On the 11th of June, the air was veritably buzzing with quantitative questions: exactly how many rings would Franck Ribery run around right backs? How long would it take for Wayne Rooney to slip on his shooting boots and unleash the lethality within? When would the “red hot” Antonio Di Natale rip the back of a net with a Jabulani ball? Come match day nine, a wholly unforeseen inquiry is looming large over the Rainbow Nation: will another one bite the dust? The good citizens of England, France and Italy must surely be cursing national bookmakers for their naivety. Why has their billing as favorites become little more than a bad joke?
England: Same old tosh, different tourney
Rather than being an eternal spring of motivation, England’s 1966 triumph has made countless generations of pudgy pub – goers delude themselves into believing the Three Lions are infinitely capable of repeating the feat. One cannot help but admire their unshakable dedication to the Union Jack, even after decades of taking dejected flights home. It is then tragic that, once again, they have to bear with utterly half hearted floundering, courtesy of the “heroes” they refuse to remove from pedestals. Neither the absence of Rio Ferdinand nor Robert Green’s hideous error should be associated with the two measly points England are clinging to. For, you see, to do so would be to turn a blind eye to the embarrassing fact that the current crop of English poster – boys simply cannot make the grade. Why appoint one of the world’s most successful managers if none of his coaching staff acknowledge that Steven Gerrard and Frank Lampard cannot be lumped together in midfield? What is the point of winning all your qualification matches if you cannot muster one miserable goal against ‘mighty’ Algeria? If these statements were leaked to the hoards decked out in white and red, I’d probably have to go underground, hire personal bodyguards and change my name. However, before fleeing to some nondescript South American hideout, I’d ask the jersey – toting lot thirsting for my blood to ponder the following: when was the last time an English player was awarded the Ballon D’or? How many of the English Premier League’s stars – past and present – hailed from foreign lands? And how many times have England reached the World Cup semi – finals in the last 44 years? Reality bites, doesn’t it, old boys?
France: Les Bleus ont les bleus
This article was not written in a single sitting. In the duration between the scripting of the paragraph above and the typing of these words, the eggs that had been cooking on English faces were somewhat scraped off by a meager win over Slovenia that secured passage into the Round of 16. I may consider retracting some of my anti – Anglo admonitions, but by no means can I avoid lynching 2006’s losing finalists (yes, really). This decade has been a patchy one to say the least for French football – glory at Euro 2000 and Zidane’s German swansong were punctuated by humiliation in Portugal and then Austria. However, the French’s almost ludicrous failure in South Africa is best likened to their farcical 2002 World Cup campaign: they may have managed to get on the score sheet, but that actually only emphasizes the pathetic standards upheld by Raymond Domenech’s schoolboys. To say that they had a certain “je ne sais quoi” about them is to highlight their startling lack of quality in the cruelest possible way. Would the inclusion of Karim Benzema and Samir Nasri have injected some much needed freshness into a weathered squad way past its prime? Should Nicolas Anelka and his posse have disputed less and trained more? Will Nicolas Sarkozy declare Monsieur Domenech an enemy of the state? Perhaps we should look to karma for answers: maybe France was doomed the minute Thierry Henry gave the Irish a hand (pardon the pun).
Qui connait? Quelquefois, les choses juste vont mal.
Italy: Can’t – enaccio
Let me be clear: I was not even passively impressed when Fabio Cannavaro lifted football’s most coveted prize four years ago, simply as his men had not stayed true to the spirit of the beautiful game. Say what you want about the effectiveness of astute tactics, but I refuse to accept that cynical, calculative defending should be the cornerstone of any aspiring team in the international arena. Football is Diego Maradona’s unforgettable dart past hapless Englishmen in 1986; it is not pointless plodding around the center circle in order to wind down the clock. The Italians may yet emerge triumphant from tonight’s clash with Slovakia, but their feeble frontline and unimaginative midfield have hardly gone unnoticed; with usually fanatical fans now snorting at the Azzuri’s lack of a spark, the likelihood of hollow success cannot be ignored. The time has come for the trophy of trophies to be pried from overly cautious, Milanese glove – covered fingers. Euro 2008 left spectators with fond memories because of – and not despite – Italy’s premature exit in the first round. Let us hope then that Robert Vittek comes to Ellis Park to strut his stuff: for Italy’s loss will certainly prove football’s gain.
Let me just say that the criticisms above are not reflective of overall disappointment with the World Cup; the competition is starting to come to the boil, and the goal – scarcity that dogged its early stages has all but dissipated. I am not opposed to any football nation, and falls from grace do not fill me with glee. In recent years, the sport I and so many others love has been mired in scandal and monetary transactions. What I want, what I feel all fans deserve, is a tribute to football game itself, matches played with joie de vivre and without fear. If established reputations have to be sacrificed and egos deflated to achieve this end, then I hope, from the bottom of my heart, that the altars have been readied and the needles sharpened.
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