Friday, 20 June 2014
Day 2. Mr Linesman, what you doing?
Day 2. What happened today in Brazil. Mexico-Cameroon 1-0. I don't go along
with the whole referees decisions are all part of the game. Mexico
almost didn't win this because of 2 awful offside decisions.
Holland-Spain 5-1. Two stories. One, is the Spanish era over? Two, don't
get carried away by Holland. They have done this before, have us all
oohing and aahing about them and then they implode. I'm not falling for
it yet. Chile-Australia 3-1. One of those fun games to watch,
questionable defending making for lots of chances between 2 teams who
might be at home watching the big boys before too long.
Day 1. Thanks Fred!
Day
1. Yes, that's right. Somebody, not a football fan, told me they
followed my countdown and read some of the links which was an education.
So he said he doesn't have time to watch the matches but wants to know
what's going on. So here is the first of my "what happened in Brazil
today". Brazil beat Croatia 3-1. The referee was generous to the
Brazilians. Superstar, golden boy, could-be-a-god on July
12th Neymar scored a penalty which was never a penalty, but Fred's arms up in the air was enough for the referee, to put them up
2-1. Croatia's coach said we should go home right now if this is how
it's going to be and the rest of the world went on about unfair bias
from the referees. And, while true, really, why the surprise? Happens
all the time for the home team.....
Thursday, 12 June 2014
Wednesday, 11 June 2014
I'm all Tika'd out.
“Those last minutes contained a distillation of their football,
its beauty and elan and almost undiluted joy. Other teams thrill us and
make us respect them. The Brazilians at their finest gave us pleasure so
natural and deep as to be a vivid physical experience… it was the
apogee of football.”
Hugh Milvanney, 1970, in his match report of Brazil-Italy, World Cup Final 1970
As much as Zico, Socrates, Falcao and the rest of that team gave me a love for football, so did Hugh McIlvanney, Michael Parkinson and James Lawton give me a massive appreciation for the art of writing. Football was my school teacher of history, geography and world politics and these three were the university professors.
Many years ago The Daily Express and Sunday Express were regulars in our house. My mum liked the Express above all the other English newspapers. I assumed it was her newspaper of choice back home. She came to Malta in the early sixties, so not sure how much attachment she had to it twenty years later. We got the early evening edition British newspapers. One striking feature of this edition was that the mid-week football match reports only covered the first half. It was pretty much like watching a movie where you get drawn into the action, but then the VHS tape got stuck in the VCR, and then somebody told you how it ended. The Express still had the final result listed, just not the how and why of the second half. To add to the difference of what normality was back then, and despite it being the early edition, they still only arrived at our local newsagent at about five o' clock that afternoon.
James Lawton was the Chief Football Writer, or something to that effect, in the Express. I loved the way he described the action, how he brought in so much more to the match then what there was to be seen on the pitch; the background, what it meant for the team, the fans, the way a player moved. He created unseen emotions. I looked forward to Lawton's views on the troubles that were affecting English football at the time, rampant hooliganism and all the social problems surrounding it. At some point I learned of the differences between the tabloid newspapers and the broadsheets. Don't believe everything you read in the tabloids, I was told. But I knew that everything James Lawton wrote was true.
Awareness of the more serious newspapers led to more sports pages, more football reports. Somewhere Hugh McIlvanney appeared. I cannot remember where, but he didn't compete with Lawton, but complemented him. I do remember that Michael Parkinson entered my consciousness through his weekly column in the Telegraph. Parkinson wrote about his two loves repeatedly, cricket in Yorkshire and Barnsley FC. He had a way of finding comedic passion in both.When the seemingly helpless, luckless Barnsley played in their promotion season to the Premier League, I felt like I lived it through Parkinson.
In my life that started in 1982, and for a few years after, I had the dream, the one where I would hit free kicks like Platini, dribble like Socrates and save like Nigel Spink. Later, I lived in the pages of Lawton, Parkinson and McIlvanney and as much as I wished I had the skillful feet, I now wished I had the magic of the brain that could put sentences together like they could.
And here I am, three hundred and sixty four days after I decided to start my own countdown to the World Cup. I have used my own words to explain memories which were special to me, or to attempt to share my opinion on a World Cup related subject, and to occasionally add my humour to a story I had come across. Iran, Team Melli, became an easy target. But most of the time, I called on the professionals. I used their writings to explain my feelings. If I picked a story, it was almost always because it was something that I wanted to put out there, and somebody had written about it.
Day -1 brings me to South Africa 2010. Could Spain really be that good and win a second consecutive major tournament. They were a revelation with their style: pass, move, pass, move, until the other team broke down mentally and physically. They were not Brazil 1982, but there was something poetic and athletically graceful in the way they played. It was a revelation because since Brazil '82, no team had found such a different way to play the game and do it consistently. I was drawn in and willed them to win. Finally, Spain, with their Tika Tika play, had found a way to win after years of inexplicably under performing.
By the time, Euro 2012 came about, Tika Tika was beginning to look a bit tick-tock, when is this going to end. The problem was that there is only so long you can watch a team pass the ball around every blade of grass on the pitch, without actually achieving the objective of scoring very often. I started to yearn for the days of direct German football, as seen on TV(instead of Big League Soccer), where getting to the goal quickly and repeatedly was the target. Or, even more simply, Brazil '82.
Spain won in 2010. It was hardly a classic final, but of course Spain liked it that way. The irony, of which I was surely not alone in being aware of, was that their opponents, Holland, had been the proponents of a revolutionary style themselves in the seventies. Their Total Football was a little more exciting then Tika Tika. But now, in 2002, Holland were the hard tackling negative tactics team against the artists from Spain. To add to the irony, Tika Tika originated from one of the best Total Footballers of all time, Johan Cruyff, when he managed Barcelona.
The only positive from that final was that Spain scored the only goal late in extra time, so we were spared another World Cup decided by penalties. The down side was that we had to watch an extra 28 minutes to get a winner. After another wonderful month of football, if this is how these teams were going to play, then I was happy to be done with it. The high point of the final in our house was my four year old daughter throwing up on me sometime in the second half. It had more oohs and aahs then anything the football gave us.
In the earlier rounds, Italy couldn't beat New Zealand and were eliminated in the first round; Spain lost it's opening match to Switzerland, Spain made the second round, Switzerland didn't; France were back to early implosion mode; Argentina, under Diego Maradona dazzled but were then completely outclassed by Germany, to the point of making you wonder what tactics Maradona had dreamed up; and England couldn't beat Algeria but made it through to face humiliation at the hands of the Germans.
England-Germany had the goal that was but wasn't, from Frank Lampard. His shot which rebounded off the crossbar and landed well inside the goal before bouncing was missed by the assistant referee, formerly known as a linesman. Not by name anymore, but still the man to watch the lines. If that goal had been seen, England would have come back to 2-2, right at half time, after being 2-0 down. Talk about momentum and all that. Instead of starting off even in the second half, England had to chase the game. Afterwards, the English media ridiculed another terrible performance as Germany broke away to score twice more. Frank Lampard and the ghost goal could have meant a very different outlook the next day.
For the second World Cup in a row, I was recently into a new job. Time off was not an option very often. But I did have the luxury of some flexibility, and the advent of complete online coverage. And, a new boss who was happy to have me and keep me happy. So, our IT guy was dispatched to fix my software issues which were preventing me from watching on my computer. Admittedly, I asked for help, discretely, but Mr IT mentioned in front of the big boss that he was on his way to help me and there was no opposition.
Brazil 2014, I am now ready for you. Are you? Your President says you are. The people don't seem too convinced. What will I write about four years from now. What will the memories be? Will they be about beautiful football, or will they even be about the football?
My dream is a Brazil-Argentina final, a blockbuster final, the two big rivals doing battle with Brazil wanting to overcome the ghost of 1950 and Argentina loving to step into the shoes of Uruguay.
"Na hora da onça beber a água" has arrived. Let it be a good long drink.
Hugh Milvanney, 1970, in his match report of Brazil-Italy, World Cup Final 1970
"Of course, we should give to Spain all that is their due.......But
not at the cost of the truth, not because of some collective lapse of
memory concerning the meaning of a team (Brazil) which won arguably the
greatest World Cup of all (1970) with quite unanswerable brilliance…’
‘Spain
may have become the owners, at least for a while, of today’s football,
but that should not mean the disinheritance of a nation (Brazil) that
which won three World Cups in 12 years and created such a sense of
futility in their opponents…"
James Lawton, The Independent, after Spain's win at Euro 2012.
As much as Zico, Socrates, Falcao and the rest of that team gave me a love for football, so did Hugh McIlvanney, Michael Parkinson and James Lawton give me a massive appreciation for the art of writing. Football was my school teacher of history, geography and world politics and these three were the university professors.
Many years ago The Daily Express and Sunday Express were regulars in our house. My mum liked the Express above all the other English newspapers. I assumed it was her newspaper of choice back home. She came to Malta in the early sixties, so not sure how much attachment she had to it twenty years later. We got the early evening edition British newspapers. One striking feature of this edition was that the mid-week football match reports only covered the first half. It was pretty much like watching a movie where you get drawn into the action, but then the VHS tape got stuck in the VCR, and then somebody told you how it ended. The Express still had the final result listed, just not the how and why of the second half. To add to the difference of what normality was back then, and despite it being the early edition, they still only arrived at our local newsagent at about five o' clock that afternoon.
James Lawton was the Chief Football Writer, or something to that effect, in the Express. I loved the way he described the action, how he brought in so much more to the match then what there was to be seen on the pitch; the background, what it meant for the team, the fans, the way a player moved. He created unseen emotions. I looked forward to Lawton's views on the troubles that were affecting English football at the time, rampant hooliganism and all the social problems surrounding it. At some point I learned of the differences between the tabloid newspapers and the broadsheets. Don't believe everything you read in the tabloids, I was told. But I knew that everything James Lawton wrote was true.
Awareness of the more serious newspapers led to more sports pages, more football reports. Somewhere Hugh McIlvanney appeared. I cannot remember where, but he didn't compete with Lawton, but complemented him. I do remember that Michael Parkinson entered my consciousness through his weekly column in the Telegraph. Parkinson wrote about his two loves repeatedly, cricket in Yorkshire and Barnsley FC. He had a way of finding comedic passion in both.When the seemingly helpless, luckless Barnsley played in their promotion season to the Premier League, I felt like I lived it through Parkinson.
In my life that started in 1982, and for a few years after, I had the dream, the one where I would hit free kicks like Platini, dribble like Socrates and save like Nigel Spink. Later, I lived in the pages of Lawton, Parkinson and McIlvanney and as much as I wished I had the skillful feet, I now wished I had the magic of the brain that could put sentences together like they could.
And here I am, three hundred and sixty four days after I decided to start my own countdown to the World Cup. I have used my own words to explain memories which were special to me, or to attempt to share my opinion on a World Cup related subject, and to occasionally add my humour to a story I had come across. Iran, Team Melli, became an easy target. But most of the time, I called on the professionals. I used their writings to explain my feelings. If I picked a story, it was almost always because it was something that I wanted to put out there, and somebody had written about it.
Day -1 brings me to South Africa 2010. Could Spain really be that good and win a second consecutive major tournament. They were a revelation with their style: pass, move, pass, move, until the other team broke down mentally and physically. They were not Brazil 1982, but there was something poetic and athletically graceful in the way they played. It was a revelation because since Brazil '82, no team had found such a different way to play the game and do it consistently. I was drawn in and willed them to win. Finally, Spain, with their Tika Tika play, had found a way to win after years of inexplicably under performing.
By the time, Euro 2012 came about, Tika Tika was beginning to look a bit tick-tock, when is this going to end. The problem was that there is only so long you can watch a team pass the ball around every blade of grass on the pitch, without actually achieving the objective of scoring very often. I started to yearn for the days of direct German football, as seen on TV(instead of Big League Soccer), where getting to the goal quickly and repeatedly was the target. Or, even more simply, Brazil '82.
Spain won in 2010. It was hardly a classic final, but of course Spain liked it that way. The irony, of which I was surely not alone in being aware of, was that their opponents, Holland, had been the proponents of a revolutionary style themselves in the seventies. Their Total Football was a little more exciting then Tika Tika. But now, in 2002, Holland were the hard tackling negative tactics team against the artists from Spain. To add to the irony, Tika Tika originated from one of the best Total Footballers of all time, Johan Cruyff, when he managed Barcelona.
The only positive from that final was that Spain scored the only goal late in extra time, so we were spared another World Cup decided by penalties. The down side was that we had to watch an extra 28 minutes to get a winner. After another wonderful month of football, if this is how these teams were going to play, then I was happy to be done with it. The high point of the final in our house was my four year old daughter throwing up on me sometime in the second half. It had more oohs and aahs then anything the football gave us.
In the earlier rounds, Italy couldn't beat New Zealand and were eliminated in the first round; Spain lost it's opening match to Switzerland, Spain made the second round, Switzerland didn't; France were back to early implosion mode; Argentina, under Diego Maradona dazzled but were then completely outclassed by Germany, to the point of making you wonder what tactics Maradona had dreamed up; and England couldn't beat Algeria but made it through to face humiliation at the hands of the Germans.
England-Germany had the goal that was but wasn't, from Frank Lampard. His shot which rebounded off the crossbar and landed well inside the goal before bouncing was missed by the assistant referee, formerly known as a linesman. Not by name anymore, but still the man to watch the lines. If that goal had been seen, England would have come back to 2-2, right at half time, after being 2-0 down. Talk about momentum and all that. Instead of starting off even in the second half, England had to chase the game. Afterwards, the English media ridiculed another terrible performance as Germany broke away to score twice more. Frank Lampard and the ghost goal could have meant a very different outlook the next day.
For the second World Cup in a row, I was recently into a new job. Time off was not an option very often. But I did have the luxury of some flexibility, and the advent of complete online coverage. And, a new boss who was happy to have me and keep me happy. So, our IT guy was dispatched to fix my software issues which were preventing me from watching on my computer. Admittedly, I asked for help, discretely, but Mr IT mentioned in front of the big boss that he was on his way to help me and there was no opposition.
Brazil 2014, I am now ready for you. Are you? Your President says you are. The people don't seem too convinced. What will I write about four years from now. What will the memories be? Will they be about beautiful football, or will they even be about the football?
My dream is a Brazil-Argentina final, a blockbuster final, the two big rivals doing battle with Brazil wanting to overcome the ghost of 1950 and Argentina loving to step into the shoes of Uruguay.
"Na hora da onça beber a água" has arrived. Let it be a good long drink.
Tuesday, 10 June 2014
Of trips, trees and Thierry.....
Germany have not won a World Cup since 1990. That hit me a few days ago. It's one of those things that you know to be true, since I can recite every winner since 1930, but only becomes a "wow, really" moment when you stop and count the years.
Germany winning World Cups is an assumption buried in my mind, just like the perception that home teams always win. The latter started when I first found out that England won at home in 1966 and thought, of course they did, they were at home. That was quite quickly followed by Germany in 1974 and Argentine in 1978. The feeling that Germany win a lot came about, on reflection rather than instinct, after their presence in the latter stages so often in my lifetime. They were in the final in '82, '86' and '90. USA '94 seemed like a huge shock when they lost in the quarters and again in 1998. Normal service was resumed in 2002 (finalists). Germany '06 was supposed to be the one that saw my beliefs merge.
2006 was a World Cup watched by a different me to the 2002 person. By 2006 I was married, had one 2 year old daughter, had number 2 daughter on the way, owned a house and had a new job. Within that four year period I, or better we, had attempted a new life in Malta and come back to Canada. That's a lot of stuff that happened in 4 years. All for the good, and maybe that's why Germany '06 doesn't stand out as much as many others. It's possible that my subconscious self was feeding many other memories into my head that were limiting the available space for the modern day emotions of the Zicos and Falcaos. Or, quite simply, those stand out World Cup moments just didn't exist anymore.
What did strike me about 2006? Zinedine Zidane and Thierry Henry. It had nothing to do with the most famous headbutt ever. As with Ronaldo in 2002, the return to dominant form of the two geniuses was beautiful to watch. France went from the ridicule of 4 years earlier to the tentative start in Germany, to a final appearance which was quite the surprise. Argentina seemed to be back with a vengeance. After the way they demolished Serbia and Montenegro with some quite sublime football, there seemed to be hope for go it all the way run. Sadly, but maybe predictably, the Germans saw them off after a shoot out in the quarters.
Another first was 2006 was a trip to Victoria, BC, for a wedding. There was nothing too remarkable about the trip, apart from a wonderful wedding, the otters close to shore in the harbour, the massive, hundreds of years old trees in Port Alberni and our daughter imitating the crows that caw caw-ed all over the place. Luckily the wedding started just after England played Ecuador. Sitting on a hotel room floor by a large window overlooking the Pacific ocean, in between getting dressed was a weird atmosphere for a World Cup match of such importance in England's obvious march to the cup. All I can tell you is that David Beckham scored the one goal, England were through and I had to get my tie on. Later that day when we came back to the room for a required nap I caught a bit of the Nastiness in Nuremburg. I don't know what the Dutch and Portuguese had done to annoy each other so much, but it was mayhem. There were fights going on all over the pitch. The referee seemed to have given up, and maybe that was the problem, and his only objective was to show every player a card. After 16 yellow cards and 4 reds there was the small matter of Portugal winning 1-0.
The day before that nonsense we stopped in a Japanese restaurant for lunch. It was a huge place, one of those hip, happening joints. Seeing as we fit in perfectly, and were desperate to eat we took a table ready to eat quickly, only to notice that on a television in a far corner Argentina were playing Mexico and it was into extra time. There was no sound from the TV, I was too far away to really watch and nobody else seemed at all interested. So it all seemed a bit surreal when Maxi Rodriguez swung his foot at the ball catching it in the air and scored one of the all-time best world cup goals. No-one in the restaurant reacted. I thought that it hadn't actually happened. Sometimes I need affirmation of the fact from a commentator. Silence was not how a goal like this was supposed to be greeted.
Back home for the rest of the tournament was not all actually at home. Second quarter final day was at my wife's family's cottage on the lake, three hours from the comfort of TV that I knew would deliver England's next great step to victory. On arrival the evening before, we scouted out the best place to watch. With a plan, we headed to the pub in town where I thought nobody would be watching football to be welcomed by many, many eyes glued to the match preview. Take that hip restaurant in Victoria, BC. Of course, England had drama, a red card and a loss on penalties. The most frustrating part of it, as part of my hope that I one day see England win a World Cup, was that this was probably their best chance at winning a quarter final that they might have for a long time. It was a very beatable Portugal team. What to do, but be dropped off at another pub while the girls went shopping, to drown my sorrows in a bit of Brazil-France. Not a bad second match of the day, one that I could enjoy without any emotional hindrance. It wasn't exactly Mexico '86, but it did have Henry's winning goal which brought a smile to my face.
The semi-finals were lost in a blur of working hours that I couldn't get out of. What was spat out was a final between Italy and France, hardly the most predicted final. The French had gone from defending World Champions four years earlier to also-rans, middle of the road team. To reach the final, I'm sure, was an amazing dose of self-redemption for Henry, Zidane and any other remaining players.
The final is remembered, even by non-football fans and sadly so, for Zidane's final act on a football pitch being his headbutt of Materazzi and his subsequent sending off. Zidane had scored a cool as you like penalty and Henry had a couple of moments which made me think this was going to be his day and a victory for individual skill. But then Italy equalized, not much more happened, Zidane got sent off in extra time and Italy won on penalties.
Soon after the final ended I had to go to work. I was on the road while the streets were pretty quiet. I came home that night to scenes which brought me back to Malta in 1982. As we lived on the edge of one of the Little Italy's in Toronto everybody and his uncle and brother, and sister and aunt, and friend who was Italian because he hung out with children of Italian immigrants, were out in their cars driving up and own the strip, and around the block, flags flying and horns honking. Sure, I just wanted to get home and I felt frustration that the police were happy to let the party direct traffic but I also thought this is why the World Cup is so much fun in Toronto. Not the carcading, or flagging as I heard a Torontonian call it, but the fact that if it had been another country that won then another part of the city would be alive. I doubt anybody who hasn't been here would believe that Canada, the country that does such a good job of being terrible at football, and celebrates men polishing ice with brooms, could have such enthusiasm for football. So the next day I bought the newspaper and sent the special World Cup celebration section home.
I'm almost there. South Arica 2010 will bring me nicely up to the start of Brazil 2014. Memories are fun. There has been a lot here, since 1982, that has made me very happy. There was a lot since 2002 that has made me extremely happy. My three wonderful ladies will put up with me for the next month and even take part in the fun. I'm almost done with looking back now. Let's just get the Tika-tika World Cup out of the way tomorrow.
Germany winning World Cups is an assumption buried in my mind, just like the perception that home teams always win. The latter started when I first found out that England won at home in 1966 and thought, of course they did, they were at home. That was quite quickly followed by Germany in 1974 and Argentine in 1978. The feeling that Germany win a lot came about, on reflection rather than instinct, after their presence in the latter stages so often in my lifetime. They were in the final in '82, '86' and '90. USA '94 seemed like a huge shock when they lost in the quarters and again in 1998. Normal service was resumed in 2002 (finalists). Germany '06 was supposed to be the one that saw my beliefs merge.
2006 was a World Cup watched by a different me to the 2002 person. By 2006 I was married, had one 2 year old daughter, had number 2 daughter on the way, owned a house and had a new job. Within that four year period I, or better we, had attempted a new life in Malta and come back to Canada. That's a lot of stuff that happened in 4 years. All for the good, and maybe that's why Germany '06 doesn't stand out as much as many others. It's possible that my subconscious self was feeding many other memories into my head that were limiting the available space for the modern day emotions of the Zicos and Falcaos. Or, quite simply, those stand out World Cup moments just didn't exist anymore.
What did strike me about 2006? Zinedine Zidane and Thierry Henry. It had nothing to do with the most famous headbutt ever. As with Ronaldo in 2002, the return to dominant form of the two geniuses was beautiful to watch. France went from the ridicule of 4 years earlier to the tentative start in Germany, to a final appearance which was quite the surprise. Argentina seemed to be back with a vengeance. After the way they demolished Serbia and Montenegro with some quite sublime football, there seemed to be hope for go it all the way run. Sadly, but maybe predictably, the Germans saw them off after a shoot out in the quarters.
Another first was 2006 was a trip to Victoria, BC, for a wedding. There was nothing too remarkable about the trip, apart from a wonderful wedding, the otters close to shore in the harbour, the massive, hundreds of years old trees in Port Alberni and our daughter imitating the crows that caw caw-ed all over the place. Luckily the wedding started just after England played Ecuador. Sitting on a hotel room floor by a large window overlooking the Pacific ocean, in between getting dressed was a weird atmosphere for a World Cup match of such importance in England's obvious march to the cup. All I can tell you is that David Beckham scored the one goal, England were through and I had to get my tie on. Later that day when we came back to the room for a required nap I caught a bit of the Nastiness in Nuremburg. I don't know what the Dutch and Portuguese had done to annoy each other so much, but it was mayhem. There were fights going on all over the pitch. The referee seemed to have given up, and maybe that was the problem, and his only objective was to show every player a card. After 16 yellow cards and 4 reds there was the small matter of Portugal winning 1-0.
The day before that nonsense we stopped in a Japanese restaurant for lunch. It was a huge place, one of those hip, happening joints. Seeing as we fit in perfectly, and were desperate to eat we took a table ready to eat quickly, only to notice that on a television in a far corner Argentina were playing Mexico and it was into extra time. There was no sound from the TV, I was too far away to really watch and nobody else seemed at all interested. So it all seemed a bit surreal when Maxi Rodriguez swung his foot at the ball catching it in the air and scored one of the all-time best world cup goals. No-one in the restaurant reacted. I thought that it hadn't actually happened. Sometimes I need affirmation of the fact from a commentator. Silence was not how a goal like this was supposed to be greeted.
Back home for the rest of the tournament was not all actually at home. Second quarter final day was at my wife's family's cottage on the lake, three hours from the comfort of TV that I knew would deliver England's next great step to victory. On arrival the evening before, we scouted out the best place to watch. With a plan, we headed to the pub in town where I thought nobody would be watching football to be welcomed by many, many eyes glued to the match preview. Take that hip restaurant in Victoria, BC. Of course, England had drama, a red card and a loss on penalties. The most frustrating part of it, as part of my hope that I one day see England win a World Cup, was that this was probably their best chance at winning a quarter final that they might have for a long time. It was a very beatable Portugal team. What to do, but be dropped off at another pub while the girls went shopping, to drown my sorrows in a bit of Brazil-France. Not a bad second match of the day, one that I could enjoy without any emotional hindrance. It wasn't exactly Mexico '86, but it did have Henry's winning goal which brought a smile to my face.
The semi-finals were lost in a blur of working hours that I couldn't get out of. What was spat out was a final between Italy and France, hardly the most predicted final. The French had gone from defending World Champions four years earlier to also-rans, middle of the road team. To reach the final, I'm sure, was an amazing dose of self-redemption for Henry, Zidane and any other remaining players.
The final is remembered, even by non-football fans and sadly so, for Zidane's final act on a football pitch being his headbutt of Materazzi and his subsequent sending off. Zidane had scored a cool as you like penalty and Henry had a couple of moments which made me think this was going to be his day and a victory for individual skill. But then Italy equalized, not much more happened, Zidane got sent off in extra time and Italy won on penalties.
Soon after the final ended I had to go to work. I was on the road while the streets were pretty quiet. I came home that night to scenes which brought me back to Malta in 1982. As we lived on the edge of one of the Little Italy's in Toronto everybody and his uncle and brother, and sister and aunt, and friend who was Italian because he hung out with children of Italian immigrants, were out in their cars driving up and own the strip, and around the block, flags flying and horns honking. Sure, I just wanted to get home and I felt frustration that the police were happy to let the party direct traffic but I also thought this is why the World Cup is so much fun in Toronto. Not the carcading, or flagging as I heard a Torontonian call it, but the fact that if it had been another country that won then another part of the city would be alive. I doubt anybody who hasn't been here would believe that Canada, the country that does such a good job of being terrible at football, and celebrates men polishing ice with brooms, could have such enthusiasm for football. So the next day I bought the newspaper and sent the special World Cup celebration section home.
I'm almost there. South Arica 2010 will bring me nicely up to the start of Brazil 2014. Memories are fun. There has been a lot here, since 1982, that has made me very happy. There was a lot since 2002 that has made me extremely happy. My three wonderful ladies will put up with me for the next month and even take part in the fun. I'm almost done with looking back now. Let's just get the Tika-tika World Cup out of the way tomorrow.
Monday, 9 June 2014
It still makes my blood boil.....
When I was 15 my English teacher was the best I'd ever had in teaching, me at least, how to write sentences that conveyed the meaning a writer wanted to get across, the way to use the adjectives to describe the scene that was to be set. Those sentences, when put together the right way, made the story flow and had the reader captivated. Just like I am trying to do now.
What words could I use to really describe World Cup 2002? It was a different one. The smaller teams shone, even if in the end it was two of the normal heavyweights, Germany and Brazil, in the final. Turkey and Senegal were a wonderful revelation, Turkey scoring a golden goal winner in their quarter final. Who would have though that the country that I remembered being beaten 8-0 by England, twice, in the eighties, would become World Cup semi-finalists.
The World Cup of weird surprises all started with, unsurprisingly, the opening game. World and European Champions, France, were up against Senegal, most of whose squad played in the French league. With France you never quite know what's going to happen. Them having the two titles somehow didn't seem to make them as assured winners as Spain were when they were in that position. But France's dismal decline started with a huge amount of bad luck. Twice they hit the post with the Senegalese goalkeeper a spectator. Senegal's goalscorer tried very hard to miss by hitting his tap-in right at the French goalkeeper, but got lucky on the rebound. If Henry and Trezeguet's shots had caught a whiff of wind that changed the flight of the ball by a few centimetres it may have been a very different World Cup. I know, nobody wins on if only's and near misses. Senegal put the ball in the net once, France didn't. Cue the French meltdown. Au revoir. See you next time.
Then the USA beat Portugal, Germany scored eight against Saudi Arabia and Argentina lost to England and were eventually eliminated in the first round.
I make a living, partly, by teaching people of various athletic abilities how to play better tennis. I love it, not just for the obvious not being stuck in an office, but also because there is real satisfaction in seeing someone achieve improvement, no matter how small it is. And I get to meet some very interesting people, whose life stories I get to know about while picking balls up or standing at the net for a break. One of these interesting characters had a weekly lesson with me scheduled to start 30 minutes into England's match against Argentina. This was the one I wanted to watch, but there was no excuse I could think of to cancel this lesson. "I have to watch the World Cup" would not fly with this lady. She would probably have asked me what the World Cup was. It is also safe to say that I was a little intimidated by her. I was the young tennis coach, wanting to impress the important people who, so I thought, made the big decisions. The lady in question worked in the film industry, so not sure what decisions she made could have had any impact on me. But she did pay the big bucks to play tennis at the club. And I had to provide the service to this lady who was very low on the athletic ability scale. She was also very low on the listening to any instruction from the tennis instructor scale. Which kind of went against the whole idea of taking a tennis lesson. After about 10 minutes of the first lesson, it degenerated into me hitting balls and her swinging her racquet at them in no consistent fashion, with no attempt at implementing what I was suggesting. She didn't even have any interesting stories. She spoke a lot, about herself, and I smiled politely. But even her self-centredness had no entertainment value. She also suggested what we should do next, but no matter what it was it soon became the same thing we had been doing earlier.
I got to work early that day to watch the first 30 minutes before my lesson from tennis hell. I slumped off to the court. Movie lady did have an interesting anecdote that day which, oddly, I remember. As we stopped for a water break she told me that the body can only absorb 10oz (or was it 5 or 20) of water at a time. Maybe I don't really remember. But something else sticks out in my head. After what seemed like an eternity (these are the lessons when you don't look at your watch), one of the club maintenance staff walked behind the court and whispered to me "Beckham, penalty, 1-0." Beautiful words. At the end of the hour I decided against engaging in our usual in depth conversation about the film industry and raced off to the TV. The last 10 minutes were watched with painful glee. I had survived another week and England had some revenge for 1986.
My other vaguely related story of interest is to do with Vincenzo Nardiello . He was an Italian boxer in the Seoul Olympics of 1988. As I watched anything Olympic that was on TV, there I was one day enjoying some boxing. An Italian seemed to be winning very handily against his Korean opponent. But when it came to decision time, the referee raised the hand of the Korean. Nardiello went ballistic. I remember him screaming at the judges words to the effect of "you are all idiots, all of you". It opened my eyes to the first time to the world of injustice on sport and, maybe more pointedly, corruption and fraud.
This came back to me when I watched Spain lose to South Korea in 2002. Spain had 2 perfectly good goals disallowed. Good goals. As in, nobody could explain what had just happened. Twice. But of course the match carried on and Korea won in a shoot out. Not since Nardiello have I seen athletes of any sport so despondent as those Spanish players at the end. Some vented their anger at the ref, but most of them were just too far gone in their disbelief to do anything. That's sport I guess, or so we are told. You have to play by the referee's decisions. But I felt the pain of those Spanish players, denied a World Cup semi final spot because of a referee and his linesman. No matter how much it has tried to be justified, that's what it was.
There had been rumblings of something amiss in Korea's wins against Portugal and Italy. The Italians were furious and for once I felt very sorry for them. Nothing will ever come out, the matches are decided on the pitch. Very simply, it could have been the referees succumbing to the pressure of the massive home support. That the co-hosts Japan didn't have the same accusations leveled at them must say a lot about the persuasive powers of the Korean supporters.
Japan/Korea 2002 was a happy time for Ronaldo. The desolate, disconsolate player at the end of France '98 was replaced by a man determined to show the world he was back. I am a sucker for these comeback stories. I wanted nothing more than for Ronaldo to score, to do it spectacularly and when it mattered. In the semi final Turkey had understandably set up a defensive stall. It was all going well until Ronaldo somehow toe poked the ball around the Turkish goalkeeper from the corner of the penalty area. I jumped out of my chair. Sure it was nice to have the surprise team in the semi final but to see a genius at his best was the bigger event.
Nothing, Korean fans, referees, could distract Germany, trust the Germans, from getting past South Korea. So, amazingly, for the first time ever at any stage of the World Cup, Brazil were to play Germany in the final. Crazy time differences and a wedding the night before meant I was up at 7am in a hotel room in Ottawa, with a hangover that was to become so bad that it hadn't set in yet, to watch whether Ronaldo could indeed, to sound like a cliched football reporter, come full circle and find some personal redemption. And I found the energy to rejoice when he did, both times that he scored. His goals not only won the World Cup for Brazil but also made him the leading World Cup scorer of all time.
World Cup '02 really was on the other side of the world. And it took a bit of dedication to follow it. Funnily enough there was a repeat of the 1986 England-Morocco bore fest when England played Nigeria. This time I cursed being up all night the next day at work, and vowing never to do it again. Couldn't England at least make an effort to make it worthwhile?
So that was that. First World Cup in Asia done and dusted. Still to this day I think of what could have been for Spain. But there you go, what to do.We look forward and hope that the results on the pitch truly are determined on the pitch.
What words could I use to really describe World Cup 2002? It was a different one. The smaller teams shone, even if in the end it was two of the normal heavyweights, Germany and Brazil, in the final. Turkey and Senegal were a wonderful revelation, Turkey scoring a golden goal winner in their quarter final. Who would have though that the country that I remembered being beaten 8-0 by England, twice, in the eighties, would become World Cup semi-finalists.
The World Cup of weird surprises all started with, unsurprisingly, the opening game. World and European Champions, France, were up against Senegal, most of whose squad played in the French league. With France you never quite know what's going to happen. Them having the two titles somehow didn't seem to make them as assured winners as Spain were when they were in that position. But France's dismal decline started with a huge amount of bad luck. Twice they hit the post with the Senegalese goalkeeper a spectator. Senegal's goalscorer tried very hard to miss by hitting his tap-in right at the French goalkeeper, but got lucky on the rebound. If Henry and Trezeguet's shots had caught a whiff of wind that changed the flight of the ball by a few centimetres it may have been a very different World Cup. I know, nobody wins on if only's and near misses. Senegal put the ball in the net once, France didn't. Cue the French meltdown. Au revoir. See you next time.
Then the USA beat Portugal, Germany scored eight against Saudi Arabia and Argentina lost to England and were eventually eliminated in the first round.
I make a living, partly, by teaching people of various athletic abilities how to play better tennis. I love it, not just for the obvious not being stuck in an office, but also because there is real satisfaction in seeing someone achieve improvement, no matter how small it is. And I get to meet some very interesting people, whose life stories I get to know about while picking balls up or standing at the net for a break. One of these interesting characters had a weekly lesson with me scheduled to start 30 minutes into England's match against Argentina. This was the one I wanted to watch, but there was no excuse I could think of to cancel this lesson. "I have to watch the World Cup" would not fly with this lady. She would probably have asked me what the World Cup was. It is also safe to say that I was a little intimidated by her. I was the young tennis coach, wanting to impress the important people who, so I thought, made the big decisions. The lady in question worked in the film industry, so not sure what decisions she made could have had any impact on me. But she did pay the big bucks to play tennis at the club. And I had to provide the service to this lady who was very low on the athletic ability scale. She was also very low on the listening to any instruction from the tennis instructor scale. Which kind of went against the whole idea of taking a tennis lesson. After about 10 minutes of the first lesson, it degenerated into me hitting balls and her swinging her racquet at them in no consistent fashion, with no attempt at implementing what I was suggesting. She didn't even have any interesting stories. She spoke a lot, about herself, and I smiled politely. But even her self-centredness had no entertainment value. She also suggested what we should do next, but no matter what it was it soon became the same thing we had been doing earlier.
I got to work early that day to watch the first 30 minutes before my lesson from tennis hell. I slumped off to the court. Movie lady did have an interesting anecdote that day which, oddly, I remember. As we stopped for a water break she told me that the body can only absorb 10oz (or was it 5 or 20) of water at a time. Maybe I don't really remember. But something else sticks out in my head. After what seemed like an eternity (these are the lessons when you don't look at your watch), one of the club maintenance staff walked behind the court and whispered to me "Beckham, penalty, 1-0." Beautiful words. At the end of the hour I decided against engaging in our usual in depth conversation about the film industry and raced off to the TV. The last 10 minutes were watched with painful glee. I had survived another week and England had some revenge for 1986.
My other vaguely related story of interest is to do with Vincenzo Nardiello . He was an Italian boxer in the Seoul Olympics of 1988. As I watched anything Olympic that was on TV, there I was one day enjoying some boxing. An Italian seemed to be winning very handily against his Korean opponent. But when it came to decision time, the referee raised the hand of the Korean. Nardiello went ballistic. I remember him screaming at the judges words to the effect of "you are all idiots, all of you". It opened my eyes to the first time to the world of injustice on sport and, maybe more pointedly, corruption and fraud.
This came back to me when I watched Spain lose to South Korea in 2002. Spain had 2 perfectly good goals disallowed. Good goals. As in, nobody could explain what had just happened. Twice. But of course the match carried on and Korea won in a shoot out. Not since Nardiello have I seen athletes of any sport so despondent as those Spanish players at the end. Some vented their anger at the ref, but most of them were just too far gone in their disbelief to do anything. That's sport I guess, or so we are told. You have to play by the referee's decisions. But I felt the pain of those Spanish players, denied a World Cup semi final spot because of a referee and his linesman. No matter how much it has tried to be justified, that's what it was.
There had been rumblings of something amiss in Korea's wins against Portugal and Italy. The Italians were furious and for once I felt very sorry for them. Nothing will ever come out, the matches are decided on the pitch. Very simply, it could have been the referees succumbing to the pressure of the massive home support. That the co-hosts Japan didn't have the same accusations leveled at them must say a lot about the persuasive powers of the Korean supporters.
Japan/Korea 2002 was a happy time for Ronaldo. The desolate, disconsolate player at the end of France '98 was replaced by a man determined to show the world he was back. I am a sucker for these comeback stories. I wanted nothing more than for Ronaldo to score, to do it spectacularly and when it mattered. In the semi final Turkey had understandably set up a defensive stall. It was all going well until Ronaldo somehow toe poked the ball around the Turkish goalkeeper from the corner of the penalty area. I jumped out of my chair. Sure it was nice to have the surprise team in the semi final but to see a genius at his best was the bigger event.
Nothing, Korean fans, referees, could distract Germany, trust the Germans, from getting past South Korea. So, amazingly, for the first time ever at any stage of the World Cup, Brazil were to play Germany in the final. Crazy time differences and a wedding the night before meant I was up at 7am in a hotel room in Ottawa, with a hangover that was to become so bad that it hadn't set in yet, to watch whether Ronaldo could indeed, to sound like a cliched football reporter, come full circle and find some personal redemption. And I found the energy to rejoice when he did, both times that he scored. His goals not only won the World Cup for Brazil but also made him the leading World Cup scorer of all time.
World Cup '02 really was on the other side of the world. And it took a bit of dedication to follow it. Funnily enough there was a repeat of the 1986 England-Morocco bore fest when England played Nigeria. This time I cursed being up all night the next day at work, and vowing never to do it again. Couldn't England at least make an effort to make it worthwhile?
So that was that. First World Cup in Asia done and dusted. Still to this day I think of what could have been for Spain. But there you go, what to do.We look forward and hope that the results on the pitch truly are determined on the pitch.
Saturday, 7 June 2014
World Cup comes to Canada....and Guivarc'h!
If somebody told me many years ago that I Canada would be a good place to watch a World Cup, I don't think I would have even bothered to laugh it off. Ridiculous. But here I am for my fifth Canadian World Cup, my fourth in Toronto, and I think can there be a place where more people get as excited about it as they do here.
With a few days to go you can see it everywhere. The flags are flying on the cars, bars are gearing up with their posters and flags, and it's on tv with commercials and news. In a country where everybody seems to have come from somewhere else it's maybe not just about the football, more an opportunity for the locals, recently local or long term, to display some support and pride for the departed country. After five World Cups I've come to be at ease with the fact that the majority of these flag wavers are mostly part-time supporters, who are more interested in being a part of a group of fellow Italian or Portuguese congregated in bars and celebrating on the streets post-match. Hobby fans always irked me, the ones who were all of a sudden experts but had not grown up with the heartache of fan-dom as I had. I guess I was a football snob and still allow myself a few chuckles at the North American way of doing soccer. But. no matter what, there is an excitement in the air of this city right now.
In 1998 I was working in Canada for a fourth consecutive summer. The attraction of taking a summer job at the end of University in a country which seemed so wild and exotic brought me here and discovered love kept me coming back. Hours of teaching tennis to players who had no interest in what was going on in France, in the middle of nowhere (really) didn't seem to lend itself to a month of watching football. Thankfully, the huge satellite dish on the roof of the hotel and the discovery of an audience in America meant that soccer was on Espn and ABC. This coupled with my luck that I was working for a hotel owner who appreciated fine French cuisine and service meant that I was to spend many hours around a TV with frustrated, annoyed and delirious Frenchmen and women.
It started in a pub in Toronto for the opening match. An English pub, chosen for me. It seemed like a great idea. Pity the landlord/bartender, whichever he was, forgot to think ahead and prepare for the eventuality of football fans turning up at his pub at noon, even though he had gone through the bother of advertising it outside. The match, Brazil-Scotland, was barely memorable, as was the service. The comedy of Brazil's winning goal, scored through a bizarre own goal, was as comical as the Faulty Towers type bartender running out to buy bread when he realized that customers were actually ordering lunch at lunchtime.
From then on it was a search for results for matches missed, of which they were many. The hotel bartender was a great source of information as during his slow afternoons he could slip into the large screen TV lounge across from his bar and happily keep football on, without distraction. This was also before internet had reached us in the woods. There were matches I knew absolutely nothing about. Cameroon played Austria and the score was 1-1. I found this out today.
The French matches were different. I guess it was power of numbers. The casual TV room was taken over by waiters, bartenders, chefs and tennis pros. I'm sure somebody was running the hotel and in a parallel universe guests were taking tennis lessons and being served afternoon tea.
Of course watching the football was good. Having the feeling that I was sitting in bar in France made it even more entertaining. Right away the obvious target for every Frenchman's ire was the centre forward Stephane Guivarc'h, the man who was supposed to score the goals that would lead les bleus to glory. Not only did he have the odd (to anybody not French) 'h in his name, but he also had the uncanny knack of consistently not being able to score. Frustration turned to comic relief at the expense of the unfortunate Stephane. On the other hand admiration from my part was beginning to grow for the exciting Petit and Henry and the wonderful Zidane.
While France made it through the first round comfortably, yet also strangely nervously despite the three out of three wins, England manged to put all their supporters through the normal grief. They started with a 2-0 win over Tunisia, of which I saw no action. I had volunteered to go on a Toronto bound errand, which was always a great opportunity to get away from nowhereness for a night and spend time with the person who was the reason I was here. Love over football. It was happening. Next, England lost to a last minute goal against Romania which lead to the customary must win last match scenario. Colombia were taken care of by Darren Anderton and a David Beckham special.
In other first round groups, Argentina looked good, Spain looked like they always did, good until they started playing, Nigeria were interesting, Scotland were consistent in not making it out of their group and the US were even worse than non-Americans thought they would be. They did give American TV a great story though, with their match against Iran and all the political and historic sub-plots.
The second round had two major highlights. Brazil-Chile (4-1) was probably a good demonstration of Brazil moving into second gear. But I was busy teaching somebody how to feel like they were hitting more topspin on their forehand. When there's little hope, the next best thing is to teach the perception of greatness. No, the first highlight was a night at the residence of our English general manager. He fit into the category of part-time, hobby supporter and so did the other few English staff members. It probably made sense that anybody who cared about football in England had thought "Canada? What would I want to be there for during the World Cup?" Except for the much traveled English bartender, who's Fijian ancestry, gave him a touch of the exotic. As a true professional he could go from five star service and exemplary manners to swearing at the TV with the best of them. Of course there was the one blot on his customer service record when he couldn't hold it any longer (literally) and told the fancy, five star hotel guests to hold off on their order as he had to go take a leak. Seriously. So I was the second most involved supporter amongst that small gathering of English folk. And it was quite the night. Micheal Owen scored his "here-I-am" wonder goal, Beckham managed to get himself sent off in Beckham-esque fashion and England lost after a truly typical gallant effort. Courtesy of our employers, but unbeknownst to them, much beer was drunk that night and there was a significant amount of yelling at the TV.
The other memorable second round match was France-Paraguay, or at least the 23 minutes of extra time, before Laurent Blanc scored the golden goal winner. It was a Sunday, always particularly busy at lunchtime. Tennis lessons were done and as the guests made their way to the buffet lunch, I was quickly into the main TV lounge. Extra time was starting and for the next 23 minutes waiters and bartenders seemed to have to take lots of detours my way. Even Chef made a quick appearance. In the end Blanc laid rest to any shoot out fears. The whole wait staff seemed to sigh a huge sigh of relief. This is undoubtedly exaggerated in my memory, but I'm sure that everybody was more relaxed knowing they could now get back to work, including the non-football watching staff who now had their colleagues' full support.
Now their seemed to be a destiny feel about France at least making it to the final. Never did I doubt they would win the penalty shoot-out against Italy. Even when they went 1-0 down to the surprising Croatians in the semi-final it always seemed likely they would win in the end.
The quarter finals saw Dennis Bergkamp score a true beauty of a last minute winning goal against Argentina. This one I saw. But what I missed was Brazil's 3-2 win against Denmark. With no YouTube and no easy access to TV at night, matches like this existed for me as a scoreline with no story.
Brazil made it to the final after a shoot out win against Holland and the dream final was set. This only became a dream final when it was set. But what could be better than the home team, aiming to make up for what Platini's generation missed out on in winning their first World Cup, against the country that for so long set the benchmark of greatness. For the French winning the World Cup against Brazil would be a win of the greatest satisfaction, where there could be no detractors saying they had it easy. Brazil, on the other hand, could show that while the 1994 win was not one of their most spectacular, this team could come close to the greatness of '82 nd '86, and win.
Thirty minutes before kick-off, with my seat amongst the transplanted French bar patrons secured, I went off to make my call home, to Malta, for my first trans-Atlantic exchange of score predictions. I came back soon before kick-off and knew of no pre-game issues until well after France had given Brazil a good old 3-0 hiding. Zidane scored twice, and Petit finished it off with a flowing, celebratory counter attack at the end. And the une, et deux, et trois zero song was born.
It was only the next day that I read in the newspaper about Ronaldo's breakdown/illness/pressure from sponsors. They mystery has never really been solved. The conspiracy theories mushroomed. Whatever happened it was one of the more bizarre World Cup stories.
Two days later it was Bastille Day. The celebrations hadn't really stopped in our French community since Sunday afternoon. A bartender, who had taken great pride in the victory, drank his beer around the almost nightly bonfire and said nobody could do anything to annoy him, nothing could stand in his way because, "I am World Champion".
With a few days to go you can see it everywhere. The flags are flying on the cars, bars are gearing up with their posters and flags, and it's on tv with commercials and news. In a country where everybody seems to have come from somewhere else it's maybe not just about the football, more an opportunity for the locals, recently local or long term, to display some support and pride for the departed country. After five World Cups I've come to be at ease with the fact that the majority of these flag wavers are mostly part-time supporters, who are more interested in being a part of a group of fellow Italian or Portuguese congregated in bars and celebrating on the streets post-match. Hobby fans always irked me, the ones who were all of a sudden experts but had not grown up with the heartache of fan-dom as I had. I guess I was a football snob and still allow myself a few chuckles at the North American way of doing soccer. But. no matter what, there is an excitement in the air of this city right now.
In 1998 I was working in Canada for a fourth consecutive summer. The attraction of taking a summer job at the end of University in a country which seemed so wild and exotic brought me here and discovered love kept me coming back. Hours of teaching tennis to players who had no interest in what was going on in France, in the middle of nowhere (really) didn't seem to lend itself to a month of watching football. Thankfully, the huge satellite dish on the roof of the hotel and the discovery of an audience in America meant that soccer was on Espn and ABC. This coupled with my luck that I was working for a hotel owner who appreciated fine French cuisine and service meant that I was to spend many hours around a TV with frustrated, annoyed and delirious Frenchmen and women.
It started in a pub in Toronto for the opening match. An English pub, chosen for me. It seemed like a great idea. Pity the landlord/bartender, whichever he was, forgot to think ahead and prepare for the eventuality of football fans turning up at his pub at noon, even though he had gone through the bother of advertising it outside. The match, Brazil-Scotland, was barely memorable, as was the service. The comedy of Brazil's winning goal, scored through a bizarre own goal, was as comical as the Faulty Towers type bartender running out to buy bread when he realized that customers were actually ordering lunch at lunchtime.
From then on it was a search for results for matches missed, of which they were many. The hotel bartender was a great source of information as during his slow afternoons he could slip into the large screen TV lounge across from his bar and happily keep football on, without distraction. This was also before internet had reached us in the woods. There were matches I knew absolutely nothing about. Cameroon played Austria and the score was 1-1. I found this out today.
The French matches were different. I guess it was power of numbers. The casual TV room was taken over by waiters, bartenders, chefs and tennis pros. I'm sure somebody was running the hotel and in a parallel universe guests were taking tennis lessons and being served afternoon tea.
Of course watching the football was good. Having the feeling that I was sitting in bar in France made it even more entertaining. Right away the obvious target for every Frenchman's ire was the centre forward Stephane Guivarc'h, the man who was supposed to score the goals that would lead les bleus to glory. Not only did he have the odd (to anybody not French) 'h in his name, but he also had the uncanny knack of consistently not being able to score. Frustration turned to comic relief at the expense of the unfortunate Stephane. On the other hand admiration from my part was beginning to grow for the exciting Petit and Henry and the wonderful Zidane.
While France made it through the first round comfortably, yet also strangely nervously despite the three out of three wins, England manged to put all their supporters through the normal grief. They started with a 2-0 win over Tunisia, of which I saw no action. I had volunteered to go on a Toronto bound errand, which was always a great opportunity to get away from nowhereness for a night and spend time with the person who was the reason I was here. Love over football. It was happening. Next, England lost to a last minute goal against Romania which lead to the customary must win last match scenario. Colombia were taken care of by Darren Anderton and a David Beckham special.
In other first round groups, Argentina looked good, Spain looked like they always did, good until they started playing, Nigeria were interesting, Scotland were consistent in not making it out of their group and the US were even worse than non-Americans thought they would be. They did give American TV a great story though, with their match against Iran and all the political and historic sub-plots.
The second round had two major highlights. Brazil-Chile (4-1) was probably a good demonstration of Brazil moving into second gear. But I was busy teaching somebody how to feel like they were hitting more topspin on their forehand. When there's little hope, the next best thing is to teach the perception of greatness. No, the first highlight was a night at the residence of our English general manager. He fit into the category of part-time, hobby supporter and so did the other few English staff members. It probably made sense that anybody who cared about football in England had thought "Canada? What would I want to be there for during the World Cup?" Except for the much traveled English bartender, who's Fijian ancestry, gave him a touch of the exotic. As a true professional he could go from five star service and exemplary manners to swearing at the TV with the best of them. Of course there was the one blot on his customer service record when he couldn't hold it any longer (literally) and told the fancy, five star hotel guests to hold off on their order as he had to go take a leak. Seriously. So I was the second most involved supporter amongst that small gathering of English folk. And it was quite the night. Micheal Owen scored his "here-I-am" wonder goal, Beckham managed to get himself sent off in Beckham-esque fashion and England lost after a truly typical gallant effort. Courtesy of our employers, but unbeknownst to them, much beer was drunk that night and there was a significant amount of yelling at the TV.
The other memorable second round match was France-Paraguay, or at least the 23 minutes of extra time, before Laurent Blanc scored the golden goal winner. It was a Sunday, always particularly busy at lunchtime. Tennis lessons were done and as the guests made their way to the buffet lunch, I was quickly into the main TV lounge. Extra time was starting and for the next 23 minutes waiters and bartenders seemed to have to take lots of detours my way. Even Chef made a quick appearance. In the end Blanc laid rest to any shoot out fears. The whole wait staff seemed to sigh a huge sigh of relief. This is undoubtedly exaggerated in my memory, but I'm sure that everybody was more relaxed knowing they could now get back to work, including the non-football watching staff who now had their colleagues' full support.
Now their seemed to be a destiny feel about France at least making it to the final. Never did I doubt they would win the penalty shoot-out against Italy. Even when they went 1-0 down to the surprising Croatians in the semi-final it always seemed likely they would win in the end.
The quarter finals saw Dennis Bergkamp score a true beauty of a last minute winning goal against Argentina. This one I saw. But what I missed was Brazil's 3-2 win against Denmark. With no YouTube and no easy access to TV at night, matches like this existed for me as a scoreline with no story.
Brazil made it to the final after a shoot out win against Holland and the dream final was set. This only became a dream final when it was set. But what could be better than the home team, aiming to make up for what Platini's generation missed out on in winning their first World Cup, against the country that for so long set the benchmark of greatness. For the French winning the World Cup against Brazil would be a win of the greatest satisfaction, where there could be no detractors saying they had it easy. Brazil, on the other hand, could show that while the 1994 win was not one of their most spectacular, this team could come close to the greatness of '82 nd '86, and win.
Thirty minutes before kick-off, with my seat amongst the transplanted French bar patrons secured, I went off to make my call home, to Malta, for my first trans-Atlantic exchange of score predictions. I came back soon before kick-off and knew of no pre-game issues until well after France had given Brazil a good old 3-0 hiding. Zidane scored twice, and Petit finished it off with a flowing, celebratory counter attack at the end. And the une, et deux, et trois zero song was born.
It was only the next day that I read in the newspaper about Ronaldo's breakdown/illness/pressure from sponsors. They mystery has never really been solved. The conspiracy theories mushroomed. Whatever happened it was one of the more bizarre World Cup stories.
Two days later it was Bastille Day. The celebrations hadn't really stopped in our French community since Sunday afternoon. A bartender, who had taken great pride in the victory, drank his beer around the almost nightly bonfire and said nobody could do anything to annoy him, nothing could stand in his way because, "I am World Champion".
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