On Zidane

Dear Zizou,

I'll be forever fascinated by this moment. As a matter of fact, I can't stop watching it. The moment, the movement, is breathtaking, and not simply because I feel emptiness in my chest every single time I see it.

You made a choice. You chose tragedy, or something like it, over glory. A conscious, rational, and direct choice -- I believe that. And I have to believe there's a reason for that, and one that you are free to share or keep for yourself. There was venom in that blow, but also conviction; no doubt to your savage motion. Which is why I respect your choice like I respect any other. This does not excuse your action -- nor explain it fully (and, like your reasons for playing your last World Cup, we may never truly know, "Why?") -- but defines it as something freely elected, and not the "moment of madness" that many have deemed it. You may regret the chance to finish your career with your hands wrapped around Jules Rimet's trophy, perhaps also the sorrow of your fellow players at having lost a chance to celebrate as champions, but I suspect that you do not regret what you did.

(By the way, have you read A Happy Death? You may know its author.)

And what did you do? Only the most cold-blooded thing I've ever seen, either in football or elsewhere. A head-butt to the chest. Excuse me? On the world's biggest stage, with billions watching, and watching you -- the most famous man on the pitch and the best player this generation has ever seen -- in a World Cup Final that was yours (and your alone) to win. This was no Figo-esque forehead bump. Those are exchanged all the time, with no ill effect. No, you lowered your head and sprang forward with what seemed like incredible force into the chest of another man. The execution was flawless -- as expert as your free kick to Henry against Brazil, your chipped penalty to go up 1-0, even that supernatural Champions League volley against Bayer Leverkusen in 2002 -- could anyone have imagined a headbutt delivered more correctly, with more power, and with more accuracy, than that? I say again, who else, who else could have done that?

And you laughed a little before you did it.

Luis Felipe Scolari said an incredible thing about you. Something to the effect of: "[And I'm paraphrasing wildly... - Ed.] Zidane has a certain capacity to mesmerize all who watch him, fans and players alike. This quality is so unique and so magical that even those opposing players who are beaten by him with the ball still can take a kind of pleasure from it. The ball never cries when it is at is feet [100%, Scolari said that last sentence, no joke - Ed]."

And you can see it here too. Materazzi, whatever he said or did, was trying to provoke a reaction (And whenever we find out, of course it will not be enough to justify it in our minds...maybe). But who could have expected that? Lulled to sleep after slipping in perhaps the first or the tenth of unspeakable slurs, Marco walked right into that one. Pow. Delivered correctly, that kind of blow can kill a man. And I suspect that some part of you just may have been trying to kill Signore Materazzi. (How is he still alive, b/t/w?) Who knows, it may still happen. Sorcery, especially yours, works in mysterious ways. Don't be surprised if M.M. doesn't wake up tomorrow.

What amazes me most of all, however, is that you have managed, even in infamy, to do something so totally unexpected, so otherworldy, so incredible (in every sense of the word) that it makes the mystique that surrounds you even greater. This was absolutely stunning. Bizarrely glamorous in the same way as Cantona's famous Kung-Fu kick, you've somehow made the brutal beautiful. Violence and vengeance are and have always been sexy, but that move --- it's much, much more important than that.

Unless you tell us, one can never be sure exactly what was said, though it would be difficult to believe it had nothing to do with your parents and their nation of origin (No men of any deeper shades that I know think differently). It certainly wasn't the first time you'd heard something similar, and similarly reprehensible. Public figures from "France" have nearly said the same. If so, then was this you striking a blow for all those slurred against? For the Samuel Eto'os and Thierry Henrys of the world? I'd like to believe that, but perhaps I'm a bit overzealous here. You tell me (Please?) Or was it something more personal? Maybe you just didn't want to trade jerseys with anybody after the match. Ensure that your final jersey was yours and no one else's. It's a joke, it's a joke.

But a sacrifice, maybe? A point made with the crown of the head at the expense of a world championship? Is that worth more to you than any Golden Ball? Was that pure emotion, distilled into one unforgettable motion, more satisfying than lifting some weirdly shaped metal objet? Should we prize that instead? Even if it's rage? Who knows? Whatever was waiting for you down in that tunnel, past the Jules Rimet (in the saddest shot ever captured on sport cameras) is yours, and not for me nor anyone to judge.

Here are things that I hope do not happen, but are surely being thought and written in these next days, weeks, and years. That the "mean-streets-of-Marseilles/wrong-side-of-the-tracks" talk will be used as pretext to define you as a lost cause, a failed hero, a tarnished star. That it is in the nature of those who grew up as you did to revert to their upbringing. One can say this any number of ways: 'Once from the projects, always from the projects.' Which is another way to say even more despicable things. These ideas are even more insidious, more dangerous than any headbutt you could ever deliver.

But in a strange way, I think you've won. And I think you know this. What is it that people will remember about this World Cup, about this game? That Italy won? Maybe. Italians will certainly remember that. But the world will remember you. And that Italy won only because you were not there. That's a certain type of genius. Maybe evil, but genius. And the fact that you would never become a Maradona, a Beckenbauer, even a Platini -- an "ambassador for the game" as they are wont to say, only makes your decision, your action, stand further in relief: perhaps the last, forceful statement from the shyest wizard in the world. A retreat into legend and La Castellane. After all, you're 45th generation Carthaginian. Who did those guys play against again?

You have always been the most unknowable of footballers, of people even. You defined elegance and all synonyms thereof, as much as you did the word 'inscrutable'. I started out by saying that you made a choice, and I think I'm right. People, including me, have thought of you as having alien qualities. Here I think I'm wrong. Maybe you just chose to be human. Who could be mad at that?

Sincerely,

PLO

P.S.- This guy is an idiot. A blithering idiot. "Dumb, dumb, dumb." You can tell him I said so, but apparently he's heard it already. But I'm sure he's never heard what you have.

UPDATE: See? "Impeccable."

Das Finale! LIVE-BLOG! WHAT!

You're with this, right?

So what you've seen people live-blog that great shit they took last night. This is the World Cup Final. You're gonna love it.

After all the Fan Miles, beach clubs, corner cafes, and fifth-row seats, we're gonna do this one like some honest-to-goodness football intellectuals: At home, in front of a warm, crackling television. No distractions but for the MacBook and maintaining regular breathing. Italy v. France. Let's go...

7:30pm - Il Divo and Toni Braxton sing 'the official World Cup song, "The Time of Our Lives."' This is news to me. I can name you three other songs offhand, all slightly terrible, played about 5000 times more frequently than this one, which I've never heard before. Anyway, Il Divo. My mom loves these guys. My mom loves Paolo Maldini too, but I'm not sure if he can sing. Whatever, Maldini's nickname should be "Il Divo." Do you think they form like an operatic Voltron or some shit? And at the very least, Toni kept her six yard box on the low this time.

7:40pm - Wyclef and Shakira perform "Hips Don't Lie." Also news to me. Always thought the eyes were the giveaway when it came to half-truths, but I'm a be staring at pelvises from now on. Oh, and Wyclef rapped these words: "I'm a student of Pele/ Call me Pele Player." That's all. He said that. The Haiti wifey is hot though, we'll give him that. But still, the most physically demanding/impossible move I've seen in this entire World Cup is that breast-popping thing that Shakira does, and with the greatest of ease. I'm concerned for her vertebral alignment.

7:50 - The boy walking out with Zidane just coughed into the hand he's about to hold Zizou's with. Conspiracy? An Arsenal fan? No, they'd root for the French. Italian conspiracy? That's redundant.

7:52 - The players walk out onto the field. Flashes pop. Like a kid, I'm still amazed at what 60,000+ flashbulbs look like. Wonder when that first became a phenomenon?

7:53 - Italian national anthem. Gattuso singing hard, Buffon too. Materazzi's a hack, even while singing. I can still remember his dopey face after fouling a Bulgarian for a penalty in Euro 2004 to put Italy down a goal.

7:55 - French national anthem. Viera's meditating. Zidane is wearing what a neutral might call the most badass face ever. Looks just killed 37 elderly Italian men in Treviso.

7:56 - Also, something I forgot to note during Ukraine v. Italy. Italian fans seem to love "Seven Nation Army." (Can someone out there explain?) I always thought Italy was composed out of fourteen or so separate principalities united sometime in the 1870s, but maybe I'm wrong. I'm wrong.

7:57 - Zidane's all business. He barely shook Cannavaro's hand during the customary exchange of banners.

8:00 - Kick-off. Whaddya expect? The stereotype of German preciseness -- fallacious when it comes to the trains, for real -- is sometimes deserved.

1st minute - Henry goes down. Knocked heads with Cannavaro. Looks really dazed. Spaniards -- including Carlos Puyol --around the world smile, then choke back tears. Karma is a bitch, and so are phantom blows to the face that land a few weeks later.

3.40 - Henry's back. Funny shot of him recoiling from smelling salts.

4.30 - Zambrotta receives yellow card.

5:20 - PENALTY!!! Of course it's Materazzi!!! Hackish tendencies always reveal themselves in big games. I'd been waiting for him to do something dumb and was actually expecting/predicted it to happen against Germany, but I suppose he decided to save it until the grandest stage was set. When you fuck up, do it spectacularly.

12:35 - So the French were set up with a nice early penalty, early goal. One hopes the rest of the match won't settle into the waste that was the portion of the Portugal-France game which didn't include Fabien Barthez playing co-ed beach volleyball with Cristiano Ronaldo's freekick. B/T/W, very little happened these last 7 or so minutes.

18:45 - GOAL! Materrazzi!. The dope makes up for it. The streets are insane. Honestly. I'm looking at them. Firecrackers, um, crack outside. This will be a great game. Materazzi: at least dude makes every game interesting.

23:00 - "Ohhh oh-oh-oh-oh-ohhhh-ohhhh...."

24:22 - I can hear a thousand echoes of the commentary around me, from streets hundreds of meters away. I don't even have to turn my volume up, in fact. The entire city is watching this game. I've heard cheers, gasps, and shouts from my terrace before, but none ever this loud. Even tackles get cheered. It's almost overwhelming how loud it can be, thi sound emanating from everywhere and nowhere. Like some sort or weird inchoate organic being, the city has become a chorus of audible emotion.

26:43 - My feed is a non-digital TV feed, therefore eveyone watching outdoors at a cafe on a rear-projection screen is on about a three-second delay, which makes for amusingly delayed reactions and good guessing games as to where the shouts will come from.

27:15 - Hard header again from Materazzi that beat Barthez but was cleared by Thuram. Doesn't matter. Foul.

28:22 - It's 8:28pm and it's so bright, calm, cool, and blue outside that it could be 4pm on a lazy sunday afternoon in NY. Absolutely perfect weather. Fracesco Totti takes an unsuccessful freekick.

30:20 - Malouda takes a weak shot right at Buffon. Cameras show Beckenbauer, again at a match, as if he would miss the Final. Watched him in his helicopter earlier today during a wrapup show of Germany's progress through the W.C. What does he drink for all that energy? I hope it's Sparks.

32:54 - Zidane and Vieira talk, as animatedly as these two could ever do (which is not very) while Simone Perrotta writhes on the field. That's right guys, sprinkle some water on it. He'll be fine.

34:20 - Zidane just chipped a genius ball up for Henry that the Italians dealt with poorly -- anyway it's out of the zone for a foul.

35:00 - Toni, attacking for Italy, has the ball tackled away from him at the last moment. Corner...

35:15 - Toni hits it off the bar!

36:06 - Down on the other end, Henry has the ball tackled away from him as he ran towards the end line , which allows me to figure something out. Only Italians could cheer so loud for fine defensive play, which you'll get a lot of with Cannavaro.

40:15 - A plane flies by overhead, in descent. Who the hell would be on a flight right now? Where could they be coming from? Playing tennis on the moon, one hopes.

41:25 - I can hear "Allez Les Bleus" drifting in off the strong breeze coming from the south. Poetically, it would be coming all the way from the Fan Mile at Brandenburger Tor, a few miles away. Maybe it's just coming from the French bar 4 blocks down.

43:41 - Someone's piping in an Italian feed as I hear "Grosso, Grosso, calcio da angolo."

44:24 - Totti takes a freekick that's headed hard away from goal. Looks like both teams might be happy to head in locked at 1-1, but of course me saying that means Franck Ribery will score with his fascinating face (not his head) before the whistle blows.

HALFTIME 1-1. "Das Finale! Italien gegen Frankreich." Buffaloans will be glad to know that France is "Frankreich" in German, just like their QB circa -- oh who gives a shit -- Frank Reich. Ribery still amazing to look at. Didn't score though.

One Tenor, singing. Applause.

8:50 - The sun is only just setting here as Gerhard Delling and Gunter Netzer's voices echo throughout Prenzlauer Berg. The sky is pink, blue, and orange.

9:02pm - Players gather in tunnel.

9:04pm - KICKOFF, 2nd half

45:30 - "Eine klassik Henry situation," says the German announcer. Henry sped into the box and got a shot off, but Buffon saved.

49:25 - Henry: balletic. Like a skater on ice, really (Cheers, Martin Tyler). Henry spins off a defender's challenge, steals into the box and crosses...and the cross is cleared, dangerously, near the Italian goal by the Azzurri. Looks like Henry put his Arsenal Underoos on today.

51:35 -Henry gets the ball in the box and waits an age to do something, as if it were 90 mins against Blackburn and he were on the sideline, wasting time.

52:40 - Zidane! For Malouda! He goes down in the box, but the ref is demanding he stand up. No penalty, not this time.

53:45 - Another plane. I mean, really.

54:00 - Malouda along the end line...for Ribery...but it is too much behind him. [Euro-English syntax - Ed.] Berlin sighs.

56:05 - Oh shit. Vieira just came off for Alou Diarra. Injured. The tears must be streaming by now, even for a dude as hard as the Senegalese-born Vieira. Zidane's still playing though.

57:23 - Did the announcer just talk shit for Ribery? He said the German words for "excuse me" when Ribery beat the Italian defender to the line. Just like an And 1 mixtape, for sure.

58:21 - Zidane adjusts his armband. Like my man Dactile says: Can't they find some space age material to keep them suckers up? Nah, it's too much fun to adjust them, being captain and all.

58:29 - German announcer just named the aplayers available from the Italian bench. De rossi can play, his 4 match ban over. And here's De Rossi right now, for Perrotta Also, Totti steps off.. The Minotaur awaits...

65:16 - Toni SCORES from the freekick, but they were clearly offside.

62:45 - "Henry, gegen Cannavaro..." Shoots...saved by Buffon.

63:00 - Toni on the other end...blocked.

64:50 - Zidane just dummied the fuck out of Gattuso.

66:19 - The Blue Hour is just beginning in Berlin. It's much like it sounds, but then again, what good is sound to express the calmed color of the sky right now. "German Dusk," just much better named.

70:00 - Zidane's not going to get a chance to score a textbook World Cup-winning header if he keeps taking these long free kicks. Although that last one to Henry turned out pretty well...

72:55 - Hey, this Teamgeist ball is more golden than the rest! Awesome! But does it like Asians?

75:50 - Yellow card for Diarra. Pirlo to take freekick for Italy.

76:50 - "PIRLO!" Just missed.

79:30 - Did Zidane just make the "make a change motion?" Did he just dislocate his shoulder? Nah, looks like he can move it as he gets up, without the need for a stretcher. He's back on. Berlin cheers.

82:40 - The city awaits the corner, which is cleared.

83:13 - Offsides on Malouda as he tried to steal in on the left side of the Italian defense.

83:50 - Gattuso: Professionally beastly foul from him in central midfield.

84:46 - The French have been having the run of play for the last 10 minutes, but there's a strange feeling in the air, maybe it's all the blue, that makes me think the Italians have another final few minutes of sustained barrage planned as in the Germany match.

85.57 - Del Piero on for Camoranesi. That's the man to perform said surgical strike (if there is to be one), introduced by Lippi.

87:20 - Dive from de Rossi, inconsequential foul called on Diarra.

88:00 - Iaquinta? When did he come on?

89:40 - Heyyyy! Palpable tension! Great!

90:00 - The cheers from the streets are amazing. Volumes are turned up on blast everywhere. Italian, German, French. A chorus of names: Zidane! Ribery! Other awesome ones!

After 1:55 seconds of injury time, the whistle to end regulation blows. Extra time to come.

90:01 - KICKOFF. Okay, so the gold on the ball matches the gold on Zidane's boots. Nice, one, Adidas. So clearly Zidane will win this one, with something mystical. Matter of fact I saw Domenech telling Zidane right before kickoff to "kick that old Champions League 2002 shit. Heads ain't ready for that, *gar*-son." Sorry.

94:25 - Malouda breaks in but is blocked off by Gattuso, who took a knock (?)

97:50 - HENRY...just sprinting past Italians. Only just misses the correct ball out to the wing.

99:00 - RIBERY!!! The prettiest play of the game ends in a shot just wide of the far post from Ribery. And that's gonna be all for Scarface. He's been great. Trzeguet will get his chance to equal his previous feat of scoring in extra time to win a major tournemnt against Italy (see Euro 2000).

101:10 - Zidane calling for the ball in the midfield. Just great. I'm telling you, he wants it.

101:59 - Zidane measures up a cross for Henry, same axis as the Brazil-beating goal. Caught by Buffon.

103:03 - ZIDAAANE!!! Saved with the right hand of Renaissance Buffon. Incredibly strong header, directed right underneath the crossbar. Saved the game, Gianluigi did. Zidane: primal scream. Kind of frightening, actually.

End of first period, still blue, just deeper.
Please, no penalties.
On we go.

105:36 - What do we have here? De Rossi taking an elbow to the head. Poetic justice is sucking itself off.

106:32 - What the Fuck? Henry for WILTORD? France have lost. Zidane really will have to do it all alone. Henry is crushed, and injured, or just wiped. Not to mention the psychic scars of being substituted for Wiltord.

108:15 - Great. Which Italian is writhing about the pitch now?

Ummm, holy fuck. Zidane should be red carded. WTF was that? He just HEADBUTTED Materazzi IN THE CHEST. Did they possibly miss that? If so, this man is a true magician. Nope, he's going to be sent off. The world is falling apart. It's getting too dark to see my keys, and Zidane just tried to knock Marco Materazzi through Heaven's Door. Terrible, yes, but appropriate.

What was he thinking? That was easily the most violent thing I've ever seen done on a football pitch. It's almost the most purely violent thing I've ever seen, period. Some cold-blooded shit. It was kind of beautiful, actually. Despicable, but still radiant in its maliciousness. I'm amazed. Books will be written about this moment. I will probably write them. A fucking heatbutt to the chest? Ice cold. Did he knew somehow that he couldn't play on? Pain? Frustration? Whoever wins this match, that headbutt will be the only thing remembered.

There's this weird, empty feeling inside right now that's echoed in the eerieness of hearing crickets chirp on a night when the world's supposed to be partying. Cheers still ring out, but Earth is still trying to get a grip on what's gone on in front of their eyes. Maybe it's just the shrillness of the broadcast stadium whistles fucking with me. This is the last game Zidane will ever play.

No Zizou, no Henry...10 men...hmm...

Stunned.

What the fuck did Materazzi say? Some unrepeatable racist repugnant shit. Enough was enough, maybe?

And how about Hector Elizondo? Two huge red cards handed out. The balls to give them certainly, and to two superstars no less. It had to have been given in Zidane's case, but dude just effectively ended Zidane's career.

119:13 - Wiltord you suck. Couldn't deliver a nice cross to an open Trezeguet on the break, nor even hit the target with a shot. Right, there's a game going on.

And it's likely going to penalties.

Names to remember, or forget: R. Baggio. D. Baggio.

The only name you have to know: Buffon.

The shot of Zidane walking down into the tunnel, right past the Jules Rimet trophy is just about all the Rimbaudian poeticism you could ever wring from a game of football. Cantona explains the world.

PENALTIES

Buffon v. Barthez.

Pirlo first. Goal. Stright down the center, Barthez guessed to the right.

Wiltord. Will this name live in infamy?...NO. Goal. A good penalty too.

Materazzi. Uh oh. Which stop on the rollercoaster do we get off on here? The highs. Great penalty. Barthez guessed correctly, but the shot was just too strong.

Trezeguet. Crossbar! NO GOAL!

De Rossi...hits the shot Trezeguet tried to hit. Perfect.

Italy's never won a W.C. penalty shootout. Just thought I'd pont that out before Del Piero shoots. And he scores.

Sagnol...scores. Man, he has big ears.

Grosso. If there's any justice in the world, he'll miss.

And there isn't. Italy are Champions.

POSTGAME

Did they just cut off Camoranesi's hair? Yep. Maybe he's off my shit list.

What is Zidane thinking right now? What does Henry think about Zidane at this moment? The rest of the team?

Why does Gattuso have no pants on? Someone please explain. He just bent over and barked I think.

From where I'm standing on this rooftop terrace, I can see the fireworks from Berlin's Olympiastadion, miles away while that freaking Amadou & Mariam song ("Zeit, Das Sich Vas Dreht") plays through the TV. I've heard it about a thousand times, but never with thoudsands of dollars worth of fireworks as a bassline. Now, "Finniculi, Finnicula."

Can never be mad at Buffon. And tomorrow we find out whether four of Italy's top teams will be relegated to Serie C. Including Buffon's Juve.

It's been fun...actually, it's been one of the strangest nights of my life. I'm, again, hurt, stunned, astounded, amazed, and dazed. I'll be trying to figure this one out for a good long minute. Goodnight.

HIGHLIGHTS

Fit But You Knew This Would Be A Headline

Better Than Yours

I know it was so wrong, but what was it called?

Lest B'n'C be accused of ignoring all you fine ladies out there, and for those who want to know what's really going on in the streets, you know, the ones populated with girls painted in multiple shades of national colors, in various states of undress and inebriation, affiliate and reputed Crown Princess Emcee MC [Not a rapper - Ed.] has been out and about, up down and around the world and the West Coast, canvassing, polling, reporting -- whatever it is one calls it when you talk in peoples faces and ask them things about things. Anyway, she's great at that and has compiled a rigorously scientific scale of male pulchritude, refined after many an hour perched in front of the telly, [insert offensive, sport-related, gerundal/adjectival double entendre here, then laugh - Ed.].

The Eusebios: Acknowledging World Cup's Finest Looking Men*

Where's Posh?: The "I'm Starting To Look Like Becks" Award**
Winner: Andriy Shevchenko. He's even starting to run like him.

Go Grease Lightnin': Best Sleaze on the Pitch Award.
Winner: Francesco Totti, per todo. Hard to pick from all potential Azzurri. But anyone who can compare the size of a football with his...["his Schweinsteiger?" "his Pekerman?" "his Vennegor of Hesselink?" - merely Ed.'s suggestions; also, here the prose trails off into some sort of dirty, meticulously detailed sex dream, which can be posted upon request]

Don't listen to Busta: The "Why'd You Cut Your Locks?" Award
Winner: Asamoah Gyan. Please, please man, bring back the fro. You were hotter with it.

Old man take a look at my life: The Real Golden Shoe
Winner: Tie, Cafu and Zinedine Zidane. Widow's Peak balding patterns? Whatever. Wrinkles? Shortsightedness? Sure. Still hot.

Weisswurst: The Hometown Hero Award
Winner: Jurgen Klinsmann. Klose comes clos-e [I'll let you get away with that one, don't know why - Ed.] and Ballack is perfecting his Will Hunting-pout, but sorry Boys, your blonde wonderboy coach is still hotter, especially when wearing his tight baby blue Lacostes and crisp white button-downs (rolled-up sleeves, of course).

Even Michael Owen is Older Than Me: The "Best All-Around Boytoy" Award
Winner: Luis Valencia (Cristiano comes a close second - but anyone named after Ronnie Reagan doesn't make the cut)

Little Red Corvette: The "You Look So Much Like Prince It Frightens Me" Award
Winner: Ronaldinho. He's already got just one name - now give me eyeliner and Purple Rain.

True Hotness: The Golden Eusebio
Winner: Fabio Cannavaro. Who knew? Defenders can be hot.

*These awards do not include any players from the USA. When asked about potential Americans, most women shuddered in way I haven't seen since a group of freshman girls did when they saw Captain Ma***ra running suicides in pre-season, circa 1998.

**For obvious reasons, we couldn't include Hotness himself, just not fair. [Neither is dude's voice - Ed's note]

Diary of a Time-Traveling Gangster

Just Got Back From The Intergalactic Rapping Championships

So I'm lamping a bit

People always ask me things. They say, "Stijls, was Theodor Adorno right when he said that, 'Enlightenment's program was the disenchantment of the world?' " Or: "Yo son, can you explain me Baudrillard's conception of seduction? Can you break that shit down for me?" Or more common, "Is Dipset in this bitch?" I generally answer "Yes" to all of these. But the question I've been fielding most of all lately is, "Why have the French progressed so far in this 2006 World Cup? Their players are so old?" The answer is quite simple:

Djibril Cisse is a time-traveling gangster.*

Ask yourself these questions: Why is his hair so consistently awesome? [Alien barbers.] Why has he severely, gruesomely broken both of this legs in successive seasons? [Because of the skeletal fragility hastened by long periods of space travel.] Why can't he score goals for Liverpool? [Cos' they play in Liverpool.]

It seems quite obvious to me that the Zinedine Zidane that's playing out of his skull on pitches all across Germany is not the Zinedine Zidane of today, but that of 1999-2000. Claude Makelele? Nope: Makelele 2002. Lilian Thuram, currently of (relegated???) Juve? Uh-uh. Thuram 1998.

Hard to believe? Come on. We've all seen Bill & Ted. That shit works. (How else do you think Ribery's face got like that. Mangled in the machine, dude.) You're telling me that Cisse's supposed to be sitting on the sidelines, sadly watching his team make a run to the World Cup semi-finals as he heals from injury? Puh-leeze. Dude's chilling in intersidereal space, waiting for opportune moments to snatch up the stars of the past and replace the stars of the present with them. That is, when he's not blowing up the spot, a/k/a 'the supernova' with Dre 3000 and Delton 3030, co-pilot and navigator on the Spaceship Mother Earth.

Don't be surprised if you see "Thierry Henry: The Monaco Years" (that should be a TV show) out there tonight. Just saying. You'll have this guy to thank.

*Props to Ming Black.

Hell Hath No Fury...

...Just Italians

Okay, like a nation scorned. This is Bruegel, b/t/w.

In the middle of our life's journey, it sometimes becomes necessary to damn those who destroy a host country's hopes to hell. So take a trip with me, D. Alighieri, and our boy Virg-who's-nice-with-the-words, through the Italian National Team locker room.

The Opportunists/Outcasts: Massimo Oddo, Simone Barone, Andrea Barzagli, Cristian Zaccardo. Residing on the shores of the Acheron, a/k/a the substitutes bench, these are people who did nothing in life for good or evil, and are doomed to eternally pursue a banner and be pursued by wasps and hornets while maggots and other insects drink their blood and tears.

First Circle (Limbo): Fabio Cannavaro, Gianluca Zambrotta, Gianluigi Buffon, Luca Toni. Virtuous pagans call Limbo home; not necessarily sinful, but guilty by association. Anyway, they're in good company: Homer, Horace, Ovid, and Lucan can tell them bedtime stories each night. Buffon's a Renaissance man anyway.

Second Circle: Francesco Totti. For the lustful. Punishment includes being blown about by a violent storm without hope of rest, fine for a midfielder who flits about the field in various modes of concentration.

Third Circle: Filippo Inzaghi. Guarded by Cerberus, the Third Circle of Hell is for gluttons of any stripe, especially those who generally score gluts of terrible, ill-deserved goals.

Fourth Circle: Alessandro Nesta. Those of a miserly nature reside here, regardless of whether this quality respresents care with money or an unwillingness to allow opposing forwards opportunities to score.

Fifth Circle: Gennaro Gattuso, Marco Materazzi. The wrathful (which describes the former) are doomed to fight each other here on the surface, while the slothful (the latter) lie gurgling beneath the water.

Sixth Circle: Simone Perrotta. For heretics. Simone, your heretical claim is that you deserve national team selection.

Seventh Circle: Daniele De Rossi. Clearly, this circle houses the violent. Have fun elbowing the Minotaur in the face, buddy. It'll be the Inner 7th Circle for you: Violence against God, Nature, and Art get you afterlife in a flaming desert with fiery flakes raining from the sky.

Eighth Circle: Vincenzo Iaquinta, Fabio Grosso. Those guilty of deliberate, knowing evil, a/k/a/ the fraudulent reside here. Falsifiers that you two are, you shall be afflicted with various diseases, perhaps one that keeps you rigidly upright forever.

Ninth Circle: Mauro German Camoranesi. The ninth circle is for traitors, like those born of Argentine parentage, but who choose instead to play for Italy. And of course for those who choose to wear their hair like a samurai.

Days-Old Brot

The Sad Face Invasion

Not coming through, coming through

Watch: Argentina Lose on Penalties to Germany
Watch: Argentina Fight Germany
Watch: Argentina and Germany Actually Score Goals in Normal Time

1nce again, the Schopenhegelian Germanic hordes defeated Argentina's Borges Boyz, not surprisingly in a penalty shootout. Baboons from here to the pampas have described this match as "tense," and have zeroed in on Argentine coach Jose Pekerman's early substitution of Riquelme and forced substitution of 'keeper Abbondanzieri (which limited any later additions of either Lionel Messi or Javier Saviola) as turning points of the match, and they're absolutely right -- but that's not the essential, interesting bit of it all.

What remains remarkable to me is how easy it is to tell who's going to miss their chance in a penalty shootout, simply by looking at the shooter's face as they line up at the top of the 18-yard box. It's a skill I picked up, most likely by hanging out way too much with my Southern Hemisphered homie Gosfais, a former wraithlike goalkeeper with a philosophical capacity (I'm sure) equal to that of his spiritual & positional predecessor Al B. Camus. Seemingly obvious, but foolproof nonetheless. For instance: Riquelme, given the chance to tie the Champions League semifinal second leg, wore an impossibly even sadder-than-normal face before shooting. Result: Jens Lehmann, the German hero of this W.C. quarterfinal, saved his shot with relative ease. Sure, this after-the-factness looks terrible, but we're gonna proceed anyway.

Roberto Ayala: Perennially haunted by the spectre of Dennis Bergkamp turning him out like Bobby did Whitney back in France '98, Ayala's eyes were hollower than Paolo Maldini's cheeks at an Armani photo shoot. [No photo necessary - Ed.]

Esteban Cambiasso: The only balding player on whom you can bet the farm animals when it comes to penalties is, of course, Zinedine Zidane (Had Pekerman substituted differently, this could have been Pablo Aimar shooting instead). [B/T/W, the "Shit But You Don't Know It" jack was completeley unintentional - Ed.]

And though it may seem like Brit-bashing at this point,

Frank Lampard: Prissy T-Rex arms only get you so far in this world, and having all the blood drain from your already too-pale face, only to settle, leaden, in your boots does you no favors when you're the first (technically best) penalty taker.

Steven Gerrard: I think it was an ESPN writer who noted that Gerrard was most visibly affected by Lampard's opening miss for England. That empty feeling carried over into his walk up to the spot and the timid stare he gave Portuguese 'keeper Ricardo right before shooting (Ricardo himself has claimed to have been able to see where the England player were going to shoot "in their eyes" which is a lofty one for sure, but from first to last these guys were about as transparent as my spookfaced friend).

Jamie Carragher: Once his first shot was called back for taking it too early, there was simply no chance he'd score on the second. Even he knew that; hence, the unsurprised look on his face as he walked back to the center circle to watch Ronaldo put them out of their misery.

* * * * * * *

ITALY v. UKRAINE [3-0]

Luca Toni, Not Sleeping With Fishes



When you sit less than 5 rows away from Francesco Totti, it becomes immediately apparent that he is only the rarest of times in touch with this plane of existence. This is not a compliment. Sure, he wanders about the midfield, occasionally nudging on a brilliant ball, but for the most part he's dreaming -- of what I don't know. His wife, Roman gelato, the dude sitting next to me smoking hash, twenty Nespresso machines lined up in rows, a Rick Ross remix of Carla Bruni's Quelqu'un M'a dit -- who can say for sure?

What is certain is that Andriy Shevchenko has the worst pouty-face in international football. It's almost sickening to watch: Middling Ukrainian midfielder spots Sheva calling for a pass, pass is delivered 4 yards off target, Italian defender clears, Sheva throws tantrum fit for a 3-year old. Yes, it's clear that no one on the Ukranian side has the quality or epidermal oleaginousness of Andrea Pirlo, but that's no reason to broadcast that thought to the world with your screwface mug every time you don't get the service you're used to on your multimillion dollar club team. But Sheva did kind of make up for that petty insolence after the match, trotting over to the rabid Italian fans and giving them a hand for their support during his years at AC Milan (despite the fact that they booed him lustily every time he touched the ball, now that he's Chelsea-bound).

And as much as I love to hate them, the sentiment expressed for their fallen comrade Gianluca Pessotto was genuine, and lovely to see:


But then you hear about this and all those warm-fuzzies crust up like the cold in your eyes come morning. Either way, it all makes for an interesting match this evening. I wonder how the Italians will spin this one, given it's the Germans suffering after scandal...

"Suspended Frings Poisons Pre-Game Penne!" -- advance headline from tomorrow's Gazzetta dello Sport, translated, of course.

In Defense of Cristiano Ronaldo

Hate Me Now

But he won't stop now

Watch: Wayne Rooney Sent Off Against Portugal

You knew this was coming. [Full disclosure: Okay, so I am actually making out with Ronaldo as I type. Happens.] There are certain things which I'm willing to concede in this argument: 1) Ronaldo dives, early and often, and this is indeed annoying. 2) He dribbles when he should pass, stands still and feints when he should dribble, and, for having a near-woeful capacity for finishing chances, overestimates the greatness of his shot. 3) The amount of product festering in Ronaldo's hair seems to be at alarmingly toxic levels, even at mid-match (I'm concerned), and this might be having a deleterious effect on the boy's thinking. 4) Hopping on the penalty spot is no way to make friends (but a fantastic way to make Paul Robinson dookie his shorts). 5) Winking towards your bench after an opposing player -- who happens to be your club teammate -- has been sent off is not exactly a stirring example of your innocence in any incident. And, of course, this.

Which is not to say that Wayne Rooney is not a complete fucking idiot. A thick-necked, barrel-chested footballing genius for sure, but still, breathtakingly stupid. Thing is, Rooney's acted in this manner since his first game in the Premiership. Everybody -- the footballing world and probably beyond -- knows this, and Ronaldo more than most since he plays alongside him for 70+ odd games a year, not to mention all the hours spent training, traveling, and partying together. Not only does everybody know this but Everybody -- especially the English -- are aware that it is a tactic of opposing players to purposely try and wind Rooney up precisely because he has trouble keeping his temper down. A result like this is always at least possible whenever Rooney steps on the pitch.

Now Rooney's cleats were firmly planted on Carvalho's Ricardo, but how much of that was intentional I don't know. He was being hounded by two defenders and heroically, impossibly holding both of them off the ball -- typical Rooney stuff. That his foot ended up in another man's crotch is unfortunate, for one man more than the other certainly, but his response was also typical Rooney. I don't think I've ever seen him apologize to any player he's ever fouled, and he certainly didn't here. Instead he let off with the by-now-requisite stream of profanities (In a previous Premiership match, he's reputed to have said 'fuck off' directly to referee Graham Poll in excess of 25 times in some absurdly short amount of time). And here's where Ronaldo comes in.

Running over to the referee and gesturing down at Carvalho, Ronaldo -- as many game reports have put it -- "seemed to encourage [referee Horacio Elizondo] to punish Rooney for a stamp on Ricardo Carvalho." That every player, when fouled, looks up expectantly at the referee -- and those fouled particularly hard couple those incredulous eyes with the international gesture for "card" -- still does not make it right, only normal.

I ask: What kind of referee needs, or takes, encouragement from players to give cards? What kind of referee allows that to happen? Technically, he's only supposed to listen to two players (or rather, those players are the only ones allowed to talk to the ref): the captains of each team. (That's why you see so many of those curt, 'shhht' gestures from good referees whenever he's being trailed by a bunch of protesting, non-arm-banded players, usually Italian.) And unless Elizondo's sweet on Li'l Crissy, I think Ronaldo would have probably been the player least respected on the field, for any number of reasons, probably starting with his style of running.

So what does Rooney do, while staring at the ref who is staring back, but push Ronaldo. And you're ['You' being the legions of English reading this at the moment] surprised that he was red-carded? Unjust? Please. Ronaldo participating in the post-stomp conversation may not have been the height of sportsmanship, but it was far from dirty play. Had Ronaldo been sent off at the "prompting" (for the sake of example I'm willing to go with the idea that prompting the ref even works, though I don't believe it) of Rooney I would love to see the reaction from the British press. He'd have been hailed as not merely a football genius but a cunning gamesman as well. Unfortunately, Rooney's just not that smart, or just not in that way.

Now we get into ideas of "morality" -- not only whose morality is superior but also whose stereotypical "values" are professed louder. The English, of course, would *never* do such a thing. Maybe that's right, I don't know (I don't think so). But maybe that's why they lose. Whatever. But if you listen to the BBC pundits (and I'm sure it's Alan Shearer who says it) talk about Ronaldo heading over to the ref, he very clearly says something to the effect of "Look at that. WE never do that." Really Alan? But apparently WE are fine with punching, kicking and elbowing whenever the ref isn't looking, eh? I find it hard to believe you'd be the player you are now revered to have been without all those 'extras' that you got away with in your career.

But the reaction from all corners of England is the truly reprehensible bit of it all. Let's start with Young Wayne, who's promised to "split him in two and smack him in the head." Fine. I'd expect nothing less, or nothing more, from him. But Gerrard and Lampard are a different story:

"I saw what Ronaldo did," said Steven Gerrard, according to English reports. "I saw him going over to the referee and giving him the card and I think he was bang out of order. If he were one of my teammates I would be absolutely disgusted with him. After Wayne was sent off he (Ronaldo) winked at his bench and his teammates and that just about sums him up as a person. If I were playing against a teammate from Liverpool and they were involved in a situation like that I would never try to get them sent off."

I tend to believe Gerrard, if only because he seems like a stand-up guy (no pun intended), but I have to also believe that if England were playing Spain and he had the chance to get little alice-band-wearing Luis Garcia sent off, he just might not let deed follow word. But wait, did Ronaldo actually present the red card to Rooney? If so, then hold up -- wait a minute! Stop all the blogging! Let the FIFA investigation commence! Who knew dude was packing Prell and spare red cards in his pants all game? Did no one notice? Was it the +Teamgeist again? And Lampard:

"He's supposed to be a teammate of Wayne's at Manchester United and he does something like that. It's not nice, is it? A lot has been made of trying to promote fair play in this tournament and that was certainly not fair play. Unfortunately that's the way it is with some players. We were told that anyone who tried to get someone else a yellow or red card would get a yellow but it just hasn't happened."

"It's not nice, is it?" No, what was "not nice" was your penalty, nor your play during any of England's matches. Cry fair play all you want to after the match, Frank, but while you still had a chance to win the match, you failed and failed miserably. I have the same problem with Americans crying that they were jobbed by referee Markus Merk with a phantom penalty in the Ghana match when the team had a full 45 minutes to right that wrong. And the English "press:"

The Sun has joined the anti-Ronaldo bandwagon, printing a mock dartboard with a picture of Ronaldo winking.
"Here's every England fan's chance to get revenge on the world's biggest winker," the paper said.

Right. Again, I'm not surprised, but I'm no less angered at this scapegoating. Rooney, while dumb, is not the villain, but neither should Ronaldo be claimed the same. It's a shame that he'll most likely no longer be able to play for Manchester United now that he's burned bridges with another one of their star players [Full disclosure: Sir Alex Ferguson has now entered the room and is watching me make out with Ronaldo. I think he likes it.] Hello, Real Madrid, friendly home to all primadonna ex-United #7's.

So in the end, this is less of a defense of Ronaldo than it is an attack on the English mindset at large -- that of the press, the players, and the people -- that is more than willing to vilify foreigners that play in England (who, at large, are blamed for offenses as diverse as bringing diving, defensive football, great food, and superb technical skill into the country) while claiming the moral high ground for themselves. It could only have been Ronaldo to eliminate England once penalties were certain, and given the petulance with which they've reacted to losing -- as petulant as Rooney's push -- they deserved nothing more than Ronaldo's kiss before their collective dying.

[Let's not forget that the English could still have WON THE EFFING GAME both in regulation and on penalties. (Well, maybe not the latter. But still, there's always the chance that history will eat its own ass and let England win on penalties. The Red Sox won the World Series, after all)]

Dear Australia,

I'd post something about Ukraine, but this was too good to pass up. Courtesy of of the Sydney Morning Herald letters section, via Football365.com:

Just wanted to drop you all a note of condolence on your World Cup exit. Although you were never really good enough to be there in the first place, as one of our foreign outposts we think you did quite well and, most importantly, represented your Queen admirably. So, well done, little colony.

'On the upside though, now at least your long-haired, scruffy, unclean teenage masses can all return to London to resume their minimum wage jobs, serving us thirsty English boys warm beer, just in time for the games on Friday and Saturday. Good timing, really, because as everyone agrees, the real tournament starts now that only the real footballing teams are left.

'Well, chin up, anyway, pickpockets, and I suppose it's back to stealing your mothers' ironing boards and heading to the sea to try to dodge those hungry sharks. How sweet. Best regards and God save the Queen.

'Paul Kaynes West Sussex (England)'

And because England's such a hit with the B'n'C faithful, we present Young Wayne meets Diddy for your viewing pleasure.

Someone Has To Answer For This

Forget De Rossi's elbow, Grosso's dive, Totti's celebration, and Gattuso's face (please). This is inexcusable. Let an Italian come at me with that "we ain't greasy" yang again. I'm talking to you, Pirlo.

People Get Ready Pt. II

Got Your City On Lock


Big faces, big places.

People Get Ready

Lambo, Hear Them Fans Blow


Whoever said Germans were humorless? This is hilarious.

SPAIN v. FRANCE [1-3]

Who's Got Crabs?

HIGHLIGHTS


Don't hate: Lazy YouTubers tarried this post. [Don't You (TM) guys not have anything better to do than upload highlights that I can then jack?]

Things to look for: a) France coach Raymond Domenech's great reaction to the awarding of a penalty to Spain, b) Thierry Henry smartly signaling to the linesman his absent-from-influencing-play status (after being caught offsides around 7 times previous) c) Vieira's nifty Cruyff turn with the right foot and quick dish with the left d) Willy Sagnol throw Zidane out of the way to get closer to the bottom of the winning-goal-pile.

People are talking about Henry's Lee Strasberg routine and whether he's a cheat or not, but you won't find any of that chat here. B'n'C's all about the real stories of this Weltmeisterschaft. Like: Are Cancers destined to dominate in the last half of 2006?. (Know your history) West Coast correspondent Mingus Dynasty, a/k/a Ming Black, checks in with this report:

Apparently, Raymond Domenech relies on astrology, and so must be well aware of the Cancerian partnership of Zidane and Vieira in midfield. Given that Vieira scored on his birthday and the game after; that Zidane scored after his; fellow Cancer Raul scored on his birthday; and with Lionel Messi also celebrating his 19th with usual domination, it's only logical that the celestial order has ordained this World Cup to be the Most Cancerian World Cup of the Modern Age. Indeed, this is confirmed by the positions of the Sun, Jupiter and Uranus, but that's another story.

B/T/W, we're totally obsessed with Zidane's chart right now: "TIP: Master an art form such as poetry, music, photography or dance. You can do it Zinedine Zidane." Or more dire: "TIP: Zinedine Zidane, learn when enough is enough."

Also: they told dude to, ahem, start a Zine.

Bianconeri Blue

As you may have heard, former Juventus and Italy defender, and current Juve sporting director Gianluca Pessotto apparently attempted suicide (unsuccessfully) recently. He was found, as all the articles are sure to detail, "clutching rosary beads" in the street outside Juventus headquarters, apparently having jumped from a window 15 meters up. Pessotto is and was not charged in the match-fixing scandal that threatens to relegate (yes, relegate) Juve and strip them of last season's Scudetto (The tribunal formed to look into the allegations against former Juve general manager Luciano Moggi started today, b/t/w). A few of the Italy players have flown back to visit their former teammate in hospital.

Strange, but stranger still are how these three articles (and even the Guardian piece) progress from worrying about Pessotto's condition into speculating on what effect this will have on the Italy team, to what their chances are in the next match. Off-putting to say the least, but sadly it's what you get when you're the press at the precipice of the World Cup quarterfinals.

[Secretly, watch for the Italian press to somehow spin this story into some sort of contributing scandal should the Azzuri get bounced by the Ukranians in Hamburg on Friday night.]

BRAZIL v. GHANA [3-0]

Chicken Gristle Eatin'...Slim-Fast Blendin'

HIGHLIGHTS


Always knew "fat" dudes could move like that. And that skinny dudes are always the greedy ones: Adriano, Cafu, Roberto Carlos (we'll stretch that definition a litttle for the latter). But who knew that "ginga" meant "selfish"?

And far be it from sour grapes, but the red card doled out to Ghana's Asamoah Gyan was karmic justice for the revolting display of Ghanaian rolling about on the pitch during the last 25 minutes of the U.S. v. Ghana match (They deserved to win that match simply because the U.S. showed no desire to score.)

Watch: Brazil beat Ghana, again. Or maybe it's just Portuguese beating English...

"SOOPA-Pass," went the German announcer, re: Kaka's visionary dish which was just about all you could say. It came so early, I was still trying to check for the field level sign telling me what city the game was being played in; luckily the space opened up in the section of the screen I was scanning, so I didn't miss a thing. Which reminds me...

Gerhard, You Ignorant Slut

To step away from the game for a minute: here in Germany, it's customary for games to be called by a single announcer for the entire game, in opposition to the American way of play-by-play + color man. This has its pluses and minuses. There is a certain calming linearity to the match: no snide interruptions, coy insiderism, or egotistical grandstanding, but at the same time, a boring game is absolutely unbearable without a Walton to interject a "Throw! It Down! K-Mart! Throw it down!" Germans prefer to save their commentarial interplay for pre-, during, and post-match, where former footballing superstar Günter Netzer and Gerhard Delling trade personal quips as sharp and ridiculous as "Point/Counterpoint" with Aykroyd and Curtain on vintage SNL. And without the laugh track that is Terry Bradshaw or any of those Fox dopes. The barb is exchanged, gruffly, with nary a smile, and the commentary goes on. It could be Python, but I'm not sure if even those guys could deliver these lines as well.

I Woke Up Early On My Born Day

Young City Bandit, Hold Myself Down Singlehanded...
But for real...Word to Moms & Pops.

UPDATE - Other people born today include: Peter Paul Rubens (1577), Jean-Jacques Rousseau (1712), Luigi Pirandello (1867), Mel Brooks (1926), Noriyuki "Pat" Morita (1932), John Elway (1960), and of course, Fabien Barthez (1971).

Shooter

Bear Shits Shot In Woods


The biggest story in Germany; that is, between articles about Klinsmann clipping his toenails.

I Try Harder Every Day It's All Work And No Play

Between temporarily relocating the B'n'C bivouac to an undisclosed rooftop in Berlin, the attendant champagne-filled-jacuzzi afternoons (Thx, Hov!), long evenings sampling on ripened strawberries fed paw-to-mouth by white tigers being jacked off by rhesus moneys, and the proto-cannibalistic mornings thereafter, spent breakfasting on freshly slaughtered white tiger meat, who has time to write about football?

Luckily I keep a notebook handy, despite the monkeys' disapproving looks. This World Cup Thing only gets better by getting worse: What kinds of fantastic buffet spreads are being supplied backstage to have so many players desire being sent off? Surely it's no comparison to fresh Bengali, but its got to be amazing. And tasty enough for the refs to want a piece of that pie. Anyway, there's plenty to catch up on, so let's get right into it. A monster post, so tuck right in...

ITALY v. AUSTRALIA [1-0]

Them Crackers Weren't Playing Fair

Scumbag thieves. Did I say that out loud?


SWITZERLAND v. UKRAINE [0-0] (0-3 penalties)

Slept On
How do you not score once in a penalty shootout?


PORTUGAL v. NETHERLANDS [1-0]

Hurt Stunned Astounded Amazed and Dazed

Germans on point.

If you watched only the first 40 minutes of this one, then you saw the best game of the World Cup. If you watched the whole thing, then you saw the most entertaining match of the tournament, but whatever the two teams were playing by then wasn't soccer, certainly wasn't "football," and was too "professional" (read: pu-ssay) to even be compared to Aussie rules or rugby. It was a tragedy worth tears, but when the two teams weren't trying to carve notches out of each other's flesh, it was a pleasure to watch, especially after the mind-numbing match earlier in the day featuring...

ENGLAND v. ECUADOR [1-0]

Leaving Your Empire In Ruin

Once again I'll leave you in the capable talons of birthday boy TerrorDaktile:

Kill me now.

Are you serious that these people invented the game? They play like they have crumpets in the shorts. They play like they have Lyme Disease, no offense to those who actually do. They throw up on the field; I throw up on the TV when I watch them play. So boring, so conservative, so predictable -- in short, so...English. Three Lions my arse. No, seriously, my one donkay could trample these house cats. Have you really made me a die hard fan of the Tri Colores, England? For 90 minutes ive never loved anything more than Ecuadorian football. I'm painting the tri colors on my face, I'm rocking the Jheri-curl mullet, I live and die on every yellow-footed touch of Valencia. He is my savior, and you, england, are forcing me to this end. Perhaps your coach is to blame, perhaps the 4-5-1, perhaps Joe Cole's pants are
too high, England. Lower Joe Cole's pants. You're moving on to the quarterfinals by boring people to death. Is it me or is Frank Lampard terrible in front of net? Where was this lamentable play between August and May? Here is a typical England World Cup game: a) find the weakest team in the field. b) play them. c) complain about the stifling German heat. d) wear short sleeves in the first half, long sleeves in the second. e) don't score. don't ever score. f) who cares?

England: You're not going to be champions, and these so-called victories which are really terribly predictable foreshadowings are simply lengthening the depressive bender the entire country will slide into during the days following the loss. Please lose. I can't continue loving others in order to have less pity for you.

MEXICO v. ARGENTINA [1-2]


Straight From Jorge

A shame that the World Cup's Latin-inflection had to be reduced by a factor of one with the outcome of this one, but at least the game produced one of the most compelling encounters --and fantastic goals, again by Argentina -- that we've seen. Apparently, you can't be too good.

Which sets up this way-too-early match between the Argentines...

And, the GERMANS

Self-Assembly Required

How do you celebrate the German team's first knockout-phase match appropriately? You watch the match with 1.2 million other Germans in their capital city. Berlin's Fan Mile, which yawns from the western side of the Brandenburger Tor down the Unter den Linden, allows you to experience what it's like to smell a million plus people piss in two adjoining parks.

But fandom, while often smelling this terrible, is often cleverer than you'd expect: Swedish fans were treated to a song that, loosely translated, means "You're naught but furniture-makers."

And between this destruction of all things Swede and the GERMANY v. ECUADOR match, Miroslav Klose kind of looks like the most complete forward at this World Cup.

°°°°°°°°°°
And because you'll get this kind of in-depth cultural reporting on no other blogshore, a recap of one of the more exciting encounters of one of the more memorable group stage games:

Watch: SWEDEN v. ENGLAND [2-2]

Swedes have terrible bladder control. Twice before the match had even begun, I was propositioned (if that's the word) to be pissed over. You see, I was seated at the top corner of a crowded bleacher section, too far from a bathroom, but apparently too close to what was an inviting edge for this Swede. "I would like to *piss*. Do you mind if I *piss*?" The three Germans seated next to me and I all answered in the affirmative. "Yes, we do in fact mind if you piss over our shoulders."

The average life expectancy in Sweden is exceeded only by that of Japan and the country has been rated the second most liveable in the world, after Norway. There are no discoverable figures for most incontinent, however. Which is frustrating. Are Swedes allowed to just piss willy-nilly wherever they damn well please? Does "liveable" take into account the fact that dining rooms, stairwells, and foyers could very well be treated as just finely appointed Porto-Sans to this fair-haired nation?

Anyway, our refusal meant little. By the time England had blown their first lead, our entire blue and yellow section was treated to the unmistakable sound of a furious stream of pee hitting pavement from 50 feet. Sven-Urine Eriksson had merely turned backwards with neighbors to the right, left, above and below, kneeled on his bench-seat, opened his fly and let loose.

Sweden is also the second most environmentally responsible country in the world after New Zealand. Always a bridesmaid, never a bride, Sweden. But does "envioronmentally responsible" just mean that you can just shit everywhere and call it fertilization?

°°°°°°°°°°
Paid No Never Mind

And for those still pining for the U.S., two post-mortems, one from this dude, and one from Drago -- you know, the guy from Rocky.

The Good:

Dempsey--Goodbye MLS, hello Europe...Why have you not been playing earlier and why are you the only player that can rap and beat someone on
thedribble?

Convey--You can tell that this guy is an asshole but also really good...he's the free kick man from here on out

McBride--If only Dempsey and Convey were playing together more often you may have gotten some service.

Onjewu--a good defender, especially if there was a fast player to pair you with (oh well).

The Bad:

Reyna--U-R the man, but the gold watch was ready years ago.

Beasley--Quickly developing "Poor Man's Michael Owen Syndrome;" a player that looks great on the highlight reel until you watch the game and realize he's NONEXISTANT for 88 minutes.

The Ugly:

Donovan--I hate you...you're fired, you suck, you'll never rise to the occasion. Watching you play in this World Cup reminded me of watching the movie MUST LOVE DOGS on my last cross country flight. Needless to say, it was the last time I ever actually felt like puking in total sobriety.

Eddie Pope--next time a lumbering 6ft 7inch Czech comes thundering into the box you should guard him. Oh yeah, and next time you try an offsides trap make sure you aren't the only one trying it. Italians take advantageof that shit.

Cherundolo--you're about as big as Roy Keane...too bad you're not a highly skilled, raging madman. On a good day you look like you might make the cutin the Swiss 2nd division

Bocanegra--I do actually like you, but you always have that stupid look onyour face like you meant to go to football practice and somehow wound up at soccer practice and never really grasped any better understanding of thegame since then.

Eddie Johnson--next time just tell Arena to fuck off and sub yourself in for Donovan or whoever...it's a travesty you didn't play more.

Two Can Play The Game

Arthur's Legacy?

Three lessons in the German language:

"Train" is masculine.
"Cat" is feminine (even dude cats).
"Girl" is neuter.

Get A Real Job

Seriously. You call that work?

SPAIN v. TUNISIA [3-1]

That's A Hawaiian Silky

HIGHLIGHTS


Ali Bouminjel = "Ali, Bomaye!" ???

"Sounds like" for sure, but both have a penchant for punching things as well, perhaps way too much. But even Ali II knows betten than to challenge on a ball outside of the box unless you're sure your're going to get it or are willing to foul the shit out of the advancing striker. He effectively lost the game for the Tunisians. And Fabregas effectively won it for the Spanish.

Lastly, Fernando Torres: worst penalty, worst hair.