A Counterblast To Agnosticism

To those who would have us believe that 'pretty football' and 'winning football' are mutually exclusive; who believe that the primary aim of the game is to keep a clean sheet; who are happy to have teams rake in millions from a captive market while telling us "we're in the results business"; who mistrust beauty; who would praise Chelsea; who are called 'Sam Allardyce'*; who would happily see the entire population of the world enslaved as the bitches of an alien race of eight-foot, 30-stone-of-pure-muscle, endless-diagonal-balls-to-the-head-of-the-big-fella-up-front super-bastards; who would inculcate us all with their particular brand of bitter, witless self-hatred given half a chance; who probably secretly fancy Margaret Thatcher...

...to those I say: MWAH-HAH-HAH-HAH-HAH-HAH-HAH!!!

To recklessly exaggerate for a moment, this has been as close to a perfect tournament as we're likely to see: positive and often spectacularly football, heart-abusing drama, a lack of cynicism (in terms of both style and discipline**) and an honest-to-god football team triumphing. All that was missing was a hilarious snatching of defeat from the jaws of victory by England and a heroic 1-1 draw by Ireland.

It's almost too good to be true. Spain's midfield yesterday comprised Senna, Xavi, Iniesta, Fabregas and Silva, while Xabi Alonso came on as a substitute. How cool is that? (World-class analysis, there.) Something to consider: this is still a young team: the bulk of it will still be there in two years' time. I'm praying for a Spain-Argentina final in Johannesburg.

On which note, and without wishing to hastily jump to grand conclusions based on scant evidence, I nevertheless hastily conclude based on these 31 games that a loving God does indeed exist. Sure, He sets a mean test of faith, what with the last Euros, Mourinho, Abramovich, the Eduardo injury, Cyprus 5-2 Ireland, etc., et-bloody-c., but it's almost been worth it all for these last three weeks. I say almost because I'll only be fully convinced when I see Arsenal winning the Premier League again - and what the hell, the Champions League while we're at it. I mean, that's what He does, right - portents? And what else could this tournament, with its beautiful attacking football and the right team winning, possibly mean?....

No, no - now's not the time for such parochialism. Let's just wallow awhile in this, no less than the triumph of Good against Evil. Not that I take football too seriously or anything.

Photo by Hell's Donut House

*I've had a go at Allardyce before, and I will again. It may seem to you like I'm picking on him. You'd be right. There's a special circle of football hell reserved for him and his ilk.

**Wonderful stat: there were fewer red cards in the whole of Euro 2008 than in the Holland-Portugal game in the 2006 World Cup.

Read more...

In which I inefficiently explain why I don't want Germany to win

Sometimes I feel a bit guilty about not liking the German team. It's not that I feel any antipathy towards them, as such, it's just...I just don't want them to win.

They're an easy target, really: the team that always seems to get that jammy goal, that's always lodged comfortably above the Southgate Parallel of international football no matter how bad they apparently are. At every major tournament this decade, we've been told that this is the worst German team for a generation*, yet in that time they have reached a World Cup final and semi-final, and are potentially one game away from being European champions; all this while the (sniggers) Golden Generations of certain other nations act like a flock of geese with their natural sense of direction degraded through generations of inbreeding, knowing vaguely what they must do to make it to their destination but instead crashing haplessly into one another and falling to the ground, honking incessantly at the injustice of it all.

Deep down, I know it's a quality to be admired: to be able to so tenaciously keep a vice-like grip on the leg of football fate with those terrier-like jaws of theirs. If it was, oh, let's say, Turkey, we'd be celebrating their plucky, never-say-die doggedness and rushing out to buy a replica shirt to wear in solidarity with these fine human beings as we sit in front of the TV this evening.

But we're not. Why? Perhaps every sport needs its big, bad, but very dour wolf to make the story complete: the NBA has its San Antonio Spurs, the Tour de France had its Big Mig, the Bundesliga has its Bayern Munich. Even the goodwill earned in defying the stereotypes in the last World Cup in breathtakingly forthright style, and playing a part in two of the finest game of the championships (vs. Argentina and Italy), has evaporated over the course of Euro 2008, what with their set-piece goals and their incompetent midfield and their average height: 6'9". It may be an unreasonable and immature view, but (here comes the excuse) this is sport we're talking about; if you can't sometimes be unreasonable and immature about sport, when can you be?

Okay, allow me to put forward a more thoughtful reason for my wanting Spain to win tonight: it would be a tear in the fabric of history, a disturbance in the world's natural order. Or, more prosaically, a novelty. The prospect of something happening that you've never seen before is mightily alluring. Growing up in an era when Germany left their efficient fingerprints** all over the international scene has rendered the prospect of more of the same unappealing. If there was anything to be taken from Greece's triumph in 2004, it was the shock of the new, the feeling that we were seeing something we weren't really allowed to. So often Spain have entertained us before being bumped off before the end of the film. Let's have the plot re-written before our eyes instead.

Ah yes. Spain. Nearly forgot to mention them, as I wallowed in this mudpool of negativity. As we've spent the last few weeks slobbering over Holland and Russia, Spain's contribution to the Euros is in danger of going under-appreciated. Admittedly, it has been a bit difficult at times to get as excited about them as we, pre-tournament, imagined we would do. It didn't seem right that this team, with their astounding collection of world-class ball-playing midfielders, were winning games through their counter-attack (the winner against Sweden came via Route 1 - ye gods!). And they didn't exactly thrill us against Italy. A few points to be made here, though. I forgive them (and I'm sure they've been begging for my forgiveness) for the Italy game. Italy didn't exactly come out to play, as they executed a malfunctioning version of catenaccio, the swift counter-attack being replaced by the Emile Heskey method. Also, the relative tentativeness of Spain can be excused by what must have been a hefty historical weight on their shoulders: the awareness of their usual Pavlovian response to facing a big team in a knockout game, and the little factoid about not having beaten Italy since that da Vinci chap made his debut in goals.

But more importantly, how good were they against Russia? The thing is, we've been blinded by our disastrous rendez-vous with Russia that we haven't properly appreciated how well Spain played, how Spanish they looked. Not co-incidentally, this was especially so after Fabregas' entrance, which is why I'm particularly hopeful about tonight (unless Aragonés is really as contrary as he seems and goes and picks Alonso instead). It appears not to have had the same romantic cachet as Russia's win against Holland, but it was almost (I say almost) as impressive.

(Wouldn't you love to see Cesc's reaction after he scores the winner tonight? Remember how he looked when he scored the penalty against Italy?

Look at him. Bless.)

Another good reason to want Spain to win: I'd rather see a group of little players...I mean, players with low centre of gravity, triumph over a bunch of shooting guards who got lost on the way to the NBA Draft Camp.

And wouldn't it be something if Michael Ballack achieved that unprecedented double-quadruple, finishing second in four different competitions in the same season for the second time? I don't especially dislike him, it just reminds me of Chelsea's trophyless season. Unreasonable and immature, see?

Photo by europeanartphoto on flickr

*Admittedly, the only time I've heard this said this time around was from the mouth of Éamonn Dunphy at half-time in Wednesday's semi-final, so its currency is automatically devalued right there.

**Actually, the next 'expert' who uses the word 'efficient' to describe this team will get a sternly-worded letter of rebuke from me post haste. If that Rolfes fella is efficient, then I'm the most efficient player in the world.

Read more...

No title

Looking back over the posts in the blog so far (my, is it three weeks already?), I notice how often I've invoked the idea of romantic love, or more specifically heartbreak, in describing my interaction with Euro 2008 and football generally. I don't know if this is a sign of a lack of imagination, or vocabulary, or girlfriend. Regardless, lest you confuse me for someone with someone endowed with the capacity for original thought, I shall continue with the theme.

I've approached this tournament, despite resolving to regard it with chin-stroking detachment, instead much like someone on holidays, drunk on sunshine (and possibly alcohol), falling desperately in love with someone new almost every night. One evening, this person meets a beautiful, out-going, vivacious woman, and their first two dates are simply sublime. Our pathetic protagonist wakes the next morning full of all the world's joys and imagines a beautiful future for him and his new belle; indeed, he gets so swept up in this vision of eternal bliss that he heads straight for the jewellers and buys a brilliant diamond engagement ring. Tonight, on their third date, he's going to pop the question!

But as he collects her that evening, she doesn't seem herself. She's quiet, lethargic even. As they walk to the restaurant, it's almost as if he is propping her up, as if she would simply collapse otherwise, so little energy does she appear to exert. They reach their destination and are shown to their table; he pulls out the chair for her to sit on, but she doesn't seem to know what to do, and he practically has to push her into the chair. In conversation she is distant; she never initiates it and responds to his small-talk not with words, but with a sound resembling "mmhnghm". The rest of the time she merely stares down at a spot three feet beneath the table. He by now, being quick on the draw and all, realises that something is amiss; perhaps she's ill? He tries to gently and reassuringly take her by the hand, whereupon she screams, runs into the corner of the room and curls up into a shaking, whimpering ball. He, of course, runs back to his hotel and immediately posts about it on his blog.

Or something.

Anyway, it's hard to reconcile the Russian display tonight with the glory that mine eyes saw in their previous two games. Maybe Sweden and Holland aren't all that good, and Spain are? Maybe Cesc really is the man-god us Gooners believe him to be? How did Arshavin disappear like Cristi...I mean, CR7-85? Who knows? This isn't the time (or let's face it, the place) for reasoned analysis.

You know, I'd rather get carried away by intoxicating beauty than look at things with total objective rationality. There's nowt wrong with objective rationality, of course. It's just that football can bring us moments, or even entire games, of exquisite wonder. The thing is, these are rationed; supply is kept deliberately low, but just high enough to allow us enough of a glimpse every now and then that it keeps us hooked. When a sudden glut comes along, we stock up and practically blow our own heads off. That's my excuse, anyway.

So I still refuse to learn my lesson, and after a quiet evening of feeling sorry for myself (and the Russians too, obviously) I'll hop on the Spanish bandwagon and hold on for dear life on Sunday. At least we'll be spared any Stalingrad references in the press.

I had a kick-ass title prepared for this post had Russia won tonight: 'Exit, pursued by a bear'. Ah well. Maybe I'll get to use it if Michael Ballack powers home a couple of goals on the way to a German victory in the final.

Did you just get a shiver up your spine too?

Photo by pmpboarder on flickr

Read more...