Very much like a war

I’ll lay it out there right away; I’m not a very big soccer fan. The fact that I call it soccer probably gives it away immediately. However since the 1994 World Cup, I’ve made an effort to tune into the world’s biggest tournament. From Brazil’s penalty kick ending in ’94, France’s entry into the World Champions Club on home soil in ’98, Brazil showing how it’s done in ’02, and Zidane’s head-butting madness in ’06, the World Cup for some reason has been able to capture enough of my interest to make me want to watch it, even thought once it’s over my interest in soccer seems to fall to the same level as most non-Canadians interest in curling.

So with the World Cup 2010 starting up roughly a month ago, I was ready. With the help of some of my co-workers who hailed from areas of the world where soccer is on par with hockey as the nation’s unofficial religion, I found that CBC had finally joined the 21st century and decided to stream games online. I mean you couldn’t ask for a better thing to have during the workday, as having a sports event playing while working just helps to make the day fly by. And with that and my teams picked to follow (since Canada will get back into the World Cup again around the same time as cricket becomes popular worldwide), I was ready to go. I was going to watch every game, follow every story. I was going to practically immerse myself in soccer over the next much or drown trying.

High flyin' saves and action all around.

Two weeks later, my interest in soccer was slowly floating to the bottom. With all three of the teams that I was following either not having much of a chance (New Zealand, Australia), or just totally forgot how to not suck (England), interest in the game in the office and in my sports world ground to a halt. So much so that I found myself last Sunday going out to dinner and not realizing that it was the finals for the World Cup that day which were starting as soon as I walked in the door.

Now to put this in perspective, I hail from an area that could be considered a wee bit off the beaten path. Like six hundred and fifty miles and a passport stamp to get to the nearest major league team of any sport. So picturing that there is any interest in soccer here outside of little league is a stretch. Picturing that the bar would be packed wall-to-wall with people there to watch the game would have odds on par with New Zealand winning the whole shebang. Yet there it was (if largely helped by folks there on vacation), only one empty seat in the house, and the majority of seats becoming more of an orange hue the closer you got to one of the televisions from the occupants shirt. It’s like I stepped through a door and was magically transported to Amsterdam, with only a large glass filled with Stella Artois and the haze of “happy smoke” to complete the illusion. So with my order placed and a cold beverage in my hand, I figured I’d probably end up just surfing on my phone with the occasional cheer or jeer being quietly heard from the folks watching the game, with the game not capturing my interest at all, with the only linkage that I knew of these two nations being the Eighty Years War to stir up any semblance of rivalry between them.

Boy was I wrong.

What if Rodden was just a bit quicker?

It started slow, but like a game against strong teams of practically equal talent and skill levels, it continued to build as the game progressed. And there was no love lost between these squads. The looks that players had on their faces were ones very familiar to someone that has watched hockey for his entire life. It was very much like a war, only this one was a bit over eighty minutes instead of eighty years. By the time my order arrived and the second half started, that’s when things started to get interesting, and get chippy. Flying tackles, diving all over the place, and multiple yellow cards had me wondering if they had taken a hockey game and moved it into grass. In fact the amount of diving had me wondering if there were snipers hidden around the stadium randomly picking off players with rubber bullets or something. Although it was good to hear that the crowd, which was small yet very vocal, was right on them about it regardless of jersey, although it might help that here diving hockey players are regarded with great disdain.

But it wasn’t all chiptastic and slow, podding, trap-like game play (although from the first half you’d’ wonder). With fatigue looking to be a bit of a factor, some nice breakaways came out for folks to enjoy. Wesley Sneijder’s blast through the Spanish D was like the wakeup call that the game needed, and only the sliver of rubber on Iker Casillas’s right shoe prevented a sea of Orange to explode into life. After that it was like someone started turning up the tension dial, along with the speed. Play was more end-to-end, the animosity was almost palatable, and this was getting the feel of a World Cup final at last. You could tell by each hard tackle, angry stare, and swatted away hand that this was becoming a war, and whoever was able to find the back of that net first would taste a victory that would be sweeter then any sugary elixir found. The only negative side to things is the amount of diving had increased what felt like ten-fold from the first half, so much so that the amount of yellow cards being dispensed made you wonder if the teams were going for a record in one game, or at the very least trying to recapture Italy’s performance from the last final in that area, in a fitting montage.

What made the game decent was the constant back and forth. No one team truly dominated until the last ten minutes or so, and if the Dutch weren’t valiantly trying to bring a soccer-esque version of the 1975 Flyers to their gameplan it would have probably been even the whole way. I mean the amount of tugging, grabbing, kicking, tripping, and diving had me wondering if I was watching a hockey game from the late 90′s and is probably the only blemish that this game had. Granted that’s like calling a boil the size of a grape on your nose small, but still.

The heights of joy, and the deaths of despair, all in one brief unforgettable moment.

After the red card to Heitinga for holding up Iniesta, there was a feeling that it was only a matter of time that a goal would be scored. The local crowd became pretty sullen, and it seem that Spain started to pull into control of the match. That the very same Iniesta, who was being denounced earlier in the game by the play-by-play announcers for bringing a soft, uninspired game to the match and was on the other end of that red card, was probably salt to that recently opened wound. And with three minutes before being the second final to be decided by penalties (which oddly enough no-one wanted, yet regular games are fine to have them for) was just absolutely brutal. The place just went completely silent, as if the World Cup wasn’t even being played.

The smile of victory

Soon after, as the final minutes wound down, the throngs of folks filed out. Disappointed to have their vacations sullied by their team not able to capitalize on their multiple chances, including three breakaways, and wondering if the squad in Orange was just cursed to not win the big one. With this being their third appearance, and their third second place finish, maybe there’s some truth to that. The last time the Dutch and Spaniards fought such a pitched battle, the Netherlands was born. This time it was Spain that would take a valued prize home.

So as I left after finishing dinner and probably two or three beers, it was a good time. As previous times, the World Cup doesn’t have me wanting to tune into the English Premier or MLS anytime soon, and the amount of diving has me wishing that soccer leagues would give such ridiculous flopping about instant red cards. But it was a good surprise for my day, and in the end an enjoyable experience. I find that watching these kind of games, you really need a crowd with you. Watching it with friends, having a brew, and enjoying each others company.

And in the end, isn’t that what the game is all about?

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