Well, picking up on a theme, villains are not gone—they never leave—and disturbances have moved on, not passed, into another unconscious narrative, one that played out over the last month, on a soccer field.
Yes, the World Cup is over. As a soccer fan, I wasn’t really looking forward to it in the weeks leading up to the tournament. I say that every four years and still can’t help getting caught up, getting nationalistic (English), occasionally jingoistic, occasionally gracious and sportsmanlike; ultimately, I feel emptied, disappointed and vaguely used. Used because all that hope and anxiety is, among other things, an unspeakable payday for many people, though it will be anyone’s guess how the money will truly be distributed. This was apparently a successful tournament in terms of the revenue generated, the number of people who watched the matches, live or on television; the money spent not just on tickets, but on hotels, transportation, paraphernalia, food, and especially (Scotland? Hello?) alcohol. Who spent all this money? The average sports fan, or soccer fan? No way. Sorry to sound so proletarian for a moment, but that guy is a fan of Swindon Town, who languish in England’s league two, who watches every home match live, who travels when he can to away fixtures, in between working an hourly wage-earning job. Or, it’s someone in a high-rise apartment in Hong Kong who religiously awakens at 6am on a Sunday to watch a 3pm kickoff on the previous day in England’s premiere league.
By the time the World Cup has started, soccer’s Anglo-centric image takes a back seat, displaced by all things that conjure a more exotic versus dreary world game: for a month, the game is by implication a summer sport played not in rain, much less snow, but rather Mediterranean and sometimes Saharan-like heat. It will take place at the end of nearly all participants’ regular seasons, which will have already lasted between 9 to 10 months, with that 2 month off season largely regarded as a necessary rest period for players’ bodies, and also their much-pressured minds. It’s not so much that world class athletes can’t deal with this, and of course the equalizing reality is that it’s more or less the same for everyone involved. But, just for a moment, imagine if the New York Knicks, upon their moment of glory a month ago now (just a month!), knew that after a few days rest, they’d be competing in an additional month-long tournament that would determine a true world champion of their otherwise regionally entrapped sport.
From the first kick-off in mid-June to the last kick on July 19th, the World Cup brings out the best and the worst of players, coaches, fans, and media. For the neutral fans, as in the casual fans, the best stories will be the underdog tales, those of Capo Verde, whom casual fans had never heard of, who managed a draw against Uruguay in the initial group stage, and even more impressively, another draw against eventual world champions, Spain. Then there are the eccentric fans, like the drum-beating, viking-ship-rowing-simulating Norwegian fans, or the joyously alcoholic Scots. This brought some true diversity, as World Cup marketing has tended to privilege dance-oriented customs, like the Samba of the Brazilian fan base, the Columbian bump and grind of an obligatory Shakira performance, or the techno-synth rhythms that permeate sport in general in the 21st century. Chanting persists, and singing of national anthems is a highlight before every match, but the terrace wit of rival supporters is much toned down, or else it is drowned out by the buzz of an intergenerational, family-like atmosphere, in contrast to the manosphere hegemony of club soccer.
Big stars emerge, while others disappoint, or fall from grace. After the first stage, the managers of all the countries that don’t advance will resign in disgrace. Soccer is big business, and the World Cup stirs national pride, so failure must have its scapegoats. Players who miss penalties, especially during shoot-outs that cruelly decide tied matches, will never live down their misses, unless they redeem themselves by scoring such penalties four years later. Goalkeepers who drop balls will have that ignominy ever on the resume. Those who get red cards, or get sanctioned by FIFA for starting brawls after the final whistle will either become outcasts or else they might be heralded as martyrs, depending on the moral compass of the fans standing in judgement. Here’s a new one: players who get red carded, which ordinarily earns a suspension, who then get reinstated for the next match because the president of the—ahem—his nation, the host nation no less, will feel like the kid of the worst soccer dad in history who blew up his son’s coach’s phone, saying you need to play my kid on Saturday, or else…
Well, we don’t know what a certain someone said to another certain someone about whether Flo Balogun should play in the next game, but it might have had something to do with money. But lo and behold, the biggest benefactor of official intervention in the WC turned out not to be the United States but rather Argentina, or rather Argencheaters, as I now dub them. Of course, skeptics can call sour grapes on my comment, as Argentina did defeat England in the tournament’s semi-final, but before I choke on that bad fruit, I might point out others who have grievances, such as the Swiss, who received a questionable red card minutes after equalizing in their match against the Argentines, or especially Egypt, who were so incensed by calls going against them in the final minutes of their match against Argentina that their manager was moved during the action to show the no racism gesture to the referee, and to later imply that the entire competition was rigged in Argentina’s favor. And what of the average soccer fans—the millions watching at home or in bars, or the thousands that overpaid to watch matches live—can we spare a thought for them, because the final on July 19th featuring Spain versus Argentina was one of the worst advertisements for World Cup soccer since the last crappiest World Cup final ever—in 1990, featuring, guess who, Argentina.
For ninety minutes, the defending world champions didn’t take a single shot on goal. Spain dominated the match in terms of possession and shots taken, only to be thwarted by an admirable performance by the Argentine goalie, Emiliano Martinez: he saved eleven shots. A record. The outfield players, including the talismanic Lionel Messi, chased shadows and sometimes kicked Spaniards, but didn’t play football in the accepted sense. In soccer parlance, they parked the bus, placing eleven men behind the ball, playing defense and hoping for a goal on the break. Now then, England had indeed “parked the bus” in the previous match, which was a self-defeating strategy, but at the point they made that rueful decision they had been equal participants in a free-flowing match and had in fact gone ahead with a goal early in the second half. Argentina began their defensive strategy, plus their hard-fouling, bullying tactics upon the final’s kick-off.
Well, in the end, justice was served, we might say. Argentina received a red card of their own late in the match, and played the remainder with a one-man disadvantage. Although it took extra time to finally breach the South Americans’ resistance, the elegant, ball-possessing Spaniards scored the only goal they would need and cruised to the finish line, deservedly winning the World Cup for the second time in their history. In the aftermath, there was more finger-pointing, another mini-brawl. Argentina will no doubt go home, lick their wounds and play martyr to their not-exactly long-suffering fans. That said, their sense of victimhood has its pedigree, though it has more to do with England than the relatively blameless Spain. After all, the most famous single goal in World Cup history is arguably the infamous “hand of God” goal, scored by Argentine legend Diego Maradona in the 1986 quarterfinal against England. This goal, which Maradona scored with his fist in an era untouched by video assisted reply (VAR), effectively won the game that day, and when faced with TV replays of his fist striking the ball into the goal, the diminutive Maradona claimed it was the hand of God applying divine intervention, in retribution for Britain’s defeat of Argentina in the Falklands War of 1982.
Yeah. Who says politics and soccer don’t mix
Graeme Daniels Psychewriter 