World Cup 2010: Vuvu-Failure?

Deafened by the vuvuzela and with sofa sores on my behind, I sit remote control in hand decidedly underwhelmed. Don’t get me wrong; to me it is still the beautiful game. It has just started to sport a few wrinkles.

I had a good, if somewhat childlike build-up to the World Cup. The obligatory purchase of the Panini World Cup sticker album fuelled the anticipation. But I quickly worked out that purchasing stickers to fill the damn thing was akin to purchasing condoms when I was a lad of eighteen. There was always an excuse and acute embarrassment as I handed over the cash, quickly stuffing the packets of stickers in to the pockets of my jeans. I half filled the book and gave up trying just like I did as the aforementioned eighteen year old boy.

Every World Cup tournament needs the host country to do well, tradition states. South Africa kicked off the competition scrounging a one all draw with Mexico. Inevitably South Africa disappointed. An inspired win over a shambolic France was too little, too late as they crashed out on goal difference.

It is impossible as an Irishman not to take a certain amount of joy out of watching France implode. I have tried not to let the fact that Domenech and his bunch of chancers cheating Ireland out of a place at the finals colour my opinion of them. And I can’t, so I won’t. It was pure gold. Frenchmen striking in summertime? Preposterous. At a World Cup Finals at any rate. Nicolas Anelka indirectly spoke for the Irish nation when he spat ‘f*** you, you son of a wh*re’ at Monsieur Domenech. Raymond was gracious to the last, refusing to shake Carlos Alberto Perreira’s hand in defeat, muttering something about Perreira’s statement that the Irish play-off match should have been replayed as being out of order. Of course it was Raymond. In Raymond Domenechland maybe. And that is not a nice place to be in now or at anytime I’m sure.

Diego Maradona once again provided most of the entertainment. Aside from his Argentinean charges attacking and entertaining their way into the last eight and his outrageous touchline back-heel flick, his comments on current UEFA bigwig Michel Platini “he thinks he’s better than the rest” and Viagra ambassador Pele who according to El Diego “should go back to the museum” and the resultant apology to the pair “I apologize to Platini…but not to Pele” more than made up for the lack of new true footballing greatness on display at this year’s finals. 

England didn’t even flatter to deceive. Burdened by the weight of an ever expectant media and the players’ obscenely large pay packets, they crashed and burned against their old enemy, the Germans. And right on cue the papers exclaimed ‘Capello Must Go’. Knee jerk nonsense. The coaching situation is not the root of England’s problem. It is their unquenchable belief that whenever they qualify for a major tournament they believe they have the divine right to win it. The resultant brainwashing of the nation by the media exerts enormous pressure on their players who, despite their exalted beliefs that they are deity due to the fact that they surround themselves with people who never say no, are only human after all. Peter Crouch taking part in a ridiculous crisp advert is surely proof enough for the worshipping masses.

But they’ve got their excuse to hand as they always seem to. Simeone, Waddle, Southgate, Seaman et al have been joined by the plucky little Uruguayan linesman who should have seen that Lampard’s shot had crossed the line by a country mile, who denied the comeback of comebacks and who denied England the chance to go on and rightfully win the World Cup.

Portugal relied far too heavily on the prima donna that is Cristiano Ronaldo. He fell far short of what was expected of him, unless you count the omnipresent petulance and an all encompassing belief that he can take on the planet with his own ego as that expectation. They needed a half decent goalkeeper and found one. Eduardo was a revelation. If they could only find a half decent centre-forward they’d be laughing.

The World Champions Italy were past their prime and devoid of any imagination, creativity and surprisingly, anyone who could defend properly. Fabio Cannavaro should have taken note of Lothar Matthaus at Euro 2000 whose descent into clowning and huffing and puffing lay down the marker for once great players taking part in one tournament too many.

New Zealand were the romantic interest. Three draws and non qualification for the Second Round and they were being feted as the greatest surprise element the tournament has ever seen. The fact that Cameroon reached the Quarter-Finals in 1990 against all odds has being conveniently forgotten by the media desperate for a’ rags to riches’ story non-existent in World football today.

Ghana emulated the ‘plucky’ Cameroonians but fell short of surpassing their achievements at the final hurdle. Assamoah Gyan missed a 120^th minute spot kick to win the quarter-final tie, crashing it against the bar above an ever-flailing Uruguayan goalkeeper who’s ineptitude knew no bounds. Ghana went into the penalty shoot out with bowed heads and it was no surprise to anyone when Uruguay progressed into the semi-finals.

The Germans did nothing to disprove the widely held theory that they can never be written off or should you so wish to, be it at your own peril. They sashayed their way through the tournament scoring goals for fun. Led from midfield by the disgustingly talented Mesut Ozil they fell in the semis to Spain. It isn’t supposed to be this way. The Germans? The most entertaining side at the World Cup? Pull the other one. I’ll bet my Nan that they’ll be triumphant in Brazil in four years time.

Nike FC (Brazil) will push them all the way on home soil in four years time.  This time out, which was more surprising? The fact that they only reached the quarter-finals or that Robinho actually has discovered a work ethic?

And so to the World Cup Final. The showpiece. The climax of two years toil and countless countries engaging in battle to be called the best there is. Holland and Spain. Or The Netherlands and Spain if you prefer. I prefer to call the Dutch, the Thuggery XI. Not since 1990 when Argentina chanced their way into the final has there been such a display of connivery, petulance and outright violence in a final. Mark van Bommel should be jailed for what he got up to in South Africa. And what is more alarming is that he got away with it time and time again (Howard Webb take a bow). Aside from the wonderful Wesley Sneijder, this Dutch outfit were a gaggle of hyped up nightclub bouncers in a luminescent orange kit. If Johann Cruyff were dead he’d be turning in his grave.

Spain deserved to win it and it is actually astounding to think that they’ve never won it previously. Sure, it was a poor final that may have actually been enhanced by a penalty shoot-out but Xavi and Iniesta stuck out like a pair of sore thumbs amongst the dross. That Puyol and Ramos cannot actually defend when faced with a player with pace didn’t matter in the end. The Barcelona midfield pairing drove Spain on through the whole tournament and when you have a lethal marksman like David Villa up front to finish off what they’ve created you are always going to be there or thereabouts.

And so the curtain falls and the Spanish celebrate. But where does football go now? What have we learned from all this?

Regrettably, this World Cup has shown up Sepp Blatter, FIFA and modern day football as out of touch with the ordinary fan and out of touch with modern technology. Overpriced tickets, overhyped overpaid players, over-indulgement of the so-called super powers and over cautious tactics. I haven’t even mentioned the sick joke that is the Jabulani ball. The World Cup is a barometer of the worldwide state of the game. A quadrennial health check if you will. I’d get on the phone to the Doctor on Call if I were you, FIFA.

By Paul O’Connor

July 23, 2010