The Zeitgeist takes a break and reports on the event of the year – the FIFA 2010 World Cup.
After more than 20 days and 50 matches, this World Cup 2010 edition nestled in the heart of the pulsating and thriving African continent is just waking up from its slumber and getting started.
Shambolic performances, players’ mutiny, shocking losses, tired legs from playing months of intensive football in Europe, disallowed goals, altitude and a much derided match ball that swivels like a kite, the litany of excuses, rhetoric disguised as rationalisations, and tragic endings to the hyperbolic headlines ring hollow and louder than even the vuvuzelas.
Where do we even begin?
It was written in the first match night with the Jabulani ball kicked off by the farcical French, which subsequently descended into a strike (very French if you ask me), its Sports Minister and federation chiding the players into shame and the 2006 finalist’s eventual exit. Good riddance to Allez France, including defending champions Italy, which comprises a stable of old war horses puffing their way through ignominy.
And there was the low goal ratio in the earlier part of the tournament thanks to half-fit players (Drogba, Torres, Kaka, Ronaldo guilty as charged) and a ball that floated uneasily in the air and bounced too easily off goalkeepers’ safe hands (Robert Greenfingers). Until Germany’s 4-0 defeat of Australia, Argentina’s 4-1 drubbing of South Korea and Portugal’s 7-0 goal buffet lifted some spirits.
It was ironic too when the world’s best players plied their trade in some of the toughest leagues in Europe and ended up all bruised and battered at the end of the seasons, carrying their baggage to South Africa. Turns out it was just an Indian summer for so-called European mavericks like France, Italy, Serbia, Greece and Denmark, teams that arrived with some respect, high expectations but offered absolutely nothing to the imagination.
But if fatigue were an excuse, let alone a raison d’être, then how does one make of Carlos Tevez and Gareth Barry, club mates at Manchester City who played almost the same amount of club matches but performed differently at their respective national levels? Tevez was brilliant for Maradona’s Argentina, but Barry failed to make an impact in an indifferent English side.
History does not lie and has a habit of foretelling what lies ahead. No European team has won the World Cup outside of its continent, which is a hard fact for favourites Spain, Netherlands and Germany to stomach. Spain’s shocking 1-0 loss to Switzerland and Germany’s 1-0 defeat by Serbia showed how these Europeans could simply choke in the winter altitude anytime.
Choke they did and the latest fallen comrade in the second round included the Three Lions that became lambs slaughtered by the ruthless Germans. The English returned home to criticism from the melodramatic press (no surprises) which in the first placed heaped praises and pressure on the team before the tournament, labelling them the golden generation. With Emile Heskey, the Aston Villa striker who managed five goals for the entire season in the English Premier League, there’s nothing gold, silver or glittery about Fabio Capello’s squad.
Amidst the banality befitting the World Cup (think England’s goalless draw with Algeria, France’s half-hearted displays and Cristiano Ronaldo’s no-show at the tournament except for a farewell spit), there is still a glimmer of hope that things will turn for the better because sport, above politics, above show business and above contrite Hollywood movies, makes people believe in the impossible.
A belief that beauty, technique and God’s work shall prevail in Lionel Messi dribbling with the ball glued to his feet, Mesut Ozil slicing a pass through the Australian defence like butter and Arjen Robben sidestepping defenders before stroking the ball into the net.
This belief and hope exist.
Such is the unadulterated hope and infectious joy of every football fan in watching the Spanish play tiki-taka football, the Brazilians exulting samba while balancing Dunga’s pragmatism, the organised Germans counter attacking swiftly, the Dutch mesmerising us with Total Football, the Argentineans attacking and attacking with careless abandon under the spell of their legendary coach who is unfortunately, or rather uncomfortably wrapped in a fancy suit, and just about every South American team making meatballs (or picanha) out of the European continental masters.
Goals imploded (David Villa and Gonzalo Higuain have four goals each), returning players like Robben showed glimpses of brilliance, back-to-back action flowed (Germany vs England, Argentina vs Mexico) and the Asians fared admirably with South Korea and Japan advancing to the second round. Even the beautiful free kicks were translating into goals.
Finally, there is life breathed into football, magic instilled in those blessed legs and a sense of wonder that more is to come in the last seven matches of the tournament. We wait with bated breath at the sight of open, attractive football between Brazil and the Netherlands and at the juxtaposition of liberating and counter attacking between Argentina and Germany.
In just over a week, the world will come to terms and mourn the end of a sporting event that dazzled many, berate poor refereeing decisions, curse under-performing players, chant the names of goal scorers, whisper prayers for victories and healing injuries, and celebrate the two deserving teams that will play their hearts out in the finale in Soccer City. This time, the cries, chants and prayers will shake the grounds much louder than the vuvuzelas.
