Onward!

By Ben Knight

Hey, folks.

I’m taking a short break to deal with a flurry of work and life matters.

All is well.  I’ll be back in a week or two.

Onward!

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By Ben Knight

As much as I despise cheating, the Luis Suarez last-second handball that saved Uruguay’s World Cup bacon against Ghana is a leopard of a very different spot.

It was a moment of absolute blind panic – both ways. Ghana were desperate to cash in a goal, and avoid the nightmare of penalty kicks in their hugely dramatic bid to be the first African nation ever to qualify for the World Cup’s final four. Uruguay were in defensive tatters, their goalie out of the play, the ball rocketing for the back of their net.

In war, this is an instantaneous, fatal decision. By reaching out his arm to block the ball, Suarez essentially threw his body over a hand grenade to give his platoon mates a chance to live through the night. He was instantly red-carded – and suspended, and his teammates still had to stand around and watch the imminent nightmare of Asamoah Gyan’s penalty kick.

Nothing instantaneous about this. Masses of people who were actually watching the game missed Suarez’s suicidal second. Glanced away, looking for the popcorn, opening a beer, letting your best friend in the door because he picked that fated moment to arrive (that’s what happened to me, at least).

But there’s no such mercy on a penalty kick at 120 minutes of extra time. Last kick of the game. Striker should connect at along about a ninety-per-cent kill rate. Everyone rushes to the screen to see it. The viewing audience grows hugely in the minute or so it takes to sort out the pre-kick niceties. What do you bet two-thirds of the entire nation of Ghana was watching by the time Gyan addressed the ball?

I wonder – now – how it might possibly feel to have the entire weight of your home nation dropped on you from a great height? All Gyan had to do was burn one ball past one very small and inexperienced netminder, and the biggest soccer street party in the history of coastal West Africa would have instantaneously ignited.

The military mission was clear. Gyan had been chosen to summarily execute the impudent Suarez – and all his South American squadron mates besides. The futility of the Uruguayan target man’s sacrifice was about to be made plain. Justice – by anybody’s measure – was about to be done.

(Yes, yes, I know this all goes out the window if Ghana was as offside as a large number of still photos all over the internet suggest. That’s another metaphor for another time. Today, we field the call that was actually made.)

I have written, more than occasionally, that penalty kicks are psychologically sadistic. Not for the goalies. They know damn well they’re supposed to lose. The only thing that can statistically go wrong on a spot kick is if the ball stays out of the net. And that’s so rare – on any normal day in any normal park – it doesn’t bear thinking about.

Ah, but Gyan was thinking about it. It was burning in his desperate eyes. All that endless time that passes as the call is made and Suarez is red-carded and the ball is put on the spot and Suarez slowly wanders to the sideline and everyone in Ghana who is watching the game shouts, screams, urges and summons everyone in Ghana who isn’t watching the game to hurry hurry right this minute get over here and watch this game!!!

For all of that emotional eternity, Asamoah Gyan stood alone.

It’s not a time you want to think. Not helpful to know what’s at stake – and certainly corrosive to the cranium to even slightly ponder at the aching implications … of a miss. Kill that thought. Banish it. But now you think about NOT thinking about missing.

And the problem is so simple. Get that ball away from the goalie, and safely into the net. He’s not even a big goalie. Just under the bar should do it. Just under … just under … maybe just a titch more lift to be certain ….

And just like that, Asamoah Gyan hits the crossbar. Uruguay is alive through deception, but have survived their penalty, and the rules are clear.

For now, it really doesn’t matter that Ghana lost the subsequent shootout, and that two quite different Ghanaians other than Gyan missed their shots, and that’s why Ghana really lost. History will never remember that.

One man had one almost-certain shot to lift his nation higher than anyone on their entire continent had ever climbed. And the shot – with no interference whatsoever from the opposing goalie – never made it to the net.

How do you live with something like that? How will that ever, ever go away? All of Gyan’s inspired, often brilliant play, the lifetime of physical punishment it took to even bet there in the first place, the certain knowledge that nine times out of ten he becomes his country’s Paul Henderson if that cursed ball had settled in the twine.

Too much, folks. Too much.

Things like this happen in war. My grandfather met my grandmother when he returned from World War I with the news that her fiancée had been killed in action – after the armistice was signed. If that pointless, extra-time tragedy doesn’t happen, I’m not here to tell this tale.

If Suarez doesn’t cheat, Gyan never gets a chance to be the hero. Nor does he get to be the scapegoat.

As a wrenching piece of human drama, the whole damn couple of minutes were astonishing. But this was war, and there were casualties.

My hatred of cheating is reserved for those who were neither caught, nor punished. You know who you are, Diego, and I thoroughly enjoyed what happened to you this weekend.

Suarez was caught, and punishment was swift. The bitter battlefield tragedy is that Asamoah Gyan will never be free of the memory.

Onward!

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By Ben Knight

Sometimes, something happens that just can’t happen on its own. You see it, your brain rejects it, and you leap up, point and shout “Aha!”

(Or Yoiks!, Streuth!, Hands off the creampuffs, Molly!, or the ever-popular Gotcha!)

No, I’m not talking about match-fixing. Haven’t even given that cursed subject a blessed thought since the World Cup kicked off. I’m talking about something far less likely, and infinitely more … subtle.

Let us shift the scene to a sumptuous hotel suite in some exotic city, pretty much any time in the past couple of years. The sleepy man in the Ebeneezer Scrooge nightdress is FIFA president Sepp Blatter.

The ghost appears, wearing an old, red soccer jersey with the number 10 on the back.

Blatter: Who … who goes there?

Ghost: A friend.

Blatter: I have no friends.

Ghost: No, but your level of self-awareness is higher than I thought.

Blatter: Stop right there. Don’t make me sic Jack Warner on you.

Ghost: I am a spirit, Sepp. There is nothing you can do to harm me.

Blatter: What do you want?

Ghost: To set you straight.

Blatter: You couldn’t afford it.

Ghost: Money means nothing to a ghost, Sepp. Although I fear it will to you when your time comes.

Blatter: What’s this about, anyway? If not money ….

Ghost: Instant replay.

Blatter: (Coughs, sputters, shakes head, pops eyes) Instant replay?

Ghost: Yep. It’s time.

Blatter: But the purity of the game!

Ghost: Save that wheeze for the press corps, Sepp. I know you far too well for that.

Blatter: If replay was about money, we’d have it by now. I assure you, there’s been no shortage of offers.

Ghost: I don’t care why. I’m just here to tell you what’s going to happen if you don’t let video cameras help out with goal/no goal decisions.

Blatter: You’re threatening me?

Ghost: Promising you.

Blatter: Promising … what?

Ghost: Sepp, what if I told you England and Germany are going to meet in the 2010 World Cup?

Blatter: It’s certainly possible, but no one knows for sure.

Ghost: I do.

Blatter: How?

Ghost: I just got back from the game. 4-1 to Germany – and you’re about to tell the world you’re rethinking video replay.

Blatter: Impossible! Nothing could do that!

Ghost: Do you recognize this shirt I’m wearing, Sepp?

Blatter: Red. Old. Are those three lions on the crest?

Ghost: England. 1966. Do you recognize the number on the back.

Blatter: 10. So?

Ghost: Geoff … Hurst.

Blatter: Oh, even I know that one! Scored the winning goal against Germany in extra time at Wembley. The ball came down off the crossbar, and probably didn’t go over the line. All the pro-replay fools point to that one.

Ghost: Very good.

Blatter: So what?

Ghost: It’s going to happen again. Frank Lampard for England, and this one’s going in. The ref won’t see it, the goal doesn’t count, and Germany wins 4-1.

Blatter: …

Ghost: And the whole world sees the instant replay.

Blatter: That would be … awkward.

Ghost: Awkward? Wait till you see the look on Lampard’s face! Eyes imploring, heart stopped – gotta be one of the great soccer photos of the decade.

Blatter: England-Germany, ball off the bar, blown call ….

Ghost: Again.

Blatter: You can’t.

Ghost: I did.

Blatter: But why?

Ghost: The world has changed, Sepp. People want what they can see with their eyes. Your refs have a lot of ground to cover. They can’t see everything.

Blatter: So I’ll put extra refs beside the nets.

Ghost: And one day, one of them will blow a call, and you’ll look like ….

Blatter: Don’t say it.

Ghost: Hey, just because I can see and change the future doesn’t mean I can adequately complete that sentence.

Blatter: Well, what about offside calls?

Ghost: Well, that comes up in a different game the very same day. Different issue, though, because you can’t reverse it if the flag comes up when it should have stayed down.

Blatter: We’re splitting hairs.

Ghost: Yes, but there may be hyper-pedantic witnesses to our chat – if anyone ever writes it up.

Blatter: Whoever you are, I cannot believe such a thing will ever happen. Sure, a ball will come down off a crossbar soon, and that’s always a tough call. But England, against Germany? Impossible.

Ghost: It’s already happened, Sepp. You just haven’t passed through that time yet.

Blatter: This is nonsense. I am dreaming. You are not real. Replay is out. Case closed.

Ghost: So be it, Sepp. When it happens, you will know.

Blatter: IT WILL NOT HAPPEN!!

Ghost: So, I guess there’s no point in me telling you what fate’s got lined up for Jack Warner in 2013?

Blatter: (Is it good?)

Ghost: (Could be.)

The ghost vanishes. Blatter refuses to allow replay. England and Germany are drawn in adjacent groups, and face each other in the round of 16.

Onward!

By Ben Knight

It’s insidious, it’s real – and as of noon Wednesday, Eastern daylight time, it’s entirely justified.

In the wake of the America-Algeria climax, my pal Rudi Schuller Facebooked in from South Africa his puzzlement that he’d found himself cheering for Landon Donovan … again.

I know how he feels – and the disorientation is a tricky adjustment. 

With his last-gasp winning goal that won Group C and kept Uncle Sam’s World Cup stumble dance alive, Citizen Landon Captain America Donovan has cemented his place as the uncontested outward face of Yank soccer.  It’s one of the biggest goals in the nation’s footy history, and should prove to be a huge boon to popularizing the world’s most popular game in the world’s most traditionally reluctant soccer nation.

I’m not anti-American.  I’m deeply skeptical of America, but that’s not the same thing at all.  I’ve always thought the United States was – on average – a little too heavily armed to be that globally naïve.  And Landon’s pretty-boy-we’re-number-one thing has never, ever gone down well. 

For all those years, the American hype machine told us all what a great player Landon Donovan is – honest!  And for most of those same years, we looked at his poor performances in Europe, and thought yeah, the kid can play a bit, but so hairy wot?  Toss in Landon’s role with the 2008 L.A. Galaxy, who played like desiccated dog barf for eight calendar months on the trot, and liking Donovan just wasn’t much of an option, most days.

Too cute.  Too sweet.  Too much of all the things I distrust and dislike about George Bush and Sarah Palin’s America.

But then …

- Landon does just fine at Everton, thanks. 

- Landon is a huge contributor to a brilliant, league-leading start for the oh-ten Galaxy.

- Landon neatly and professionally scores that all-world, ultra-clutch winner against Algeria.

Try this on, Landon haters:

Who cares how the kid does in Europe?  What if his true role is to be THE American soccer superstar, and play all his finest years – and best football – based in Major League Soccer?

Nothing Landon didn’t do in two tours of Germany is hurting him in any way at all as he leads the U.S. into the round of 16, and the Galaxy to a huge lead at the top of the domestic ladder.  Nothing about Landon’s smarmy cuteness matters a whit compared to the genuine, deeply human joy and pride he’s been expressing – eloquently and almost humbly – ever since the Algerians went down.

This … is … a … good … soccer … story.

A REALLY good soccer story – and there’s nothing in my Tea-Party-despising, stars-and-stripes-induced nagging, cautious Canadian concern that even matters a whit anymore.

Landon Donovan wasn’t put on this planet to be a soccer superstar in Europe.  He’s here to be the man who – finally – makes Major League Soccer matter in its own country.

That’s a significantly good trick, y’all.  And I freely and gleefully admit I’m enjoying watching Captain America do his work.

Thoughts?

Onward!

By Ben Knight

On the morning of the opening of the third go-round of opening-round games, all five South American nations are leading their groups at World Cup 2010.

Uruguay is up on goal-difference.  Paraguay and Brazil are up by two clear points.  Argentina and Chile up by three.  All five are clearly favoured to advance to the round of 16. 

At a time when the six-team African challenge has all-but-pancaked.  Ghana is leading Group D, but is far from safe.  Everyone else save Cote D’Ivoire in last place, and Didier Drogba’s Elephants need Portugal to lose to Brazil, and have nine whooping goals worth of goal-difference to overcome.  If Ghana falls to Germany, and the Serbs get a result against Los Socceroos, the entire African contingent could be extinct by Friday.

Africa’s woes have been well-discussed by now.  But what is up with the South Americans?

Could it really be as simple as they are all well-used to the Southern-Hemisphere winter, and play at high altitude more frequently than their European cousins, who tend – in general – to play less well away from the home continent?

In the tournament’s largely sleepy opening 16 matches, caution ruled.  Only Germany consistently dashed forward and tore it up.  The South Americans, in general, weren’t that far behind in their desire to run and push the ball, but were largely unable to connect with the enemy net.

The whole tournament changed, I feel, when Brazilian defender Maicon tore home that goal-line screamer to finally breach the North Korean defence.  Since then, Uruguay, Brazil and Argentina are practically scoring at will.  Chile looks very dangerous, and Paraguay are working their butts off to go forward.

And though it’s quite possible Uruguay and Argentina could yet be drawn against each other in the round of 16, a lot of oddity would have to occur for Chile and Brazil to find each other.  Which is a windy way of saying we could yet see five South American flags still flying in the quarterfinals!

On the European side of the coin, Germany’s attacking flare fizzled out in their 0-1 loss to Serbia, and Portugal’s seven-goal avalanche against North Korea may or may not actually prove anything.  Yes, the PRK held Brazil off the board for 55 minutes.  But anytime you do something globally unexpected in the World Cup, the entire world is – of course – watching.  That means the Portuguese had several days to gauge the Northerners’ defensive weaknesses, which they had to because this is the group of death, and if they hadn’t ripped the Koreans for seven, it’s still very possible that Cote D’Ivoire would.

Overall, I find the South Americans far more convincing so far.  They look brave, clever – and comfortable.  That’s a winning combination, and I’m not really seeing it – for any bankable stretch of time – from really any of the European sides thus far.

Onward!

By Ben Knight

Into the second batch of World Cup matches, and random thoughts rule. 

As the matches blur by, and every clearer pattern could turn out to be a murkier one by nightfall, here’s an early list of things I love – and don’t love – about whatever in the blessed name of heck is actually transpiring on the sacred soccer pitches of South Africa.

LOVES:

- Goals!  Suddenly, they’re coming.  Get the opening-match jitters out of the way, and now we’re seeing some real attacking mastery.  Uruguay!  Argentina!  Germany (who didn’t wait)!  … Greece?  The first rack of games taught us, basically, that every team in the tournament can play defence.  Yeah, the Aussies got shred-ripped, but the Germans were exceptional against a side that generally takes better-than-decent care of its own fishnet.  No surprise, really.  Goals-against kill you dead in World Cup qualifying, and every team except the hosts qualified.  The telling moment, for me, came when Brazil were held off the board for an eternity by the game and enigmatic North Koreans.  They couldn’t find any space to run stunts, and were basically caught standing around, waiting flat-footed for the ball, for the entire first half.  But then Brazil’s Maicon ripped home the first marker – from down the goal line, beside the goal!  I think this entire World Cup is going to come down to open runs, brilliant passes, and odd-angle bomb jobs.  The team that can be most creative in attack – Brazil?  Germany?  Argentina?  … Chile? – could easily be the one that wins it all.  I truly hope so – because good, grim defence is everywhere, and the human spirit is always better served by brilliance. 

- The opening match: Not the best match of the tournament by any stretch, but South Africa and Mexico served up a game both gritty and soaring, perfectly in keeping with the elated, hype-soaked atmosphere.  Could South African goalie Itumeleng Khune be the second coming of Fabian Barthez?  Like the famously eccentric French legend, there seems no way to tell which body part the lightfooted Khune will deploy to knock down the next shot.  And then, in the second game, he gets red-carded on a letter-of-the-law but dreadfully soft professional foul.  The entire Barthez bag of tricks, and I’m enjoying him tremendously (or I was, because he’s unlikely to be back).  Despite being an eternally grim Canada fan, I found myself very impressed with both the patience and craft of the Mexicans.  And then they turned it loose on Fraudulent France (see below).  A joyous start, which the remainder of the opening 16 games really didn’t much live up to.

- Kontrasting Koreas: The South Koreans roared into the fray with joy, heart and hustle, and buried Greece in their opener.  The North Koreans were stern, tough and tireless, and just about bagged what would have been a superbly earned result against Brazil.  Unfortunately for the southerners, they made the mistake of taking the field for their match against Argentina.  In a game where they absolutely had to control and run the ball, they didn’t.  4-1 loss.  The North still has Portugal and Cote D’Ivoire to survive.  If they can hold their initial intent better than their peninsula-mates, they may yet have a chance.  At this point, it looks bad at both ends.  But both Koreas have certainly created some moments here.

(I’m interested to note, by the by, that my adopted bandwagon lads – Cote D’Ivoire – didn’t make my love list.  I found it pretty easy to break my chronic habit of decades by not cheering for England this time around.  But the team I’ve adopted for the month – Didier Drogba’s fleet-footed African Elephants – just aren’t yet grabbing my heart.  I think I know exactly why (not their fault at all), and I’ll write it up sometime next week.)

UNLOVES:

- What Switzerland did to Spain: Yeah, it was a ringing upset, they worked their arses off all day and I have at least one Swiss friend who is over-the-moon ecstatic about offing the Euro ’08 champions.  But I’m still miffed at Los Switzers for their spirit-crunching negativity in Germany four years ago, and that crease-crunching kamikaze clobber run they scored on yesterday must – I deeply, pleadingly hope – remain the ugliest goal of the entire tournament.  Also, the Swiss win hugely cranks up the likelihood that pre-tourney favourites Spain and Brazil will actually have to face each other in the round of 16 (but that’s not Switzerland’s fault).  It was an ecstatic day of cheese and cuckoo clocks, but more fault Spain for not putting at least a half dozen more of their open shots actually on goal.

- France: “Do you ever feel like you’ve been cheated?” a demoralized Johnny Rotten famously asked a jeering, hostile audience at one of the Sex Pistols’ final gigs in the United States.  They should have played that clip through the loudspeakers for every minute of Les Bleus’ first two matches in South Africa.  No, I’m not especially talking about Thierry Henry’s awful handball that beat Ireland in the final hurdle of qualifying.  Truth is, that shameful moment only robbed the Irish of a fifty-fifty penalty-kick-shootout chance of making the dance.  But given that the French got here under a cloud, could they not, at least, brew up any tiny semblance of positive football once the bell rang?  The Uruguay game was the worst since the Swiss-Ukraine snore-off in ’06.  And the Mexican game wasn’t any better – until the Mexicans started scoring.  The only good that can come from this – aside from the public tar-and-feather firing of French manager Raymond Domenech in the Place Concorde at dawn a week tomorrow – is if the French continue their dreadful play, and let the host South Africans earn a historic triumph on both teams’ way out the door.  Failing that, France has been an utter waste of everybody’s time and good intentions.

- The damn plastic horns: I know, I know – easy target.  Way back in the early days of the Toronto Blue Jays baseball club, there was a brief flirtation with plastic horns in the north grandstand of Exhibition Stadium.  I freely admit I was taking myself far too seriously as a baseball fan back then, but I continue to believe my considerable level of annoyance was entirely justified.  I’m feeling it again, now – but for a very different reason.  Back then, I wanted some reverential quiet for a rather thoughtful sport.  Now, I want to hear the real noise.  The fans – from all over the world.  Their songs, their chants – heck, just their voices since I wouldn’t even be able to understand most of their languages.  Okay, the horns are colourful and trendy, and we all knew this was going to happen this time.  But it is pollution.  Not BP vs Louisiana pollution, but all-pervasive and damaging nonetheless.  I did actually hear Mexican fans chanting near the end of the France game.  It sounded wonderful!

I’m spending the weekend out of town, at a wedding in my new and suddenly extended family.  Back Monday!

Onward!

By Ben Knight

Well, that turned into work in a hurry, didn’t it?

I’m so lulled and dulled by most of the soccer I’ve seen over the past two days, I don’t even remember the circumstances of Slovenia’s winning goal against Algeria yesterday morning. 

I was eating French toast in bed in Peterborough, and was about 15 minutes away from driving back to Toronto.  I know I’d spent the better part of two hours watching what looked for all the world like a Portland Timbers intrasquad game from 1976 – both for the uniforms and the quality of play.

I saw the goal, reacted to it, explained the bit about the selfish red card against the Algerian to my sweetie, finished eating, grabbed my bag, fired up the Honda and hit the 115 – leaving all memory of the actual scoring play behind me at the big house in the Kawarthas.

It was far from the only forgettable incident to saggily unfurl on these lackluster third and fourth days of World Cup 2010.

Serbia and Ghana cooked up some passion, bless them.  But the game sounded far more exciting in the occasional radio updates on the highway than it turned out to be when I watched the late replay at home last night.  Another red-card act of selfishness (Serbia), and another late 1-0 win (Ghana).

In between, of course, was Germany.  More on them in a few grafs.

This morning, the Dutch burped out a 2-0 win over Denmark, on a deflected own-goal and a dead-ball sitter off the post.  Full credit, but neither of those scoring plays was exactly planned.

Japan and Cameroon put in some effort, but there was no genius at all on display in a 1-0 Japanese win that could – and possibly should – have gone the other way late.

We actually had news and incident when Italy fell behind late in the first half to a brilliantly headed-in free kick from Paraguay.  But the Italians – playing with their usual lack of opening-round urgency – were content to wait for the Paraguayan ‘keeper to completely miss a corner kick, allowing for an open-net nudge-in to split the game – and the points – 1-1.

What all these contests lacked was real inspiration.  Too much caution.  Too much waiting for the other side to make a mistake.

Remember, folks, when Senegal hugely upset France in the opening match of World Cup 2002?  What I loved most of all about that game was that the African team – made up almost entirely of unheralded players from the French second division – had the cheek and nerve to go into that match with a plan for winning.

Yeah, the goal was scuffed home, and was even worse than the ones the Dutch and Italians scored today.  But there was a plan.

Except for the Germans, I’m not seeing much of that right now.

What the heck?  These teams qualified to be here.  Only a small number have any realistic chance of lifting the trophy on July 11.  Why not come out and play your best?

France and Italy are half-assing it, like they always, always do off the top.  The Dutch looked ordinary, and England — surprise, oh soggy surprise! — underachieved.  Heck, the only team I’ve seen play with all-out joy, desire and hunger so far are the South Koreans.

… And the Germans.

THAT was brilliant.  Ripping up a pretty decent defensive Australian side 4-0, with a dizzying series of timing patterns, laser passes and carefully disguised, impossible-to-defend runs.  And even when a German actually got in alone on the Aussie goal (Thomas Muller, to make it 3-0), the player executed an outrageous spin-o-rama to shred what little resistance the Aussies were already positionally unlikely to offer.

Maybe it was just the way the teams matched up, but the game was very reminiscent of that unheralded German side of four years ago, who ripped the spit out of Costa Rica with sudden, brilliant goals and a 4-2 triumph in the lid-lifter.  And the Aussies weren’t bad, you know.  This one could have been 4-2 as well.  There was never any doubt, though, once the balls started flying in, that the youthful Germans were going to win this one going away.

If only that match weren’t utterly out of keeping with the dull, dour, defensiveness that is drowning this tourney in the early days.  I’ve seen five better-than-okay matches out of eleven (RSA-MEX, KOR-GRE, ARG-NGA, ENG-USA, GER-AUS), and the England game only captivated me because I did 1,500 words of surgery on my own psyche whilst it was unwinding.

We desperately need a Group of Death.  Right now.

And we’ve got it – as soon as New Zealand and Slovakia quit kitten-fitting each other at dawn.  Portugal needs very urgently to show up for its opening match against Cote D’Ivoire, and your guess is as good as mine what Brazil v North Korea is going to look like.

Certainly, tomorrow has to be better.  We’re only four days in.  I deeply hope that what we’ve seen isn’t what we’re going to get the rest of the way.

Onward!

By Ben Knight

And so, for the first time since I fired England as the team I always cheer for in the World Cup, it was time to settle in and watch them play.  And of all the sides they could be opposing on this achingly overdue occasion, wouldn’t it just have to be These United States?

This blog charts the match’s emotional ups and downs – and not because I seriously think anyone really cares who I’m cheering for.  It’s more an examination of the whole issue of unconditional soccer support, and whether one can actually free oneself from an unhappy association with a team that drives you asinine, and diminishes your will to live.

Ing-er-land, Ing-er-land, Ing-er-land.

It’s a life sentence, they’ll tell you – and I desperately want that not to be true.  I feel driven down and diminished by England’s narrow view of the world game.  I’m tired of never being fully free to support bolder, more creative sides.

I could have done without it being the Americans on the other side.  But on the other hand, Major League Soccer is the league I directly cover.  The thought that a briefly over-achieving upstart like Edson Buddle of the L.A. Galaxy could actually be in position to dent England’s World Cup dream is ironic – funny, actually.  Buddle doesn’t start.  Oh, well.

Odd how the universe can set you up, sometimes.  Two days after I fired England, I actually encountered my long-lost ex-wife in St. George subway station in Toronto.  Hadn’t seen her in eight years.  She looked happy and well, and we had a very pleasant little chat.  Quite gentle, given the huge emotional range that can be in play in such a situation.

Ah, but that was just real life.  This is soccer.  And here we go.

My girlfriend sticks her head in to ask me if I’m cheering for the Americans.  “I’m not cheering for England,” I answer.

Right out of the chute, England benches David James, a goalie I adore watching.  That would have been a disappointment in my former life.  It still is, actually, but it’s because I’m a fan of a particularly edgy brand of soccer, and James is rarely dull.  From an England point of view, I feel neutral.

Bang!  1-0 England.  Steven Gerrard on four minutes.  How’s that for a test of the human heart?

Well, it didn’t make me happy.  Sincerely.  I just feel blank about it.  No surge of joy or adrenalin.  No running around the living room, screaming like a crimson goofball and high-fiving my sweetie’s dog.  The cameras show the cross of St. George, flying a thousand times in the South African night.  I, who was born on St. George’s Day, ain’t feelin’ a thing.

On 13 minutes, the dreaded “go you Americans” thought crosses by brain for the first time.  Comes after a tight closeup on young Yank striker Jozy Altidore, whom I really enjoy, and feel got a raw deal when he went off to Villarreal in Spain a year early, and hardly played at all.

I really don’t want to be a U.S. fan.  I’ve chosen to bind my heart to Cote D’Ivoire for this World Cup, deeply appreciating their fire and creativity, and the fact that they’re really up against it in a group with both Brazil and Portugal.  But it’s the Yanks on the field today, and apparently my apathy to England is curdling into disdain.

That’s how it is when you encounter an ex.  Never quite know what emotions are going to bubble into play.

19^th minute!  Altidore just wide for the States!  That was a giddy thrill.  No question.

Well, fair’s fair.  This isn’t dour, depressing, anti-soccer England.  The Lions look serious, and are working well enough to create things.  Hard to gauge the chronic self-superior mindset thing, because they went a goal up early and are presently entitled to it. 

On 27 minutes, a good free kick from All-American pretty boy Landon Donovan gets headed just high and wide by Oguchi Onyewu.  I feel a twinge of disappointment.

35 minutes, and the TV announcer makes his first aching mention of the chronic controversy over whether Gerrard and Frank Lampard can function together in the centre of the same England midfield.  I am mortally sick sideways over this, because it’s so freaking obvious that they SHOULD, and it’s still never really been sorted whether they can.  The endless British tabloid obsession with never solving such subscription-boosting non-stories is part of reason I decided to let England drift away.

Oh my great hairy goodness!  Clint Dempsey equalizes for The Colonies!  “Is that good?” my girlfriend asks.  “I don’t know,” I answer. 

It’s another in an endless string of high-profile English goaltending gaffes.  Young Robert Green of West Ham United completely forgets to catch a shot that wouldn’t even qualify as a fair man’s half chance.  This would have been teeth-gnashing agony for me a week ago.  Today, I’m intrigued to say I’m fine with it.

Halftime.  England threw a lot of emotional bait at me in the opening 45.  And it didn’t seem hard at all to let it all sail by.  The premise has always been that you can’t break up with a soccer team.  That whatever pain and frustration they send your way is simply part of the contract – and none of it will matter if they actually win it all someday.

But, see, I don’t settle for stuff like that anymore in any other part of my life.  I’ve quit jobs, walked out on girlfriends, ditched old habits, shut down aching attachments – all in the name of the pursuit of some tangible version of happiness.   And England just hasn’t been a carbon-atom full of fun for me in years.  The more I learn, the more I see that England doesn’t.  The happier I am, the less I want to play that game.

Quit preaching, kid.  Watch the damn game.

On 48 minutes, the ball rolls clean through the American six-yard box.  My gut clenches.  England pressing hard now.  Interesting not to feel my hope engaging.

A moment later, a Wayne Rooney wonk-bouncer for England gets cleared off the American goal line.  I enjoyed it, but it was waved out for offside.

Emile Heskey now for England, head-on against U.S. goalie Tim Howard, who dives to save and hold the ball.  One-way traffic on the field.  This, too, is classic England emotion-wracking behaviour.  Manufacture a chip-truckload of chances, and not score on a one.

I hear myself yell “Yes!” three times as Altidore burns past a lead-footed Jamie Carracher and just misses scoring. 

By 75 minutes, it’s again all England, with Howard making save after save.  Edson Buddle enters the game for the States.

A moment later, here comes Peter Crouch.  This is a pull to my heart, because I love watching Crouch.  So awkward, so unconventional, so very, very good.  There’s something in the English psyche, I contend, that simply cannot accept that a man who moves so clumsily can actually be one of their very best goal scorers.  England or no England, I freely give myself permission to continue enjoying Peter Crouch.

Five minutes left and the British announcer calls the game a stalemate.  25 scoring chances!  It might be a tie, but it sure ain’t a stalemate!  (That has nothing to do with being or not being an England fan, of course.)

On 88, Donovan tries to do too much and the shot goes over the bar.  I notice myself groaning, but it could just be chronic frustration with Donovan’s act.

The match ends 1-1.  England clearly could – and should – have won.

So – what does any of this prove?  (Thanks if you’re still reading, by the way.  I know this has been an odd ride.)

It’s only one game, but I’m going to say it is, in fact, possible to cure yourself of a soccer team.  This was the entire England bag of nagging stuff, and except for liking Peter Crouch, I didn’t feel the need to bite on it.  The draw is a bit of a setback, of course, but shouldn’t be fatal because I don’t see either Algeria or Slovenia causing any serious problems for the Brits.

I certainly had a very different emotional journey than I would have had my England fandom been intact.  That howling goaltending gaffe would have dropped my off a cliff.  Why does that ALWAYS happen to promising young English ‘keepers?

The next step in this experiment comes Thursday, when I find if I can, in fact, get passionate about Ivory Coast in their do-or-die opener against Portugal.

If you’re tired beyond tired of the team you cheer for, I hope this experiment helps.

Onward!

By Ben Knight

Nothing much worth saying about that scoreless France-Uruguay tiff. The French sleep-farted their way through it, and the South Americans didn’t have enough game to call them out. Awful waste of everybody’s time and good intentions.

So thank the stars for South Korea this morning. All-out heart and hustle in a well-deserved 2-0 shutdown of the Greeks. Greece’s smothering possession tactics can’t work if they can’t get the ball. And their defence can’t keep them in it if they get burned for a goal in the opening moments.

Wonderfully refreshing to see the sheer energetic passion the Koreans bring to the big bash. I’ll never be a Manchester United man, but Park Ji-Sung was brilliant, both with long, searching passes from the back, and a thrilling steal-and-scoot finish on the second goal.

The issue was always going to be their endurance, and it did seem to flag notably in the last 20 minutes. Greece rallied as Korea drooped, but never found a coherent combo of attacking moves.

Korea-Argentina is looking like a delicious match-up. All-out speed both ways? I can’t see the Koreans being cautious. The best way to deal with Lionel Messi and Carlos Tevez is to run the ball deep and forever into Argentine end. Could be a track meet, and this time the Koreans will have to run hard to the finish line.

And speaking of Argentina, they also got the early goal, and held on a down a gritty but unfocused Nigeria 1-0. Could have been a landslide, but for the straining fingertips of Vincent Enyeama in the Super Eagle goal.

But all of this is but distraction for me. I’m quite a bit on edge leaning into this afternoon’s huge clash between my ex-favourite team (England) and my ex-team’s bratty cousins (the United States).

How are you guys doing?

Onward!

By Ben Knight

For the longest time, World Cup South Africa has been a wild, approaching hypefest. Build the stadiums, sort the security, hire the bands and dancers.

It’s been going on extra long, in fact, should you remember that South Africa had all but landed the 2006 World Cup, before lead FIFA cheque-casher Sepp Blatter suddenly and shadily dealt the world’s biggest bun feed out the side door to Germany.

And after all that, what a lovely scene of colour and joy in the big bowl in Jo’burg this morning! A continent can only ever stage its very first World Cup once. And toss in the still-very-short bits of history that have tip-toed past since South Africa was freed from the awful lingering spirit-kill of apartheid, and this was a long-time-coming and achingly needed party.

But there also comes a point where a World Cup ceases being a multi-year nightmare of logistics and knock-kneed finance, and actually turns into a soccer match.

In South Africa’s case, it quickly became a one-way survival job against a cagey, gritty, clearly superior Mexican opponent.

The opening five minutes looked really, really bad for the home side, but they managed to tough it out to halftime nil-nil. Mexico had a very healthy share of the ball, but didn’t seem all that interested in finishing.

And then, into the second half, the upstart Bafana Boys shrugged off the run of play, and scored what will surely still be one of the goals of the tournament after all 64 games are in the books a month from now. A good run of possession and passing in the midfield, a gorgeous diagonal downfield ball from Kagisho Dikgacoi, and a singing no-spin knuckleball of a top-shelf finish from Siphiwe Thsabalala.

Ah, but if you’re going to be Cinderella, you need to have enough pumpkin for a good getaway carriage. Mexico regrouped, shuffled its lineup, kept pressing, and called shenanigans on the South African pumpkin supply. Cinderella was caught short, and Rafael Marquez equalized from off the right post with 11 minutes left to go.

The Mexicans kept pressing, at their own considerable defensive peril. It almost killed them, when Bafana ‘keeper Itumuleng Khune fired a route-one longball to Katlego Mphela, who seeped into Mexico’s floorboards and ripped what could have been the game-winner off the base of the left goalpost.

1-1 on the day, and perhaps a lucky escape for both teams. Mexico survived some occasional Bafana Bafana brilliance, while the home side were unable to escape with their glass slippers intact.

A fine, entertaining opener. I’m ready for some serious soccer now.

Sidenote: Because I know very little about goaltending, I take every chance I can to talk to those who do. Former Canadian national backposter Craig Forrest talks all the time about “body shape,” and how crucial it is to making good and consistent saves. The body shape of Mexico’s Oscar Perez on Mphela’s late-game post plunk – hopping blandly with hands limp at sides at a blank, baffled look on his face – did not, in this reporter’s eyes, at least – inspire confidence.

Onward!