Football Inception

You have a dream that you were at a party and the record player’s needle was stuck in a groove prompting the revelers to do the same dance move over and over again, for years, decades, eternity. Frightened, you look at the scores on Goal.com. Chelsea 6 Wigan 0. Chelsea 6 West Bromwich 0. You will never wake up.

Currently, Chelsea is top of the Premier League after three games. Yawn. Chelsea, Manchester United, Arsenal – the final standings next year. Yawn. You’ve fallen asleep and it’s only August. So to raise yourself from this football deep, you rely on an idea that had been planted in your head during the World Cup, an inception drilled by players with names like Mueller, Schweinsteiger and Van Bommel.

On Sunday, you woke up German, on the shores of the Bundesliga, free from the hamster wheel addiction to the English Premier League.

You watched a game between two teams you knew only by name. You knew none of their players and at full-time it struck you that you had watched a game of football. Explain the not so obvious.

When you watched English matches, you knew most of the names and mugs on the players. You had an opinion of them, sometimes admiration, and other times rank prejudice. John Terry of Chelsea is on the ball, you hope he loses possession and is humiliated; here comes Ji Sung Park for Man Utd, you hope he wings it and scores. Familiarity and bonding with individuals had prompted you to lose sight of the ball. On Sunday, you enjoyed anonymous players making great tackles and runs down the wing, midfield battles seemed like slogs instead of player appreciation sessions. Had you watched Manchester United, you would have been preoccupied with whether Wayne Rooney had a good game.

You’ve learned a lesson. Switch leagues every few years and start again. Soccer will seem like a brand new baby. Bright, bouncy, and ready to keep you up at night wondering how to properly pronounce the fabulous new names of teams and players. And you get to support a new team – St.Pauli of Hamburg, Germany’s coolest soccer outfit – and begin the process of making players belong to you. In a few years, once you start to miss the actual football, it will be time to nudge the needle and find a new groove, another dream.

The Goal Oscars

Icelandic team Stjarnan’s goal performance was a big catch on the internet last week. If you missed it, the goal scorer reeled in a fish-like flopping teammate who was scooped up into a net of teammates’ hands. Such theater! Football acting troupes around the world will be preparing their own moves. What is football but a form of acting. Goal celebration ensembles could be the next big thing. An awards ceremony could be founded – The Goal Oscars – more captivating that handing out awards for best actor in the diving category.

The Goal Oscars could also be an incentive for teams to score more goals – imagine you are languishing at the bottom of the table during the season facing relegation when the prospect of walking down the red carpet to receive a Goal Oscar from Angelina Jolie for Best Goal Performance by a Rubbish Team is still a possibility. Watch the center forward go! Although, granted, Angelina might not be available.

So what performances can we expect from this upcoming craze and our world of soccer actors? When Ronaldo scores, the team can rock him gently back and forth as he sucks on a pacifier, which he then spits at the camera. A Wayne Rooney goal could be set in a bar with the players sinking pints of beer and then stumbling around, falling down drunk. Should the “Cassanova” John Terry meet sweetness with his head, his teammates could line up and simulate the moves of procreation. A Landon Donovan strike could become a marching band on the Fourth of July and a Nicolas Anelka goal could pull an absurdist piece of French drama by having the players simply not celebrate at all but walk slowly back to the center spot as if attending the funeral of French soccer.

The creative possibilities are endless. Any readers who have good ideas that our stars could use, post them below. Who knows? Maybe soccer’s goal scorers will hear of it and you’ll see your script being acted out before millions of viewers. Time for a career in Hollywood.

The Old School

(Argentina legend Osvaldo Ardiles with Alan Black)

You see the great footballers of today under the deck of exclusion. They seem unapproachable; some seem rude, even ungrateful. And when they are not spotted tuned into I-Pod headphones, it’s an image of them playing themselves on the latest version of FIFA 2010. Fortunately, not everyone in soccer is so young and narcissistic.

Last week, I had the great pleasure finding myself in one of San Francisco’s best bars, Danny Coyle’s, top drawer for soccer and all things good about drinking. Scores of loyal Tottenham Hostpur fans were there to welcome a legend from their club’s glorious past, Argentine great, Osvaldo Ardiles, “la piton,” the python as he was known in his mesmerizing playing days. A World Cup winner in 1978, Ardiles was the early prototype that arguably Maradona and later Messi were molded from. Gliding with ease, stroking passes, seeing opportunity and pouncing like a cat.  Ozzie never stopped working.

Ardiles’ arrival in North London in 1978 was exotic. British football was largely homogenous in its tough tackling and long ball game. The flair of the Latin was unheard of and soon fans at White Hart Lane were being entertained by rhythm instead of pounding old brass.  Spurs fell in love with Ardiles, and even when Britain was in a bloody conflict with Argentina during the Falklands War in 1982, Ardiles continued to receive the club and the supporters embrace.

Decades after his last sublime pass at Spurs, the fans inside Danny Coyle’s lined up to have their photo taken with Ozzie. Fans too young to remember him at Spurs joined in the worship. Old greats in soccer exist like the Gods in the myths. Fans had their shirts signed, match programs from famous games were pulled out, and one lady had waited since 1981 to have Ardiles sign her FA Cup Final ticket.  And like a gentleman with copious amounts of patience and eloquence, Ardiles the man was Ardiles the player.

With the 2010 World Cup failure list belonging to the so-called greats of our time, feedings of a more humble pie should be on the menu for some of our greats today. If not, maybe they will find themselves not being invited to venues like Danny Coyle’s in the future.

Hand Ball Luis Suarez – Man or Superman

What does moral philosophy have to say about the new “hand of god” in world soccer?  Uruguay’s Luis Suarez’s handball on the line preventing a certain goal has been condemned by deontologists, many of whom seem to live in the world’s most populated nation, Facebook .  The immoral action of Suarez is a prime example of morality’s relegation to the lower divisions. Under no circumstances should Suarez have lifted his hands – it was wrong yesterday, today and tomorrow, as we are all duty bound to do the moral thing no matter what the consequences.

But this doesn’t play on the Moral Relativists bench, and they Kant understand such thinking at all. They hacked this idea by suggesting Suarez’s act rejected the notion of a global moral authority, his primal instinct trumping arbitrary standards conceived in a world where one man’s vuvuzela is another man’s perforated ear drum, or if you are hungry, one man’s Big Mac is another man’s disgust, or illiterate, one man’s metaphor is like another man’s smile (sic), or if you are all about equality, one man’s woman is another woman’s man. One can never be sure about what the hell is going on – after ten lagers.

On the other hand, consequentialists play wide by arguing that the consequences of Suarez‘s act are the only factors that matter. He handled the ball, he was punished, Ghana missed the spot kick and Uruguay won. That is the result. Suarez is perfectly right to claim himself as a hero by sacrificing himself with an immoral act, he saved the greater good; he saved Uruguay.

It was the French thinker Albert Camus who said, “Everything I know about morality and the obligations of men, I owe to soccer.” Camus was a goalkeeper, as was Suarez at his philosophical moment of truth.

So is Suarez, man or superman?

The World Cup As A Therapy Session

If World Cup nations were on Dr. Freud’s couch:

USA – I need to belong
England – I feel like a loser, again
Germany – I will win, I will win, I will win!
Italy – I want my mama!
France – Nobody likes me, I’m a ball fondler
Holland – I feel flat, again
Brazil – I can’t stop partying
Argentina – My name is Diego, and I’m an alcoholic
Mexico – I hate the neighbor, he’s making my life miserable, and I want him to go away
Paraguay – I like to dress up in uniforms
Uruguay – I feel as if I am invisible
Chile – I feel warm but people think I’m cold
Honduras – People think I’m a cigar
North Korea – I like to recite poetry and kill as many people as possible
South Korea – I’m always afraid
Portugal – I feel superior. I’m not Spanish!
Spain – I feel superior. I’m not Portuguese!
Australia – Drink! Burps! Farts! It’s what I do
New Zealand – I have a girlfriend, she has a wonderful baaa
Japan – It’s simple. I win or die
Serbia – I have anger issues
Denmark – Lager for breakfast, is something wrong?
Slovakia – I don’t feel whole anymore
Algeria – Don’t tell anyone that I am here
Slovenia – I hate being small
Switzerland – Life is always in neutral for me
Greece – My life is falling apart, it’s a tragedy
Cameroon, Ghana, Nigeria, Ivory Coast, South Africa -
We don’t need f****** therapy

Check out my send up guide to the Finals, The Glorious World Cup, available now

How Do You Stop a Player Like Argentina’s Lionel Messi?

Andoni Giokotxea - maybe the most violent player ever

In the old days, when the tackle from behind was legal, and defenders were given respect not for their play but out of fear, the golden boys of soccer were afraid to turn their backs on goal. Lurking behind them like blood thirsty sharks were tough nuts like Spain’s Andoni Goikoetxea, the Butcher of Bilbao, his nom de guerre, or the inappropriately named Claudio Gentile, an Italian on a mission to stop anything that moved.

In 1966, Brazil was knocked out of the World Cup Finals because Pele was booted off the park.  In the 1990 Finals, thanks to Gentile, Maradona was scythed at every turn ending Argentina’s hopes of a repeat triumph. Diego also had his ankle broken by The Butcher of Bilbao when he played for Barcelona. It remains one of the worst tackles in history. Goikoetxea kept the Argentine’s shredded boot as a souvenir putting it on top of his television set.

Mercifully, those days are over. The age of the clobbering boot has been replaced by the lightness of foot. Today, Lionel Messi of Argentina, presently the world’s best player, leads the dance. So how do you stop a player like Messi from destroying your team in the World Cup Finals? Can you?

Gentile was known to stick to his man like a bottom stuck to a toilet seat with superglue on April Fools Day. But coaches have abandoned the man-to-man marking in favor of zones and space. Little fleas like Messi thrive in this kind of environment. Short of throwing itching powder on the soccer genius, there seems to be no answer. Getting rid of him by employing a Materazzi-style insult against his mama won’t work either (remember the 2006 Final when Zidane headbutted the Italian, prompting his red card.) Lionel is no street fighter. These days, soccer players don’t have to be.

So we can all sit back and enjoy the diminutive wizard mixing his magic, maybe even see him win the World Cup for his hero and coach, Diego Maradona. The old man of Argentina can relax in the knowledge that his protégé plays in a game well past the carvings of the butcher.

Check out my guide to the World Cup Finals. The Glorious World Cup, available now

Lionel and Diego safe in each others arms

Team USA – We’re Off to See The Wizard

To imagine how the USA is going to fare in the World Cup Finals, we could look down the yellow brick road, and dream of bringing the trophy home to Kansas.  But who should lead the team – the straw man with his brain, the tin man with his heart or the lion with his courage?

If the straw man leads, the players will be on the plane home after round one. Leave the thinking to the old masters of football. If the lion appears, there may be room for some valiant moment but courage may not be enough. That leaves the tin man – squeaky, like an old Ford, and requiring gulfs of oil to keep the whole thing running. It’s the combustible gasoline of the heart that the national team needs if the World Cup drive is to be long and thrilling. American soccer is on a new popular highway, right through the heartland, all the way home.

In the Korea/Japan World Cup in 2002, the heart was at the pump. What bookmaker would have taken odds on the USA opening up a three goal lead against top drawer Portugal in their opening game, then knocking a violent Mexican side out in the Round of 16, only to be defeated by an over thinking German soccer machine aided by a referee who one suspected read by Braille. How could he have missed the blatant German handball on the goal line, a penalty that would have given the USA the momentum to win the tie?

But in Germany 2006, the USA game shifted. The soccer gear had moved from the heart to the brain, and the USA imagined itself to be an equal partner by moving up the FIFA rankings, keen to be taken seriously by the game’s old masters. The play was measured, and self-conscious, and the paint was soon stripped from the body. Eliminated in the first round, the wheels spinning off, the tank was empty – there was no heart.

American bark should frighten people. But it doesn’t on the soccer field. We are the underdog. And the team must remember this on June 12 when the English bulldog snarls at them in the most anticipated game in US soccer history for sixty years. The English are the old masters. They will bring their brains and their courage but will be saving their heart for later in the tournament when they may need it against their mortal soccer enemies, Germany and Argentina. So play from the heart, USA. Remember the tin man. But no tears. We don’t need rust on the road to glory.

The Vuvuzela

This is what some people from Europe’s soccer elites are saying about the vuvuzela, South Africa’s famous plastic horn –

Deafening. Louder than standing next to the speakers at an AC/DC concert. More unsettling than having an airplane engine rev up underneath your bed. Guaranteed to ruin the World Cup. How will the players and coaches be able to communicate on the field with that blasted noise annihilating every eardrum in its path? The vuvuzela. It must be banned!

The World Cup is going to be hella noisy. Expect a wall of sound like all the bumble bees of the world have moved to South Africa to watch the games. And this is pure honey for the manufacturers of the plastic vuvuzela. By making issue of this cheap trumpet, sales have gone through the roof. And South Africans will be blowing louder than ever just to spite the imperialist complainers.

There is nothing better for publicity, and profits, than affronted complaint. Before the Germany World Cup in 2006, a Dutch manufacturer made a few hundred plastic, orange-colored war helmets. They were replicas of the headgear worn by invading German troops during World War II. It was a cheap attempt to cash in on historical irony, as the Dutch in huge numbers would be invading neighboring Germany for the Finals. The Dutch government was horrified, demanding that Holland fans stay away from such an insult to the hosts. The manufacturer had to work 24 hours a day to keep up with demand. Every Dutch man, woman, child and tulip bought one.

I guess those who are lucky enough to be going to South Africa can either take their noise reducing headphones or simply join the swarm of buzzing blares and let the world know that celebrating football comes in many forms.

Should the vuvuzela be banned from the World Cup?

If you fancy it, check out my guide to South Africa, The Glorious World Cup, out now.

The Glorious World Cup Published Today

My guide to the World Cup Finals is published today, The Glorious World Cup. It’s a rebel’s guide with propellant laughs and some hard tackles on the establishment. It can be rolled up into a mini-vuvuzela, giving the reader two products for the price of one! So you can join in the upcoming vuvuzela madness and toot your own horn during the Finals with the guide. It has some fine contributions from Irvine Welsh, author of Trainspotting; Simon Kuper, the world’s best soccer writer and Po Bronson, the New York Times best-selling author and soccer nut. Thanks for taking a look.

How Argentine Beef Crushed Barcelona’s Wilted Salad

Yes, Barcelona, loved by the purveyors of beauty, the choice of artisans, painters, and rootless cosmopolitans. On the football menu, they are the light, fresh springs of health, playing a tender, crispy game. If they were a food, they would be a salad. Further down the menu is the much maligned beef, call that the Inter Milan team, made up of Argentines raised on a diet of beer, meat and hard boiled football. What a refreshing sight it was to see Barcelona being flattened by the ruddy extremes of tough leather. The modern fetish of possession football finally chewed up and spat out by the echoing grist of a former glory age – catenaccio.

When Inter had a man sent off, the ten men herd formed into a gang of robbers. If you have many possessions in life someone will steal them. 70% of Barca keeping the ball, and Inter stole the game. Beef prevails. A great day for football. One to show the kids in the future – how to defend, the core of the game.