Japanese Sun Rising

Though the viral video of Japanese footballers smashing pots with Jabulanis™ might have been a put-on, having seen the Japanese performance against Denmark, one might be led to think that some similarly bizarre and obsessive training had been done with the Nippon Daihyō.

One could imagine them waking with the ball, taking it to the bathroom with them, perhaps balancing it on their nape while seated upon porcelain; later, breakfast beckons, and the ball is cradled gently upon their bellies, moving with every breath, and to accomodate the most subtle lump of food entering the stomach.

Such was the touch they had on the Jabulani™ this Thursday, that the world could not but bow in deference to their mastery. The first free kick, executed by the otherworldy Keisuke Honda, was a marvel of commanding flawed technology; a tricksy, unpredictable missile weaving its way through the air Royal Bafokeng Sports Palace, finding its way into the corner of a hapless Danish keeper’s net.

The young Japanese star, not unknown to watchers of the UEFA Champions’ League, is surely the Next Big Thing. The lad has an air about him of being of another class of football: the truly world-class. Talk about a special one. The goal he set up a few minutes from time was sublimely done; a deft touch and sublime pirouette. The fact that he passed it to his number 9 Shinji Okazaki speaks volumes of a player for whom grace and spectacle are but the icing on the cake for a footballer who can play with the best of them, anywhere.

And finally, the second goal, a stunning free kick by Yasuhito Endō, will go down not only as the first time there have been two goals from free kicks in forever in the World Cup, but as the first time anyone has struck the Jabulani™ with an effective inwards/inside of the foot curve. Poor Thomas Sorenson, victim of the unpredictable.

And predictably, another horrific refereeing farce, with the South African official booking arbitrarily for time-wasting in the first 15 minutes of the game when nobody else noticed. Not to mention an absurd yellow card for jumping to Bendtner. And a ridiculous penalty dive that almost-almost–put Denmark back into things. This latter one was only overshadowed by the Tomasson futility penalty, blocked, and its injury-plagued follow-up.

Role Reversal

Stunning change of roles in Ellis Park.

To begin with, a referee and his team actually did a good job in the WWF. I mean World Cup. For the most part unobtrusive–increasingly rare in World Cup referees–the team led by Englishman Howard Web was spot on and did not take the attention away from the stunning match before our eyes.

Only for a few moments did attention fall upon them. Firstly, when Martin Skrtel controversially cleared an Italian shot off the line that would have been the Italian equalizer. No call, no goal. It happened in a split millisecond, at so difficult an angle for any refs to see. Not even multiple, slow motion instant replays could reveal whether the ball actually crossed or didn’t cross the line. So quick that not even the Italians had the time (or the certainty) to protest.

A second moment was the offsides call on a Quagliarella disallowed goal in the 2nd half. The players did not protest but for the obligatory raising their arms in protest. TV replays were initially inconclusive, but eventually showed that the call was an accurate one, close though it was.

Finally, a couple of incidents involving Mucha, the Slovakian keeper, in which he was harangued by Italians trying to get the ball out of the net from him, very nearly sparking a brawl were it not for the unyielding firmness of Webb, who managed to deflate the incident and refused to reward both the time-wasting of the keeper and the play-actiing of the Italian in the incident.

And in the end, the other great reversal, which was Slovakia playing like the stereotypical Italian side. Ugly, but efficient. Few chances, but deadly finishing. Physicality combined with a healthy dose of play-acting and time-wasting. A spectacle whose morbid attraction was the possibility of the reigning champion going out in the first round. This fixture did not disappoint.

The image: a true captain, Cannavaro escorts a sobbing Quagliarella off the field. A touching moment of true dignity on a night that will be tainted with ignonimity for Italian fans.

National Anthem Battles

Finally some interesting anthem contests have come up. The Serbia-Ghana matchup featured two of the better anthems we’ve seen so far. Though the Ghanaians might have won the actual match, I give the edge to the Serbs with a somewhat sinister-toned national anthem that perhaps carries over some notes from the crazy times of civil war. Ghana’s was a close contender, though they lost some points for sounding too much like Germany’s “Deutschland, Deutschland”.

Australia vs. Germany: The Australians started off weakly with a piece that sounded like it was off the soundtrack of Titanic 2, before the vocals kicked in and almost saved it for them. The Germans, despite some umph being removed from their anthem due to some post-WWII forced lyrical edits, ended up on top as they always do (or so the stereotypes say). Puzzling considering some of the horror material out there–the Marseillaise to give one example (that line about  “may an impure blood / water our furrows” is rather scintillating). My decision here might also be based on the fact that the Australian anthem was not, in the end, “Waltzing Matilda,” currently a hit on youTube and with my 2 year-old.

Other Kinds of Matches

The Holland-Denmark match, regardless of its result costing me a bloody fortune, was anticlimatic to say the least. One expected a contest worthy of the Laudrups and the Cruyffs and instead was handed, well, a footballing slog of Bendtners and Van Bommels. If they weren’t still alive, the aforementioned legends would roll over in their grave and root for Germany. A comical own-goal sealed the fate of a hapless Denmark, who had less ideas than they did natural brunettes.

A major reason this match promised so much before it actually occured was considering the history of the total-footballing Dutch sides. There was once a time when they thrilled the world and reached all the big finals. In the past few tournaments though (‘98, ‘02, ‘06, and especially in Euros 2004 and 2008) they stormed through the group stages like banshees. Who could forget how they thrashed the Group of Death in 2008, beating world champ Italy 3-0 and making them look like an amateur team from a pasta factory. Then tearing World Cup runner-up France a new one 4-1, while making them look like [insert stereotype here] a local bakery Sunday team.

The Japan-Cameroon, while a great match, reinforced stereotypes about the Japanese being lightweights and the Cameroonians being hapless despite possessing an island of world-class football in a player like Eto’o. In the end, there were enough dramatics to satsify, with exhausted Japanese players looking like they were playing a man down, while Cameroonians used their cliché superior athleticism to knock balls too far in front of themselves. I could imagine what Eto’o might have been thinking: “Cameroon needs 10 more Eto’os”.

And finally, no surprises in the Italy vs. Paraguay. The Paraguayans seem to enjoy their self-made image of utterly empty football based on defending in numbers and hoping that the opponents’ shots hit off of one of their ten defenders and out of play. Despite this, an early goal set up some dramatics made worse by the “typical” Italian slow-motion start to the World Cup. Of course, in the end, those darn Italians did what everybody knew they would do, and tied the game, then nearly won it, while playing shite football.

Tomorrow, Tomorrow, Things Can Only Get Better, Tomorrow

One awaits the result of the miracle surgery of Drogba. Surely, his reappearance after a broken arm would rank up there with the return from the dead of Garrincha in the 2002 Brazilian™ run to the title. Portugal, meanwhile, after nearly a decade of  persistent “Golden Generation” rhetoric, seem to have assembled a squad of also-rans and ineffective forwards, plus the Poutiest Lipped Footballer of All Time™ Cristiano Ronaldo, whom the Madrid press still tout as the “Best in the World” despite being shown up by Lionel Messi approximately 20 times in the past 2 seasons at various competitions.

And finally, in the ultimate battle between Southern Hemisphere capitalism and North Korean communism, we have the old dogs of Brazil featuring one of their least Brazilian teams ever (only 2 of their squad are Brazil-based). They take on, well, North Korea, about whom little is known besides the fact that April 25th is the date of the founding of their military, as well as the military team that their manager also manages (not to mention a number of their players). That, and their intriguing star, Jong Tae-Se, who despite being known as the “People’s Rooney” back home would rather be like the aforementioned Zombie Drogba.