Italy 1 France 1 (5-3) on penalties

To whatever awaits us in 4 years time,

So this is it. This is what everyone in the entire world (except for America) has been waiting for since June 9th 2006. No, it’s not the final of Wimbledon (good job Guy), it’s not commemorating the dead for the 7/7, it’s not the end of Big Brother (can’t come soon enough), and it’s not Albert’s birthday (that’s in a week or so, I think). It’s the final and this is how it transpired.

From Guy:
hi ryu,

listen, your blog is awesome. i read it a few times now. i especially loved
the one where you talk about Americans and soccer and the stats. i didn't
know you were that funny :)

i can't wait for the game today. i hope your having a good time since London
and Europe overall must be one big party.

things are ok over here.

i am going to go watch the pregame stuff now, but i wanted to say hello.

i'll write more later.

i hope all is well.

guy

From Stacie (text):
Text 1: Yo, yo, yo! You meeting up brick lane laters? x x
Text 2: I’m not even home yet so still in yesterdays clothes. Don't think you’d appreciate my natural odours :). I have high expectations for Ryus world cup ramble: the grand finale to make my Monday doing the 9 till 5 bearable. Be good, have fun and take care flour x x
Text 3: damn it! Was so looking forward to you having to run down the street naked. France were more than holding their own x x

From Albert (text):
Text 1: What?
Text 2: Did u answer lermin’s question...
Text 3-4: (Censored)
Text 5-16: (Completely non-football unrelated)
Text 17: Yes...ps3 won’t happen for at least a year

From Ana (text):
...Enjoy the game, I’ll watch this one as well!

From Ben (text):
Text 1: do or do not, there is no try...get your cup on.
Text 2: soul-cleansing goal...
Text 3: fuck Italy! Zidane is the man!
Text 4: heads up! That ending sucked! France kicked ass...
Text 5: Zidane’s head is worth the cup, that was the best reaction ever...Skull to an Italian ribcage...nice. Goin out in style!

From Simon (text):
Any luck?

From DJ:
...at least the French didn't win!
Mad props to Cannavaro, and Pirlo. And at last Del Piero has a World Cup!
However, I still think Grosso's a cheat and a diver.

Here's to Zidane's moment of complete lunacy...as great as he is, that
temper is what makes him rank below Maradona Ryu.

Another observation from this World Cup...almost every coach/manager
wore either a suit or simple polo shirts with matching track pants.
Except of course for Klinsmann and his assistant. They looked like
they were club/bar owners rather than coaches. And why was it that in
a World Cup where security was so tight that a team's dog was required
to have an ID, none of the German coaching staff was wearing one?
Might be a stupid observation but hey...I notice these things.

Any comments on what's been happening to the NBA with all the trades?
Chicago's back baby! One hell of lineup...let's see if they can work
as a team.

From Jackie:
If anyone found out what the Italian dude said to ZZ that would be great..  That was a sad moment.  He left with a red card and didn't get to participate on the award ceremony.  I think the Italians are crooks.. France should of won... I like Kilisman.  I think he breaks the traditional coach image..  he seems cool and into the game... man, it's a sad day for France.. ZZ should still be ranked at the top.  I don't think he's below Maradona..

From Rick (text):
Dude, apologies for not coming out – needed to stay local. Looks like your prediction was a good one! Lets head butt like zizou soon.

From Emi (text):
Text 1: Hiya just got here but so crowded can’t find u! X
Text 2-4: (Still lost)
Text 5: Hiya back home now. Thanks a lot 4 today. Take care n c u soon! X

From Julien (telephone conversation):
It wasn’t a good game... I’m going to the Edinburgh festival at the end of the August. Let’s meet up.

From Philippe (conversation):
We [France] played well....ganbatta, kedo shouganaine....

Thank you so much for writing. I really appreciate all the comments and me not having to streak down memory lane in London. Thank god.

So as you do with all the best matches of the world, we were all up in arms in the Vibe Bar on Brick Lane. I did get in 40 minutes before the match and found Philippe’s friend Taishi as well as Philippe’s mother and her colleague sweating profusely onto the already sweat soaked atmosphere. The 300 strong diverged with the mama’s boys covering the right of the venue and the vive la revolution on the left, the atmosphere was stinking hot (thanks Ben).

With the hotties being all hot and bothered and wearing as less clothes as possible (thanks to the utter lack of ventilation), the tone was set for the “which country has got the hottest girls” contest. As we ogled at the prized cows (now I’ve lost another woman viewer), we were getting weirdly excited about the match. Oh yes, we almost forgot that there was a world cup final to be played out. As I dodged and burned the sweaty (and at this point, really really heinously smelly) boys and girls on my way to the beer place, I struck up a conversation with a man in a French jersey. Since I was wearing my C-League quarter final Inter V Villarreal, he assumed I was going all IROC on his little ass. I told him clearly that my allegiance lies with the allez les Bleus (Philippe/Julien connection), but I expected the Azurri to win. With a desperately confused look on his face, he quickly gathered his thoughts (and his beers), shot me a look of absolute delusion and was off.

The atmosphere was obviously hot, but as the game drew closer and the ear drum busting chants of “Allez les Bleus” and “Italia, Italia, Italia” echoing throughout the 360 venue, you knew the shit was going down big time. Flags were right left and dripping with perspiration, the faces were painted in white, blue, green, red, and smears, the tension was mounting like he who mounts a pig. Last match for zizou and probably the last one for a some of the Italians, namely still the best defender on earth.

I shall keep this a simple affair.

1st goal came from a what really should not have been a penalty. Malouda saunters into the box and gets a slight sandwich from the tallest man and the shortest man wearing the deeper blue. Materazzi’s foot, slightest of touch unhinges Malouda’s wheels and down he goes. Not so obviously it’s a penalty and the maestro chips Buffon the wrong way and the French are being French. Momentary ear blindness ensues and France are up one.

2nd goal was busted out real hard redemption style. It wasn’t his fault, but the not-so sparingly tattooed man was feeling slightly miffed about the foul he really most likely didn’t commit. So after bit more time had passed from his debacle (or shall we say Mr. Elizondo’s) and a perfect opportunity to rewind that nasty clock was presented by Pirlo’s corner, he struck is with so much power that the baldie with gloves did not move. What was impressive with this header was that Vieira, who is equally tall as Materazzi was completely up on his grill mid flight. But no matter black or white, he gets his head squarely on the ball and no contest for baldie. We are back on track.

Cracker whore of a 1st half and I wish I could have said the same for the next 45 minutes, but I guess you’re not allowed to have two of the same. With Toni hitting one beautifully but was so offside his mother won’t be proud, Henry blasting one not so passed Buffon, and my shirt ecstatically clinging on to my skin, it was time for the next 30 minutes.

What could have been a Bollywood ending was so close the taste of it still lingers in my mouth. Zizou controls the ball and whips it to the sliding Sagnol on the right. Sagnol goes north for a bit and sends an inch perfect cross which is met by the circa 1998 final Zidane, which is then completely and Sports Centringly rejected by the most expensive goalkeeper in the world. If the best number 10 in the world can do this, why did he do what he did next?

All of a sudden there is commotion on the pitch. Everyone is looking at the screen as if something went missing or is missing. The replay shows Zidane having a chat with Materazzi, the pair seemingly intertwined in this game. Zidane trots away, Materazzi says something, Zidane turns and head butts Materazzi in his solar plexus. Before you ask me why, I have to tell you why. During the C-League quest, Juve v Hamburger SV, apparently provoked goes for the headbutt again to Jochen Kientz and doesn’t enjoy the subsequent red. In 1998 World Cup, he stamps on a Saudi player and dutifully gets the same treatment. As we like to call it here, the red myst rules the genius. The difference between a true genius and a maniac is a thin red line, which engulfed Zizou yesterday and did the same for Maradona not so long ago.

To my utter surprise and not so much of a horror, France dominated most of the match and especially during the extra time. With their geriatric home bound stars drawing all the energy they can for the final destination, in my mind they could have won the penalty shoot out which destroyed an otherwise a decent match.

Italy had won their fourth World Cup and it’s been a journey for them. With the scandal hitting fever pitch today as the authorities will define the fate of 13 out of the 23 players for the coming season, Canavarro celebrating his 100th cap with a glory, and the disaster which encapsulated Baggio’s international career in 94’ now a well-forgotten history, they take home the 2nd most beautiful cup ever to be won in a world wide competition.

Although the tournament honoured Zizou with a golden ball (MVP) of the tournament, no doubt the punters will remember him for his crafty cranium than his jaw drooping fete of elegance and moments of sheer football bliss on the pitch. Shame that things had to end this way for him and what was said between Materazzi and him may forever be shrouded in myst.

Ryu's "I almost forgot" goal of the day. Will have to give it to whoever took the last kick for Italy to seal the win. The change in Canavarro's expression, he who did not crack a smile during the first 4 kicks, was simply amazing.

That really is it. From the 23rd of June, I shall be going back to my sentry duty and my plane to Scotland to capture Nakamura and co. busting it with Rooney’s ex-team for a friendly will not likely be a sizzler, but normal routine of hellish travelling is coming back.

I really just want to thank you for putting up with my ramble for the past 31 days. It’s been a manically (drunk) month but I did enjoy (almost) every moment of it.

I have not made a decision if I should or not do the Euro 2008, but if I get enough response, the ramble that is ryu’s cup will go rollin’ again in no time.

In four years we’ll bring you the first ever World Cup in Africa and I expect myself to be wearing the damn green jacket and doing it hamster style with my camera.

Thanks everyone and thank you World Cup for erasing the month of June from my 2006 calendar.

Thanks for watching. :)

Finals Part 1

To the end of summer boys and girls,

It’s all over but the crying. But before we bust out the anti-frog sentiments out here, I just want to give a shout out to all the peeps who have been reading this religiously (albeit during their office hours and even if you get busted for it, it’s not really my problem)

Obviously the MTBA, Julien, Philippe, Stacie, Marlene, Renata, Guy, Ben, Erich, Suzue, Adam, Asako Some person in Holland, Cristina, and some other people in the UK.

If I for some ridiculous reason forgot your name, it’s not that I don’t appreciate it, but it’s because I don’t have a good memory. If you are so enraged that you are not included on my “I love you” list, please write to me and I shall amend it.

So, I should actually start out with what happened day before yesterday. Yes Albert, you were probably drinking your already emaciated body away, but my country was playing with a bit more mission than Cristina’s team.

“What’s happening cock face? Why this sudden change of mind after you have been gutting that this 3rd/4th biz is all bull shit and no meat?”

I don’t really understand what the fuck you want to say, but the fact that my country won has nothing to do with me wanting to do the match report on that. Objectivity is the holy grail of truth and blah blah blah.

Of course you fucker. If we didn’t win, I’d go straight to the final.

3rd/4th Place
Germany 3
Portugal 1

Under the bright and starry skies of Stuttgart, we came to make sure we will have a bit more of that summer of ‘06 to enjoy. Although I was slightly more busy doing the drinking with my friends Ken and Hirai Ken, we sat down to watch the latter stages of the 1st half and obviously I was yawning.
By all means, if Hirai Ken’s house didn’t come with a television and if he wasn’t kind enough to let us watch it, I wouldn’t have been bothered at all.

Really, that’s the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth so help me Sebastian.

1st goal came when I was just about being asked to have my drink freshened by the ever so host like Hirai Ken. Hopefully he will be reading this, but from the way he looks and the way he is around the ladies, you can never expect him to be such an attentive and fantastic host of a party. But now that I think about it, if he looks the way he looks and hosts the way he hosts, putting 2 and 4443 together, I do come up with 4445, which means that he’s the killer with the ladies. Anyhow, back to the goal.

I have developed this 6th sense of knowing almost all the time when a goal is being scored. If someone sends a ball towards the left channel and you know he’s not gonna reach it, I won’t get that exciting. But none football people around me will be going mad (especially the women, the women I tell you) and will be randomly screaming one of their favourite player’s name (he must be a sugar drizzling lollypop for your eyes) and perhaps simultaneously having a seizure like symptoms but more pleasurable. Now that I have lost the minimum amount of female support on this thing, let’s really move onto the goal. It was a crack from Zit face, who was inexplicably omitted from the semi final match in favour of that dude who really should be ballin’. Strange but true, but if your current national hero of the month is cracking the world cup magic wand, you don’t question him. Bastian, perhaps was a bit bored of not scoring and decided to unleash his right foot, which for some odd reason struck a ball which he was dribbling, which at the end swerved the other way Ricardo decided to go and which in turn burn the net for his first of the tournament.

2nd goal came moments later when Simon was asking whether I wanted a piece of somethin’ somethin’. It wasn’t all that of somethin’ and the resulting goal wasn’t all that somethin’. Zit boy takes a awesomely low free kick from the left (more like a shot, really) and goes through couple of dozy eyed Portuguese when Petit (not to be mistaken with the pony tailed wielding Frenchman) decided the best thing to do was to kick it and see where it ends up. He did just that and you know it’s bad when you don’t know where you are kicking that round object made by Adidas. The ball goes in and Bastian’s zit pops from the glee.

3rd goal came when Hirai Ken did ask if I was okay. I dutifully said I was fine and realized later that he meant if I wanted another drink. I gave him my plastic cup and moments later the cup was full to the brimmin’. Good man, full of praise. Bastian, who was trying to equal the 1/10th of the number of zits with the number of goal for this evening, dribbles casually and cuts to the top of the box. With the lazy faire that is the Portuguese defending on a Saturday night in full swing, he just strikes it hard and not so lazy. The ball zooms past the defender and goes way beyond Ricardo giddy fingers and smashes to the right side netting. Bastian is covered in puss, but he is full of grace. For good measure, he takes his shirt off and we all went blind and he gets booked for it.

4th and final goal of that evening came from none other than Gomes. With Cristina constantly telling me that “Take Pauleta out and put Gomes” in and with the 2nd greatest ever to don the Portuguese uniform finally making amends with Big Phil, a superb CONSOLATION goal was created.
With the geriatric pair in Khan and Nowotny doing their job admirably whilst saving blistering drives by Pauleta and Ronaldo, the semi disgruntled Figo launches a teasing yet excruciating cross right into the soul of the Bundes defence. Gomes, who really look like he was flying and came from absolutely nowhere, dives for the cross and hits it square. Nothing Khan can do and we have got a brilliant 1st ever FIFA World Cup 2006 diving header. The Gillardino one is an offside.

The end of the road for Figo, Ballack, Khan and some other Frings players (get it?). I’m sure they’ll get a book deal somewhere and won’t be bitching about how they need to be feeding their kids. At least we finish on a high and am looking forward to the team in 2006. As for the Portuguese, they have got the manager, now they desperately need the next generation to raise the game.

Next part will bring you the tried and tested and shit hot (not really) final of the FIFA World Cup 2006 in Germany.

Or just the Cup.

Holiday Part 3 Day 2

To the people who have waited,

The wait is semi over. If you’re a smart reader, you know I’m writing about the 3rd place match that will be kicking it really hard core with the fans on both sides going wild, chicks showing their tits as if it’s Mardi Gras 1997 and the men showing their man boobs as if it’s gym class ‘89, the streets will be packed the brim of the rim with cries of victory, whilst the players will suit up to defend what is their honour, the pride of the countries are at stake.

Probably not.

This, like I said, is the 3rd and 4th place battle. The only person who will be excited are the minority of the footbally viewing world plus every-4-years-football viewers, who for some reason feels that its in the mandate of their football watching charter that this is a not to be missed match of the year.

Please, jigga, please.

I for one don’t really care. I believe this is the most non-consequential match that is played in the World Cup every fucking 4 years. I mean, who cares? Man, if you are the player, it’s even worse. You just fought your way through 6 matches of mostly hell and your last match isn’t going to be played in the hearts and giddy eyes of the entire world, rather “Oh, the match is on! Oh, it’s the 3rd and 4th place match. Oh have we got anything to do this evening? Oh, I guess we’ll watch it”.

But if you’re Big Phil or Klinsi, you have your job so cut out, that you have to be careful not to cut yourself with it. How do you motivate your troops to another 90 minutes of drama, which will only be watched by the lamed ass people who couldn’t get the tickets to the big one? How would you rally them in the locker room when in the back of your mind, you’re thinking about the hot totties (the non Italian kind) of Ipanema and Venice? How do you get yourself laced up when you know you only got a month, month and a half at the most of vacation before you start your real job?

It’s totally unhip to the cool and totally provocatively unnecessary.

It’s only there because Blatter and fuckers want to rake in as much dough as possible.

It’s there for you tonight like an unwanted puppy in a soap box.

The last of the last headline news:

Well, um, there really aren’t any major headlines. I did go through quite a lot of websites (okay, 4) and there isn’t anything interesting. Oh, predictably Little Kaiser will rest on his laurels.

Although if you’re wandering which team to rootdown (Ben’s copyright), check out the below article in the Guardian: http://football.guardian.co.uk/worldcup2006/story/0,,1815606,00.html

Ryu’s “My sweet sweet thereafter” moment of yesterday. None. It was a day of beer, chinese, and the last stand. Ratner can eat my balls for brunch.

Today we bring you the match so many people have anticipated from the get go of this tournament. The host takes on some country called Po-t-gl for the highly coveted 3rd place medals given gracefully by the fat pig himself. Thanks Bladder.

Watch it (if you really must)

Holiday Part 3 Day 1

To the 26 hours party people,

Well, as is the case with my holiday away from the cup, I got up, dozed, took shower, played some ball whilst these black teenagers were smoking spliffs around me, didn’t join them, went to Massala Zone for dinner, celebrated Chris’ birthday at the Narrow boat whilst he conspicuously jammed with his fellow music peeps, came home and decided to goto bed.

I think I know what I’m currently suffering from. It’s the post elite 8 world cup fatigue syndrome. As you may well be aware, elite 8 days are the days where you got your two-a-days. You get at least two matches to keep you going. Even if you miss one (most likely the one at 3PM), you will still feel proud and lucky that your night cap with your work colleague will always feature football. Oh, those were the days..., but I would be happy to not go back to writing about 3 matches per day. That was the strangest mixture of heaven and hell.

So it’s France V Italy. Apparently the bookies were dancing the streets of Vegas as well as Guadalajara because both teams were one of the teams least likely to win the whole shibang. If you are a gambling man like da Beast is (youngest), you get better odds with les Bleus, but still I think the Azuri will like win or something.

As for the 3rd place match, I somehow don’t really give a shit. This is not the Olympics when the peeps are screaming with media imposed joy when you get that highly coveted and worthy of a bronze medal. The only colour that really counts is obviously black, I mean, gold. The rest is worthless. That’s why I have no idea why in the world of silly cock and balls that they would even contemplate giving the 3rd and the 4th people something to put in their sock drawer and forget about. “Oh wow, Michael. You got the bronze medal from the 2006 FIFA World Cup! That’s so great and cool and I’m so proud of you!”

Seriously, who gives a fuck.

All that is remaining is the final. There apparently is a talk of a possible 3rd and 4th place match in Saturday, but I’m hoping it will get rained out.

Well, off to the races:

“Eizondo chosen as Cup final ref”
You know he’s going to be good when he sent Roo home for early supper with Col.

“Lippi salutes Zidane renaissance”
Apparently, he also did the same for Mussolini.

“Domenech keeps faith in veterans”
Sicnce that’s all he’s got, he better be kowtowing to them and simultaneously sucking on their toes.

“Klose’s priority is bronze medal”
How sad is that.

“Zidane is running for Golden Ball”
I just pictured him running after a golden ball. Ace.

“Beckham PR refutes Magpies link”
I just pictured him eating and throwing up a magpie. ???

“Owen needs extra operation”
He also needs a smaller head. Really, he does.

“Capello cautious over Ronaldo”
I think he’s afriad that fatty will accidentally eat him.

“Injured Nesta ruled out of final”
Oh, it’s that guy who never really played.

“Del Piero puts his name into frame”
And sends it to his mother for an Easter gift.

“Cannavaro hopes for crowning glory”
Somehow there is nothing funny in this sentence. Great defender, shame about the height.

“Change or fail again: UEFA boss Lennart Johansson has called for a limit on foreign players”
Might be easier if, Lennart invents a time machine and assassinate Bosman.

“Podolski bags young player award”
Thank you for missing.

Ryu’s “Happy Birthday” moment of yesterday. My flatemate Chris is now at the ripe old age of 28. It’s good to know that he is, that you know, like he’s 28. Hooray.

Today will bring you more excitement from my life as well as a review of the movie X-Men: directed by an idiot.

Extra: Found a very engaging yet ruefully funny article about smoking and sports:
http://football.guardian.co.uk/News_Story/0,,1814675,00.html

Watch it (Don’t know what, but you know, you probably can find something)

France 1 Portugal 0

To the mad love of money and what it brings us,

After haemorrhage inducing match that was Germany v Italy, I was hoping that tonight’s match would have the same effect. End to end, sexy stuff all over, and a goal that would not allow a squeak or a shmeep from the losing bench. But that’s not exactly what happened, although the first half was full of field of dreams.

It’s not that I have been avoiding Cristina and the little Portuguese faction, but I really just was unlucky with what you humans call “timing”. So having not had the opportunity to hoot hoot for the red and green troops, I was insistent that I come over and watch the game with the fam. After hours and days of communicado and incommunicado, the game was on at 7PM Cristina residence. When I got there, John had his Portuguese bandana decorated with a Euro 2004 Portuguese shirt on, Shannon did change into a Portuguese get up and changed back to a pink shirt at the half, Daniel said, “I don’t have a Portuguese top”, but decided to not sulk and cheer for half of his country. And the queen of the evening? She had her scarf around her neck serenading a la Carl Lewis, but the loyalty, commitment, passion, and the desire for your own to do well was there all along.

Since I get good food whenever I come to their house, it is probably the most unnecessary thing to talk about the food I had tonight. Since it was Portugal noche, it wasn’t green and red food. As per Cristina’s obvious choice, we had a toast, with cheese, with ham, with sausage, with some red yummy sauce all over and a wee bit of tobasco to spice it up. It’s kind of like a big mac without the buns, the lettuce, the french dressing, the burger, and the tomato. You can leave the cheese there.

Final Four
France 1
Portugal 0

After the nerve racking 5 minutes before the match went on without any sort of Al Qaida attack, it was game on in Allianz.

1st and only goal came in the 1st half. Les Bleus were allezing the entire 45. With Zizou not ready to retire (again), he was the fulcrum which bonjoured the Portuguese. Why Costinha wasn’t getting him hard, hacking, and ripping him to shreds, only the Big man will know, but I was puzzled with the lack of intensity with the overall defence from the Portuguese. Although not known for their Detroit circa 1990, someone must have known that the maestro had astonishingly way too much of the time and space for someone of his fortitude, a man on a mission from some shell in the ghost.

What was happening now is that Va Va Voom was getting his Stella back Highbury style. Down he goes the left flank and was busy taking on defender after defender. Although the Thierry of the Gunners wasn’t quite there, 43 of the 100 was there to showcase his dips and swishes. But then what about the Portuguese, you say? Not much going on, really. With Deco and Costinha back, they had absolutely no excuse, well, they do get their excuse later. With Pauleta at the top of the Big Phil’s pyramid of power not being supported by the triumvirate, he was raped by the French defence time and time again. No support, no go.

With he who claims to never have cheated, got the ball in the box, and the first step kills off Carvalho, his right foot sweeping Henry and although Thierry could have stayed up, he did what all strikers do nowadays.

In comes Zizou and with one step and a non-congratulatory run to the centre of the pitch.

2nd half brought boring boring boring as the French decided not to run and the Portuguese decided not to finish. I fell asleep around the 70th minute mark amidst Ronaldo’s pathetic Oscar jumping and by the time I woke up, it was the 91st minute and John was next to me, his “Go Portugal” losing a bit of momentum and Cristina was busy with putting the undeniably bored kids to bed.

It was a decent match until the end of the first 45, but it did deteriorate. Of the “deserving” factor, it is a 60 40 to France. France had more chances at the goal, although I don’t agree with the penalty, which from the referee’s ruling up to that point wasn’t foul enough for a spot kick.

As for the Portuguese, their midfield is a super model, but up front it's a girl next door who looks quite hot when she takes the garbage out, but when she doesn't have her make up on, you're just glad she isn't doing you. The lack of strikers up front has always been a head ache and a half for Scolari's men. Last time I checked, Pauleta was playing in the Mehico 86 and he or Gomes or Postiga can't play on his own up there. Phil needs a young vibrant striker (or if you'r greedy like him, two) to lead the attack to the 2008 or have a complimentary striker to work with the aforementioned three. Now that Figo will say his obrigado to the peeps, it will be up to Deco and chronic cheater boy to re-create the magic of 2004 and 2006 with two steps further north. Beatiful football, shame about the absolute lack of potency up front which could possibly give them the best chance to win it all.

But France is through to meet the boys in deeper blue and perhaps for the first time in World Cup history, it is an all blue finale. I will and do and have congratulated Philippe (who is in Italy, but did send me the, “I’m sorry...” text yesterday) and the football nut plus the womenizer supremo Julien who is over the moon.

It was quite welcoming to get a text from Ben after the match saying that without me, the American only World Cup viewing lacks the excitement and the enthusiasm and to that I say, “doumo arigatou mr. roboto.”

The end is nigh, ladies and gentle homo eretcti. France have never played Italy in a World Cup final and from what I have seen thus far, Italy will have the edge. Why? Just because they have more fire power up front, with the big guy, the small guy, and the medium guy who can finish crosses. I’m worried about the old French men (highest average age in the tournament with a big three o) and from the nonchalant laissez faire walk about in the 2nd half indicate as well as one less day of rest, I believe they will not be able to match the overwhelmingly astute gun-ho ness of the Kristen’s boys.

But never say never, when the greatest is calling it this his swarovski song.

Tomorrow we bring you the excitement that is Chris’s birthday as well as me calling up Everton and Man-U for the friendly against Celtic.

Watch it (really, you must have better things to do than that)

Italy 2 Germany 0

To the winners,

Corr, where should I start. I’ll be honest with you, the straight up from the gut feeling I’m feelin’ is pure semi-fluid undeterred sadness. Sad that our World Cup is over and done with and feed it to the dolphins with that skanky whore you popped two days ago. Sad that we were 2 minutes to penalties and all of you know that we would have won it if we had gotten there first. Sad that I won’t get that intermittently queasy, awfully beer inducing, fist clench and unclench exercising moments will be over. Sad that we have all woken up.

Let’s goto the match.

Final 4
Italy 2
Germany 0

It was one of those matches with minimal amount of shots, but so many end to end stuff. You would think a match of this calibre would be either 1) defensively exciting or 2) defensively boring. Tonight it was neither. Both teams decided the best way to kill one another was to go for the jugular and rip them throat into a bloody mess. This was especially evident with Kristen’s boys as they committed their often long dark haired mama’s boys in Grosso and Zambrotta bombing in every available opportunity, thus nullifying the light haired beer drinking boys in Lahm and Friedrich making their move up the river.

But what the noodle boys were doing, doing so well was the speed and absolute imagination on the ball. Once Camoronesi or Perrotta got the ball, they quickly feeted over to the ugly Milanese, who in turn placed the soul firmly in ex-long haired whore’s able football wits. Although his fitness was utterly suspect throughout the entire June, tonight his level of but his level of lethalness was around 8.5, aka Roma level. Totti was releasing the full backs and Toni left, right, up, down, southwest and north east all 1st half long.

On the other hand, Deutschland ueber all of you fuckers were just taking it defensively. The risky kinky Italians were releasing, but they were also caught in the favourite confusing part of the game in offsides. If Italy had to, for some odd reason, take a corner, Jens’ nasty sticky persistent mitts were tasking it up. With Jens getting that shit out of his house, the hosts were allow to trap the Italians quite high up field and that’s what it was in the first 45.

The 2nd half brought less of more as Italians kept on flying into the flanks and marionetting from the middle. Even steven kevin lam? Not so, my dear brothers not often in arms. When the big G gets the ball, they just didn’t have a)the side boys nor b) the ingenuity to break down a defence unquestionably brilliantly by Cannavaro. With Chelsea man dancing like he did against the Argies and Kehl, a poor man’s dude who got caught hitting an Argie not being able to distribute the ball quickly enough, everything stuttered. With guy who should definitely be adopted by Dirk and sneaky but not fast enough on the opposite side, there just wasn’t enough pace and creative juice flowing on the river D. Italy had their chances, but Germany was hanging on by a sausage.

Then came the extra time. If you have copious amounts of time in hand and your right and left ass cheeks have finally joined as one, and not two, you as a human being don’t see that many goals scored in extra time. 30 minutes after 45 isn’t for football, but more likely for a warm down in front
of 65,000 penalty hungry freaks.

Lippi, knowing that the mama’s boys area absolute dada when it comes to the 12 meter death match, rolls in Gilardino at 74, Iaquinta at 90, and the could have been best at 104. Two of these subs were made against a midfielder. Beginning of extra time, Gilardino’s squeeze hit the post and Zambrotta’s howler freaks the crossbar. With Pole number 2 showing his youth and not the clinical finish his elder had acquired through years of being Pole number 1, misses at least 3 clear chances. Just when my mind was going, “Penalty we win, Penalty we win, Penalty we win” came Mein Kampf.

1st one and the decisively deadliest unanswerable one came from a a corner kick that was struck well enough to elude Jen’s naughty mitts for the 2nd time the entire match. The ball bounced around, as it always does and finds his friend my enemy Pirlo, who decides that enough was enough and threads an absolute beauty to Grasso who returns the favor not to Pirlo, but to Jens with an abomination of a curler which causes Jens to grasp air. If we ought to lose, I’d rather lose to a goal like that (not really, but I have to make sense out of this whole evening).

2nd one came from the man who never scores for the national team, and what a chip it was. One timer that coasts over Jens in good time and sends the Germans out of the streets and into the tears soiled beds.

I do take my hats of to the mama’s boys. They were superb in every which way and I do wish them the best of luck in the finals, but then at this point, I fancy the frogs to win it all.

As for us? Well, if this cup wasn’t held in Deutschland, we would have gone out in the sweet 16. The momentum took us to don the cloak of invincibility, but at the end the emperor wasn’t wearing any clothes. We didn’t look foolish and we went out swinging...but missing. There will be more adventures for Klinsi and the boys and I look forward to the new born German team in the future.

Thank you for not waking us for 26 days.

Ryu’s “...” goal of the day. He bombed up and down, north and south Korea all day long. His left leg killed us off and it was a beauty. We give it to Grosso as well as the entire Italian national team. Hopefully most of you don’t have to look for another job this summer.

Tomorrow we bring you Cristina’s kids and Julien/Philippe’s Bleus.

Watch it.

Holiday Part 2 Day 2

To the lazy people,

The matter is this. I have now come to a point in my World Cup life that I have got no idea how to spend a day without watching a game. All I did today was get up and did some administrative stuff and that was it. Oh, I helped Margaret cook some lunch. Other than that, I sat around surfed non-dodgey highly legal websites and also guinea pigged for Ben’s website. Oh, I did find this new application that is going to help me immensely the next coming season. That really was it. Oh, I had shower this morning as well. So nothing much happened except for little bit of naps and little bit of bits.

So whilst people were dying in the Valencia underground, I was fast asleep imagining what I would do if one eighth of me win on July 9th. This is obviously a conditional pre-celebratory...Ben forced me to kill three colossi in Shadow of the Colossus for his own sadistic pleasure and the time is now 4:14 AM.

I am tired and I need to be well for tomorrow’s match.

So, here we go with the headlines:

“Frings suspended for semi-final”
Not good, not good at all

“Carlos quits international scene”
But will continue to appear in Pepsi and Nike commercials.

“Nakata retires completely”
Will concentrate on his Nakata.net café.

Ryu’s bit of “You’re beautiful, you’re beautiful, it’s not true” moment of the day. When I read that Fringsy is outy of the semi finally. What the fuck.

Tomorrow is the end of my vacation and the beginning of the final four. Host and Cheaters will see who gets tangoed first.

Watch it.

Holiday Part 2 Day 1

To the birthday boy(s),

Before we really start and for all those English football fans out there (Howie?), this is the most depressing statistic of all time. Apparently, England have added Germany 2006 to a long list of ignominious exits on penalties - the 1990 World Cup (to West Germany), Euro 96 (to Germany), the 1998 World Cup (to Argentina) as well as the Euro 2004 defeat. Just so everyone is aware how un-Wade England is.

Ripley or not, I’m still in France and still in Chamonix. Since I haven’t slept for 36 hours prior to hitting the deep sack last night, my day started slightly late. At 2PM to be absolutely precise. Ben and then I had a very long lunch which started around 2:30PM and for some odd magical reason, we ended up with a pair of shoes each and a harness. Nice. After that, Mona (Margaret’s guest), Sean (Margaret’s guest), and me (Ben’s entourage) displayed our collective cooking skills and whipped up a curry, which secretly was made out of ready-made paste but then no one needs to know that. Since the pair were ex-hospitality and current professional cook, all I had to do was kick back and let the mystic meg happen in front of my own eyes. After dinner, we chatted happily along for couple of hours and when the wine was pouring out of my right nostril, I knew it was time to write this mail.

Regrettably, there is no football tonight so instead, I will do my usual headlines as well as an important point raised by the birthday boy.

Anup wrote in an email and this is what he had to say:

“I'm fuckin' hammered right now!”

“And Ryu, I have one thing to say: The best player wearing no. 10 on his back is Zizou now? Are you high? I read your emails (every single one of them), and I consider you the residential soccer expert, but the best player to wear no. 10? You gotta be smokin' somethin', dude! You ever heard of a player called Diego Maradona?”

“That's like sayin' Lebron is the best player to EVER wear 23! I mean, he's gettin' there...but no fuckin'way can you make that statement!”

First of all, he did write this email on the day of his birthday and he was hammered. Second of all, I will take this time and place and thank Anup for being such an avid reader. I wouldn’t write this mail, if I knew that I would not garner the accolades from the brotherhood. Feeding my id is my favourite hobby. But the important point is not that he had an exciting and non-malicious birthday or that I have a instant hard on when someone reads my mail. The point is that Anup has opened the Pandora’s box of football folklore or like someone said, “you started it, dumbass”.

Who is the best number 10 of all time?

It’s like saying who was the hottest Bond girl of all time. As Ben, who is sitting next to me said, “That’s so debatable”, it’s the same with me and my number 10 pick.

But for argument’s sake, let’s just start with the comparison between Zizou and the hand of god.

Z: French, Zinedine Yazid Zidane, housing project
D: Argentinian, Diego Armando Maradona, shanty town

Z: Tall, Graceful, unassumingly powerful
D: Short, Stocky, unsurprisingly powerful

Z: Cannes, Bordeaux, Juve, Real
D: Argentinos Juniors, Boca, Barca, Napoli, and various other clubs post cocaine

Z: Media shy
D: Media magnet

Z: World Cup, European Championship, Champions League, various domestic cups and league titles
D: World Cup, Copa America, UEFA Cup, World Youth Championship, various domestic cups and league titles

Z: World Football of the Year X 3, Ballon d’Or
D: *South American Footballer of the year X 5, World Cup Golden Ball, European Footballer of the Year, Best Footballer in the World, World Player of the Year, "FIFA best football player of the century”, FIFA Goal of the Century (1986 2–1 v. England)
*Most of these awards were won in 1986.

Z: 1994-2006 France (105 appearances, 29 goals)
D: 1977–1994 Argentina (91 appearances, 34 goals)

Statistically, I really don't see much difference in the two. And if you do know what they have done on the pitch, they are both almost always clutch. And just like MJ (Bron’ still doesn’t quite have it), they both have that killer instinct that you most definitely need to become a superstar. But to become a legend, you need more than statistics, awards, and titles. You need something that no other homo sapiens can do. This is where the split emerges between the two.

To me, it is all about impression. What I remember most about Diego isn’t the “Goal of the century” or the hand of god. What I remember was that he killed us in the final that year. He himself was the reason why we lost that year and he was stupendously brilliant. To me, he was the round assassin who can dismember you with his passes, shots, and set plays. With is low centre of gravity, he will just rip apart defence whilst defenders bouncing off from him like a cheap chinesese ping pong balls. When he was playing for Napoli, he was a terror on the left flank. His crosses were inch perfect and although lacking the flair perhaps an Henry or Platini possessed, his pace and sheer power was never to be duplicated, ever.

The opposite is true for Zizou. What Zizou has and Diego doesn’t is the ability to impose pace and time to the rest of the pitch. In my mind, he is the better passer of the ball. Diego was the more brutal, Zidane, classically French, which isn’t to say that he did not have the ballons to withstand tackles and wicked pressure from defenders. But he lacks the dynamo like substance that made Diego such a star on the pitch.

So to me, this is a matter of preference. Even when I was watching him during his Napoli days in HK, I never ever thought that he would produce something out of nothing. He was no doubt one of the greatest to ever grace us on the green battleground, but was I ever in complete sodden awe by his skills as a footballer, the answer has to be NO.

With Zizou and his heydays in Juve and earlier part of Real as well as ‘98 and bit of ‘00, I just couldn’t take my eyes of him. Never had there been a footballer who can dominate without pace, without extroverted power, and without the distinct lack of ordinary charisma. Never the one to dominate the limelight, he goes about his business with quiet determination and ferocious almost always controlled aggression. But it is the way he handles and manages the game that impresses me more than anything else. The slight touches and minimal flicks, the smallest of positioning adjustment, the tiniest of space to send the perfect through ball. If I ever have a son (let’s get real, if I had a daughter, I’d be driving her to ballet lessons), I will make him watch all the Zidane DVD’s or Blu-Ray or HDDVD) available.

To me, number 10 belongs to the realm of fantasy. As they are often called “fantasistas”. The ability to raise the overall playing level of the people around you, to thread that offside trap busting pass, to kill off any hope for the other team, to enchant the crowd with the beautiful of all touches.
Zidane does that and more. My pick is perhaps more biased due to the way I see the match and trust me, if you see as many football matches as I do and you know I’m more yee sup chat than a prepubescent valedictorian, you will simply appreciate and see the simple stuff like trapping the ball accurately and so on.

With flair in his play and unfootballer like display of subdued ego, he is the undisputedly disputable best number 10 of our generation. Perio.d.

As for the Bron/MJ argument, since Zidane is only semi-retired because ghost buster’s asylum seeker, aka his brother, begged him to un-retire, it’s not a valid argument. More apt one will be Riquelme and Maradona, but Riquelme isn’t as good as Zizou and he isn’t old enough to buy his own women. If there will be no more apparition induced un-retirement by 2008, then this cup is the last time we will see him as a les Bleus.

But Zizou the best ever to wear the numero dix? Ask me again when I’m in my death bed.

Short headlines:

“Beckham resigns as captain”
Self appoints Gordon Brown as the new one.

“Fifa will investigate German midfielder Torsten Frings for his part in the fracas after Germany's win over Argentina in the quarter-finals”
Too long and shouldn’t care if you are not of German / Italian descent.

“Juninho quits international scene”
But still in the roster for Lyon’s post match celebration with slutty hot wanton women scene.

“Terry to replace Beckham?”
OK

“Nesta chances 'very remote' for Italy's semi”
Good.

“Ricardo explains penalty success”
To be published by Penguin books in August 2006. “Success between the poles: Ricardo’s tale of a night of ecstasy with the English team in Gelsenkirchen"

Ryu’s “I needed this” moment of the day. I can talk about the beautiful sky groping glaciers and the anal shoe store, but this has to be the 11 hours of long nap I took last night.

Tomorrow we bring you more action and reaction from my life in general and if you’re lucky, something related to football.

Watch it (if you really must)

Portugal 0 England 0 (3-1) on penalties; France 1 Brazil 0

To the incidental heroes,

Well, call me a nutgrabber, but I am still at the chalet in Chamonix where I am surrounded by people who are not interested in football. The experience was strangely educational. I did write about the Americans complete non-interest in football, but experiencing it first hand is another grizzly beast altogether. The obsession that permeates and courses through majority of veins every 4 years grips the hearts of every other country except for America (and probably Canada, where ice rulez). Tonight was a massive cultural event when people of all sexes, age, and coffee preferences come together as one to witness history repeating itself after a 8 year hiatus. Zidane with his farewell performance rolling and bitching back the clock to show why he might be the best number 10 to ever play the game. We have seen the bald crystal, sparkling and slicing his way with immaculate frailty. So I’m getting all sorts of funked up and boned up about his performance and drama for the mamas and the papas that is another exit by the predictably terrible English performance from 12 metres and I feel absolutely lonely in feeling this.

Has my obsession reached its peak and the by product of this is the unwillingness to relate to non-football obsessed people? Am I so far removed from anything American that anything American grates me the wrong way? Is becoming a football photographer a catalyst in the growth of my undisputedly healthy (unhealthy) obsession? Does living in football insane rich world that is Europe makes one feel this way? Must I then shrug my shoulders and do the jiggy and just walk away? It’s the weirdest feeling, I tell you.

Something to ponder about and yes, I shall behave.

Elite 8
Portugal 0 (3-1) on penalties
England 0

So what do you do? What do you do, when losing is so engrained in your soul that whatever you do this losing will Freddy your ass forever and ever and ever and ever and ever so help them, please someone help the English. With a sub par performance throughout the tournament, tactics only a sex mad Swede can conjure up, the painful over reliance on Roo, and play completely devoid of mystery and imagination, they have done it again. Good bye England.

Beckham limps out of the pitch with promise of death written all over, complemented with 31 years of wear and tear in his eyes, his very last copa looking straight into him. Rooney follows suit with a nut busting heel nut which earned him a nut crunching red. Terry earns his yellow and if they had gone through against the less than more than legitimate Portuguese side, he would not have sang the semi-queen on the 5th of July. Good bye England.

With both teams shooting less than a heroine junky in one sitting, extra time goes and gone in a limp dicked performance by both teams, everyone knew that the inevitable was making its entrance. With each moment between the end of extra time and the beginning of the final judgement weighing acme like on the collective English conscious, the fear starts to carve into the players eyes. Sven talks and ignorance deafens the players. Big Phil speaks and the sound of inevitability drenches the players. Good bye England.

Simao scores and tear ducts are opened. Lampard misses and tears are visibly welling up. Viana misses and tears are held, ever so lightly. Hargreaves scores and tears are still held in place. Petit misses and the tears are almost dry. Gerrard misses and once again the tears are welling up. Postiga scores and the tears have almost decided that they must go. Carragher misses and tears are waiting for the finale. Ronaldo scores and the tears have finally started their journey down south. Good bye England, good bye.

As for the Portuguese, Cristina, we salute you. Your household, perhaps divided during this match is now one and you can look forward to your appointment next Tuesday. With Deco and Costinha back in the fray, it’s game totally on.

What to say? Succumbing to the anticipation and the desperate hope of the nation was once again too much for Becks and co. With a team littered with superstars, they had every chance to enthrall the world with their performance. So many promises, so little, so little...

Elite 8
France 1
Brazil 0

I made some predictions before the Elite 8 began. I said Germany will win, Italy will lose, England will win, but most of all, I knew the Brazil is going to get an ass whooping by the highly revitalized French shampoo. The myth the legend the defending champion and most of all the kingdom crumbled before our scrupulous eyes this evening and nothing could have been done to stop the unthinkable.

I solemnly declare that Zizou is the best number 10 that I have ever seen. His vision, his awareness, his touch, his heart, his desire, his talent, his power, his everything has taken a trip back memory lane for another grand finale. As I have said countless time, his reluctance to reside on the same dimension with 21 others on the pitch is what makes him the greatest Ali of modern football. Being French he has now entered the artist’s realm with the release of “Zidane, un portrait du 21e siècle” where his performance on April 23, 2005 between Real and Villarreal is shot through 21 different cameras. No, really.

If Zizou was the maestro then Henry was dancing down his favourite lane to the tune of Bizet. Finally, after eons of trial and error, excavating Va Va Voom’s MO on the national side was the missing note in this ensemble. He was at his Highbury best, as the left flank was renamed Avenue 12/14. No one could catch up with his blister crunching pace and Cafu and Kaka were left covered in Thierry’s flakes.

With Riberry doing his slaloming on the right, Thierry sonic vooming on the left and Zizou just giving his art class in the middle of the pitch, the trident was forever getting closer to starting the unthinkable. But what about them Brazilians?

It will forever be a mystery to me that the Cerezon never got it right. Obviously the talent is and has been there. Bucky, Fatty, Horse, and Shit. The square to end all squares. But the 4 were so stuck in the mud of mediocrity that an occasional wash wasn’t helping them perform to their Nike best. And the worst was the current World Footballer of the Year. Hailed as Sir Bucktastic back in his adopted home of Catalunia, there was nothing stopping him making the road to Berlin a Bucky’s samba. If the success they experienced last summer was not an ill advised hallucination and with Bucky leading the charge, the only pair of brazilian legs that needed to be nutmegged was their arrogance.

Being heralded as the best, compared to the 70, and nominated as football idols by Knight, the only direction they could go was down. They were guaranteed by many to win and not one mistake was to be made. They were trusted to enchant the viewers with their super sublime flair and ultimately bring the beauty back to the game. But as the tournament progressed, each game became a platform for criticism, and consequently their performance was 2nd best at best.

Welcome to “joga fea.”

1st and only goal came from a likely source in an unlikely circumstance. Numero dix’s precision perfect free-kick seemed to glide over the congealed blue and yellow until it spots a perfectly free Thierry on the far post. His calmness and finished was the perfect tonic for a shot which blew apart Dida’s goal and for the first time there was love at first strike.

Brazil never caught the fever and they never pressed on with the desperate urgency needed to overcome the alps. The clock ticked with merciless abandon and before you know it, a tiny bar in Chamonix was experiencing the same joie de vivre of 98.

I want to give my congratulations to Philippe and Julien and Jackson. They all seemed (sounded) very happy, one surprised, one expected, one was at work, but the Bleus are still allez allez allez.

The final four is now set:

Germany V Italy

Portugal V France

As for the Brazilians, they have got a lot of explaining to do when they are back in Rio. The samba was never danced the way they intended to and the plight of the canaries seem to be perversely satisfying.

Tomorrow I sleep.

Watch it (but don't wake me).