Yesterday’s final ushered me into an emotional, existential Kalahari. Unable to resume life as usual here in South Africa, whatever that means, my therapy consists in part of playing everyone’s favorite fun game: World Cup All-Stars, version 2.0 (click here for 1.0).
Initially, the simple choice was to pick the entire Spain squad with just two changes: Fucile for Capdevila and Forlan for Torres/Pedro. But that wouldn’t be much fun. So here are my picks:
Neuer
Fucile, Juan, Pique, Sergio Ramos
Mueller, Schweinsteiger, Xavi, Sneijder
Villa, Forlan
Best Players: Forlan and Sergio Ramos (because defenders are people too)
Goal of the Tournament: Van Bronckhorst in Netherlands v Uruguay (quality and importance)
Best Match of the Tournament: USA-Slovenia 2-2 (which should have gone down as one of the greatest comeback victories in World Cup history, right Mr. Coulibaly?)
Best Referee: Viktor Kassai of Hungary (This cool cat ref’d one of the cleanest World Cup semifinals ever: Spain-Germany)
Best Moments: Tshabalala’s goal for Bafana in the opener vs Mexico (when, for a few minutes, it seemed another World Cup was possible) and Buffon signing my daughters’ jersey and flag before Slovakia-Italy.
Category: Hosting
Spain are World Champions! Iniesta scores in the 116th minute to give La Roja a 1-0 victory over the Dutch at Soccer City.
Click here to read The New York Times match report, with a few words from yours truly.
Click here to read Johan Cruyff lambasting the anti-football of the Dutch and the refereeing of Howard Webb.
South African fans have jumped on and off so many bandwagons since Bafana Bafana’s phyrric victory against France that I’ve lost count — BaGhana, Brazil . . . Spain. ‘We also speak Spanish,’ South Africans seemed to be saying in unison on Wednesday night at Durban’s Mabhida Stadium.
I arrived at Mabhida around lunchtime for my interview with France24 — the French satellite news channel. Next to me, young men from various French and German channels recorded their match previews. Seven hours ’til kickoff. As I walked across the train tracks and over the bridge that separates King’s Park Rugby Stadium from Mabhida Stadium there were far more police officers than football fans.
A friend and I ate lunch at the nearby casino right on the beach. By mid-afternoon we could finally imbibe in World Cup atmosphere, with the usual parade of replica jerseys, flags, funny hats, and photo ops. A group of masked Spaniards entertained us at a beachside party.
Coach Milton Dlamini and I boarded a kombi taxi to go check on his car in a parking lot 10 minutes away. The young driver blasted local hip hop while negotiating the swelling waves of cars, buses, and kombis moving slowly towards the stadium. Once we ascertained that everything was cool with the car, the taxi driver took us back. As we approached the ground, Milton enthused about The Arch.
Once inside, we met our mates from the local football coaching world (thanks Thabo!). Spain and Germany warmed up sparking esoteric discussions about tactics and the pros and cons of static vs dynamic stretching. Lineups are announced: Pedro instead of Torres and Trochowski taking suspended Mueller’s place.
Immediately it became obvious that Germany would spend the match in hiding. Spain patiently kept the ball and made sure not to give the conservative Germans any chance to launch counterattacks, the kind that devastated England and Argentina. The best chance of the half fell to Puyol whose header off a corner narrowly missed the target.
Spain came out in the second half meaning business. Xavi continued to dictate the tempo and direction of play in the midfield, while the Germans struggled to string together more than three passes. The noose tightened. Pressure on Germany’s goal mounted, with three consecutive chances for Xabi Alonso (twice) and Villa. When Podolski prevented Sergio Ramos from scoring it seemed to symbolically capture the match: a defender denied by a forward!
Eventually it happened. Puyol rose high and clear to head home a Xavi corner. Gooooooooool!!! Pedro could have closed the game with a one-on-one breakaway but somehow managed to fumble over the ball and neither shoot nor pass (to Torres). He looked disconsolate when the coach pulled him a minute later. But when the final whistle blew every Spanish player celebrated wildly on the pitch: La Furia Roja made it to their first World Cup final. Fiesta time! South Africa 2010 will produce a first-time winner: Spain or, less likely, The Netherlands.
Tonight I return to Mabhida Stadium for what might become one of the greatest World Cup matches of all time: Spain v Germany. The winner to face The Netherlands in the final on Sunday at The Ukhamba (calabash in isiZulu). Today’s rematch of the Euro 2008 final (hence the photo) is the biggest thing to hit Durban since Nelson Mandela cast his first vote in a free and democratic election here in 1994.
Spain is the side many fans and pundits (including me) picked to win the 2010 World Cup. At its best, La Furia Roja plays delectable futbol romantico that is not only pleasing to the eye but also supremely effective.
Germany is the highest scoring and top performing team in this World Cup. But do the memorable thrashings of England (4-1) and Argentina (4-0) mean that the Nationalmannschaft has peaked too early? That German octopus thinks so.
I shared my reflections on the 2010 World Cup (thru June 27) with Alan Minsky, host of The People’s Game — a KPFK/Pacifica Radio project that provides some of the best on-the-field analysis combined with discussions of the political, economic, and cultural subtexts of the 2010 World Cup.
Click here to listen to the interview.
zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz . . . Robben! zzzzzzzzzzzzzz . . . Sneijder! zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz . . .
That’s my match report from Durban’s Mabhida Stadium where the Dutch easily dispatched the Slovaks 2-1. The best of the rest of our experience is captured in the short video above.
June 20, 2010
Nelspruit, Mpumalanga
Father’s Day with family on the road to Italy-New Zealand. It doesn’t get any better than this! There are six of us in the van, including Ignazio and Marco just in from Rome. We are all rigorously decked out in Italy jerseys. With Igna at the wheel, we leave Joburg around 9am. The Sunday journey is smooth and we go by sleepy towns — ‘burgs’ ‘dorps’ and ‘fonteins’ — in the winter Low Veld.
Our first and only pit stop is at a service station with many Azzurri fans. Listening to them speak, I realize that very few are actually Italians. Most are South Africans of various backgrounds buying into the Italy brand — we dub them ‘Fake Italians’.
Back on the road we wind out way through the canyons of Mpumalanga. The scenic road is treacherous and we make a note of that for the postmatch return trip. 3.5 hours later we are outside Nelspruit, but miss the stadium exit due to poor signage. A burly yet friendly traffic cop on the freeway points the way back to it: ‘Make a safe u-turn,’ he tells us with a smile, ‘we don’t want you to die in South Africa.’
Ten minutes (and no signs) later we are at the Riverside Mall park-and-ride, but it’s full so we go to the Showgrounds instead. That country fair feeling again, shades of Polokwane. Our crew boards the bus, there are more ‘Fake Italians’! At 2:45 we arrive outside the Mbombela Stadium perched at the top of a hill with nothing around it. The landscaping is not finished so the ground has a construction site feel to it. It’s built on a land claim, entailed forced removals of two schools, and the corruption connected to the building of the stadium led to the murder of two whistleblowers.
But we are thinking of the match not blood and bribery. Will the Azzurri deliver against NZ? The answer becomes clear immediately after kick off. On the Kiwis first sniff of our goal they score. Oh my. Drunken New Zealanders just got more annoying, as they would spend the rest of the match hurling insults at the Azzurri. I reciprocate in kind when Iaquinta levels the score on a penalty midway through the first half. Italy seems bent on imitating lackluster France in this World Cup. It ends 1-1, which the All-White fans celebrate as if they had won the World Cup.
I gloomily exit the arena with kids in hand thinking of what might have been with Balotelli, Cassano . . . The Fake Italians don’t seem affected by this embarrassing draw. Brand loyalty is about consumption and vicarious association, not nausea and disgust at having driven 370km to endure unforgivably pathetic football against a team ranked 107 in the FIFA rankings.
We shuffle our way through the crowd at the shuttle buses and jump on board. Within a few minutes we are at the Showgrounds park-and-ride and our diesel engine is rumbling. It’s dark when we leave Nelspruit for Joburg. We drive cautiously, thinking about Netherlands-Italy in the round of 16 (we have Durban tickets) and the ‘High Accident Zones’ signs on the road. An Opel Corsa and several other cars with Gauteng license plates pass us. An all-encompassing foul odor fills the odor — it’s coming from a huge saw mill — ‘Who farted’? the children joke.
Then, two minutes later, a horrific scene. The Corsa that just passed us is a smoking carcass on the side of the road. A bakkie is overturned on the other side. A third car is crumpled. We order the kids not to look, but they do and are terribly shaken by the accident that happened maybe 2 minutes before. We drive even more carefully the rest of the way. On Monday, Radio 702 announces that four young South Africans died in the crash near Belfast, Mpumalanga. They were Italy supporters. Our condolences to their families. Today, there are no Fake Italians.