The end of the World Cup gravy train?
So the brief two day hiatus is almost over and the World Cup whirlwind is almost upon us again. Unfortunately my request for a ticket to see England-Portugal in Gelsenkirchen on Saturday has fallen on deaf FIFA ears, so I will not be able to give you my first hand view on this crucial game. As a freelance journalist whose main contribution from this tournament is this blog, I end up quite low down on their “usual selection criteria.” This may well mean a premature end to my World Cup odyssey but it will certainly not bring the curtain down on this blog.
After enjoying Raymond Domenech’s sarcastic masterclass of a press conference on Friday, I shot off to Berlin for a weekend soaking up the sun and the football atmosphere in the capital. It is a good thing we did not make it to the official Fan Fest that sprawls through the Tiergarten because I subsequently found out that no less than 800,000 Germans had descended onto the streets to celebrate their 2-0 conquering of Sweden. I watched the game unfold in the more relaxed environment of a trendy beer garden set up in a courtyard, which brought the surprising delight of pilsner served in one litre glasses (something which I thought was only common in Bavaria). Despite getting sunstroke and a severe crick in the neck from peering over a sea of heads, it was a pleasant way to catch the game. Of course, on Sunday followed England’s slow motion victory over Ecuador. Which not only confirmed that we are the ugliest and most clueless team left in the tournament but also proved that not only mere mortals like myself, but also people like the imperious David Beckham, can get sick from the sun. This game was viewed in the fairly salubrious setting of a members only army-themed terrace called “Platoon”, which boasted a ridiculously massive screen, designer swivel chairs and even a pool! So the weekend was definitely not one spent with the bread and butter football fans but more with the cultured connoisseurs.
Monday’s clash in Kaiserslautern was definitely not one for the aficionado. This was my first visit to the city that was the home to the legendary Fritz Walter, captain of Germany’s 1954 World Cup winning team. The stadium named in his honour is perched atop a hill giving football (and metaphorically Walter) a domineering effect over the small city near the French border. With my seat being up in the gods, in the very last row in fact, my view out the back of the stadium over the city was much clearer than that of the pitch. The stadium may ooze tradition and provide a cauldron-like atmosphere but its sightlines are the worst I have experienced in Germany. This perhaps was a good thing as Italy-Australia, despite offering many half chances, was more of a big mama than a sexy signorina of a game. After praising Italy’s attacking virtues displayed in their first game, I was disappointed to witness Marcello Lippi’s men revert to a more catenaccio-esque mindset. As Australia manger Guus Hiddink put it so eloquently in his dignified post-match interview, “Italians play like a wall, they don’t think about attractive playing.” This always strikes me as the ultimate paradox from the country that places so much value on aesthetics.
Plaudits have to go to Hiddink, who avoided trudging down the well-trodden route of Japan boss Zico or Spain head honcho Luis Aragones of irately blaming FIFA or the referee for his team’s exit. The game had been decided on a very dubious last minute penalty awarded to the Azzurri, which Francesco Totti dispatched with unwavering accuracy. Despite the manifest blunder made by Medina Cantalejo in adjudging Lucas Neil’s prostate body to have deliberately impeded Fabio Grosso in the box, Hiddink refused to be too bitter, diplomatically philosophising, “everyone makes mistakes in life and unfortunately this referee made his in the last minute [of the match].” The more I experience of the Dutchman, the more I realise what England are missing out on. His efforts in Australia have propelled football from forth to first place in the sports viewing figures and have hopefully left a legacy that the Socceroos can build from for many a year. The Russians must be licking their frost-bitten lips in anticipation of the wonders he may implement there in the coming months.
So Australia fell by the wayside along with other potential surprise packages Ghana and Ecuador and we are left with a quarter final octet comprised of veritable footballing heavyweights….and Ukraine. Germany’s tie tomorrow with Argentina looks the most tantalising. Arguably the two best teams of the tournament thus far and a repeat of the 1986 and 1990 finals. A win for Germany would surely see the already unprecedented levels of ecstatic flag waving go into overdrive. This game has the raw materials to be monumental, so judging by my World Cup predictions so far, it will be a 0-0 stalemate settled by penalties in the vein of Switzerland-Ukraine. The England roadshow travels to the smaller more humble city of Gelsenkirchen. After stop offs in Frankfurt, Nuremburg, Cologne and Stuttgart, England fans will get a rude awakening by the glum Ruhr city. Just about the only notable attraction in the former mining city is it’s über-modern Arena AufSchalke and unfortunately it lacks a central square where the fans can congregate in their own version of boozy joie de vivre. So the question is not whether England can finally take this World Cup seriously and raise their game to slay the Portuguese dragon but where the hell the England fans will go to celebrate if the implausible does indeed occur.
Vive le Raymond!!
The scene that welcomed me in Dortmund yesterday was unforgettable. As soon as I stepped off the train and onto the streets of the former brewing capital of the world I was greeted not only by swarms of Brazilian and Japanese fans but also a very tacky homage to the city’s team, Borussia Dortmund. As you walk from the main station into the pedestrianised area of Dortmund you have to climb some steps and the local organising committee had decided in their infinite wisdom to erect an enormous bridge made of scaffolding over these stairs and to cover it with an almost life-sized depiction of what their stadium’s famous Südtribune (a terraced stand that houses 26,000 fans) looks like on a normal Saturday afternoon. In a nutshell, a human sea of canary yellow and black. As if that wasn’t overcooking things enough, crowd chants recorded from the terrace and some frenzied commentary were also being piped through some loud speakers. To add the surreal nature of this grandiose construction, the fans were then quite literally given red carpet treatment. By this I mean that the entire three kilometre stretch from station to stadium was ideally marked out with a red carpet, a novel approach and also, I like to feel, an egalitarian one too (who says just the VIPs should be able to tread on chrimson carpet?). This game will be remembered as the one where Brazil, and even the much maligned Ronaldo (who equalled Gerd Müller’s all-time World Cup goals record), went up that metaphorical gear and fired some warning shots to their detractors by beating Zico’s Japan 4-1. It will also be remembered by me as the one where a mad cigar-chomping Brazilian imposter infiltrated the press area, planted himself directly in front of me and then constantly gave me high fives!
Unfortunately there was no such exuberance in store for me in Cologne tonight, which, compared to the England experience on tuesday, was a ghost town. The more relaxed ambiance was also in evidence at the stadium where there seemed to be more ticket touts than fans and for the first time yet I did not encounter a mass scrum before the journalists’ ticket desk. As in Hamburg on Monday, the relatively low amount of hacks in attendance worked to my advantage, this time affording me a ticket to the post-match press conference.
I had heard that, France coach, Raymond Domenech’s relationship to the the press was fractious at best and now it was my chance to see the man in action. The press conference was set up as I would imagine things would be at the European Parliament or the UN. Each journalist had to take a headset on entry, through which you could choose either a German or English translation of what both coaches said in French. After the Togo coach, Cologne-born Otto Pfister, had done his piece, it was time for Domenech, sporting a backpack, to face his critics. France had won 2-0 after finally taking some of their copious chances during a six minute spell in the second half and thereby had cliched second place in group G. Had things not gone their way, they could have been saying a premature au revoir to successive World Cups. One journalist knew all too well how important Patrick Viera’s 55th minute goal was to Domenech’s short term job prospects and asked the grey-haired manager if he had personally thanked Viera for this. The response was unequivocal. Domenech gave a resigned shrug of his shoulders as only a Frenchman could and batted the journalist away with the stinging “I’m tired of your questions!” Lesson learnt, my other colleagues decided to be a little less facetious and quiz the bespectacled coach about how they will tackle their next opponents, Spain. Again, anyone looking for a scoop left empty handed with Domenech philosophising, “if I was to tell you everything today, what would I tell you in the next press conference?” Too true Raymond I mused to myself whilst privately being smug in the fact that it was not my job to get Domenech to spill some haricots tonight.
Some journalists often adopt a roundabout form of questioning where they merely state their opinion to the interviewee and hope to gain a lengthy reply that concurs. This may work with the more amiable managers at the World Cup (such as Trinidad and Tobago’s Leo Beenhakker) but to the more wry and urbane Domenech this tactic provided just more ammunition for ridicule. One hapless English journo asserted that thanks to this win Zinedine Zidane’s retirement from football had been put on ice at least for another game. Domenech responded “that’s not a question, that’s a statement - I confirm your statement.” Thank you Raymond, very perceptive. Let’s move on. “Perhaps you can tell us if you would have preferred Ukraine in the next round?” “No, I would have preferred to have a bye and already be in the quarter finals.” Brilliant I thought, nothing like a bit of cheap sarcasm to spice up a routine press conference. Unfortunately Domenech got a little bit too carried away with his virtuoso performance towards the latter stages of the session as the focus again shifted to Viera’s importance. The line “I am sorry I was right, yet again. I said Viera would be our lynchpin” was an arrogant Domenech at his best.
No wonder the French media despise him. He continually keeps them at arm’s length, has baffled them with differing formations for each of the three group games and then refuses to give them the information they seek at the only media events where they can probe him. Before the tournament he vowed to football periodical World Soccer that he “tell[s] the truth without any frills” but that is not exactly what we got in tonight’s dry exchange of words. Of course, very little was revealed by the Frenchman but frills were to be found in his adept way of sidetracking and rebuffing the journalists’ advances. Domenech does not suffer fools and I can see traces of Eric Cantona, Brian Clough and his protegee Martin O’Neill in our gallic friend. He probably will not win France the World Cup but he will definitely get the gong for giving the most entertaining press conferences and in the banal authoritative world of FIFA this is priceless. Vive le Raymond!!
Quintessentially English
There have already been reams of text published dissecting England’s collapse in Cologne, so I will make my contribution brief. What struck me most about the final of their group games was how archetypal a performance this was from England. This game worryingly encapsulated all the ingredients that have made the last forty years so frustrating for the England fan. So in something akin to Delia Smith’s half time recipes appearing in the Guardian, here is my very own England concoction of woe:
1) Take a big bowl and add a generous portion of injury agony:
⁃ Just when Wayne Rooney is fit enough to start his first World Cup game his strike partner, Michael Owen, collapses after just three minutes with a ruptured cruciate ligament in his right knee.
2) Stir in a handful of potential brilliance:
⁃ Joe Cole momentarily allays any worries by scoring with a sublime dipping strike from 25 yards.
3) Add an ample helping of complacency:
⁃ England’s marking (especially that of captain David Beckham) disintegrates as Marcus Allback powers his header from Tobias Linderoth’s corner over a floundering Ashley Cole on the line.
4) Now sprinkle in a smattering of petulance:
⁃ Rooney hammers the perspex over the bench with his fist before irately discarding his boots after being substituted with twenty minutes to go.
5) Blend and then add to the mix a gutsy fight back:
⁃ Substitute Steven Gerrard plants a lovely header off Joe Cole’s classy chip into the back of the net to seemingly redeem Sven’s men.
6) Finally, bake the mixture for ten minutes making sure to increase the setting to “embarrassing capitulation” for the final three minutes:
⁃ Erik Edman’s long throw troubles the English back line, bouncing over the struggling Sol Campbell, before somehow being poked home by Henrik Larsson.
7) Season with blind optimism to taste:
⁃ Sven Goran Eriksson: “The important thing was to win the group, which we’ve done.”
Well, yes Sven, it was important to win the group and avoid an early clash with the buoyant hosts Germany. But, if England are to continue in this shambolic vein we may just scrape past Ecuador on Sunday but I shudder to think what the Dutch may do to us in the probable quarter final meeting. My final lament is for the fans who have undoubtedly produced the best in stadium atmosphere of the tournament. They again had turned up in their thousands, swamping Cologne and filling 75% of the stadium. You really have to ask are they all being taken for a ride by the sober Swede when they pay 300 Euros upwards for a ticket to watch this dross.
Face to face with Sheva
Just like the footballers in this tournament, your World Cup blogger also requires the occasional rest day and this came for me on Wednesday. Instead of soaking up some rays beside a pool in a sumptuous five star hotel or playing table tennis with Gary Neville, I was doomed to nursing a World Cup cold in bed. This therefore explains my inactivity on the blog over the past few days, despite my visits to Hamburg for Ukraine-Saudia Arabia and Cologne for England-Sweden.
Monday had got off to a bad start. Temperatures had plummeted by ten degrees and the skies over Germany were leaden. My journey to Hamburg was once again blighted by delays on the German rail network meaning that I only arrived the AOL Arena , in a clammy sweat, in time for kick-off. I was not really expecting much from this group H clash with Ukraine punished 4-0 by Spain the previous Wednesday and Saudi Arabia, despite clinching a last-minute draw with Tunisia in their group opener, widely regarded as the tournament’s whipping boys. It was clear that most of the other journalists had thought along the same lines and not even bothered to turn up. This worked to my advantage with me getting a ticket for the stadium’s “mixed zone” for the first time. For those of you scratching your heads, the “mixed zone” is not some regulated sector you may find at some middle eastern sporting event, where segregated sexes can mingle, but a strange set up in the bowels of the stadium where the media get to meet the players.
After Ukraine had comfortably disposed of the Saudis 4-0 (with ex Spurs man Serhiy Rebrov netting the pick of the goals) I sauntered down to check out this curious arrangement and see if I could wangle any interviews. As I learnt from my fellow journos, all the players from both teams are obliged by FIFA to file through what looked like a miniature maze you may find at an Elizabethan court, except it was constructed of opaque white boarding rather than perfectly manicured hedges. The poor old Saudis trudged through without garnering much interested from the gathered hacks and it took so long for Oleg Blokhin’s men to appear that we wondered if they had defied FIFA regulations. After about forty minutes of twiddling our thumbs they finally emerged in their blue and yellow tracksuits (any readers who studied at Eltham College, like myself, will know exactly what I am talking about). With a surge of blood to the head, I jumped straight into the thick of things and attempted to see if Chelsea’s new signing, Andriy Shevchenko, had managed pick up any English yet. I was dreaming of a mini exclusive as the prolific striker strung together his first sentence in the language of Shakespeare and Dickens. Unfortunately this sentence was rather shorter than I anticipated. In fact it consisted of just two paltry words…..”English? No!”
So there we were, any hopes of Shevchenko revelations in English were curtly dashed. Of course, I was perhaps expecting too much for the former Milan man to have adopted a cockney drawl yet. Learning English was the motivating factor for “Sheva” to up-sticks from the San Siro to Stamford Bridge, with the £30 million man underlining his desire for his son, Jordan, to learn the native tongue of his American mother, the model Kristen Pazik. When I asked his diminutive team-mate, Serhiy Rebrov, if he had imparted any of his flawless English (learnt from his days in North and East London), the somewhat blunt reply was thus, “Andriy should not be asking me for lessons, he should ask his wife.” “Very true Serhiy, thanks for your help” was, I’m sure, Shevcheko’s silent response. So no Ukraine exclusives, but a fantastic opportunity to come face to face with the players that had so far only appeared as mere specks on a verdant canvas from my position up in the gods. A great end to a day that started so negatively and I left the wonderful city of Hamburg looking forward to England in Cologne the next day. The wording of one flag at the AOL Arena had stuck firmly in my head. Let’s not worry, I thought, England have Vorsprung durch metatarsals.
Trapped in the FIFA bubble
I might be watching football in Germany but it definitely does not feel like it. Having enjoyed a season of the Bundesliga before this summer’s festival of football kicked off, it is starkly clear how banal FIFA’s influence on the matchday trappings has been. The football may be first class and the world’s fans who have descended on Germany have been brilliant but something still does not feel quite right. The problem lies within the fact that each stadium and its respective media area are identically branded and equipped. So despite the fact that I am writing this piece in Munich, the capital of a region that boasts an idiosyncratic culture that is marketed as typically “German” across the globe (I’m thinking brass ooom-pah bands here and fat red-faced men in Lederhosen), I may as well be sitting in Leipzig or Hamburg. When traveling for away matches in the Bundesliga, it is always an integral part of the day to sample the host’s home brew and cuisine, which may differ markedly from city to city. In Cologne, for example, you would be served a fairly fizzy light lager-style beer called Kölsch, which would come in thimble sized 200ml glasses. In Munich however, the average punter could look forward to a much thicker Weizenbier (wheat beer) served in more hefty half-litre measures. With Bier and Wurst in hand, you could then go and enjoy the match and a wholesome atmosphere standing in some of Europe’s best terraces. Even the pre-match music becomes part of the ritual, especially guessing what 80s power ballad your hosts for the day will run out to. My personal favourite is a combination of a helicopter sound followed by the opening bars of Van Halen’s “Jump”, which can be heard in Dortmund.
Of course, it is intricacies like these that are airbrushed out by FIFA’s corporate and safety obligations. Everything, yes everything, surrounding the matches I have attended so far has been mundanely homogenous. From the replacement of quality German beer in the stadia pumps with watery Budweiser, to the clothes of all the admin officials, to the stunted pre-match interview in broken English with tournament mascot Goleo (which always starts with the line, “it’s a lovely day for football”), to the cringeworthy “stand up for the champions” anthem played to the melody of Village People’s “Go West” as the teams leave the field, it is all one conveyor belt of conformability. The relentless marketing of the competition has taken its toll so much that I have even taken the step of boycotting many of the products endorsed at the World Cup. At least it has not got as ridiculous as it did in the Confederations Cup last summer when even the coin tossed by the referee before kick off was sponsored by Bonaqua water!
With all this blandness around you have to thank the colourful and ebullient fans of the world who make the atmosphere in the stadia and on the streets of the host cities fantastically diverse and lively. So if you want to go to the games you just have to bear in mind that as soon as you step through the turnstiles surrounding each stadium you are now entering FIFA’s quasi-totalitarian state.
It’s just like watching, er,…..England
There are some teams in this World Cup which have met and then surpassed their fans’ expectations. Sides such as Ghana, Ecuador and Australia fall into that category. Brazil, who the Socceroos took on in Munich yesterday, and England fall into an opposing clutch of teams which have so far played poorly but still picked up the points. With this dichotomy in mind, I was greatly anticipating seeing what I viewed as a clash of footballing philosophies in the most futuristic stadium in Germany, Herzog and de Meuron’s stunning Allianz Arena. Would Carlos Alberto Parreira’s men turn up with their flamboyant free flowing football that they are so lauded for and, if so, how would Guus Hiddink’s aggressive battlers deal with it? Aussies are, of course, famed for this highly competitive streak and there was no exception amidst their journalists, who I was nestled amongst in the press box. Not only did I receive a running and sometimes predictive commentary (”he will go left” was uttered every time Adraino got on the ball), but I was also party to an earful of coarse verbal abuse whenever they felt the referee, Markus Merk, was favouring the world champions. The location of the media seating was exceptionally close to the pitch, which gifted me a fisheye view of two great managers at work. It also meant that I witnessed little nuances that may otherwise go unnoticed. I never knew that Guus Hiddink repeatedly slaps himself on the cheek whenever he feels a decision goes against his team, for example. Thanks to my vantage point, I can also confirm that Marco Rodriguez, who officiated England’s first match against Paraguay, is indeed a Mexican love-child of Dracula!
The build up to the game had revolved around Parreira’s trust in a clearly unfit Ronaldo, a faith that was hardly repaid in this match. The Real Madrid striker’s supporters would correctly argue that he set up Adriano’s opening goal after 49 minutes, but this was indeed his solitary positvie input to the game. The striker seemed to be even more beleaguered at the post match press conference when a German journalist asked whether he was “too thick.” Most footballers, Ronaldo included, are not notorious for their acute intelligence but this seemed a step too far. A moment of dumbfounded silence followed before Parreira was informed that his number 9’s brainpower was not actually being questioned but merely that something had been lost in translation. In fact, we had returned to Ronaldo’s weight, with the journalist making a false translation of the German word for fat, “dick.”
Ronaldo’s ineptitude, along with Ronaldinho living up to the claim on an Aussie placard that he was actually a “Ronal-dingo,” meant that changes had to be made and the introduction of Robinho with just over fifteen minutes to go provided the impetus for the victory-sealing goal from Fred. Despite Australia’s hair-raising attempts from Viduka and the substitutes Bresciano and Kewell, they ended defeated on the pitch. In the stands, however, it was a different story with our antipodean friends distinctly drowning the South Americans out. This vehemence continued outside the confines of the stadium with one fan clothed in only a pair of tight blue swimming trunks matching his bold dress sense with his screeching cry of “Brasil will not win this World Cup.” On today’s performance I also doubt they will, but just like Eurovision Song Contest winners, Lordi, they have picked up all the points after a horrific performance. I don’t think you will see that comparison made anywhere else!
Don’t mention the …. !
Watching England then Argentina play within the space of 48 hours was an alarming experience. The old foes clashed at the last World Cup in the group stage with England coming out on top via David Beckham’s penalty and crossed swords again last December in the friendly where England again prevailed, this time 3-2. Comparing the two teams six months on however could not be more sobering for an England fan. Yesterday’s scintillating 6-0 annihilation of Serbia and Montenegro by Jose Pekerman’s team drastically put England’s sluggish 2-0 victory over Trinidad and Tobago into context. Both teams played a patient game but England lacked that killer ball and ruthless touch that Argentina brandished to devastating effect in Gelsenkirchen. Riquelme, Saviola, Tevez, Crespo and Messi made a mockery of the Serbian back line which had only conceded a solitary goal throughout their qualifying campaign. Although the defensive talisman Nemanja Vidic was absent through injury, it was still difficult to believe that an off colour Owen, a Rooney just returning from his metatarsal break and a lumbering Peter Crouch would have tormented the Sebs as much as the Albiceleste did.
Talking to a couple of seasoned fans who have followed England at many World Cups, the mood was strangely buoyant. They were convinced that they had seen this all before from England and that the main thing is that the three points were gained. I agreed with them to a point but failed to share their conviction that a tournament win was likely. Of course, England are notorious for raising their game against top ranking opposition and one could argue that Argentina and Spain, for instance, have peaked too soon. This must not excuse the fact that the first half against the Soca Warriors was so limp that England were roundly booed by the following masses. After the game Leo Beenhakker remarked that in football coaching “each manager is driving along the same road, just in different cars.” Continuing the analogy, England performed like a rusty Trabant stuck in neutral for the opening 45 minutes. However, in the end, as we saw against Paraguay, they were not truly scared. Things will surely be different against Sweden on Wednesday where the matter of avoiding the hosts in the next round will be at stake.
My experience of Nuremberg was, in clichéd football parlance, one of two halves. Ninety percent of the city was bombed by the allies during the Second World War, due to it being the base of the Nazi regime. The old town’s architecture, dating from the Middle Ages, has since been supremely restored and provided a much more cultured backdrop to the England fans’ drinking than the immediate vicinity of Frankfurt’s main station did last Saturday. As you walk through the city centre the gradient gradually increases until you reach the old castle that once guarded the city from attack. The England fans, in their own mini modern day invasion, had hunted down the nearest watering holes not making it as far as here, which rendered the castle as an oasis of tranquility and a refuge for the locals apathetic to football.
Nuremberg’s Frankenstadion, on the other hand, is situated in the more sinister setting of the former Nazi marching grounds. Much of Albert Speer’s monumental architecture, including the imposing Congress Hall, still remains. After the game I climbed up the steps that overshadow the former rally area in order to gain a better view of the stadium. Here I found the
When in doubt blame the frogs
We have known since Simon Kuper wrote his seminal Football Against the Enemy over a decade ago how football is inextricably linked to politics. I was reminded of his groundbreaking tome when doing my research on the 6 hour jaunt to Leipzig for the Spain-Ukraine tie. Here I was on my first trip to the former German Democratic Republic outside of Berlin, to the city that played the most important role in the crumbling of the iron curtain in Germany. It was in Leipzig in the autumn of 1989 that peaceful dissidents would gather in resistance to the regime. The two focal points of protest were the 12th century Nikolaikirche and the sprawling Augustus Platz (the latter now being the site of the FIFA Fan Fest including a mamouth big screen). Leipzig immediately surprised me on arrival at its grandiose main station. I was expecting a metropolis scattered with austere grey monoliths in the vein of East Berlin. In fact central Leipzig kept most of its booky charm and architectural splendour throughout the communist rule and boasts a fine array or renaissance and baroque buildings as well as some alluring pedestrianised streets and courtyards.
Before this turns into a script for Judith Charmers let us get back to the football . What intrigued me about this group H curtain-raiser was not the ensuing clash between the players but that of the managers. Here we had a Ukraine side led by European footballer of the year 1975 and national icon, Oleg Blokhin, who was facing a dynamic Spain outfit coached by the wiley Luis Aragones. The former is a Socialist party politician in the Ukraine and came under direct attack during the “Orange” revolution in November 2005 for his obvious clash of interests. To his left on the other bench sat Senõr Aragones, who grew up under the Franco dictatorship and is famed for his short temper. Not only was he heavily criticised for his racial outburst regarding Thierry Henry but also on his team’s arrival in Germany at Dortmund airport he was whipped into a fit of rage on presentation of a welcoming bouquet of flowers. Aragones has a pollen allergy and quite clearly a diplomacy allergy too.
In a small way their political beliefs manifested themselves on the touchline as the game progressed. Aragones was constantly on the perimeter of the technical area barking out instructions and gesticulating wildly as his Ukrainian counterpart was more content with rooting himself to the bench and appearing an equal to the rest of the team (he has already succeeded in removing Andriy Shevchenko from his pedestal) whilst ultimately knowing that he has the last word. So their political sensibilities could not have been more disparate and funnily enough the performances of their teams followed the same pattern.
Aragones’ dogmatic style clearly works as the Spanish are still unbeaten under his tenure and this match was another masterclass from Spain, who are so often riven by bad luck and angst in big tournaments. The decision to relegate Raul to the bench paid dividends as Valencia’s David Villa brought his sparkling La Liga form to the world’s greatest stage. His well taken (albeit deflected) free kick and assured conversion of a soft penalty supplemented Xabi Alonso’s headed opener. Even before the harsh red card and following penalty against Vladyslav Vashchuk, Spain were in the ascendency. A fact that was even more chilling when you consider they still had the likes of Raul, Reyes, Joaquin, Iniesta and Fabregas warming the already scorching hot bench. With a healthy lead, Aragones could afford to introduce the Arsenal starlet and this eventually led to the most captivating goal of the game; the cherry on top of the rather large and lavishly glazed cake if you like. Carlos Puyol advanced up the field and battled in midfield before playing an incisive one-two with Fabregas and then setting up Fernando Torres to volley in with aplomb. By far the best goal of the tournament and a rude awakening for tournament debutants Ukraine.
Unfortunately, it was not their first untimely wake up call of the week. The players had complained that frogs from the nature reserve neighbouring the team hotel had been disturbing their sleep. Perhaps this, combined with Spain’s flair and a slew of incorrect offside decisions against them, meant that Blokhin’s men produced no more than a discordant croak today.
Italia Fantastica!!
Destination Hanover: the elegant capital of Lower Saxony once a crucial feeder to Britain’s monarchical lineage but today playing host to the more earthy affair of Italy-Ghana in group E. The city has not relinquished its close links to the UK, however, as the owners of Jack the Ripper’s English Pub would, I’m sure, remind you over a cold pint of Newcie Broon. Having visited before, I already knew of the stadium’s close proximity to the city centre, which therefore meant I avoided the media shuttle bus and strolled through the renovated old town with the fans en route to the match. A pleasant counterpoint to last night’s sweaty trek via train and tram to Angola-Portugal in Cologne. Once again it was a duel between Mediterranean Europe and Africa and, just like yesterday, a fair amount of locals joined the party too. This created a distinctly more cosmopolitan and carnival-like ambiance, both in and out of the stadium, than I witnessed in Frankfurt on Sea on Saturday.
With the ongoing investigation into match fixing in Serie A, leaving Juventus still unsure what league they will be playing in next season, Italy’s silver haired coach, Marcello Lippi, had billed this clash as the “most important” in the careers of his players, who were expected to harbour a fragile confidence. He had also promised attacking endeavour, in the vain of his Juventus team of the mid 90s, in order to help blow the cobwebs of Catenaccio well and truly away. The extent to which Calcio is dogged by defensiveness was inadvertently underlined just after Andrea Pirlo had stuck his sublime curler through a crowd of players to open the scoring. The big screen flashed up the erroneous statistic that the Milan midfielder’s goal was only Italy’s eleventh (!!) in their rich World Cup history. With Francesco Totti fit enough to start and European Golden Boot winner, Luca Toni, partnering Alberto Gilardino up front, Italy could easily score that amount of goals in this tournament alone. This possibility was clearly underlined when Udinese’s Vincenzo Iaquinta came on for Gilardino and scored Italy’s match clinching goal. The Italy of days gone by would never have made like for like substitutions in attack (Del Piero also entered in place of Toni), instead opting to see a 1-0 lead out with resolute defending. This tactical sea change, coupled with the guile and ambition of Ghana, made for a lively encounter. Not least at half time when I went to buy a Bockwurst only to get caught in the middle of a frenzied rabble of Ghanaians berating the lack of quality on their bench. In the end the Africans’ showing was much like that of Angola and the Ivory Coast over the last two nights. All have done better than expected and at times looked acutely threatening but none have had the class to convert their copious chances and scare more experienced outfits on the world stage.
If my words sound frighteningly familiar then please take my apologies. My seat in the press box was directly under the on-site BBC studio and the ex-Bayern Munich manager Ottmar Hitzfeld, now working as a pundit for German pay TV channel Premiere, was situated just in front of me. I am therefore hoping that I have not, by some weird form of osmosis, adopted a hybrid Wright-Hansen-Hitzfeld beast of match analysis. Now that was something to ponder as I wandered back to the station accompanied by a heady mixture of honking car horns and tribal drums.
Mad dogs and (truck loads of) Englishmen
As the old cliche goes, only mad dogs and Englishmen go out in the midday sun. This certainly bore some truth on this sweltering afternoon in Frankfurt where a whole swarm of English chavs, sorry…fans, had transformed Germany’s sober city of finance into a small province of blighty ahead of the game against Paraguay. The cross of St George had been hoisted upon every edifice imaginable, the beer was flowing, the tatooed (salmon pink) flesh was showing. These were the genuine fans who by hook or by crook had made it to Germany but these were not the fans going to the game. The talk amongst the masses was obviously about tickets…or the lack of them. Those who did have their mitts on the day’s holy grail were a different breed altogether. Families and people in suits on corporate freebies gave the environs of the stadium a distinctly more refined atmosphere to the boisterousness of downtown Frankfurt. This contrast wasn’t lost on one snobby broadsheet journalist I overheard who labeled the England hardcore as “riff raff.” According to him, football was a mere “sideshow”, so quite what he was doing at such a monumental event like this I will never know.
The true fans who had the fortune to be part of the action provided a hair-raising atmosphere before kick-off, which translated into a dream start for Sven’s men. Once again a Beckham delivery from a set piece created havoc with Carlos Gamarra heading into his own net. England’s World Cup campaign had faultlessly left the starting blocks, then met the hurdle of Marco Rodriguez’s pedantic refereeing only to end up barely stumbling across the finishing line. Once again their play petered out in the stifling heat. Although the game never looked like being out of their control, I failed to garner any hope from this hors d’oeuvre that they could beat another favourite, such as Brasil, in the latter stages. If England’s campaign is to end in glory then we must pray for for an nosedive in the weather. The blue skies and soaring temperatures may be a blessing for Germany’s tourist board but could mean England’s quest for success vanishes as timidly as it did in 2002.
The searing heat was again the topic of discussion as I waited for the media bus back to the station with the Daily Express’s Mick Dennis. Talking to this industry veteran about the FIFA’s avarice [15,000 volunteers are providing the tournament organisers with free catering, sanitary and marshaling services…Internet access for journalists to file their reports in the stadium costs a princely €160 per match!…I could easily go on], the future of print media and even London’s mayor, Ken Livingstone, was arguably my highlight of the day. Or was it? The England flag I spotted at the game emblazoned with “Claire, don’t give birth yet” provided an intriguing rival. The mere possibilty of missing the birth of a child in preference of ING-ER-LAND is a perfect example of the curate’s egg that is England’s faithful band of followers.
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