Life-changing events happen during the World Cup, even as it’s now down to two teams, Spain and the Netherlands trying to outkick and outwit each other on a playing field on the other side of the world in the opposite hemisphere, the results of which would be known by now while in our own poor country destiny fulfills its course in presidential inaugurations and expatriate bars that come alive with beer and strange languages only every four years.
Got Balls? Then you can watch some of the drama unfolding either late at night or very early long before the break of dawn, the beautiful game playing out its conclusions and offsides without benefit of video technology to help idiot referees’ calls.
But then that’s all water under the bridge with the finals grinding down and having a first-time winner in its starred history. I’ll remember the 2002 edition for the death of my father who was brought to hospital just as Brazil and Germany were facing off in the final, and when I told him by phone shortly afterwards that Brazil won, he in his hospital room asked me again what it was I said and after repeating it, he almost shouted, “I don’t give a (expletive deleted)!” That pretty much should be our state of mind about the World Cup, come to think of it now, when confronted with life and death situations.
Of the 2006 finals, I can’t recall any parallel event worth mentioning, except maybe it was the year my son got circumcised. Of course now he’s off to college down south in his mother’s hometown, and I doubt very much if he still recalls Zidane headbutting Materazzi in the final between Italy and France, or the free-for-all that punctuated the Germany-Argentina (rematch of attrition this year) quarterfinals decided by penalty kicks, with the European hosts winning. Few things are as scary in sports as a football rumble, kicks and punches literally flying and let them land where they may. It’s probably no coincidence then why, for example, the football field in Silliman University is just across the medical center, where injured players being chased down by deadly cartwheels can seek refuge.
Let’s just hope that World Cup 2010 will be best remembered, apart from the inauguration of P-Noy who himself is fond of the samba if not things Brazilian, not for Frank Lampard’s goal that was disallowed, in that match with Germany that could have changed the complexion of the game had it been counted because it would have tied the score and shifted momentum to the British after being down 2-nil. Even Prime Minister Angela Merkel saw fit to apologize to British Prime Minister Cameron as they watched during a lull in the G-20 meeting in Toronto, even as the Germans eventually thoroughly outplayed the English who understandably were distracted.
Much has been said about the beautiful game and how a thing of beauty is a joy forever, but in this case a blown call is an idiocy onto eternity. On the same night there was Carlos Tevez’s offside goal that opened scoring in Argentina’s win over Mexico. On TV FIFA president Sepp Blatter was apologetic for the officiating boners that might have been avoided if FIFA instituted video reviews and other technological updates for accuracy, but he may as well have been explaining himself before a police blotter in a downtown precinct. Sa presinto na siya magpaliwanag.
Word has it that the two referees who erred gravely have been sacked, but wait, would it have been too much to ask for their reinstatement in time for the Germany-Argentina showdown that would have as background not just the buzzing vuvuzelas but the sound of knives being sharpened as well?
Argentina got knocked out by Germany and the Germans in turn eliminated by the Spaniards, but there’s no gainsaying the Filipinos’ latent interest in the sport every four years. There’s the Olympic fever that comes around in a similar interval, where Filipinos of all shapes and sizes talk about finally winning that elusive gold medal, and there’s the World Cup quadrennial mania in our otherwise basketball loving country, where after the NBA finals the likes of Messi, David Villa, Kaka, Mueller, Forlan, Snijder become household names.
Well it hardly matters now that France exited ungraciously and the defending champion Italians were prematurely booted out, or that all the gossip mill dirt of the English players is surfacing or the highest paid player Christiano Ronaldo continues to underachieve on the sport’s biggest stage, the expat bars with balls from Ermita to Cainta and from Baguio to Zamboanaga will go on buzzing and humming with assorted brews and unintelligible languages until the small hours or the bar closes, whichever comes first.
There are few things that are as breathtaking as the beautiful game expertly played, and here the World Cup has plenty of that, despite the usual idiot dampers. When Brazil is on the attack it is like dancing the samba; Argentina on the offensive harkens back to the time of the gaucho on the wide open plain face to face with the elements; Germany on the counterattack would have their prime minister cheering like a girl again, and Spain’s precision passing at midfield is like watching the intricate interiors of a giant clock, or is it the Netherlands’ clockwork orange we’re seeing?
The fly in the ointment is that after the month-long feast in South Africa it will be likely back to the usual basketball drudgery, with points aplenty and less whiners and floppers (thanks to crucial game-changing video reviews), but what do you know, LeBron has joined Wade and Bosh in Miami for a heated chase of an NBA ring.
We can only content ourselves with the occasional coverage of the Premier League or La Liga or Serie A, or the intermittent international friendlies, while trying to get the buzz to last for the next four years. In flooded Paco park, or in Ermita somewhere between Padre Faura and UN Avenue, Pinoys and expats deep in their beers in the wee hours shouting, “Goal” so close to “Gaol,” a captive but willing audience.