Football for albatrosses
28th July 2010
During the World Cup, I wanted to ask:
- Why do footballers spit? When you’re sweating, surely you’d want to keep water inside your body?
- Why are goalkeepers the only players with a water bottle within easy reach when they’re also the players who run around the least?
- Why do footballers hold hands with little children when entering the pitch? Should they be bringing minors to a battlefield?
- Has arguing with the referee ever worked?
- In women’s football, do players exchange their jerseys after a match?
- If both teams wore the same strip, would the players still be able to recognise their teammates? Or would they end up passing the ball to the other side?
- Could we organise a game with everyone in the same strip? In the spirit of scientific inquiry?
During the World Cup, I learned that:
- Footballers fall over a lot.
- Players from the other team help them fall.
- Footballers don’t actually need that much help to fall.
- One-touch play does not refer to a player keeling over from one tap by an opponent.
- A fallen footballer can recover surprisingly quickly if the referee’s call goes in his favour. Or if he doesn’t get any attention in the first place. This could have important implications for medical science.
- It’s hard being the goalie. If the ball spills out of your hands and into goal, you will be compared to the worst environmental disaster ever to befall the United States.
- Goalkeepers fall over a lot too.
- They have to fall over without any help.
- Footballers look very different from footballs. But not to members of the opposing team, who take every opportunity to kick both.
- Most handballs are armballs.
- A vuvuzela beside your ear is louder than thousands in the TV.
- Giving someone your sweat-soaked jersey after a match is a friendly gesture, not a request for laundry assistance. And you get a jersey soaked with someone else’s sweat in return. Everybody wins!
- Sometimes, a player wants a jersey so much he doesn’t wait for the match to end but starts pulling at it during play.
- Football enables a man to pat another man’s rear in public without anyone getting punched. Or arrested.
- There is more drama in a month-long tournament than there is in a year-long soap opera. Except that no one in the tournament seems to have shot J.R. Maybe next time.
- When the ball flies into goal, time slows down. This phenomenon can be observed more easily in video replays.
- If you score, your team-mates will jump on top of you. For this reason, it is advisable to remain standing or at least upright.
- That offside thing sort of makes sense now!
- ‘Rooney’ in the hands of a Japanese commentator sounds like ‘Looney’.
- ‘Penalty kick’ in Japanese is peekay.
- ‘Quarter-finals’ in Japanese is besuto eighto.
- Holding both hands up is universal language for ‘I didn’t do it, ref!’
- Once every four years, this planet splits into two universes – World Cup World and Non-World Cup World. In World Cup World, an octopus pronounces on the fate of nations and receives death threats when it has the temerity to be right. In Non-World Cup World, people do not threaten octopuses. They simply eat them.
- If I support a side, it will probably lose. I am as lucky an omen for a team as a dead albatross. Well, I knew this from previous World Cups but I thought that the jinx might have faded over time. It hasn’t. I backed a team in 11 of the 21 matches I watched this tournament. In one of those 11 instances, the, er, favoured side drew. In all the others, it lost.
So a few apologies are in order: Sorry, Spain. I really thought you’d be okay against Switzerland. Sorry, Brazil. I won’t do it again. Sorry, Argentina. If it makes you feel any better, I rooted for Germany in their next game. Sorry, Germany. I did try to make it up to you by not watching your match for third place. Even though I really wanted to. (Before you ask, I’m not responsible for what happened to France and Italy.)
- The tournament makes you wish it were safe to support a team without fear of bringing it down. It makes you wish that because of another thing I’ve learned from the World Cup.
- Football is fun. Even for albatrosses.
...
Postscript
After this piece was run in The Straits Times, reader Colin Lim sent this in:
In line with FIFA’s aim of promoting football in the world, allow me to answer your questions:
1) Footballers used to hold the hands of their WAGs (that’s wives and girlfriends to the uninitiated) when entering the pitch, amongst other body parts. That proved to be too much of a distraction, especially for the England team, so this practice was abandoned in favor of this more family-oriented option.
2) No, arguing with the ref has never ever worked. But footballers still do it. That’s why they are footballers.
3) In women’s football, players do change jerseys after a match. But only in the filthy minds of the fans. And it’s often in slow-mo with multiple replays.
4) If both teams wore the same strip, footballers would not be able to recognize their teammates. Same if they wore sunglasses or changed their hairstyles.
5) Yes, we can have a game with everyone in the same strip. Or in any matching attire for that matter. But Nike and Adidas will cry foul over the loss of business opportunities.
Tuesday, July 27, 2010
Monday, July 05, 2010
So long, and arigatou for all the kicks
5th July 2010
We know now how the story ended.
But we didn’t know it on Tuesday, just as Yuichi Komano didn’t know he would enter Japanese football lore as The Man Who Missed.
It’s still Tuesday, Tuesday evening and a river of supporters in Japan’s blue uniform flows through central Kyoto.
I follow a few of them to a sports bar in Sanjo-Kiyamachi, a warren of narrow streets, neon signs, drinking places and other adult establishments. Over a hundred years ago, samurai plotted revolution here. But tonight, it is the Blue Samurai who will fight: They go to war on a battlefield with goalposts at both ends.
They face Paraguay; both sides are vying for their first-ever place in the World Cup quarter-finals.
Outside the bar, a long line of Japan supporters is already celebrating. Their national team has, against all expectations, fought its way out of the group stage, the first time it has done so overseas.
The fans wave flags, blow whistles, wear electric earrings that flash blue. And sing opera. The chorus of choice is from Verdi’s Aida – the bit where the Egyptian army returns in triumph after thrashing the Ethiopians 7-0.
I don’t know the words but that’s okay because no one seems to. ‘Oh, ohhhh, oh, oh, oh, OH, OH, OH, oh, oh, oh, ohhhhh, oh, oh, ohhh, oh, ohhh, oh, o-o-oh, ohhh,’ they bellow.
A few drops fall from the sky – we’re in the middle of Japan’s rainy season – but no one leaves the queue. For the chance to watch history made, what’s a little rain?
A lot of rain. It slashes down, silencing the singing. We are saved by a staff member who dashes out with umbrellas. He is dressed as Japan’s goalkeeper Eiji Kawashima, complete with the big gloves.
‘Kawashima, let me in!’ calls a girl.
I’m one of the last customers allowed inside. The bar’s sardine-full – blue uniforms, flags, flashing earrings and people screaming ‘Nippon!’
This is not a good place to be Paraguayan.
It’s 9.30pm – one and a half hours to go before the match starts. Time for more Verdi! ‘Oh, ohhh, oh, oh…’
The crowd works its way through the line-up, chanting the players’ names in turn. After a couple of false starts, I get the hang of it: Yell player’s name, clap three times, stretch arms out to TV.
‘Nakazawa!’ Clap, clap, clap, hands out, in supplication, in support.
Nakazawa, Nagatomo, Nakamura, Matsui, Kawashima, Honda –
The TV flashes a clip of coach Takeshi Okada crossing the pitch with a cup and his usual impassivity. He makes cliff faces look emotional.
‘Oka-chan!’ calls a fan, putting an affectionate spin on the name. The crowd picks it up. ‘Oka-chan!’ Clap, clap, clap, stick hands out. ‘Oka-chan!’
Derided for a string of losses in the build-up to the tournament, Okada has seen a whiplash reversal in his popularity. Fans once bayed for his blood or, at the very least, his resignation. But now, in Japan’s ancient capital, they chant his name like a god’s.
On hindsight, we should have called on other gods as well.
The two sides spend the entire 90 minutes locked in inconclusive struggle. The closest Japan gets to scoring is a shot in the 22nd minute that ricochets off the crossbar.
About 10 minutes later, another drive towards goal fizzles out. ‘No need to hold back!’ yells the man next to me.
The match will later be described as dull. But in that dark bar, with every near-miss greeted with groans, screams and stepped-up chanting, those 90 minutes are full of cardiac arrest potential.
The tension eases at one point, when the camera cuts to a shot of Okada’s stone-set face. The crowd has a suggestion for the coach: ‘Egao!’ Clap, clap, clap. ‘Egao!’
Smile, they roar.
There isn’t much to smile about. The game goes into extra time but the only thing it settles is that the match will have to be settled by penalty shootout.
Everyone in the team – players, substitutes, coaches – huddles, holding one another in a tight circle.
In the bar, there is no room to form a circle but strangers’ arms are draped over my shoulders and mine, over theirs.
Yasuhito Endo scores first for Japan, followed by captain Makoto Hasebe. Yuichi Komano leaves his team-mates, waiting in a line with their arms around one another.
He stands in front of the Paraguayan goalkeeper: just one man facing another with a ball and the hopes of two nations between them.
He moves, the ball flies – and hits the crossbar. Is that the sound a heart makes when it breaks? Whatever it is, he will hear it for the rest of his life.
Keisuke Honda scores but so do the Paraguayans and they finish it 5-3.
Yuichi Komano, The Man Who Missed, is in tears. There are other ways to blight a man’s life. But this – this has to be the cruellest.
The others are crying too. Okada, in the way of someone not used to offering comfort, gives Komano a quick hug.
Marcus Tulio Tanaka, stalwart in defence and one of the team giants at 1.85m, sits slumped in the dugout. His Japanese-Brazilian father is seriously ill; after the game, he will fly to Brazil to see him. But for now, he can only stare into space, a man with nothing more to pull out of himself.
Okada accepts full responsibility for the loss, indicating that this will be his last World Cup.
But when he and his men fly back to Japan, they do not return to reproach. About 4,200 supporters gather at Kansai International Airport on Thursday to welcome them home.
The players, led by their coach, appear. A forest of hands holding phones and cameras flies up; women scream. Which is probably as good a measure of sporting success as any.
Okada cracks at last – he smiles.
It was raining when we filed out of the bar after the match into the dark of Wednesday morning. But before we left, we did one last chant.
‘Arigatou.’ Clap, clap, clap. ‘Arigatou.’
5th July 2010
We know now how the story ended.
But we didn’t know it on Tuesday, just as Yuichi Komano didn’t know he would enter Japanese football lore as The Man Who Missed.
It’s still Tuesday, Tuesday evening and a river of supporters in Japan’s blue uniform flows through central Kyoto.
I follow a few of them to a sports bar in Sanjo-Kiyamachi, a warren of narrow streets, neon signs, drinking places and other adult establishments. Over a hundred years ago, samurai plotted revolution here. But tonight, it is the Blue Samurai who will fight: They go to war on a battlefield with goalposts at both ends.
They face Paraguay; both sides are vying for their first-ever place in the World Cup quarter-finals.
Outside the bar, a long line of Japan supporters is already celebrating. Their national team has, against all expectations, fought its way out of the group stage, the first time it has done so overseas.
The fans wave flags, blow whistles, wear electric earrings that flash blue. And sing opera. The chorus of choice is from Verdi’s Aida – the bit where the Egyptian army returns in triumph after thrashing the Ethiopians 7-0.
I don’t know the words but that’s okay because no one seems to. ‘Oh, ohhhh, oh, oh, oh, OH, OH, OH, oh, oh, oh, ohhhhh, oh, oh, ohhh, oh, ohhh, oh, o-o-oh, ohhh,’ they bellow.
A few drops fall from the sky – we’re in the middle of Japan’s rainy season – but no one leaves the queue. For the chance to watch history made, what’s a little rain?
A lot of rain. It slashes down, silencing the singing. We are saved by a staff member who dashes out with umbrellas. He is dressed as Japan’s goalkeeper Eiji Kawashima, complete with the big gloves.
‘Kawashima, let me in!’ calls a girl.
I’m one of the last customers allowed inside. The bar’s sardine-full – blue uniforms, flags, flashing earrings and people screaming ‘Nippon!’
This is not a good place to be Paraguayan.
It’s 9.30pm – one and a half hours to go before the match starts. Time for more Verdi! ‘Oh, ohhh, oh, oh…’
The crowd works its way through the line-up, chanting the players’ names in turn. After a couple of false starts, I get the hang of it: Yell player’s name, clap three times, stretch arms out to TV.
‘Nakazawa!’ Clap, clap, clap, hands out, in supplication, in support.
Nakazawa, Nagatomo, Nakamura, Matsui, Kawashima, Honda –
The TV flashes a clip of coach Takeshi Okada crossing the pitch with a cup and his usual impassivity. He makes cliff faces look emotional.
‘Oka-chan!’ calls a fan, putting an affectionate spin on the name. The crowd picks it up. ‘Oka-chan!’ Clap, clap, clap, stick hands out. ‘Oka-chan!’
Derided for a string of losses in the build-up to the tournament, Okada has seen a whiplash reversal in his popularity. Fans once bayed for his blood or, at the very least, his resignation. But now, in Japan’s ancient capital, they chant his name like a god’s.
On hindsight, we should have called on other gods as well.
The two sides spend the entire 90 minutes locked in inconclusive struggle. The closest Japan gets to scoring is a shot in the 22nd minute that ricochets off the crossbar.
About 10 minutes later, another drive towards goal fizzles out. ‘No need to hold back!’ yells the man next to me.
The match will later be described as dull. But in that dark bar, with every near-miss greeted with groans, screams and stepped-up chanting, those 90 minutes are full of cardiac arrest potential.
The tension eases at one point, when the camera cuts to a shot of Okada’s stone-set face. The crowd has a suggestion for the coach: ‘Egao!’ Clap, clap, clap. ‘Egao!’
Smile, they roar.
There isn’t much to smile about. The game goes into extra time but the only thing it settles is that the match will have to be settled by penalty shootout.
Everyone in the team – players, substitutes, coaches – huddles, holding one another in a tight circle.
In the bar, there is no room to form a circle but strangers’ arms are draped over my shoulders and mine, over theirs.
Yasuhito Endo scores first for Japan, followed by captain Makoto Hasebe. Yuichi Komano leaves his team-mates, waiting in a line with their arms around one another.
He stands in front of the Paraguayan goalkeeper: just one man facing another with a ball and the hopes of two nations between them.
He moves, the ball flies – and hits the crossbar. Is that the sound a heart makes when it breaks? Whatever it is, he will hear it for the rest of his life.
Keisuke Honda scores but so do the Paraguayans and they finish it 5-3.
Yuichi Komano, The Man Who Missed, is in tears. There are other ways to blight a man’s life. But this – this has to be the cruellest.
The others are crying too. Okada, in the way of someone not used to offering comfort, gives Komano a quick hug.
Marcus Tulio Tanaka, stalwart in defence and one of the team giants at 1.85m, sits slumped in the dugout. His Japanese-Brazilian father is seriously ill; after the game, he will fly to Brazil to see him. But for now, he can only stare into space, a man with nothing more to pull out of himself.
Okada accepts full responsibility for the loss, indicating that this will be his last World Cup.
But when he and his men fly back to Japan, they do not return to reproach. About 4,200 supporters gather at Kansai International Airport on Thursday to welcome them home.
The players, led by their coach, appear. A forest of hands holding phones and cameras flies up; women scream. Which is probably as good a measure of sporting success as any.
Okada cracks at last – he smiles.
It was raining when we filed out of the bar after the match into the dark of Wednesday morning. But before we left, we did one last chant.
‘Arigatou.’ Clap, clap, clap. ‘Arigatou.’
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