. The Poland skipper then
thumped a surgical cross to his wide-open striker. Chalkias had no choice but
to attempt to come out and collect. Lewandowski proved quicker, taller, and
hungrier. He outmuscled the roaming Greek keeper to emphatically head the
service onto the pitch so hard, it bounced up to bulge the top of the net.
Pandemonium in Polska. Damned it if wasn’t a high-octane
top-shelf opener. One had the feeling that a second couldn’t be far behind.
Unfortunately, that was about all we would se from the magical trio. Other
fisrt half chances fell to defenders Sebastian Boenisch and Damien Perquis,
both gifted looks at the net off of set piece plays. Other than that, To
Piratiko managed to regain control of the midfield and matters settled down.
Ironically enough, the Greeks owed much of the calm to an
injury to Avraam Papadopoulos and a double booking of Sokratis. Both losses,
coming shortly after the half hour mark disspatied energy both on the pitch and
in the crowd. Referee Carballo appears to have the opening night jitters,
handing out far too many booking to slow down the match. He’d later deliver a
straight red to Polish keeper Wojicech Szczeny in the 68th after a clumsy tackle on Salpigidis. By
that time, Greece had since long
since equalized courtesy of a fortuitious bounce that landed directly on
Salpigidis’s boot. The P.A.O.K. forwards knew very little about a searching
Torosidis cross that deflected off of Polish defender Marcin Wasilewski.
Nevertheless, he didn’t hesitate when confronted with the gift horse. The match
stood level six minutes after the restart.
CATCH UP WORK:
Vicey’s mind runs on a less predictable alcoholic loop than
one might expect. One or two ideas emerged during the process of writing the
qualifying sections that leave the four articles asymmetrically designed.
Apparently consistency and order are indispensable virtues among syndicate
members….or the whole lot of you are anal completionists that have gutted way too
many video games. In any event, you want the full collection of swords? Need to
make sure every level is unlocked? All missions with the green check mark next
to them? Every potion from every treasure chest in every optional boss dungeon? I’ll oblige.
Editor’s
retroactive notes:
For
the record, we’ve encountered yet another one of those “Yes, this is how my
mind ACTUALLY works” sections. Also, it would be unfair to classify me as an
alcoholic….for at least eleven months out of the year ; )
All Ugly Team Candidates—Poland
Wojicech Szczesny
Never an excuse for walking around looking like damn
Hershey’s Kiss.
Lukas Piszech
Think you look like Bowser. Actually look like a fucking
Goomba.
Adam Matuschyk
Oops. There goes the Gaydar. You heard it here first. I’m
even surer than I was with Jim Parsons. Er….not that there’s anything wrong
with that.
All Ugly Team Candidates—Greece
Ioannis Maniatis
How on earth does one spend so much time fixing one’s hair
in the mirror and not consider plucking the uni-brow a bit?
Kostas Fortounis
It’s the official beard of douchebags everywhere!
Giorgios Samaras
#6 on the Kickette Slideshow, Samaras resembles a caveman
with Justin Bieber bangs. Fifteen minutes could save you fifteen percent.
Konstantinos Mitroglou
Er….is that moisturizer cream? Coca Butter perhaps? It puts
the lotion on its skin and then places it in the basket.
Polish Fans
They pound cheap vodka and speak in broken German. They’re essentially Russian fans who take a few fewer smoke breaks. They’re unnatural love of sauerkraut, schnitzel, and bratkartofflen, Wurstsalat, Eiersalat and pickled herring means a German will find himself sitting next to them as he wolfs down some greasy fetid concoction to chase the booze after a hard night. Finding myself in such a situation more than a handful times, I cannot say I’ve had a disappointing conversation with a Pole. Also never quaffed with a traveling band I didn’t like. In terms of the women…..must tread carefully here…let’s say they ALL deserved the highest of marks. Very little differentiates Russians, Poles, and Germans…at least not in East Berlin. You’ll almost never meet one that’s not easygoing and fun loving. Of course that’s the underground for you.
Editor’s
retroactive notes:
My
Polish girl spoke six languages. In spite of this, when she lived in the
States, every dumb shit kicking hick who could barely speak English had to give
her the “Huh huh..Polish people are stupid” Shtick.
Greek Fans
Shots of Retsina? You don’t have a choice when watching at a Greek place. It’s always time to distribute another round on the house. They’ll slap you on the back, kiss you on the cheek, bring you all sorts of free consumption items you never asked for, and tell you all about the investment opportunity they’re putting together; the one you’d be a fool to miss out on, brother. The Greeks offer a fraternal love…sometimes to the point of irritation. They’ll call you “my friend” as soon as you turn the corner and enter their line of sight. As you inch closer, they’ll wrap they’re arms around you and refer to you as “my special good friend”. Some may consider this unbearable, but I advise against being such a tightass. If you’ve really had enough, you can always leave. Incidentally, the strategy for making one’s exit from a Greek gathering is precisely the same one you employ to get away from a drunken revelry about to go horribly wrong: Just go. Don’t think about saying goodbye to anyone. You won’t be able to get away. Patiently pick out your opportunity and abscond without a word. I can’t tell you how many times this has saved my life at closing time.
“Hey, Pete! You’re coming to the after party over at Cailee
and Brandi’s trailer right? They’ve got bong resin, Hot Pockets, and an 8-bit
NES. It’s gonna be awesome!”
“Er….sure thing, mate. Right behind you.” (DISAPPEAR SCENE
ANY DIRECTION. EXUANT.)
Live by the following motto: Being drunk is just like the
Apollo Moon Missions. The statistical likelihood that disaster may strike
increases with each passing minute. Plant your flag, collect your rocks, hit
the golf ball, drive around in the rover for a bit, and get the LEM the hell
out of there as quickly as possible.
Editor’s
retroactive notes:
Wise
words. Operate with constant doubt. Friends don’t know when to say when. YOU
don’t know when to say when. Build an internal self-doubt mechanism. Cultivate
it through practice. Know that the process remains incomplete until you
instinctively ask yourself, “Shouldn’t I call it a night” at least four times
an hour. ALWAYS live by this crucial maxim:
“The
bar is closed. The party is over. THERE IS NO “AFTER PARTY”! The bar is closed.
The party is over.”
Russia vs. Czech Republic
vs. 
Hard to believe, but this will constitute the first time these two sides have met since 1996! In a thrilling EM qualifying match in Liverpool that featured six goals, the two regional rivals dueled to a 3-3 draw with some memorable late dramatics. Sixteen years of tension between two countries that unabashedly abhor one other? Oh, we’re in for a physical match, syndicate members. Keep a comfortable distance from Breslau, travelers. We’re forecasting a 40% chance of riots.
Most every pundit I’ve read picks the Ruskies. Schwanz
Befürworter’s men mopped up the competition in qualifying and the Czechs are
widely regarded as a transitional team unsure of their identity. Those who read
the preview section know that your friendly bookie sees things differently. You
know what that means..hold on, where’s my button? I can’t seem to find my
button. Who the hell misplaced my button? Damn, that’s right. Now I remember I
never even had a blasted button. Excuse me while I forcefully pound the table
UPSET
ALERT!!!
Didn’t have to wait long did you? To hell with team form
back in November. How fare the individual players in the here and now? In the
preview section I detailed the despondent ballads of both Pavlyuchencko and
Arshavin. Both are in free fall. Ingashevich and the miserly “Sbornaia” back
four cannot adequately compensate for a pallid attack alone. I wrote that
Advocaat must start red-hots Malafeev and Pogrebnyak if he wishes to inject
this squad with some life. Though I’m privy to no definitive insider
information that he’ll stick with his flaccid guns, he appears to speak as if
Pavlyuchencko and Akinfeev have an ironclad starting spot. Unless Dick shakes
things up, I’ll throw my lot in with the recent fine form of Rosicky and Baros.
It looks as if Jirasek and Plaisil may be fit as well, meaning that all of our
lineup projections do not fully reflect the amount of “Narodak” pop that will
be on hand. Petr Cech soars on
cloud nine after snatching the Champions League title away from Bayern. My prediction
that Bilek’s Boys will top the group still seems exceptionally bold, but I feel
great about this match
THE
LINE: Czech Republic +1 Goal
Editor’s
retroactive notes:
RESULT: Russia 4, Czech Republic 1. Felt like some
company for this one, so I went out By the end of the evening, having been
proven so thoroughly and completely wrong on in every conceivable way, I was
ready to be alone again. As was expected, loads of cash came pouring in against
the initial upset special. While I would eventually be vindicated in the
long-term, this one hurt BAD. Not since 2004 had I begun a tournament so deep
in the red.
Schwanz Befürwörter selected a fine starting eleven. In
lieu of Pavel Pogrebnyak, he gave little-known CSKA Moscow midfielder Alan
Dzagoev a chance up front in an audacious 4-3-3 that came out swinging. Even
more curiously, Zenit St. Petersburg striker Alexander Kerzhakov was tapped for
center-forward. Together with Arashavin, this trio effectively dismantled the
Czech back line with crisp passing and even sharper cuts. Kadlec and Hubnik
couldn’t contain Dzagoev as he broke to meet a Arashavin/Denisov leave and
rifle in the opening goal in the 15th minute. Roman Shirokov
finished flawlessly nine minutes later with a serene chip over the advancing
Czech. We ended up witnessing absolutely nothing from the Czechs in the opening
45. Arashavin and Denisov maintained possession for what felt like 80% of play.
Bilek’s boys scarcely got the ball out of their defensive third.
Arashavin continued to dictate the flow after the
restart, sweeping past the languid Kadlec and Hubnik with all the ease of a man
whose feet had been lubed up more severely than a single man on Valentine’s
Day. Finally, Jaroslav Plaisil indicated that he had had just about enough.
With amazing alacrity he noticed that Vaclav Pilar had sprung Advocaat’s
offside trap. With even greater precision, he needled in a pass that hit Pilar
on the tip of his boot. All the VfL Worlsburg man had to do was out-deke
Malafeev for an easy tap-in. Fifty Two minutes in the Czechs found themselves
on the board and within striking distance of a draw.
Stalemate ensued over the twenty minutes before Advocaat
opted to bring in some fresh legs. Pavyluchencko replaced Kerzhakov in the 73rd
and played an intregal role in setting up Dzagoev’s brace six minutes later.
Within another three minutes Pavlyuchenko would himself score with a fine drive
from inside the 18. I couldn’t even bring myself to finish my Pilsner-Urquell.
Time to take some pictures and head home.
CATCH UP WORK:
Vicey’s mind runs on a less predictable alcoholic loop than
one might expect. One or two ideas emerged during the process of writing the
qualifying sections that leave the four articles asymmetrically designed.
Apparently consistency and order are indispensable virtues among syndicate
members….or the whole lot of you are anal completionists that have gutted way
too many video games. In any event, you want the full collection of swords?
Need to make sure every level is unlocked? All missions with the green check
mark next to them? Every potion from every treasure chest in every optional
boss dungeon? I’ll oblige.
All Ugly Team Candidates—Russia
Pavel Pogrebnyak
We have but one on this team of grim-faced Ivan Drago
impersonators. Pavel tends to take his cowlick just a bit too seriously.
All Ugly Team Candidates---Czech Republic
Milan Petrzela
Don’t get between this man and his tub of KY.
Frantisek Rajtoral
I can definitely envision this guy doing some sort of Marsha
Brady comb job in the bathroom each morning. 997,988,999…and I’m FINALLY ready
for my day.
Petr Jiracek
Members of the syndicate, I give you Max von Sydow from “The
Greatest Story ever Told”:
Czech Fans
No, we won’t be covering any more Prague stories. I believe they’ve already been told somewhere…back there amongst the 1400 pages and two burnt out keyboards from the past few months that belong firmly in the rear view. Instead, we’ll briefly address the thorny issue of Czech Beer. Never, never, NEVER betray your true feelings on the locally brewed swill being passed around some dungeon-like candlelit lodge in an ancient Czech village. The Czechs believe they know how to brew beer the same way Americans are convinced they can feign a convincing cockney English accent. Stifle your gag reflex as best as possible. Pretend you’re drinking Natural Light of Keystone if you must. Flush all thoughts of urine out of you mind while keeping the hue of you liquid out of your sight. Keep focused on the conversation, skillfully pouring out your beer into a nearby flowerpot when they avert their eyes. Follow this simple advice and you’ll have a great time talking politics, hockey, and women. Trust me on this one.
Editor’s
retroactive notes:
Plenty
of stories remain “buried” in this collection that now pushes 2000 pages. Ugh.
I confess to a reoccurring nightmare in which some dapperly dressed executive
conveys to me the following:
“Peter…..what’s
happening? I’m gonna need you to go ahead and…ermmm..review everything Syndicate-related
you’ve written over the past ten years. Yeah…we sorta need to play catch up.”
Russian Fans
Since I’ve assume the mantle of advice columnist, always keep an extra pack of cigarettes in your inside flask pocket when partying with the Russians. It is only through these means that any aggressive standoff may be solved diplomatically. Swigging with hard drinkers always poses its own risks, particularly when the company in question aren’t exactly famous for their lucid short-term memory to begin with. Thirty seconds after sharing a hearty laugh with a Russian, a random Stolichnaya neuron may fire, leading your companion to suddenly to believe that you are his mortal foe. Think Rick James on coke.
Remain calm. Feel out the mercurial mood pattern over the
course of the evening, enabling you to precisely determine how many seconds it
will take your adversary to forget what he’s mad about. It should never exceed
sixty. Midway through the count, pull out your reserve cigs and proffer him the
strategically protruding one. He’ll accept with pleasure and utilize the
remaining seconds to light up. Stand back and light up yourself. Take a deep
drag –if possible, in synchronization -- with him. Upon exhaling, put on a face
that quickly transitions from frustration to begrudgingly acceptance of
reality, shake your head from side-to-side and say “Na….da” in your best
attempt to reframe the exchange of words as if you were two beleaguered
individuals lamenting the unfair nature of life. Fellowship attained. Conflict
staved off.
You can read more about the importance of building
inebriated comradeship in potentially explosive situations in my forthcoming
book, “Vicey’s Guide to Safe International Drinking.” Reserve your copy via
Amazon today. Yeah. This is the sort of stuff you won’t learn at any university
other than “The School of Hard Knocks”. I’d love to teach a seminar
someday…drinking inclusive of course. Anyway, apart from the unlikely scenario
described above, you’ll mostly have a blast talking with Russian fans about
cars, chess, economics, and the universe itself.
Editor’s
retroactive notes:
More
priceless wisdom. After I clear my slate of the 4,283,792 other projects I
promised myself I would complete, I really need to sit down and crank out that book.
Saturday
Denmark vs. The Netherlands
vs. 
No question the Dutch will light up the scoreboard with a 6-0 match at some point in this tournament. This begs the question, “how long will it take for them to get rolling?” Not long in my estimation. Clockwork Oranje are so stacked that they can afford to rest the slumping Robben. Van Persie, Kuyt, and the menacing Klaas Jan Huntelaar have all had over a month to rest their legs, which may in fact prove detrimental to three players from different teams. I say the recent honor bestowed upon Van Persie overrules the rust factor. Jan Huntelaar’s Bundesliga Golden Boot should provide a similar boost. The über-capped Sneijder, Mathijsen, Heitinga, and van Bommel have had plenty of time to play through this match in their head. They know exactly which tricks to pull out of the bag. They know one another remarkably well. We can easily have a slaughter on our hands.
On the other end of the pitch, I’ve already sounded a very
clear warning against underestimating Olsen’s Eleven. The electric Eriksen and
surging Bendtner may have something in store for us, but I’ll hold steadfast to
the belief that they both need to amass more confidence first. For the most
part it will be Poulsen, Kjaer, and Jakobsen pitching in to support the
recovering Agger at the back. I maintain that Sorenson injury is of little
consequence. The back end of “Danish Dynamite” will be able to keep it close
until well after the restart. They’ll only be able to withstand for so long,
however. Hopefully, the Dutch breakthrough won’t come from some bizarre freak
incident involving Poulsen and Agger. True fanatics will recall that this own
goal from the 2010 WM was one of the most fucked up occurrences on an
international pitch. The Flying Dutchmen eventually took that match 2-0. At a
minimum, they will do so again here. Let’s hope for a classic.
THE
LINE: Netherlands +2 Goals
Editor’s
retroactive notes:
RESULT: Denmark 1, The Netherlands 0. Heading into the
big German debut, the mood was one of utter despair. Enough change came in on
the Danes to make me wonder if I would have to sell my cats to a Chinese
Restaurant. How could I have been so utterly wrong about everything? Would my
Fatherland fall to the curse as well? This one was nothing short of an outright
shock. Even if I would later tabulate that enough Orange enthusiasts had placed
bets to give me my first plus match, I maintained nothing but pure disdain with
respect to my skills as a handicapper.
Robben, van Persie, Willems, Sneijder, and van Bommel all
had their chances, but they looked so uncharacteristically out of sorts that
one wondered whether van Marwijk had passed out Rufies in the locker-room
before kickoff. Van Persie exhibited the touch of a Third Grader while Robben,
evidently still reeling from the Champion’s League debacle, displayed
absolutely no confidence. At one point he even passed the ball to a
double-teamed Ibrahim Afellay despite having a wide open net to shoot at. Later
in what was simply a “Bizarro” First Half, he’d shank a ball into the post
despite plenty of time, space, and an excellent angle.
The Dutch unleashed a unrelenting blitzkrieg that kept
Danish keeper Stephen Anderson busy as hell. Still, there wasn’t even a hint of
a finishing touch from any of the top-caliber players. Against the run of play,
snake-bitten left back Simon Poulsen finally reaped the benefits of karma.
Instead of inadvertently scoring an own goal, he saw a hopeful cross deflect
off a Dutch defender and land at the feet of Michael Krohn-Dehli. The
congenital underachiever still had plenty of work to do. He somehow had to
sweep past Johnny Heitinga and Gregory van der Wiel to gain space. This he
managed with all the elegant genius of a footballer whom had spent his career
in Europe’s top leagues. After shimmying past them with an exquisite fake-out
and back-heel. He then made a mockery out of Nigel de Jong before firing
five-hole past Martin Stekelenburg. 1-0.
More peculiar behavior from the Dutch in the second half.
Van Persie couldn’t get his legs to cooperate with his brain. Time and again he
seemed to have too many ideas and ultimately stutter away his opportunities.
Van Bommel attempted to orchestrate some magic, but Anderson was up to the
task. The Orange tried it all. Lateral play. Formation shifts. Well-timed
substitutions. Nothing worked. One enduring memory from this match involves my
father leering at me. I happened to mention to him that I was now 0-3. He gave
me a look that said “I see…NOW WILL YOU GO BACK TO GRADUATE SCHOOL?”
CATCH UP WORK:
Vicey’s mind runs on a less predictable alcoholic loop than
one might expect. One or two ideas emerged during the process of writing the
qualifying sections that leave the four articles asymmetrically designed.
Apparently consistency and order are indispensable virtues among syndicate
members….or the whole lot of you are anal completionists that have gutted way too
many video games. In any event, you want the full collection of swords? Need to
make sure every level is unlocked? All missions with the green check mark next
to them? Every potion from every treasure chest in every optional boss dungeon? I’ll oblige.
Dutch Fans
Hollanders are always among the coolest peeps you’ll ever come across. Almost all of them speak both English and German fluently. You can switch back and forth all night long as you swap opinions with these ridiculously informed “Nether People”. No such thing as a dumb Dutchmen. I spoke with one about U.S. Midterm elections until 5 a.m. Despite never having even been to the states, the son-of-a-bitch knew almost all the names running for the U.S. House of Representatives. He even knew, staggeringly, the names of the last six Louisiana Governors. That is but one example of so many that I could be here until 5 a.m. typing them up. I’ve hitchhiked with shabby characters that know the complete works of Alain de Botton. I’ve stumbled across women who can school you on all things Bach. Sadly, that happened to be one of those times I accidentally stumbled into the Women’s bathroom. It still made for an interesting acquaintance. In short, you’re not topping these effulgent and ingenious people when it comes to the art of conversation. I’ve repeatedly described their language “goofy German”, but who gives a shit? They invariably speak six other languages that they’ll be happy to converse with you in.
Editor’s
retroactive notes:
It’s
all true! Craving an evening of stimulating conversation? Go drinking with a
Dutchmen. Craving an evening of incomprehensible discussion? Go drinking with a
Scotsman.
Danish Fans
As eloquent and multilingual as the Dutch, I’ve very rarely met a Dane whose German and English didn’t trounce proficiency. The best kind of Scandinavians to run into….though that admittedly isn’t saying much. Much like the Hollanders, they are exceptionally sharp Fatherland neighbors who speak a nutty variant of our guttural prose. Also, exactly like our neighbors to the Northwest, you’ll never have to hear it. I’ve had my fun with the Danes over the years. I’ve dubbed them the “pesky peninsulars”, the “Da-da-Danes”, and “The Leogliers”. I’ve also consistently likened the shape of their country to that of a limp whisky dick. I assure you it was all in jest. The Danes make for great drinking pals, conversation partners, and ping-pong opponents. I’d say something about the women as well, but the fact remains that I haven’t bedded one yet. Hmmm….I should get on top of that…matter.
Editor’s
retroactive notes:
Still
on my “to-do” list.
Deutschland vs. Portugal
vs. 
Not to worry, I will not wimp out on my syndicate members. No one-goal-line in this instance. Through mad devotion and a stack of glossy EM Magazines I’ve gradually talked myself into a two-goal spread. This in spite of the new Schweinsteiger injury, mentioned merely so that you might have time to talk yourself into a bet. A two-tier-striker-system should be capable of scoring a minimum of two goals. Klose early on. Gomez with the glancing off a Reus cross minutes from time….using his phenomenally stupid hair. Little credence has been given to the Navigators’ poor performance during the tournament friendlies. Such mic checks do not factor in to any serious analysis. We face an exceedingly threatening team piloted by the most dangerous weapon not thought up by Oppenheimer.
Apropos the dreams of madmen, I found myself stirred awake
last night by the thought of Nani out-dekeing an overwhelmed Jerome Boateng.
There were other dreams as well, including one in which I was hired back to one
of my old jobs and tasked with eating rusty nails for eight hours…but the Nani
hallucination was far more terrifying. Overall, I awoke screaming four times
last night (common for a smoker). In each separate case I succeeded in
comforting myself back to sleep by tethering back to the four separate
realizations:
1) You’ll never have to see those people again. Even if
circumstance wills it, the direction to eat rusty nails remains highly
improbable.
2) As real as it may have seemed, you did not, in fact,
register for six classes then peculiarly forget about FOUR of them until the
day of the final exam.
3) Relax, relax, relax. If, by some chance inconceivable
chance, you ran into THAT ex-girlfriend, you would be too repulsed to sleep
with her.
4) Müller and Mertesacker can probably handle Nani.
Editor’s
retroactive notes:
It
doesn’t get much more from the heart than this. Gentlemen, I give you my four
most common nightmares. I need to stop smoking. Damn the nicotine!
Man oh man. Life’s tough for a smoker. That was a light duty
night. Back to the issue at hand, if Mertesacker and Badstuber close ranks as
Boateng pushes forward we should have little to fear. Podolski and Müller are
experienced at striker, so we could conceivably put the outcome beyond doubt
early. Reus should continue his fine form, Götze salivating off the sidelines.
No doubt Löw reads my columns. He’s seen the Vice-Light. He’ll pick the lineup
that looked to be brimming with ideas against Israel. All will be well…..until
I close my eyes this evening.
Regular readers are familiar with the root of my
nervousness. The Mannschaft has now beaten the Navigators in three consecutive
tournaments. In 2006 and 2010 we pummeled them in the third place match. In
2008 we upset them in the quarterfinals. The odds will crash in eventually…just
not yet.
THE
LINE: Mannschaft + 2 Goals
Eleven or so minutes later, Flight
Director Schweine set up the header that Gomez had been waiting the entire
night for. The Fatherland took the lead for good in the 72nd minute.
Neuer bailed us all out with an incredible save in the 88th. By all
accounts, the match should have ended up tied, but for Neuer and Boateng. As
blitzed as I got that night, I remembered every last detail. A truly special
evening indeed. ;)
German Fans
Editor’s
retroactive notes:
RESULT: Germany 1, Portugal 0. Yes, I lost a whole heap
of money. You would have nevertheless had difficulty finding a happier German
on the planet than me. Understand something: This was the FIRST time I had the
honor of witnessing a German Victory in a major tournament on German soil. As
intimately involved as I’ve been with the Syndicate, I had only previously had
the opportunity of cheering on my Mannschaft with my fellow countrymen during
either friendlies or qualifying matches. What a HUGE deal it was. FINALLY. I
could scream “Deutschland” in the streets without being detained. FINALLY. I
could wave my flag, paint my face, and exchange hugs with a bunch of drunken
Krauts. The fact that I often speak grammatically incorrect German was
immaterial. Everyone’s speech was slurred on that magical night. I was FINALLY
home. For the first time in my life, I was FINALLY home. It only took
twenty-nine years of hardship and toil.
By my side sat my father; an equally eccentric man who
overdoes and overthinks everything. Through the magic of football, fatherland,
and (perhaps most helpful) booze we FINALLY got to spend an evening together
NOT thinking. Na endlich. So much of life is spent waiting. More I cannot type,
for fear of collapsing into a sobbing heap of non-man.
Löw deployed an intriguing 4-2-3-1 that pitted Gomez as
the lone striker. Of particular note he expressed faith in Podolski by placing
him a the flanking left midfielder. Another move that left Germans praying that
Joachim knew what he was doing involved Hummels taking Mertesacker’s place.
The mood could best be described as tense while we
watched two überstacked countries effectively cancel one another out over the
opening minutes. Neither side opted to take much initiative. Gomez and Müller
patiently sat back hoping to capitalize on a defensive error. Christiano
Ronaldo, Nani, and Helger Postiga behaved similarly. No such errors were to
commence. Bruno Alves and Pepe cut out any attempts by Schweine to lift balls
into the box. At the other end, Hummels sprawled to prevent Fabio Coentrao from
squaring to Postiga.
Podolski showed signs of activity on the left flank. He
shook off coverage well, but failed to find Gomez on numerous occasions. Gomez
himself appeared to be doing little other than waiting for the perfect aerial
delivery. An entire nation wondered aloud when Klose would be introduced. The
Polish-born striker certainly possessed a more diverse skill set. Unlike Gomez,
he could be relied upon to shake things up with his feet.
Shortly before the half, the German back-line
demonstrated signs of weakness. The magnificent Ronaldo punched through to put
a shot on Neuer. Badstuber and Boateng could only manage ineffective clearances.
Lahm was, as usual, roaming about attempting to anticipate a counter. Things
got truly scary when a Ronaldo corner was improperly cleared straight to Pepe.
The Real Madrid man first-timed a fireball that hit the crossbar, then bounced
directly off the line. I distinctly recall thinking that it had crossed the
line. Replay evidence, however, suggests otherwise.
This heart-stabbing effort led to much dismay at
halftime. Unless Löw found a way of altering the tenor of this match, it looked
as if the Navigators would prevail in a tight and tentative contest. We watched
closely as the teams trotted out of the tunnel. Andre Schürrle was warming up
for a possible substitution. Klose, Lars Bender, and Marco Reus were stretching
as well. This notwithstanding, Löw didn’t approach the fourth official to
report a change. He would stick with his eleven. Evidently he had spent his
break firing up Khedira and Müller. Both were harshly denied thanks to
acrobatic defense work from Coentrao and Raul Meireles.
Though the Mannschaft essentially dominated the opening
twenty minutes after the restart, Joao Moutinho and C. Ronaldo nearly combined
for the goal of the tournament. Moutinho unleashed Ronaldo with a telegraphed
pass that left the captain all alone in space against a flustered Neuer. I
remember thinking, “This MUST be the end.” Ronaldo took an excellent first
touch and cocked back to shoot. There wasn’t a white shirt anywhere near
him….or so we thought. Charging all the way from the other end of the pitch came
Jerome Boateng. He was in a confident mood, having just gotten laid by a
supermodel. He executed a brave full stretch slide tackle to tip the ball away
from Ronaldo’s tenacious boot at the LAST possible moment. It was gorgeous.
Bringschuld, Baby!
German Fans
Come on in a little closer. We won’t bite. You have my word. We love the outdoors. We love to drink, sing, and laugh outdoors. Don’t be shy. Only the most ignorant and least-traveled among us are looking for a fight. (Now that I think of it, the same applies to Americans). We’re actually very nice people; among the sweetest you’ll ever meet. We may have high standards, but we only apply them to ourselves. We may have an affinity for torture. Again, only that which is applied to ourselves. We may have hatred in our genes. Guess where it’s goes? We wouldn’t budge to hurt a fly. It’s our own fault for being in that fly’s vicinity. Won’t you be our neighbor? Hi neighbor! Been thinking about you. Let me change into this cardigan and show you around.
After much deliberation, I can only conclude that there is
but one location where I should watch this match: On the Karlsruhe Fan Mile
with the old man. I’ll spare you all the gory details, but it’s bonding time.
Have you called your father recently if you’re still lucky enough to do so?
Share a moment in whatever way current happenstance allows. Call your dad. Go
ahead. I’ll wait for you.
Editor’s
retroactive notes:
Er….as
it turns out, there was no “Karlsruhe Fan Mile”. The old man cursed me pretty
hard, but we eventually found a great place to watch the game….in Durlach of
all places.
Portuguese Fans
There’s so much I want to tell you about the Navigator faithful….after I take a swig of water…and….do some Herman Cain ruminating. Yes…..so much I want to tell you about Portuguese people….which I will tell you….after…let’s see….oh for fuck’s sake. I’ll level with you. As much as I know about Portugal, as much as I know about this team…I don’t have any Portuguese friends. I’ve never hung out with any Portuguese drinkers I never dated a Portuguese girl. Wait a second……my memory stirs. Okay, I technically dated a Portuguese girl in 7th Grade for a week. I remember absolutely nothing about it and nothing to say. It’s a small wonder that I even remember it. So I’ve never shared a drink with anyone from Portugal or picked up a Danish woman. Guilty as charged. I’ll fix it before the end of the tournament.
Editor’s
retroactive notes:
Fix it
I did. Ran into some rabid Portuguese fans in the Red Light District. I’d
disclose more, but…look…I’ve already put entirely too much about myself on the
Internet.
Sunday
Spain vs. Italy
vs. Wow. So many story lines in this one. Llorente or Negredo up front for La Roja? My money’s on the former. Pedro might see some action after the 70th. What about the Azzuri? Cassano, Di Natale, or the “People’s Choice” Balotelli? Unfortunately for Wop enthusiasts, they’ll play this one conservatively. Albiol or Juanfran to replace Puyol? Hmmm..former all the way. Where are we going to stick David Silva? Likely in Xavi H’s place after a long half, to positive effect. What? Criscito is hurt? That only leaves the Dagos with Angelo Ogbonna. Not good news.
As one might infer from the answers to the self-posed
questions, the news keeps getting worse for the Guineas whilst La Furia look
ever stronger. Given that Xabi Alonso and Sergio Busquets stand ready to
replace either Hernandez or Fabregas at a moment’s notice, I’ve no choice but
to make the Iberians heavy favorites in this one. No cause for serious despair,
Azzurri faithful. The Italians will find a way out of this group…just as soon
as they accept the reality that Balotelli must start. La Roja are simply to
deep off the bench. I make this a two-goal spread only because Pique needs at
least one game to adjust. Otherwise it could potentially be much more
debilitating. Maggio and Ogbanna display too much weakness on the inside foot
to guard the left flanks. Sorry for the shitty prognosis. Next round will be
more upbeat.
THE
LINE: Spain +2 Goals
Editor’s
retroactive notes:
RESULT: Spain 1, Italy 1. A very enjoyable match, even if
it ended up destroying my handicapping stats and costing me a great deal of
money. The ageless Andrea Pirlo got us started with a laser of a free kick that
Casillas could only gather at full stretch. Antonio Cassano would later
threaten in a furious first half for the underdogs. Fabregas, Xavi Alonso,
Iniesta, and Busquets all delivered their own individual moments of magic, but
the Azzurri clearly remained the dominant team.
Prandelli yanked the underperforming Balotelli in the 56th
and Antonio Di Natali needed no invitation. Within five minutes of being
substituted in, he gathered up an offering from the shockingly agile Pirlo and
finished deftly for a 61st minute lead. It wouldn’t take long for
the “Team of Destiny” to respond. Cesc Fabregas thumped home the tail-end of a
marvelous passing sequence that involved Xavi, Iniesta, and David Silva for a
64th minute equalizer. Torres came on for Fabregas in the 74th,
coming out guns blazing. Such play impressed del Bosque to the point that he
was prepared to display faith in Torres from that moment onwards. It may not
have produced a goal, but Fernando Fernando indicated that he was back….better
believe it.
Your friendly bookie only gives out grades to two
countries: The Fatherland and the Defending Champs. Consider that an ironclad
rule. Lifted straight from the dailies, here are my marks for La Roja:
Iker
Casillas
|
A+
|
Andres
Iniesta
|
A+
|
Cesc
Fabregas
|
A
|
David
Silva
|
A
|
Sergio
Busquets
|
B+
|
Jordi
Alba
|
B
|
Sergio
Ramos
|
B
|
Xavi
|
B-
|
Gerard
Pique
|
B-
|
Alvaro
Arbeloa
|
C
|
Xavi
Alonso
|
C
|
Jesus
Navas
|
C
|
Fernando
Torres
|
C-
|
Croatia vs. Republic of Ireland
vs. 
Anybody ready for the button? I sure as hell want to pound the non-existent button. Nrrrghhhh. Must….resist…..urge….to press…..fictional button. Don’t cum yet, Vicey. Think about baseball. BASEBALL. BASEBALL!!! And…….fuck it, we’re pressing the button.
UPSET
ALERT
Paddy Power time. Kranjcar, Modric, Srna, Jelavic, and
Eduardo “the diver” can try as they might. They won’t overcome the first Irish
appearance since 1988. There’s simply too much green blood pumping through the
veins of Gibson, Wehlan, Duff, Doyle, and Keane. These cats will be running on
pure unadulterated adrenaline for the full 90. There will naturally be nerves
as well, but they can overcome them before Modric and Rakitic figure out how to
orchestrate a halfway decent give-and-go. They can ride an early advantage all
the way to a two-goal-spread. Trappatoni’s boys may fade, as their overall
talent level decrees they must, but they won’t be bullied in their first opener
in over ten years. I can’t see it. Not against a fragile Pletikosa. Not without
Lovren. Prepare yourselves for the fairy tale story of the first round. Wake up
in time on Sunday morning for an after-Mass miracle
THE
LINE: Republic of Ireland +2 Goals
Editor’s
retroactive notes:
RESULT: Croatia 3, Republic of Ireland 1. Filthy dirty
trick I ended up pulling. This line constituted nothing more than a hedging of
my bet. I knew full well that a lot of emotional money would come rolling in on
the Micks. The take would have proved even larger, were my Syndicate Members
not a bunch of savvy sons of bitches who saw this ploy all the way. Smart
fucks. All of you ; )
Although the line was obviously exaggerated, I maintained
high hopes for a draw. Such hopes were nearly substantiated when Sean St.
Ledger headed home a 19th minute Aiden McGeady free kick for a
dramatic equalizer. Mario Mandzukic had previously opened the scoring with his
own textbook header three minutes after kickoff. For a brief period of time, it
looked as if we had a real barnstormer on our hands.
T’wasn’t to be. Two minutes before halftime, Luka Modric
hit Shay Given with a palm stinger and Nikica Jelavic was there to collect the
rebound. The go-ahead goal capped a first half during which Erin never really
looked like a threat. Three minutes after the restart, Perisic came crashing in
from the left wing and lifted a spectacular cross that Mandzukic glanced off
the side pipe. Already committed, Shay Given could do little besides watch the
soon-to-be Bayern striker slap the rebound in for a commanding Croat lead.
Trappatonni’s men generated some forward pressure late on, mostly through set
pieces that the Italian Maestro had obviously been emphasizing on the training
pitch. Shane Andrews came within a few feet of scoring on a couple of
occasions. Other than that, Mandzukic more or less sealed the deal and a new
contact with his 49th minute brace.
Monday
France vs. England
vs. 
vs. Now we’re talking. How shall the latest embattled England squad fare against the revamped Bleus? Er….rather poorly I’m afraid. I like Jermaine Defoe as much as anyone. I’m a Spurs diehard for St. George’s sake! He’s not good enough. Not good enough to blow past Evra and “two tickets to the gun show” Mexes. Fuck. Those who have read the preview section know of my love for the Lions. I wish to see them succeed more than anything. They're simply too soggy in midfield to compete with the Ribery-Benzema-Nasri Axis. Menez will mostly stay back, but it makes no difference.
As competent as John Terry, Ashley Cole, and Glen Johnson
may rightfully claim to be....they’re still old washed up garbage. Oh godammit.
This is the WORST Lions squad yet. I’m inconsolable. Watch the Froggies take
em’ down and reclaim their honor. Just watch.
THE
LINE: France +1 Goal
Editor’s
retroactive notes:
RESULT: France 1, England 1. I recall struggling mightily
with this line. I simply couldn’t conjur up enough faith in the Three Lions to
make it a pick. To be candid, how was I to trust Roy Hodgson’s lineup
selection? Absent Wayne Rooney, he had far too many options. A general rule of
thumb entails that a man with too many options is destined to pick the wrong
one. Hodgson confirmed such logic, but it ended up not mattering at all.
The decsion to start Wellbeck alone up front with Ashley
Young as the supporting striker boggles the mind. In hindsight, however, Scott
Parker fed Young with enough through balls to give Wellbeck a fighting chance.
If Wellbeck wasn’t up to the task, Milner, Gerrad, or Oxlade-Chamberlin could
rush forward to collect. The basic strategy made sense. Nevertheless, the
formation itself didn’t produce any goals. Joleon Lescott broke the deadlock
with a fine header off of Steven Gerrard’s free kick at the half hour mark. The
Froggies responded nine minutes later when Samir Nasri and Franck Ribbery
executed an exquisite give-and-go. Nasri twisted in a wicked kick that Ribbery controlled just long
enough to heel back to him. The Man City midfielder thundered it home.
The second half provided plenty of exciting end-to-end
action. The highlight had to be Joe Hart contorting himself to keep out another
one of Ribbery’s jewels. No goals to report, however.
Sweden vs. The Ukraine
vs. 
I sense something. Eddies of instability in the fabric. Discontinuity in the wash. Kinesthesia conveys an impression that directly touches all five senses. The sensation of something unique to football. Yes…..the faculty had been delivered. It’s……A DRAW. Let’s face it. The Swedes possess nothing more than an aging Ibrihimovic, Källstrom, and Mellberg. They face a deplorable Ukrainian side with nothing but the Kiev home crowd to back them up. I feel it in the force…it’s a….it’s a…..it’s a…..STINKER. As they say in Spaceballs, PREPARE TO FAST-FORWARD
“Prepare to fast forward!”
“Prepare to fast forward?”
“Prepare to fast forward!”
“Preparing to fast forward!”
“FAST-FORWARD!”
“Fast forwarding, Sir.”
Before I retreat to ponder some obscure Nietzsche passage, I
simply must emphasize that these godforsaken Swedes haven’t genuinely
entertained me ONCE since I started writing this Sportsbook. That goes for both
genders. I hate them as much as I hate the ever-failing mechanisms on my Saab.
Damn you, Swedes. Damn you all to hell.
THE
LINE: Pick em’
GENTLEMEN,
ENTER YOUR WAGERS
Editor’s
retroactive notes:
RESULT: Ukraine 2, Sweden 1. Sluggish start to this one,
but it entertained regardless. The Swedes indisputably claimed the better first
half chances. Ibrahimovic, relegated to short striker for this one, did his
level best to push wide. Unfortunately, every attempt he made to fit in a cross
was punched away by Shahktov’s surprise starter, Andry Pyatov. Yarmolenko came
closest on the other side, taking too many touches and ultimately flinging his
best opportunities wide of the goal.
We eventually got moving a scant seven minutes after the
restart. Sebastian Larsson curled in a lovely ball that Kim Källström barely
missed. The Lyon midfielder then proceeded to demonstrate the hustle that
Spartak paid handsomely for. He chased down the cross and adroitly spotted
Ibrahimovic on the move for an easy finish. The Swedes wouldn’t lead for long.
Yarmolenko atoned for his earlier mistakes with a cutting cross that hit
Shevchencko right on the temple.
The crowd went wild. Before they could even begin to
think about calming down, Shevchenko headed in another one. This time
Konoplyanka serviced him with a golden arc from the left hand side.
Ibrahimovic, Elmander, and even Olof Mellberg had a chance to level before full
time. Pyatov stood tall. The co-hosts would not be ruffled. Not on this
night.
