We're Not Gonna Take It!

It's no secret or surprise that most of us American soccer fans sometimes (most of the time) feel like outcasts in our own country. It's a melancholy, topsy-turvy road we venture down, and even here in P-town--a genuinely soccer friendly city--the going can get rough and a serious fan can easily get despondent over the lack of plebs attending the rowdy yet friendly Timbers matches and the frequent look of confusion, fear, and/or cluelessness that we're greeted with when the World Cup comes up in conversation with the confused, fearful, and/or clueless. It also doesn't help when the American media (local or national) perpetuate the "Americans don't like soccer" or "we like honest games that you can play with your hands" myths. It's even worse when a journalist simply outright lies to make a point . . . or deadline.

Well, Coach Mike over at On the Pitch is mad as hell and doesn't want to take it anymore. Better yet, he doesn't want any of us taking it either. Check out his post about some rather dishonest reporting and what us American footie freaks should do about it. Onward!

Practice! Practice! Practice!

Wow. That sucked. Really, what happened? And Germany didn't even play that well. But they had staying power, I guess. And they practiced their penalty kicks. Wish I could say something useful or insightful about the match, but I can't. Not at this moment. I'll watch it again later with Lynda (who was unable to see it) and perhaps say something positive about it. But where are my manners? Congratulations to the Teutonic Robots! You managed to pull off the win playing a rather mediocre and uninspired World Cup quarter final. Though I did like the shot of keepers Oliver Kahn and Jens Lehmann conversing right before the penalty kicks started. Very cool.

World Cup Sideshow

I can't really bear to think about tomorrow morning, about what might happen.

So I'm looking round at other soccer items instead:

Zach writes a fantastic piece about visiting the Chicago Fire and their supporters' group, Section 8. An earlier piece he wrote about some of the geopolitical implications of soccer inspired me to link to this post on a blog written by an Iraqi woman about the affect of the growing fundamentalism in the country on soccer fandom. She doesn't have a lot of love for the American forces, so in the interest of remaining fair and balanced (actually, just because if anybody's head explodes in here we'll be the ones to have to clean it up), I give you a link to buy a soccer ball to be distributed by soldiers to the children of Iraq courtesy of On the Pitch, a blog I've been liking lately written from the perspective of an American youth soccer coach.

Of course, like all right-minded people, you have been reading the World Cup Blog, but have you clicked on the referee's blog? You might have missed it as I did in the early days of the Cup--it's tucked away as the last flag in the row on the front page--but I've been enjoying Aaron's perspective on things (and his civility amidst some rather abusive commentators--but he's a ref, I suppose he's used to it).

The Italian footballing trial opened today and the story grew more bizarre (and tragic) this week with the apparent attempted suicide of former-Juventus-player-turned-acting-executive-manager Gianluca Pessotto, who was found post-defenestration clutching rosary beads outside the club's Turin offices. For the record, Pessotto has not been implicated in the scandal. This is awful, and reports seem to vary as to the severity of his injuries; he was visited shortly after by players from the Italy squad, Alessandro del Piero and Gianluca Zambrotta.

That's all I got. In thirteen hours the game will be over, and whatever happens, I hope I won't let it spoil my World Cup.

But I may not be a very good sport for a day or two.

World Cup Miscellany

Not sure how everyone else out there is holding up, but it's been a hard 48 hours for me without any fresh World Cup matches. To keep the blood flowing, mind sharp, and the body relaxed in case a major Cup withdrawal blindsides me for good and I find myself crossing the touch line into an unrelenting footie-less seizure, I've been rewatching some matches (France v Spain; Brazil v Ghana; Italy v U.S.A.) to prevent going cleats up into the Big Pitch. I've also been watching a few episodes of the excellent documentary series The History of Soccer: The Beautiful Game, narrated by Toby Dammit himself, Terence Stamp. Splendid stuff and if you haven't seen it, you really should race out and do yourself a favor . . . once the Cup is over, of course.

And I've also been counting the hours until tomorrow's can't miss match between a newly inspired Germany and my pick to take the FIFA World Cup Trophy, Argentina. They have a long history with one another (please, no Nazi jokes) and I know the match has already been hyped to death, but it still threatens to be the match of the Cup so far. Though you didn't hear that from me if it ends up being decided on penalty kicks. Italy and the Ukraine are also playing, and though I'll watch it later in the evening, I can't really get excited by such a one-sided confrontation. Here are some links regarding the Germany v Argentina match:

http://news.bbc.co.uk/sport2/hi/football/world_cup_2006/4991602.stm

http://news.bbc.co.uk/sport2/hi/football/world_cup_2006/teams/argentina/5122304.stm

http://news.bbc.co.uk/sport2/hi/football/world_cup_2006/teams/germany/5122294.stm

Spain losing to France was such a gorgeous, exciting match, even though it broke my heart to see them go down yet again. Still, it was beyond brilliant watching the French (newcomer Ribery and old man Zidane most of all) find new life, soul, and imagination, playing again like the world class Team Fantastique that we thought was so 1998. Not sure if France can take it to Brazil in quite the same manner as they did back when they won the Cup, and there's Zidane's health to worry about, but I'll certainly be hoping for the best. Would be nice, no?

Don't expect my man Puyol to be rooting for them though. The FC Barcelona armored saint is more than a little pissed that Thierry "Guess I am a woman" Henry took that dive which subsequently directly led to the Patrick Vieira header that put France on top. Not to be outdone, French coach Raymond Domenech is likewise pissed at some of the Spanish lot lice that heckled his players with racial epithets and the sadly ubiquitous pantomimes.

Over at the World Cup Blog they're discussing who some of the big losers of the tournament are. Can't disagree with any of the unfortunate line-up, though I might toss Mexico and Japan into the bunch since I thought both teams would perform much better than they did.

And lastly, Paul Doyle of The Guardian thinks there are simply too many teams in the Cup and that FIFA needs to strip it back down to sixteen of the world's best. Food for thought, though I think it's a daft idea and reeks of entitlement. Okay, nix the food for thought bit--I think he's full of shit. Next!

Argentina v Mexico

Now, that's what I'm talking about! Both Argentina and Mexico seemed evenly matched last Saturday night--the final game stats confirmed it--and there were some absolutely brilliant moments sprinkled throughout a game that was always exciting, tense, and laced with passion. Rafael Marquez's pulse-quickening goal in the 6th minute startled the Argentinian side and showed that Mexico meant business. And when Albicelestes' striker Hernan Crespo answered back a few minutes later, you knew this wasn't going to be just an ordinary game. But has anything been ordinary in this World Cup? Strike that. There's plenty of business as usual, I guess, e.g. England's poor showings and Spain's disintigration after so much promise, to name just a couple of unfortunate patterns.

Mexico consistently troubled Argentina's defense and El Tri managed to play with a zeal I hadn't seen since their opening match against Iran. Jared Borgetti, the team's star striker and his country's leading scorer, failed to astonish like he had in last summer's Confederations Cup, and I'm blaming Big Sam Allardyce, manager of Bolton Wanderers, the English club where Borgetti spent the last season and was utterly wasted, for his lack of form (Lynda thinks Big Sam is to blame for the entire loss, not just Borgetti's failure to work magic). And where was Omar Bravo? Ah well, luckily Mexico played fast and looked good. And Marquez, like Lisa, I now forgive you for the handball.

I should note that I was more than a little conflicted about this match. Mexico is deep in my heart, but I have to confess that I've been falling fast for this particular Argentinian team and their seductive style of exquisite passing, control, and tempo dominance. No matter how hard I tried, I just couldn't see Mexico beating Germany in the quarter finals. But Argentina? Oh yeah, this is a team that can take down Jurgen Klinsmann's Teutonic robots . . . and then Brazil!

As you can probably tell, I'm not sad that Mexico lost. Well, a little perhaps. If they'd lost to anyone else I would've been crushed. But El Tri can hold their heads up high and know they went down like heroes of the pitch. The match could've gone either way numerous times. But when the crazily good Maxi Rodriguez from Argentina bounced that ball off his chest then aimed and fired it into the upper corner of the net, I realized that it was only going to go their way from that moment. Superb.

An unfortunate result for a Mexican team that should've had it. Why they are unable to move beyond the round of sixteen since 1994 is one of football's biggest mysteries. Maybe they need to host the festivities again, then they can make it to the quarter finals before they blow it. Adios, my south of the border friends! There's always the Gold Cup! And Argentina, may you unleash your nimble-footed soldiers of grace upon Germany and then beyond. The velvet victory is indeed yours!

congratulations shaun and all bleu folk

It was a pleasure watching yr bleus today. They looked like grown-ups fielding sweet, rambunctious kids. Even Puyol seemed like a little kid, and he's got to be older than almost everyone in the tournament. Part of his charm, but still. I was having a blast watching it, the whole first half, and then yr comperes kicked into Italian gear with that Puyol frame-up and resulting goal and that made me pretty severely cantankerous. I began cursing aloud, spoiling the civilized atmosphere at the Rose and Thistle.

Then, a miracle! When Zidane swept that beautiful ball into the net, all my rancor vanished and I was cheering and weeping with (I assume, for who could resist?) tout le monde. It snapped everything into perspective. What's more important, that my Spaniards romp through to the next round and what would probably be a fairly wacky match against Brazil? (although, think about it: wouldn't that have been a wonderfully wacky match to see? alas) Or that Zidane's noble international career end on the lovely note that he deserves? The choice is obvious, and I wish him well.

I am suffering, however, a certain personal crisis of faith. IS there no honor? Really? I'm not just talking about the Puyol frame-up. I'm talking about my boys, too, and Portugal v. Holland and, well, everyone. I think I could count on one hand the games I've seen in this World Cup that didn't turn crucially on a successful dive or a devious foul or just a really bad call. Something happened to me in that last moment of Italy v. Australia: I was truly wounded by it. It's an absurd thing for a fully-grown human to say, but I really was. The cynicism of it, that because those fellows were too tired to face the overtime and knew the Aussies were in much better shape, to cheat so boldfacedly, in such an ugly way, and to get away with it. Awful. And how many times have I used the word "awful" in the last three days to describe the football I'm seeing?

Did you ever read PETER PAN? There's a part where Peter and Hook are fighting on a rock in the lagoon and Hook slips off into the water. Peter, doing the honorable thing, reaches down to help him up and Hook gives him the claw. Peter, since he can never remember anything, experiences every betrayal as the first one, and so is paralyzed with pain and horror every time Hook takes advantage of his sportsmanship.

C'est moi.

Still, I am pleased for France. Pleased for Zidane, and for Ribery, who has played so beautifully well. May my faith be restored (or replaced by something better) by the beauty of the games to come.

a vindication of the rights of american THREE LIONS fans

(in response to a challenge by Zach at 11 Devils, a man annoyed and perplexed by widespread American devotion to Sven's motley posse)

I understand your impatience. To the casual observer, the U.S. fan's fixation on the English team must smack of pretension, cowardice, or, at best, inane anglophilia. It's more than that, or, rather, OTHER than that, and I'll try to explain it.

Consider Shakespearean acting: the English do it better than we do. Not that we don't have many very fine Shakespearean actors--I could name fifty, seriously, without pausing for breath--but those Brits seem to have an innate comfort-level with the rhythms and sounds which we Yanks have to work to achieve. Is it because they've been doing it longer? because it was born on their soil? because it's more fully appreciated there, thus better funded? I don't know. Watch any Branagh film, you'll see it's true.

(OK, that's a bad example, since Branagh enjoys casting mediocre American actors, from kindness or Schadenfreude. But watch a great American performance--in New York, Ashland, Seattle, wherever--then watch the same play in London. They still have bad actors, sure, but theirs are better than our bad actors. Then choose our greatest and send him to London; he's going to be standing in a room full of his peers.)

Same with soccer. Any team is engaging when they're playing well, but who's more fascinating when they're playing badly? England, no question. The reason so many people spend so much time tooth-gnashing and hair-rending over the Lions is that even at their very worst, when they're torturing us with fumbled passes and a Lampardianly perpetual continuum of wide shots, even then there's a hovering possibility that they might without warning break into a moment of breath-taking splendor. It's that they so often don't,--and because they so often look like they're WILLFULLY CHOOSING TO DENY US,--that our teeth and hair are in such awful fettle.

Has any U.S. national team been able to do that, ever? No. Unquestionably, no. Nobody's fault. Soccer's young here. It'll grow up. Meanwhile, it's two wholly different worlds. To the Brits, football is an art-form and a way of life. To us, it's just a sport. So I ask you. How can you honestly prefer the U.S. team to England's?

carnage and bogus kerfuffle

The brilliance is off the orange, and nothing's shiny about Portugal, either. What an appalling spectacle. Great flutterings of cards, yellow and red, until Lynda muttered, "I wonder if he ever runs out of those." Such a stew of wounds and dives that I gave up trying to discern one from the other. Plays degenerating into such turmoil that nobody was certain how properly to resume play. Shouts escalating into shoving, which more than once turned into a sort of tribal stand-off, enemy warriors on the verge of combat.

In the end, whatever you say against Portugal (and you might, indeed, speak quite a piece), they showed impressive bravery in continuing their attacking game even after their first man was lost to the dread red card. He was Costinha, a defending midfielder and a crux on which Scolari centers his defensive system. Holland at that point had three forwards on the green: Robben, Kuyt, Van Persie. Later, as players were driven off the field in great locust-like swarms of red cards, Van Basten replaced one of his defenders (Mathijsen) with an attacking midfielder (Van der Vaart) only to see one of his remaining defenders (Boulahrouz) fall to the Red Plague, leaving him only two. He eventually righted the imbalance, and a good thing, because a third defender (Van Bronckhorst) fell to the same sickness before festivities wrapped. Today everyone asks WHERE WAS RUUD? An interesting question. Does anyone know why he sent on Vennegoor of Hesselink instead?

In any case, it's all immaterial now. It was horrible and fascinating, this match, the old proverbial train-wreck, and I could not for love or money avert my eyes. Never have I seen a game that felt so likely to end in a street-fight (and, remember, I watched Croatia v. Australia). Never was a victory so entirely devoid of sweetness (and I am a Portugal fan). Never did I so wonder about the post-game safety of a referee. Has anyone checked? Did the Russian fellow make it back to his digs all right?

Lynda put it succinctly and well when she said, "This is awful. If they go into overtime, I'm getting drunk."

This, after I'd been talking Portugal enthusiastically up to my cohorts. They're starting to give me sidelong looks, what with my newfound Aussie-fondness (I am the only one here at a pretty move, I think, who realizes full well that the Socceroos are not thugs, not in the least, but Tough Gentlemen. Think Kirk Douglas, or Clark Gable) and now my passion for a team who can inspire Holland to ugliness and rancor and physical violence. Holland! That paragon of all which is lovely and geometrical! (Do not think I blame Portugal alone for the ugliness, not a bit. Holland has entirely as much shadow to carry in this fiasco.) My compadres have begun looking at me as if they suspect I have a secret cache of BDSM porn in the closet.

Still, in the end, I stand by Portugal. Nothing pretty about it, but I come away from the debacle with this: in all the swarming hideosity, they never gave an inch, never considered backing off, not for a second. They got a little Italian about it, sure, but, in fairness, so did Holland. When Portugal's best road to victory dwindled and died, they switched to an alternate track, then another, until they--well, they stumbled into their win, thick with blood and infamy.

It matters little, in the end. England's up next, and so--sorry, Deco--they have to go.

Teutophobia

Woke up early yesterday morning, too excited to sleep at the prospect of catching my first live match in days, even if I wasn't so excited about the two teams in question. Lost interest in the slaughter of Sweden after about 40 minutes (while the scoreline does not necessarily reflect that they were slaughtered, they started to play like they had been), wandered off to exchange trash talking emails with my friend whom you may have seen around here bearing the sobriquet Chigger Christ. He supports Germany, for heaven's sake (and you think you know a person).

Walked downtown to hop a fareless Max over to Lloyd Center and legged it to Costello's Travel Cafe for Argentina v. Mexico (about a fifteen minute walk, this portion of the post brought to you by the Cheapskate's Guide to Traveling to World Cup Venues in the Portland Area). Costello's was too packed to even stand without interrupting someone's line of sight, so I wandered a few doors down to the more subdued Rose & Thistle (nice place, decent TV, good Guinness, very nice staff, about twenty amiable spectators down to ten by the time we went into overtime).

It pained me to root against Mexico, but I do love Argentina (a team I hated in their match against Mexico in last year's Confederation's Cup, by the way, because I am a fickle, fickle girl) and let's face it--Mexico has little chance of stopping the relentless onslaught of Sexy Jurgen's lads (thanks, Zach. I am unable to look at this man now without saying "Sexy Jurgen!" to myself, at least, or worse, to whoever happens to be sitting next to me), while I believe Argentina can. Of all the teams with a real chance to hoist the Cup, Germany is the one team I will be disappointed to see in the final round. I might be able to resign myself to it were it the great Oliver Kahn in the net this year, but the presence of Lehmann only adds insult to injury.

It's not even that I dislike them so much as I am just bored by their style--that of a relentless, powerful machine. Sure, under Klinsmann's attacking tutelage they're more entertaining than in years past (although putting it that way is kind of like saying, "My, your cooking tastes better than cardboard!"). It's certainly impressive, but somehow it leaves me feeling vaguely depressed. They play soccer like they're getting a job done, with efficiency and strength but little visible joy. Let's indulge in a little cultural stereotyping for a moment, shall we? They play soccer in a way that seems so . . . so German.

The funny thing is, I would characterize my general disposition toward Germany as one of warm sentiment. My father was stationed there for four years in his Army days and I grew up hearing stories about the country that was clearly the setting for some of the happiest days of his life. I still own his old battered German phrasebooks and language primers that I used to thumb through in fascination as a child, a symbol for me of foreign (and hence magical) lands. And then there's my last name. Somewhere along the way, I'm told, we lost the umlaut--there's no mistaking where that came from.

A couple of anecdotal and therefore entirely unreliable observations about Germans: A friend of my two Irish roommates, when I was living in Dublin many years ago, came home for a visit from Germany, where she worked, and I remember them telling me that she hated it there because she found Germans to be really boring. And I quote: "Because when they go to parties, all they want to do is stand around and talk about politics." Sounds grim, no?

And this: Derek and I have this good friend who's German. He used to live here in Portland, and he's since gone home, and I still miss him--we used to have a lot of fun, the three of us, staying out much too late, shutting down the bars, talking for hours, ordering one round after another. What did we talk about, all those late nights?

Well, uh, I remember a lot of passionate talk about politics. It seemed really fun at the time.

I'm not sure what the moral of this story is, except that maybe I hate what I am? I have nothing against Germany in general, I just hate their soccer? And that watching Germany play soccer makes me feel like I'm standing in the middle of the road with a semi-truck bearing down on me: simultaneously awestruck and hopeless in the face of unstoppable fate.

I hope someone can change fate.

Well. That was a complete travesty.

It was the silliest thing. I walked down to the Marathon today to meet Lisa in hopes of catching the Portugal v Netherlands game. Well, I'm not sure what they were broadcasting--it looked like the World Cup, but that was no soccer match. Apparently, I got dosed with the same bad batch of acid that Zach took for Italy v USA. It must be loose on the streets of P-Town.

Oh, there were some great moments, but not in the run of play itself: Cristiano Ronaldo weeping as he repairs injured to the bench in fears his World Cup is over (I want to dislike him, but with a scene like that, how can I?). Bad kids Deco, his Barca teammate Van Bronckhurst, and Boulahrouz, sitting together watching the match, presumably talking about what a horse's ass the referee was. I'd give a lot to know what went on in that conversation.

And "Jan Vennegoor of Hesselink" is officially my new favorite name of the World Cup.

As you have already figured out, I have nothing substantive to say about any of this. I did not witness any substantive soccer today. (I mean, I could also write about England v Ecuador but that carries with it the occupational hazard of death by boredom.) Of course, there are calls for the ref's head, some of them from me in the course of the match. But you can't pin this whole disgrace on him. The players were fouling and diving like crazy. Twenty-two grown men flopping around like little kids who just figured out that their babysitter's a soft touch and it's easy to get their friends in trouble.

I went into this one as a neutral, but I'm pleased to see Portugal progress and I look forward to seeing them play England--and hope for better sportsmanship all around.

And if you missed it all, relive the Mad Hatter's Tea Party of a football match at the archived liveblogs at the World Cup Blog or the Guardian.

in which my spaniards let me down, but just a little

In yesterday's news, Spain's "B" squad took a few hours to laze around a pitch awhile, which was unfortunate, since Saudi Arabia was trying to play a real match on the same green. Only Reyes and Joaquin seemed determined to secure that personal World Cup goal, and only Juanito did (a lovely header off Reyes' lovely pass), so he could laze around with his friends some more after that. When Aragones put Villa and Torres in during the second half they seemed like kids in detention ("We already PASSED this class! Why do we have to take it AGAIN?"). These kids today. I swear.

It was due to sheer luck (mostly bad luck for the Saudis) and certainly not to the quality of their defending that they kept one step ahead. As the Saudis grew more determined in their attacks, the Spaniards seemed willfully to counter it until they seemed positively desultory. I have a note here in my journal from late in the second half: "Spain defending through clumsiness and thuggery."

As shabbily as the Spaniards played the game, at least they came out to shake hands and mingle at the end, unlike Shevchenko and his Ukrainians after their Saudi victory. Straight to the locker room. Couldn't be bothered. This, from the fellow (watch him! it's true) who's always the first to whip off his kit. That man loves being shirtless in public.

Do I meander? I'm not surprised. My poor flesh begins to complain: the broken sleep cycles, the steady intake of bar food, unending torrents of coffee. Like Hamlet, I have of late foregone all custom of exercise. It struck me after Argentina v. Holland. Derek and I emerged from the Marathon blinking and pale and slightly cringing in the sun, like crepuscular creatures skittering across the bottom of a lifted rock. I walk around these days, ostensibly job-hunting, my clothes heavy with smoke, my head cluttered with caffeine flashes, my belly begging for a nice piece of fruit, maybe a thing made out of tofu and sprouts.

So it was a relief to be able to stay in for this morning's match (thank you, ABC, in spite of those soul-wearying announcers) and feel my blood chilled as it always is when Germany is in invincible mode, as they were first half. They lost their groove in the second, but Sweden never took the leap. And how about that Argentina v. Mexico? That was some fun. That Marquez. I thought I was going to hold that handball against him (v. Portugal) for a long time, but here he comes in the first five or six minutes, wiping away any lingering resentment away with one sweet sweep of the foot. Much as I enjoy both teams, I was backing the Argentines in my heart, and they came through.

Onward to England.

The Good Soldier Nedved

Pavel Nedved moves like a kill-crazy berserker across the pitch. Hard muscled, agile, fearless, mecurial, and dedicated to victory, Nedved is the battle-hardened soul of the Czech national team. He may look like a baby face off the pitch, but anyone who has watched him in motion knows that he's Ragnarok personified. His eyes reflect a deadly courage and determination that is, I'm sure, startling to behold in the midst of play. Pity the poor man who has Nedved storming down on him!

But not even Nedved's inspiring play and refusal to give up could sway the sometimes brutal Italian onslaught yesterday, a win that sent the Czechs packing for home and the Azzurri into the round of sixteen. After their defeat at the feet of Ghana, I still believed that the Czechs could pull through against Italy. Alas, the mighty Bohemians--who were missing due to injury Jan Koller, the player who headed in that thunderous first goal against a daunted and seemingly unprepared U.S. team in the first round of the World Cup--played a cracking good game for awhile, keeping the Italian squad confused and unable to control the rhythm. But when the Italians drew first blood, the Czechs lost their momentum and by the end, only Nedved continued to play as if the whole damn thing still mattered.

I was alert and prepared for a victorious morning for most of the first half, until that blasted first strike. Then, I found myself pulled back down into slumber. Much like Lisa, my dream life of late has been heavily footie oriented. And so I started dreaming about the match in progress...

Lynda and I were in the Czech Republic having a picnic lunch of sausage, cheese, and hearty bread upon a grassy hill somewhere in the country. There were people peppered around us, and most of them were either listening to the World Cup match on radios or intently watching on big widescreen televisions (black & white no less). I walked over to a family who were mesmerized by their side's outstanding performance and we all sat together shouting an equal measure of encouragements and curses at the respective teams. The next thing I remember is . . . well, there's no other way to describe it--I freaked out. Everyone was screaming, laughing, crying, and I with them. Lynda looked at me and asked why I was sobbing, but she immediately started as well, no longer needing a verbal explanation. When I woke up I was more than a bit confused by the real score confronting me--Italy 2, Czech Republic 0.

I watched the last couple of minutes or so with a desperate ache bleeding in me, my partisan emotions drowning in the certainty of defeat. And like the soccer masochist that I am, I rewatched the entire game later in the evening to see if I had missed something--I had; that awful image of the feral Italian striker Filippo Inzaghi skittering around Czech keeper Petr Cech in the 87th minute, delivering the killing blow. Brutal, brutal stuff. Only the image of a heroic yet exhausted Nedved, his eyes still defiant even though his body was reluctantly resigned to the nothingness of what awaited, eased my heartbreak a little.

The Czechs will be back, and though Nedved (and possibly Koller?) will not be part of the next national squad, the berserker's presence will always be felt. And with talent like the young Tomas Rosicky (who will be playing for Arsenal this season) gaining experience and fine-tuning his skills (though where were you against Ghana and Italy?!) in the Premiership and the Champions League, the Czechs will deliver much more than tears in four years.

The Reclamation of Ronaldo?

It took him until the 45th minute to do so, but Brazil's Ronaldo--who has been hampered of late by his bad match form, weight, insecurity, what have you--finally regained his dazzle by delivering a crucial header to equalize against a determined Japanese side right before the half. Though I didn't hold out much hope for the scrappy yet occasionally fluid Samurai Blues--who I was rooting for because of sentimental reasons--I was elated that poor Ronaldo had finally come alive and seemed focused on reintroducing himself to the world. Even the small group of outnumbered Japanese supporters hunkered within the smokey bowels of the divey Marathon tavern couldn't resist the return of one of the greatest and most feared Brazilian strikers.

Has Ronaldo returned fully fit and confident for the rest of the World Cup? That's impossible to answer after a single match, especially considering that his two goals (however joyous to watch) weren't jaw-dropping or spectacular. But it's a start, and his committed turnaround shot in the 80th minute (which put the brave Brazilian even in all-time World Cup scoring with Germany's Gerd Muller) certainly had me excited to behold the transformation taking place.

Did anyone, outside of the few Japanese fans in attendance, really think that the Samurai Blues could pull off a cataclysmic upset? Not really, though I did manage to get swept away with my wish-fulfillment until the barking yet amiable Aussie started jeering and haranguing the Japanese to surrender all hope, Brazil was about to crush them with happy feet.

i didn't sleep at all last night

In the past two days I've been the sole Portugal fan in a room full of Mexico supporters, one of a small (and ultimately abashed) crew of Czech fans in a restaurant packed with Italians, and cheering robustly alongside a contingent of Aussies. Today alone I beheld what may be the two ugliest goals I've seen in my life: Inzaghi for the Italians, and Kalac for the Croats (yes, I consider it a keeper's own goal. The fumble was that bad).

What happened to the Czechs? You seduced me with your winning ways, then collapsed before consummation. Italian operatic buffoonery doesn't seem quite as amusing when there's a beloved team at the other end of the pitch. That said, it would take a dourer person than I to resist a belly-laugh at Gattuso's yellow card move: scrabbling across the ground, clawing at Medved's legs. But that in turn invokes the horrific image of Peter Cech, alone, abandoned, crawling on the pitch at Inzaghi's feet. Where did everyone go? Did I see a Czech player crumpled on the far end of the pitch? Is that why nobody came? Is there a reason for that nightmare moment?

I was watching at Piazza d'Italia, a wonderful place, where the spontaneous roars of heartfelt joy that filled the room at every turn in Italian favor at least sheared the worst edges off my first real World Cup disappointment. Medved fought bravely, and I am as bemused as I ever was at the praise which seems to follow Baros around.

For the second leg I met Derek at the Marathon and sat in a crowd of Australians watching both matches at once. I was determined to focus on the Socceroos, but who can resist watching, once Brazil falls into The Magical Place? (Ronaldo! Good on you, mate.) Once Brazil settled into their easy glide to victory, we were free to turn full attention back to a game that was as exciting as any I've ever seen, and probably the most physical. BRUISINGLY physical, right from the start, with Croats emerging from the locker room cleats-first, as it were, and kid-gloves long discarded. The Aussies, fortunately in this case, are no shrinking violets, and plunged head-first into the fray, never stopping for breath. The last half was heart-stoppingly suspenseful, and when Kewell's 79th-minute equaliser came, the room erupted. Off-side? I don't care. The ref was ignoring one infraction after another from the Croats, including a blatant handball, brutal tackles in the box and a temper on Simunic that made Kewell's post-Brazil rant look like an invitation to tea. How come the Croatian fellow gets to hit the ref in the arm and get away with it? It's not like all the rest of us never wanted to. Do we all get a turn?

Ultimately, as badly as it began, my day became full-on magic. There's nothing better than a great game, except a great game that your team wins. Thanks you, Aussies, and thank you, Brazil.

Tonight, I sleep soundly and dream of pretty moves.

No More Liming in Germany

The Soca Warriors went down painfully against Paraguay today--and it might have been just as bad if they'd fought to a 2-0 win only to fall to the Sweden v England tie. Okay, it probably couldn't have been any worse for Brent Sancho, socring an own goal--a painful finish to three games' worth of good defensive work. Still, their presence at the Cup has made it more fun (particularly within an otherwise dull group), especially their first-round shakeup of Sweden. I wish they'd managed to go a little farther and I hope they'll be back.

There are folks out there who believe squads like this don't belong in the Cup. I can't understand this attitude. I always look forward to seeing what the debutants will bring with them, and it's important to the spirit and health of the tournament that every four years, everyone has a chance on the biggest stage of all.

Each World Cup, several of the wealthy, famous, superstar teams come dragging their high expectations behind them, and subsequently fail to impress. Eduardo Galeano waxed rhapsodic about Senegal in 2002, the team that came "with no World Cup history, no stars, no obligation to win or trepidation about losing." Doubtless, every player hopes for glory and perhaps a better contract for the coming year; all the same, squads who are mostly written off before they even step on the pitch remind us, lest we forget, of what matters more than the three points, the money, the endorsements, the careers, more money, the image, the fame, the press, the glamour.

And what is it that matters? The energy of your supporters, the chance to see your team tangle with Goliaths on the pitch. National pride, representing your country. Oh, and something about kicking a ball around.

World Cup Miscellany

If performing dismally at the World Cup wasn't bad enough, England striker Michael Owen crumpled to the ground not a minute into the game against Sweden and was immediately stretchered off. With Owen now out, Rooney still healing and definitely not up to match fitness, Crouch still unpredictable and well . . . like Crouch, and Walcott firmly on the bench, it seems unlikely that England will make it to the quarter finals. But Rob Smyth over at the Guardian thinks that Owen's injury may actually be a good thing and says that they still have a fighting chance if Sven gets imaginative.

Two of the finest teams in the tournament meet Wednesday--of course, I'm talking about Argentina vs. Holland. Should be a brilliant game all-around and if you're an Argentina fan you know that one of the central figures of the squad is the moody, introspective Juan Roman Riquelme. Here's a nice profile of the talented tactician from the Guardian, and from the BBC a piece about Hernan Crespo urging his team to keep up the fancy. If there's any team that can dismantle the not-so-pretty-at-the-moment Brazilian juggernaut, it's got to be Argentina.

Anyone who watched the U.S.A. vs Italy game from last Saturday won't easily forget the brutal elbow to the eye that Italian midfielder Daniele De Rossi delivered to Brian McBride. Who says football isn't a contact sport? Well, it looks like the young De Rossi has apologized to McBride and the two have made up. Just don't expect Azzurri coach Marcello Lippi to forgive and forget De Rossi just yet.

And Mexico and Portugal go at it tomorrow as well, though unfortunately Mexican striker Jared Borgetti is still nursing a hamstring injury and will miss the match. Mexico need the win to move on and coach La Volpe says to hell with everyone else, "we need to focus on ourselves" to do it. Well, okay then. I won't argue.

Portland Timbers Top USL Table

In the football anthology My Favorite Year, Harry Pearson writes about the disorientation of seeing your reliable, comfortably mid-table team--in his case, Middlesbrough--suddenly rocket to success:

It was stimulating, it was provocative, it was thrilling. It was all a bit much, really.

Portland Timbers head home after a long away weekend in which they collected five points, from the Minnesota Thunder (2-1), the Rochester Rhinos (2-2), and the Montreal Impact (0-0), and they now sit at the top of the USL table.* After last year's inconsistent performances and struggles just to stay in fifth or sixth place for the playoffs (and with an ever-shrinking bench that had you fearing that you as a spectator might be press-ganged into service at any moment, who could blame them?), it's almost disconcerting to taste unmitigated success. I keep looking back at the standings to make sure it's real. It's been an entire weekend of Bizarro World soccer.

Of course, I've seen the Timbers play at every home match so far this year, and I know they deserve to be sitting exactly where they are now. This team has talent, depth, and hunger, and can win the league if they keep it up.

Match reports here.

*Granted, they have played one game more than any other team in the league, which helps with standings--but still!

Ronaldo: Asset or Liability?

He just stood his ground for most of the game against Croatia, uninspired and unable to transform the match into one of his own making like he'd accomplished countless times before. Soft in appearance and toxic with inertia, the once great Ronaldo was determined to play the role of liability for a team that always demands loyalty, mental and physical dexterity, and flamboyance from its all-star squad. What must the other players think of their indulgent, fading superstar?

A week or so earlier, the Wave Generator and I spent the evening after a Portland Timbers match drunkenly watching some vintage Rolling Stones footage from the mid-1960s and early-1970s--extraordinary film of the band performing (with Brian Jones) on British telly and most memorably (sans Jones) rehearsal footage of the drug and whiskey soaked group in Montreal with guitarist Mick Taylor uncomfortably wedged in between the in-fighting meltdown of a lineup. Over the course of the late night viewing, it occurred to us how fantastic Mick Jagger could actually be, as well as truly rotten. "Jagger is the Stones' biggest asset and liability," my friend muttered at some point. "Sometimes within the same song."

The same is undoubtedly true of Ronaldo.

It's been a lackluster year, to say the least, for the once formidable Real Madrid striker. And that once speedy grace he used to exult in, has now given way to a slothful contempt. His considerable talent has slowed, turning mushy and clotted with resentment for the Madrid supporters, the press (who have been brutally honest and just plain brutal), and possibly even himself. Ronaldo has had injuries, illness, and his own lethargy to contend with for years. But he's always bounced back into shape, proving his critics wrong with a sly back flick or a blistering charge towards the net.

But what now? It seems that the weight of the accusations may have finally seeped into him too deeply this time. If not that, then what? Is his sex life falling apart again? Are his dire, nonexistent World Cup performances in the match against Croatia and in today's mediocre game against Australia some sort of protest against his critics, a way for him to punish those who would doubt his ability to dazzle? Or does he simply not care anymore?

Asset or liability?

It's difficult to say definitively, since just when you count him out, the Brazilian Buddha snaps back to life and almost scores (like today in the 41st minute) or delivers an exquisite pass (which he also did for a goal-bound Adriano). Ronaldinho, who has also been disappointing of late though for entirely different reasons, sent the ball Ronaldo's way numerous times, as a way perhaps to invigorate his teammate's confidence. It seemed to work a little, though honestly anything would be an improvement over Ronaldo's wretched performance against Croatia. And what about that horrid missed kick in front of the goal today? Sad really, but typical of what we expect. But it's still sad.

Ronaldo's absence from the pitch in the 72nd minute, to be replaced by the youthful Robinho, helped spark the Brazilians to their 2-0 victory, and the team noticeably seemed engaged with speed again once he was gone. Perhaps if coach Carlos Alberto Perreira keeps Ronaldo on the bench next game until the second half, and starts Robinho instead, the crafty striker will have ample time to decide for himself what he wants to be when he grows up.

Dear Team USA

It's no secret that you and I have a troubled relationship. I'll never love you. I'm completely unfaithful to you, and, well, I've been seeing teams in your very group on the side. What can I say? There's just no chemistry between us. Sometimes I don't even like you very much, despite the fact that I do like several of your players a lot. But frankly, I'd written you off.

And what did you go and do? You showed--spirit! passion! drama! determination! You refused to give up! You were kind of inspiring! Even down to nine men--nine men!--you held on. Minutes after the match finished, my mother (hi Mom!), a lifelong fanatical supporter of the other football, left an exhilirated message on my voicemail about how thrilling you'd been! Derek tells me people are wandering into the bookstore, seeing the daily World Cup results posted, and asking about the draw, what it means, what next. Is it possible you might have gone some way toward captivating the average American sports fan at last? (After all, who can call soccer a "sissy" sport anymore after that image of blood pouring from Brian McBride's face?) (Actually, I'd like to send the next American who uses the s word straight over to the Polish hooligan camp to get a good old fashioned re-education--with axes.)

The harsh reality of the situation is that you are the only team in your group who has not yet scored a single goal, and you're still in last place. And you are up against some very strong and experienced sides. But today, in both matches, we learned that the competition is not nearly as invincible as it seemed. Whatever happened next week (and do not underestimate the Black Stars of Ghana), this is going to be the match people remember for you for, not that embarrassing drubbing at the hands of the Czechs. Following the first round, I thought this was one group that was a cinch to predict. I never expected you to turn into the scrappy underdogs. Well done, lads.

One small request, though: could you ask your supporters to do something about that "U!S!A! U!S!A!" chant? Aside from being not a bit clever (and what's the point of football chants if they aren't?), it has an ugly aural quality about it that kind of makes my blood run cold, like you're about to invade a country, kill their leaders, and convert them to Christianity, you know?

Thanks. I'm sorry things haven't worked out between us, but I hope we can still be friends.

See you next Thursday.

Kisses,
Lynda

a few late thoughts about yesterday

Here's to John Terry and Roberto Acuna, the men of the day, for two miraculous saves.

Everyone, stop ragging Beckham. He's dishing up the opportunities; there's just nobody around who can finish them.

Crouch, OUT. Owen, OUT. I don't care who replaces them. Pick a few random folks off the bleachers. And Lampard, sorry, man, A for effort, but OUT.

Try starting Lennon. He always steps up, and sometimes he dazzles. I want to see what he'll do starting with the "A" team.

Ah, if we all had the enthusiasm of Joco, life would be sweeter all over.

And, last but not least, let's have a round of applause for Aldo Bobadilla, brave and beleaguered Paraguay keeper.