I might fact-check this blog post again; until then, grain of salt etc.
At the risk of flooding the blog with tales of soccer, yesterday was a fine day of it, and insofar as I can after having taken long breaks during the games to do things quite unrelated to soccer, I wish to ramble a little.
SWITZERLAND vs. ECUADOR was the first game of the day, and was started at 2 p.m. local time* in Brasilia.
THE sun literally cast an eye of heaven through the stadium roof, an ellipsis of light that submerged the Ecuadorean goal (later the Swiss goal) and transfigured that half of the field, and climbing up the mountainous ranks of the audience toward the northward roof. In the later stages of the game, a lighter lattice of shadowy rim formed around the eye of light, illumining the skeleton of the edifice a little. I had hoped that the shade would fling itself across the field by halftime, but instead the sunlight ran in a circular path and never wholly left.
It was difficult to tell if the temperature was great, and whether Switzerland and Ecuador had trained equally to get along with it. (There was a tedious stretch of passing back and forth amongst the Swiss defense, but it might have been intended to maximize the quantity of ball ownership, or to lull the Ecuadorians into apathy, rather than an attempt to prevent physical exertion.) There were anecdotes of other Northern Hemisphere teams taking e.g. to the practice terrain in Portugal with winter clothing to emulate the warmth and humidity of Brazil; evidently it depends on the city, since Rio de Janeiro was around 20° for the Argentina-Bosnia game if I remember correctly, while Manaus was 30° even in the evening and stuffier as the air gathered moisture with the declining sunlight.
I wasn't quite sure for whom to cheer. Both teams were quite proficient, and after looking at the statistics the length of time they held the ball, the number of attempts at a goal, etc. were fairly alike. It was an active and highly physical game that was influenced (apparently) by American football, since the teams were clearly fond of hurling the full lengths of their heights against their foes, when these were toeing the ball, in order to tip the player off his feet and free the ball for a teammate. Even this exercise, carried out without any notable attempt to injure, was a relief after the Thanksgiving-like harvest of yellow cards, relinquishment of ball ownership, etc., in many games for attempts at tripping the enemy.
The winner, of course, was Switzerland, in a lovely dramatic juncture at the 90+3 minute mark.
* Or so I gather from my calculations of each Summer Time, which appears to fall in winter in the Southern Hemisphere within the Distrito Federal at UTC-2, whereas Germany's is at UTC+2, and the game aired at 6 p.m. Berlin time.
Guardian's minute-by-minute report: link.
Sunday, June 15, 2014
Thursday, June 12, 2014
The Brazilians and the Croats
This evening, minutes into the game, I went to the corner room and sat down to watch the opening game of the World Cup on our television. Here is the analysis of an ignorant individual with a fading memory of the South Africa World Cup:
***
The balcony windows were flung wide and when I muted the game in the second half, the in situ throng in Brazil, chirping of the referee's whistle, and the announcer's baritone phrases wavered in from the sidewalks, where restaurants or cafés were hosting livestreams or television screen viewing.
It was quiet apart from that; immersed behind the apartment buildings, the moon lit the single, scrolling-edged clouds against the night and the flare of Venus, the traffic was light, and after the match ended it was mostly taxis that ran past the apartment.
Evidently few of our neighbours, nor we, had 'skin' in the game. Brazil, of course, was the host country; one felt that in light of the turmoil, it might be a relief if the home team won the game. The players weren't familiar and I had no impression of their playing style. There were little bursts of excitement after the third Brazilian goal and the near-second Croatian goal, and I wasn't sure if they came from our Berlin environment or from the television. The pedestrians who were walking home (it appeared) from viewings of the game weren't wearing flags when I saw them and appeared generally cheerful rather than particularly jubilant or embittered.
***
Given the presumptive pressure on Brazil's team to win, it was unexpected that the first half was fairly mellow. Then I realized that it was the early stage of the World Cup and that the teams might be rationing their energies for later and vital games; later I realized that Brazil was likely the anticipated winner in any case. So the Brazilians ran around the field at a leisurely pace, let passes from teammates slip by rather negligently, and — though by the stage I started watching they were one goal behind to Croatia — together with the Croatian team established a relaxed and sportsmanlike manner.
*
The Brazilian cast was separable as an aggregation of personalities after a while.
Neymar, the Brazilian striker, was a scruffy version of a Dickension waif, I thought; an anxiety, slenderness and roaming air about him. Marcelo and David Silva, with billowing hairstyles and a similar lightness when it came to not realizing the chances that came their way; Dani Alves, invested, substantial and serious. Hulk, impressively built for the European notion of football, and with an attractive face. (Though I don't know if athletes like being appreciated for qualities apart from athletic qualities, so I am willing to withdraw that remark.) The goalkeeper, rather stolid in his silver garb.
As for the Croatian players, Stipe Pletikosa was fairly often in the spotlight since since his goal was threatened often enough, with a sheaf of hair slicked back à la Beckham. The Guardian's minute-by-minute report faulted him for letting a penalty kick fly past, since he had gotten both hands on it, I thought that he was perfectly fine. Luka Modrić rather exemplified the mellow and fair demeanour I saw in the game and was often in the thick of the action; similarly, Mateo Kovačić. I didn't like all of the teammates, but since a teammate who didn't appear at the World Cup was found guilty of a neofascistesque team chant, they flourish in contrast.
While the fouling was mild for the most part, however, the ethics ran a little amiss toward the end of the game. There were fortunately no gruelling effusions of gore, gradual rakings of bristling shoes along the legs of the Enemy, or any attacks that felt particularly brutish, despite the sprinkling of yellow cards and the 'diving.'
As if to amend this propriety, the diving and other theatricality (enthusiastic though venial fouls followed by gestures and expressions indicating pristine consciences, and grave discontent with the arbitrary findings of the referee, which were inevitably proven not-so-arbitrary after all in the replay films) was prolific. The diving assumed manifold faces: agonizing grimaces — far worse than any Christian martyrdom depicted in artwork, likely since these martyrs must express the tranquillity of divine uplift in lieu of purgatorial anguish —, egg-like gyrations on the lawn, and tenacious grasping of ankle-vicinities, zygomatic flesh, and whichever other limbs or areas felt pertinent at the time.
As for the goals, the Brazilians' penalty kick felt a little undeserved. The referee gave the Brazilians a penalty kick for what, if I interpret it rightly, was a Croatian player's hand tug of a Brazilian player's shoulder. In past World Cup games, I think, the wholesale enmeshing of a fist in a player's jersey, which is strategically more effective though I think less violent than other varieties of fouls, met with that kind of penalty. Likely the key detail was that it transpired near the Croatian goal.
***
Needless to say, I was impressed by the technical innovations and drawn in by the details of the field periphery, as well. The temporary white line which the referee drew when the players had to form their walls in front of their goals, the whorl that was visible in the grass from above, the newly designed ball though I have yet to find an informed assessment of its merits ('it actually flies in a straight line' was the solitary comment I read), all fine.
Also, to be a literal spoilsport, I was wondering why the Brazilian spectators apparently skewed so much toward the azure-eyed and fairhaired. (Which is, I think, an example of the proper definition of 'begging the question.' I.e. the hypothesis I had made going into the game was that if you watch from the front seats you are likely wealthy, and if you are wealthy in Brazil or another country you are [un]likely to be . . . .)
Besides I was wondering whether the throng of non-American advertisements on the signs around the field was merely in my head, or a sign that American firms have a scanty estimation of the beautiful game, or a hint that the American multinational is not as dominant internationally as it was thirty years ago.
*
Despite these weighty reflections(TM), and the generally unspectacular nature of the goalscoring (not a single bicycle kick amongst them), the game left me in a happy frame of mind.
P.S.: I hope that 'Croat' is a fitting term. I was thinking of writing 'Croatians' instead.
***
The balcony windows were flung wide and when I muted the game in the second half, the in situ throng in Brazil, chirping of the referee's whistle, and the announcer's baritone phrases wavered in from the sidewalks, where restaurants or cafés were hosting livestreams or television screen viewing.
It was quiet apart from that; immersed behind the apartment buildings, the moon lit the single, scrolling-edged clouds against the night and the flare of Venus, the traffic was light, and after the match ended it was mostly taxis that ran past the apartment.
Evidently few of our neighbours, nor we, had 'skin' in the game. Brazil, of course, was the host country; one felt that in light of the turmoil, it might be a relief if the home team won the game. The players weren't familiar and I had no impression of their playing style. There were little bursts of excitement after the third Brazilian goal and the near-second Croatian goal, and I wasn't sure if they came from our Berlin environment or from the television. The pedestrians who were walking home (it appeared) from viewings of the game weren't wearing flags when I saw them and appeared generally cheerful rather than particularly jubilant or embittered.
***
Given the presumptive pressure on Brazil's team to win, it was unexpected that the first half was fairly mellow. Then I realized that it was the early stage of the World Cup and that the teams might be rationing their energies for later and vital games; later I realized that Brazil was likely the anticipated winner in any case. So the Brazilians ran around the field at a leisurely pace, let passes from teammates slip by rather negligently, and — though by the stage I started watching they were one goal behind to Croatia — together with the Croatian team established a relaxed and sportsmanlike manner.
*
The Brazilian cast was separable as an aggregation of personalities after a while.
Neymar, the Brazilian striker, was a scruffy version of a Dickension waif, I thought; an anxiety, slenderness and roaming air about him. Marcelo and David Silva, with billowing hairstyles and a similar lightness when it came to not realizing the chances that came their way; Dani Alves, invested, substantial and serious. Hulk, impressively built for the European notion of football, and with an attractive face. (Though I don't know if athletes like being appreciated for qualities apart from athletic qualities, so I am willing to withdraw that remark.) The goalkeeper, rather stolid in his silver garb.
As for the Croatian players, Stipe Pletikosa was fairly often in the spotlight since since his goal was threatened often enough, with a sheaf of hair slicked back à la Beckham. The Guardian's minute-by-minute report faulted him for letting a penalty kick fly past, since he had gotten both hands on it, I thought that he was perfectly fine. Luka Modrić rather exemplified the mellow and fair demeanour I saw in the game and was often in the thick of the action; similarly, Mateo Kovačić. I didn't like all of the teammates, but since a teammate who didn't appear at the World Cup was found guilty of a neofascistesque team chant, they flourish in contrast.
While the fouling was mild for the most part, however, the ethics ran a little amiss toward the end of the game. There were fortunately no gruelling effusions of gore, gradual rakings of bristling shoes along the legs of the Enemy, or any attacks that felt particularly brutish, despite the sprinkling of yellow cards and the 'diving.'
As if to amend this propriety, the diving and other theatricality (enthusiastic though venial fouls followed by gestures and expressions indicating pristine consciences, and grave discontent with the arbitrary findings of the referee, which were inevitably proven not-so-arbitrary after all in the replay films) was prolific. The diving assumed manifold faces: agonizing grimaces — far worse than any Christian martyrdom depicted in artwork, likely since these martyrs must express the tranquillity of divine uplift in lieu of purgatorial anguish —, egg-like gyrations on the lawn, and tenacious grasping of ankle-vicinities, zygomatic flesh, and whichever other limbs or areas felt pertinent at the time.
As for the goals, the Brazilians' penalty kick felt a little undeserved. The referee gave the Brazilians a penalty kick for what, if I interpret it rightly, was a Croatian player's hand tug of a Brazilian player's shoulder. In past World Cup games, I think, the wholesale enmeshing of a fist in a player's jersey, which is strategically more effective though I think less violent than other varieties of fouls, met with that kind of penalty. Likely the key detail was that it transpired near the Croatian goal.
***
Needless to say, I was impressed by the technical innovations and drawn in by the details of the field periphery, as well. The temporary white line which the referee drew when the players had to form their walls in front of their goals, the whorl that was visible in the grass from above, the newly designed ball though I have yet to find an informed assessment of its merits ('it actually flies in a straight line' was the solitary comment I read), all fine.
Also, to be a literal spoilsport, I was wondering why the Brazilian spectators apparently skewed so much toward the azure-eyed and fairhaired. (Which is, I think, an example of the proper definition of 'begging the question.' I.e. the hypothesis I had made going into the game was that if you watch from the front seats you are likely wealthy, and if you are wealthy in Brazil or another country you are [un]likely to be . . . .)
Besides I was wondering whether the throng of non-American advertisements on the signs around the field was merely in my head, or a sign that American firms have a scanty estimation of the beautiful game, or a hint that the American multinational is not as dominant internationally as it was thirty years ago.
*
Despite these weighty reflections(TM), and the generally unspectacular nature of the goalscoring (not a single bicycle kick amongst them), the game left me in a happy frame of mind.
P.S.: I hope that 'Croat' is a fitting term. I was thinking of writing 'Croatians' instead.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
Posts
