Is it my imagination, or are penalty kicks getting funkier?
My general impression is that some of the PKs during the knockout round have had some style elements of John Cleese from the Ministry of Silly Walks. Or maybe Monty Python is on my mind because of their farewell performances this month. On Saturday, I watched James Rodriguez of Colombia take the penalty kick against Brazil. He advanced a few steps, stopped, dipped his knee like a page in court, and flicked the ball into the net. (His reward was a visit from a giant grasshopper that alighted on his right arm, looking like it could carry him off.) The Rodriguez dip was not as brazen as the full Panenka performed by Andrea Pirlo in the 2012 Euros against Joe Hart of England. The Panenka is named after the Czechoslovak player, Antonin Panenka, who in 1976 slowed down and nudged the ball airbound for a slow-motion goal that must have taken a second a yard to reach the net. Panenka thereby gained the rare sporting fame of having a technique named after him, something usually reserved for the innovators of figure skating, for goodness’ sakes. But others have been dipping and dodging their way toward the disk where the ball rests. Kostas Mitroglou of Greece did a nice little Grambling Marching Band stutter step before deftly kicking a PK in the first round of the shootout, which Greece lost to Costa Rica, eventually. And Neymar and Cristiano Ronaldo have added a little funky-chicken elbow and knee action to their goal routine. Technically, says my goalkeeping guru Alan Rubin, a player is supposed to progress toward the disk without diversion. Then again, keepers are supposed to stay behind the line, rather than advance on the kicker (remember Brianna Scurry in the 1999 Women’s World Cup?) And Tim Krul of the Netherlands seemed to be imitating Muhammad Ali’s nostril-flaring showboat visit to Joe Frazier’s gym back in the day when he came into the match for the shootout against Costa Rica the other. “I think goalie antics are nothing new,” Duncan Irving, the long-time soccer writer, said in an email message to me. “I saw Holland’s Hans Van Breukelen get up in the grilles, as the kids say, of Danish players at Euro 1992 (the Dutch lost the shootout in the semifinal.) England’s Joe Hart was shouting during Euro 2012 — Pirlo took a Panenka on him “to teach [Hart] a lesson” — and Bruce Grobbelaar (Liverpool) famously performed a jelly-leg goal-line dance against Roma in the 1984 European Cup final.” I am watching the two semifinals to see if anybody tries a backheel PK after doing the Michael Jackson moon walk. Lifetime fame – or infamy -- awaits. (A few weeks ago in Boston I met Nate Waters, who plays soccer for Principia College in Illinois, near St. Louis. He told me he was catching a few matches in Brazil, and I said I was extremely jealous. I was curious what a college player would find interesting about being at the World Cup and made him promise to write. He wrote two lovely pieces that were well received by readers. Here is his final report.)
By Nate Waters Great athletes say that when their feet cross the line, they jog onto the freshly cut grass and glance down at the name on their chest. Nothing else in the world matters. They’re required to forget about what happened the previous day. Everything pauses, because nothing is bigger than the next 90 minutes. After traveling down the coast of Brazil and attending three World Cup matches, it seems as if the country has paused to enjoy watching the Seleção attempt to sew a sixth star into Brazilian soccer history. Attending the World Cup is like no other trip I could imagine. Each corner is equipped with street stands selling jerseys, every park is packed with people cheering for their home country, and the taxi drivers couldn’t be more busy. It’s an atmosphere of excitement, passion and patriotism. I was caught up in the magic of it all. Every activity was determined by the games being played that afternoon. We weren’t sure if we should visit the Christ the Redeemer statue because the United States was playing Portugal that night. Waiters brought out food and drinks only during commercial breaks and halftime. And I quickly realized that sporting the canary yellow Brazil jersey was the safest choice one could make while cruising through Rio de Janeiro. While being swept up in the awesomeness of crossing the street into Copacabana Beach, you would not think to look down and notice “Go Home FIFA” stenciled into the crosswalk, as if it was included when the streets were first painted. However, thousands pass by each day glancing down at the bitter reality that this World Cup has brought to Brazil. The tourists probably never noticed the fare increase for the Metro or that the Brazilian workers outside the stadiums have “Volunteer” printed on their official shirts because FIFA does not pay most of its employees. The only concern was to arrive before kickoff and be squished with 10,000 other fans on the burning sand to watch the game in the FIFA Fan Fest. Brazil is caught up in hosting the World Cup, and the riots seem to have been overshadowed by a 22-year-old striker with a crazy Mohawk and four goals for his country. Maybe it’s Neymar or simply the amount of tourists that outshine all of the problems we read about before, but the Brazilian dream of playing futebol on the beach and enjoying the breathtaking beauty all seemed to be true. I watched the Brazil-Cameroon game with a Brazilian family in São Paulo, and following Neymar’s second goal, they all cheered, calling him the best player in the world. I laughed for a second and questioned if they truly thought he was better than Messi or Ronaldo or Van Persie, even referencing other great Brazilian players like Ronaldinho. I honestly had never seen such confusion before as I was almost asked to leave the room and find a different place to watch the game. It’s true—nothing is bigger than soccer in Brazil. It’s their culture. It’s what unites the country. It’s the beautiful game. # # # (In case you missed, here are Nate Waters’ two earlier pieces. I just want to add how happy I am for him that he produced these three articles. Good luck, Nate.) http://www.georgevecsey.com/home/an-american-college-player-visits-the-world-cup A few weeks ago, I was in a Belgian pub, where everybody was six feet tall – including the women, some of whom brandished long toy spears. (The team is nicknamed the Red Devils, I was told.)
Big people. Big team. In the World Cup Round of 16, it is not quite enough to be desperate and valiant and pretty darn good. The Americans went up against the big people on Tuesday, unable to rely on set pieces and power as they do in the regional qualifying matches. It was wearing to hold off the Belgians, who had skilled players from the good leagues in Europe. The U.S. could not win enough scrimmages to come up with a lot of corner kicks and free kicks. What the U.S. had was its best athlete, Tim Howard, making superb saves and keeping them in the match with probably the best match ever by an American keeper, until Belgium held on for a 2-1 victory in extra time. Belgium had the horses -- Kevin De Bruyne who plays for VfL Wolfsburg in Germany and Romelu Lukaku, who plays with Howard at Everton of England – and they finally broke through and scored in the extra 30 minutes. Here was the difference: Belgium could come in with Lukaku in extra time, after he did not start. The U.S. went with one man up front, Clint Dempsey, for a long time, and relied on others moving up, which is not the same as having a fast and powerful forward like Lukaku driving against weary defenders. Ever since Jurgen Klinsmann picked his squad, I suggested the U.S. would miss Landon Donovan in a match where they needed a goal, late. This was the day. With Jozy Altidore not ready, Chris Wondolowski flubbed a chance to win in regulation time, which can happen. And Julian Green, the 19-year-old German, who essentially had Donovan’s spot on the roster, scored on his first World Cup touch, on a volley. So it’s hard to fault Klinsmann for using the kid. The big picture is that the U.S. is still a work in progress in this sport which huge crowds keep discovering all over this nation. The U.S. conducted itself well. Klinsmann is a good coach, and has four years more on his contract. The country can be proud. Nobody bit, nobody quit, nobody sulked. Admirable. In my den -- no more Belgian pubs with giantesses wielding spears – the U.S. run was fun, and instructive, and exhausting. I loved Jermaine Jones and Dempsey and DaMarcus Beasley, and marveled at Michael Bradley’s work rate against Belgium. But it’s over now. Julian Green is 19, and DeAndre Yedlin, the fresh legs at right back, is 20. And Tim Howard is 35, and keepers can go on a long time, and he should. It’s a new World Cup cycle in the States, starting now. Where is the American De Bruyne? Where is the American Lukaku? Maybe watching the World Cup with friends and saying, “I can play that sport instead of basketball (or baseball, or football.)” That is still somewhere in the future. Pedro Proenca of Portugal is no outsider, like the Tunisian ref who went for the blatant Maradona punched goal in 1986.
Proenca has handled Cameroon-Croatia and Japan-Colombia in this World Cup and also Bayern Munich-Chelsea in the Champions League and Spain-Italy in the Euro tournament. He should know cynical flopping when it happens a few steps away from him. Proenca should have seen the minimal and intentional contact from Arjen Robben of the Netherlands to Rafa Marquez of Mexico for what it was – an attempt to game the ref. Robben, who had the most energy on the field in the last 20 minutes, also had the wits to hook his foot onto the leg of Marquez, who is no angel but in that case was not about to do anything brutal. The ref saw Robben tumble and gave the Netherlands a penalty kick – and the match. The ref was suckered. The flop and PK and the 2-1 victory put the Netherlands into the quarterfinal and made the result look like another Mexico fold in the Round of 16, but the Mexicans made a long and valiant trip from nearly being eliminated in regional play. There is no grand moral to this. It proves nothing good or bad about soccer. Diving is a fact of life. Smart players work the ref. Most refs wave “play on” most of the time on a play just like that. Mexico got itself in trouble by not being able to keep the Dutch occupied on the other end of the field. Chicharito Hernandez in to help hold a 1-0 lead? No, señor. And in my den, I called the big sub, Huntelaar, as a menace up front against the smaller Mexicans late in the match. But still… The Mexican keeper, Memo Ochoa, deserved better. Mexico is done, but Ochoa remains a candidate for best keeper in this tournament. * * * Another observation: the ESPN broadcasters, Fernando Palomo and Alejandro Moreno, have been superb -- supple in English, speaking in concepts and original thoughts, a distinct difference from the English broadcasters who call the action. Is there something wrong with me that I cannot tell the British voices apart? They often seem to be calling the classic Monty Python Philosophers’ World Cup: “Beckenbauer obviously a bit of a surprise there.” I hope Palomo and Moreno are through to the late rounds. I hope Pedro Proenca is not. With no soccer match Friday, I was at loose ends, as you can imagine. Turned on the tube and re-discovered another sport.
Guy with a bushy head of hair sticking out from under his ball cap, pitching furiously, getting himself out of jams in two innings of relief. High drama. No biting. No flopping. No unseen stopwatch in the umpire’s hand. Timeless, to say the least. Baseball. Soccer. The yin and the yang. The other night I was pushing my book (did I mention my soccer book?) at the Midtown Scholar, a major used-book emporium and café in funky downtown Harrisburg, Pa. Somebody asked the question, do I see soccer supplanting baseball in the hearts and minds of America? I looked in the front row and saw a father and son, with St. Louis roots, carrying my Stan Musial book. We had chatted before the talk. My answer was no, that baseball had a hold in the cities of America, where memories of Ty Cobb and Josh Gibson and Roberto Clemente still live. Americans know and feel those old rivalries – Yankees and Cardinals, Dodgers and Giants – the way traditional soccer nations honor the derby – Real-Atlético, Tottenham-Arsenal, AC Milan-Inter. Soccer continues to boom in the U.S. Look at the huge crowds watching the World Cup, immeasurable by single-set gauges. Look at the rivalries and rising caliber of Major League Soccer. Look at the weekend audience for great soccer on the cable. There are now five major team sports in the U.S.A. And I don’t think soccer is fifth, either. But supplant baseball? Not when a young pitcher like Jenrry Mejia, with great energy and great stuff, can get himself into trouble and get himself out in two straight innings, on the road, in grand old Pittsburgh, near the confluence of the rivers. The Mets lost an inning later. Of course. Nice to see nothing has changed while I've been watching the World Cup. In the past week I have heard people refer to “the greatest World Cup match in U.S. history” or “the best victory in U.S. history.”
I must have heard that about 10 different matches. For a reputed outsider, USA is starting to develop a past. It is one of seven nations to have qualified for the last seven World Cup tournaments. It has reached the knockout round four of those times. This is no small accomplishment, to go along with the knowledgeable crowds everywhere. I thought of that growing history on Thursday, just before the tense struggle with Germany in monsoon-lashed Recife. I was in a green room at MSNBC waiting for my minutes on camera to mention my book as often as I dared. Another network guest sharing the green room was Jeff Agoos, the defender on the 2002 World Cup team, now working with Major League Soccer. In that hope-giving year, Agoos had been in precisely the same situation the US now faced in Brazil – a simultaneous third match that could have gone either way. Agoos smiled when I mentioned the similarities. He had played in the first two matches in South Korea, scoring an own goal in the 3-2 upset over Portugal, and playing the full 90 in the draw with the host team. Then he was hurt in the third match, as the US was being hammered by Poland, 3-1, and was replaced by 20-year-old DaMarcus Beasley. Agoos went into the locker room for treatment – and followed the news as Portugal had two players tossed out of the match, and gave up a goal to Park Ji Sung in the 70th minute. Agoos recalled how the US survived that loss to Poland. From that soft crash landing came the 2-0 victory over Mexico and the 1-0 loss to Germany, which some experts think was technically and competitively better than the Mexico match. With huge crowds and unprecedented television ratings all over the country, the U.S. is adding to its soccer history. On Thursday I stuck a pair of plugs in my ears and watched both matches in the newsroom of MSNBC. The U.S. stood off a furious attack in the first 15 minutes but gave up a shrieking parabola by Thomas Muller for a 1-0 deficit that could have gotten worse, much worse. For 23 tense minutes, the US was in danger of being knocked out of this World Cup after Ghana rallied for a draw with Portugal. The Germans respected the game by playing hard while seeking a record-breaking goal by Miroslav Klose. Then, in the 80th minute, good old Cristiano Ronaldo stopped being the preening, smirking pretty boy and became the savior of the Americans’ World Cup, lashing a goal that put Portugal ahead, 2-1. When that game ended, I heard cheers around the newsroom. Many journalists had been following the match on their computers. Twelve years after the anxious wait in Daejon, South Korea, the USA had lost a perilous third match yet survived the simultaneous match. One more example of history: a few weeks ago, in that same green room, I ran into Bruce Murray, the striker of the 1990 American team. One manic night in Olympic Stadium in Rome, Murray had blasted a free kick at Italy’s superb keeper, Walter Zenga, who barely flicked it away, but Peter Vermes nearly put the rebound under Zenga, who groveled to keep the ball from crossing the line. Now 46 and a youth coach in Bethesda, Md., Murray could only shake his head at how close he and his teammate had come to scoring against Italy. In the future, fans will agonize over the ball that squibbed off Michael Bradley’s foot against Portugal last Sunday, and how three or four defenders allowed Ronaldo to lash a cross that a teammate headed for a goal. Americans will remember those unfortunate moments, the same way they talk about the Joe Gaetjens goal that almost nobody saw in 1950, the Paul Caligiuri goal in 1989, the Landon Donovan goal in 2010, the John Brooks header in 2014. They will also remember the gallant battle to stay within 1-0 against Germany (the team I picked to win this Cup.) We can all argue the rankings of these great moments, these terrifying moments, but the point is: this country is starting to have a soccer history we can actually debate. (Photo Above: Peter Vermes Battles Italy's Franco Baresi. Now part of American soccer history.) Despite my not-so-closeted fascination with the Azzurri, I was going about a very busy day on Tuesday.
The Italians were playing Uruguay in far-off Brazil. I was with my wife in a modest but wonderful Indian restaurant near Harrisburg, Pa., en route to family, friends and pushing my soccer book. My cell phone buzzed. It was Doug From Florida. He is half Latino. Sometimes he honors me with messages in Spanish. This one said: “Lo siento.” I am sorry. I wrote, “Que pasó?” What happened? I’m sure he had figured I was watching. The words popped up on my phone screen. “La Mordida de Dios.” The bite of God. I knew this was a pun on the blatant and unpunished punched goal from Diego Armando Maradona in 1986. The Hand of God, Maradona called it. Bite? Soccer? Maradona Arrogance? It could only be Luis Suarez. And it was. So instead of talking about the games, about Michael Bradley’s stumbles, about Landon Donovan's absence, about Klinsmann’s lineup against Germany on Thursday – or even the subsequent departure and eternal ansia of Italy – people were talking about The Bite. This is some World Cup. The NYT has asked me to write something about Germany-USA for later today. We're heading back to NYC for a baseball program at the Museum of the City of New York this evening. Your opinion about La Mordida de Dios? For the last 15 minutes, the United States had more in the tank than Portugal did.
Jürgen Klinsmann sent in 20-year-old DeAndre Yeldin, to provide fresh legs, just as the astute Taylor Twellman in the ESPN booth had suggested he should, and the youngster moved the ball to set up Clint Dempsey’s go-ahead goal. In the closing seconds of stoppage time, the legs – and the minds – deserted them. The ball squirted loose from Michael Bradley and the defenders could not keep the ball away from Cristiano Ronaldo on the flank. But any one of three defenders – somebody, pick a number – could have shut down Varela, the only red jersey heading to the box. Three large defenders, three spectators, one header, and Portugal drew the USA, 2-2. For the second straight game, Klinsmann made a great late substitution – John Brooks for the game-winning header against Ghana, Yeldin for the time-killing and aggressive move against Portugal. But the USA did not win, and now the players will have to live with it on a brutal ride back to their base before Thursday’s match against a more rested Germany. Any talk of a potential waltz between Germany’s Joachim Löw and the USA’s Klinsmann, good friends and colleagues, will have to wait. For now there is only the hangover feeling of a superb rally and a last-second giveaway. But before that, there was the superb dribble and hooking shot by Jermaine Jones that got inside the post. I love his swagger and his shoulders, and seeing him blast that goal was like watching Charles Oakley, the old New York Knicks enforcer, dunk from the foul line. Not supposed to happen, but it did. One more thought: this is a great World Cup, isn’t it? Jürgen Klinsmann is a pragmatist, not an egotist. He built this American soccer team on the needs of a three-match first round, which demands endurance and strength and youth.
When Klinsmann left Landon Donovan off the squad going to Brazil, it was no act of domination, showing who was boss. I thought he was wrong, and still do, because, as a lot of people have said, sometime in this first round the USA just might need somebody to bust a goal, late. Then again, they did that Monday in the steam bath of Natal, and it came from one of the five German-Americans, players with two passports, Klinsmann recruited to this team. John Brooks, 21 years old, with a father from Illinois and a mother from Berlin, inserted at halftime because of injury, popped in a header in the 86th minute for a 2-1 victory over Ghana. This would not have been Donovan’s kind of game. But the next one against Portugal, or the one after that against Germany, might be the place where a wise, fleet attacker could pull out a draw, or a victory, to get the Americans into the round of 16, now a possibility. When the Donovan debate was going on – and maybe it still is, since I am bringing it up here – I never could summon up any vitriol toward Klinsmann’s impact on this team. His credentials are too good. He was a fast and wily forward who scored World Cup goals, won a World Cup as a player and coached a third-place German team in 2006. “He knows stuff,” I told people. “He is no fool. He may think Donovan is soft, or past it. I think he’s wrong. But he’s a good coach.” The USA has had other good coaches. Bruce Arena coached two of the best matches the USA has ever played, over Mexico and a bitter loss to Germany in 2002. (Klinsmann, uninvolved, thought the USA outplayed his homeland.) Bob Bradley had a team that scored a desperation goal against Algeria in 2010 -- yes, the Donovan goal. Now Klinsmann has done something neither of them did. He has beaten Ghana in the World Cup. The Portugal match? They have injuries and a red card absence by the hot-headed Pepe. Klinsmann will put together a team for Sunday. He knows what he is doing. Now it is time for the players to recuperate. And us. Your thoughts? He played only 28 minutes, did not score a goal or make an assisting pass. But Didier Drogba still dominated the match and – well, except for Robin Van Persie’s airborne header – dominated the first four days of the World Cup.
There was something surreal about the way he raised his Ivory Coast team when he came into the match in the 62nd minute with Japan leading, 1-0, on Saturday night. He was out with a thigh injury – and advanced old age, at 36 – but he charged a lethargic and clueless squad just by stepping onto the field. It was as if the Ivory Coast players said, “Uh-oh, the old man is out here. We’d better get in gear.” They started making intelligent runs and smart passes, and scored in the 64th and 66th minutes, both on crossing passes by Serge Aurier. “There is no game in the world like that where a single sub changes the complexion of the game completely. Japan had their defensive concentration break down completely,” wrote my pal Doug From Florida, who knows this sport. I had a stake in this, because I had written an advance article for Cigar Aficionado Magazine in which I had picked Drogba as one of the seven stars to watch during this World Cup. I had seen him carry Chelsea on his strong back in the Champions League final in 2012, his last match for Chelsea. He played the whole field that night, striker, sweeper, midfielder. I thought he could give Ivory Coast – the entire continent of Africa – a boost in this World Cup. Soccer fans know that every World Cup consists of five distinctly different rounds – group play, round of 16, quarterfinals, semifinals and finals. Each one is separate and worthwhile. Nations have great matches in the first round (Algeria in 1982, Trinidad & Tobago in 2010) and vanish before the knockout round. But still, their fans have memories. Emerging fans in the USA would do well not to think about the latter stages. Enjoy Drogba in the here and now. The world is still waiting for the great African team. The players are there, leading squads all over Europe, but the national teams that are collected for major tournaments often seem hit-or-miss, coached by Europeans, not quite ready for the late rounds. Still, there moments. I picked Drogba to be a charismatic presence in this tournament because I remembered being in Italy in 1990, thrilled to see 38-year-old Roger Milla, who had already retired once, come off the bench for Cameroon, over and over again. The Russian coach waited until the sun went down over the lip of the stadium, and then sent in the elder. Milla carried Cameroon into the quarterfinals, first time Africa had been there. Here’s what I wrote, back then: http://www.nytimes.com/1990/06/24/sports/sports-of-the-times-the-old-man-waited-for-the-shadows.html Now Drogba forces his teammates to play together. Don’t think about who is going to win this thing. Think about the first round. Ivory Coast vs. Columbia on Thursday. Two teams with 3 points already. At high noon. Drogba may not start. Then again, Roger Milla did not start, either. (I will be writing after the USA match Monday evening.) The World Cup has been amazing already -- Van Persie's header, Costa Rica's upset, Drogba's impact (more on that later), Switzerland's stunner. It has also been an occasion for great social events -- as I keep calling the World Cup in the USA: at the very least, a quadrennial party. Local legend Ron Swoboda came back to town for some events with the Mets, and happened into a private birthday celebration for Carmela Lamorgese, one of the three DeBenedettis sisters who run Mama's in Corona, not far from the Mets' ballpark. Italy's first-round matches always induce considerable ansia and this one was no different. The match was scoreless for 35 minutes, but then Marie DeBenedettis, who also cooked much of the meal, decided to use a house special of lowering the lights in the back room to change the flow of the match. Zip. Italy scored, and went on to a 2-1 victory. Mama's is not doing public viewing of the World Cup, but the meal we enjoyed can be replicated, Tuesday-Saturday. Ron lives in New Orleans now -- and was impressed with the cucina at Mama's. The World Cup and my new book got me invited onto Steve Kornacki's Sunday show on MSNBC, along with Bruce Murray, in the studio, and Brianna Scurry, from elsewhere -- two World Cup veterans. .
The highlight for my wife Marianne was to meet Kornacki's father and sister, and her weekend hero in person. Isn't soccer wonderful? For months I have been using the expression “dog years” to explain why I thought Spain would fall short in this World Cup.
I thought the unprecedented two European championships sandwiched around the 2010 World Cup championship would amount to too many matches, too many miles, for the nucleus of this wonderful team. But I never expected to see Iker Casillas flopping around on the grass like an aged Willie Mays stumbling over second base in the 1973 World Series. Spain was suddenly old, in a 5-1 loss to the Netherlands, which played with a talented fury, as if to make up for its cynical foul play in the 2010 World Cup final. Maybe it was the Curse of Diego Costa that got Spain. Newly signed on as a Spanish national, he made his debut against his actual homeland, to the accompaniment of vicious whistles and boos. Then he committed an ugly head butt – not yet caught by FIFA scrutiny – and left the match. Bad vibrations for a side that didn’t need his form of new blood. In a number of interviews about my new book, people ask me to define the “beauty” of soccer in the subtitle. (The “dark side” part is one glimpse of Sepp Blatter’s face, and résumé.) The beauty part was Robin Van Persie making a mid-air connection with a crossing pass, timing his leap, heading the ball over the helpless Iker Casillas, and then making a three-point landing on the damp grass – Van Persie’s nose and two knees. Dog years. Beauty. This result was more dramatic than anybody could have imagined. I still have not made it to Brazil -- although following Brazilian fans around Barcelona in 1982 and watching Sócrates and Falcão on the field probably qualifies me. I describe that seminal moment in my book.
Most soccer fans would list Brazil as their first or second favorite team. Well, maybe not Argentines. I did catch some Argentina fans enjoying Brazilians dancing and playing music in the parking lot in New Jersey two summers ago. But that was before a friendly. If it’s not the soccer, it’s the music that makes people think we have been to Brazil. I was exploring that theme during my interview with John Schaefer, who has been producing New Sounds and now Soundcheck on WNYC-FM in New York for many years. That lovely interview was played Tuesday, June 10, after 9 PM. Schaefer asked me to pick three songs that represent my love for soccer. For two of them, please check out Schaefer’s show or podcast. The third came directly from his show 13 years ago, when he played a “new sound” – a CD named Casa, featuring the trio, Morelenbaum2/Sakamoto, with a photo of Corcovado on the front. You know how sometimes you hear a “new sound” and you wonder how life existed before that moment? I can trace a few albums or songs to that first ethereal experience. Out of the ozone came Ryuichi Sakamoto, a Japanese activist-pianist, Jaques Morelenbaum, a Brazilian cellist, and Paula Morelenbaum (wife of Jaques), a singer. They recorded songs by Antonio Carlos Jobim in the house of Jobim – hence the Casa – and gave them a unique jazz/samba interpretation. I went out to Tower Records the next day and bought the CD. Been playing it ever since. The counter in my iTunes says it is my most-played album. Omigosh, where to begin: melancholy songs of love, found and lost. Fotografia, about a couple in a bar along the beach, ending with the Portuguese aquele beijo (that kiss) sung so insistently by Paula Morelenbaum, and then in English, with her delightful inflections. Estrada Branca, about memories of a couple walking, walking, walking, and then her sighting the former lover “walking on my street.” When I looked up the Portuguese, the last words of the song are “death wish.” The American lyrics were quite a bit more upbeat. So it goes. But the song I chose from Casa was Jobim’s classic Samba do Avião, once recorded by Tony Bennett as “Song of the Jet,” about flying home to Rio. It starts with Sakamoto’s rhythmic piano, incorporates Jaques Morelenbaum’s moody cello, and features Paula Morelenbaum’s soaring voice. After touchdown, there is a long jazz riff about the energy of Rio. In musical terms, we might as well all be Brazilians. For me, it goes back to the classic Getz/Gilberto in 1963, with Astrud Gilberto singing some of Jobim’s songs, including The Girl From Ipanema. Then there was Sergio Mendes and Brasil ’66. My pal Doug Logan got me hooked on Caetano Veloso doing Jobim, doing Michael Jackson. And some Brazilian friends have introduced me to Gal Costa, João Gilberto, and recently Ana Carolina e Seu Jorge. And on the classical end, the music of Villa-Lobos. Almost forgot the writer-singer Susannah McCorkle, who sang in Portuguese, Italian and English, and totally owns the Jobim classic, "The Waters of March." So, yes, I have been to Brazil. Will be watching – and writing about – the World Cup for this site for the next month plus, starting Thursday, from 3-6 PM, at Foley’s on W. 33 St. in Manhattan, selling my book, watching Brazil-Croatia. The iPod goes with me, Brazil only a touch away. Here is the link for the podcast of the interview: https://www.wnyc.org/radio/#/ondemand/378545 Brazil did not win the World Cup as host in 1950 – Uruguay did -- and I’m not at all sure Brazil can win this time, either.
Six hosts have won the championship in 19 World Cups. However, despite being the five-time champion, with a huge stock of talent, and a superb coach, Brazil will be playing at home, during the most heightened political atmosphere I have ever seen at the eight World Cups I covered. There are always issues at a World Cup, but this is different. In a time of instant social media, a rising generation of Brazilians has identified futebol and FIFA and its deceptively loopy president Sepp Blatter as part of the problem in contemporary Brazil. Building roads and stadiums and upgrading hotels and airports for rich tourists has been linked with rising bus fares, disruptions in the favelas, and other indignities of modern life. The land of the beautiful game is questioning its patrimony. Does that matter to the outcome of the World Cup? The Brazilian players will be sequestered, but not immune to cell-phone calls from wives and girlfriends, perhaps relaying news that their aunt was tear-gassed in her neighborhood or their uncle was hit over the head by police while crossing a street. As professional as they are, the Brazilian players will be aware of divided feelings in their own land. This cannot help the concentration needed to survive a seven-match marathon following the brutal European season most of them endure. The injuries are mounting for almost all teams. So I think Brazil could have trouble. I’m not sure the home-continent advantage (no European team has ever won in South America) will work for Argentina or Uruguay, either. I doubt Luis Suarez can stay on keel for 90 minutes much less seven matches. And Lionel Messi is at his best getting passes from Andrés Iniesta at Barcelona, but that smooth playmaker plays for Spain in the World Cup. What about the European squads? I love Spain. Who doesn’t, in this generation? It has brought passing and patience and brains to a heightened level. But Spain may have played one too many dog years in winning two Euros and one World Cup. Among the other European powers, there is sometimes room for a different face in the semifinals – Turkey or Greece, lightning in a bottle, a decade ago; Belgium now, or maybe Portugal, but always Italy and now Spain have the muscle memory of playing deep into the World Cup. That is vital in the endurance contest. The Buffons and Piques have been there. Remember the wonderful quip by the English captain Gary Lineker after losing to West Germany in 1990 in Italy? “Football is a simple game; twenty-two men chase a ball for ninety minutes and at the end, the Germans always win.” Quite a compliment, under the circumstances. And perhaps relevant again. Germany has been coming on since 2006 at home when the Mannschaft taught Germans to wave their flags and wear national jerseys and cheer in public. There is a straight line from Jürgen Klinsmann and Joachim Löw to Löw’s semifinalists in 2010 in South Africa to the new Deutschland 3.0 version this time. The multi-ethnic and talented German squad is ready to win for reasons as tall as Schweinsteiger (Bastian) and as short as Lahm (Philip.) Germany has a good young keeper in Manuel Neuer and a terrific distributor in Mesut Özil, the first major German player from its large Turkish population, and Thomas Müller, plus Miroslav Klose, who scores goals better with the national team than his club, because he fits in so well, because the ball is often right there for him. If this sounds like some old national stereotype, please excuse, but from admiring German squads over the decades, I think Germany has the talent and mental strength to go into Brazil, concentrate, and get through seven matches. Gary Lineker will be right, again. Your thoughts? The level of soccer expertise is rising all over this huge country. In the past two days, while plugging my new soccer book – Eight World Cups -- I have done over 20 phone interviews with broadcasters from coast to coast – Richmond to Tulsa, Seattle to Orlando.
The level of knowledge and experience was high. Gone are the days of raising the hoary sportswriter cliché that Americans will never go for a sport in which players don’t use their hands. It’s a new generation, thanks to cable and the web, plus MLS and our men’s and women’s teams, and the great leagues of Europe. Plus, we are acknowledging our own soccer heritage, now going back generations. For your enjoyment, here is a link to a lovely article by R.J. Young, an e-mail buddy of mine, in This Land Magazine, about Charlie Mitchell, the first player signed by the Tulsa Roughnecks of the NASL, and later the coach of the Tulsa team that beat the Cosmos in 1983 and then won the next-to-last title in that doomed league. http://thislandpress.com/06/04/2014/the-soul-of-the-game/?read=complete In recent days, broadcasters around the country told me about matches they have seen. I was too busy babbling to take notes and names, but one recalled his first match (scoreless, Swindon Town at Sunderland) and another recalled getting hooked on a match at West Ham. Another compared notes with me about the Honduras-USA match in Soldiers Field in Chicago in 2009 – how the crowd was easily half Honduran (or maybe that was just the decibel count.) Everybody wanted to talk about Jürgen Klinsmann’s omission of Landon Donovan from the USA squad. (Most think Klinsi is flat wrong.) And just about everybody wanted to know about the “dark side” of my subtitle – FIFA’s greasy stewardship, the messy awarding of the 2022 World Cup to Qatar, and whether the tournament would be moved to, oh, say, the USA. (No way, I said, read my book as to why.) It’s a new age. Americans have absorbed soccer. At the very least, America is preparing for its giant quadrennial party. And as soccer keeps growing, many commentators will keep people informed (URGENT AS OF FRIDAY PM: The Steve Kornacki show had to cancel for Saturday because hard news raised its head. We hope to reschedule. On Saturday I am taping an interview with Al-Jazeera. More information to come. However, while in Boston I had a great interview with Bill Littlefield of Only a Game on WBUR. I am told it will air sometime Saturday, at different times on NPR. Please consult local listings.) And on Monday, I am taping an appearance with John Schaefer of WNYC, the host of the stimulating New Sounds show. What do I have to do with music? Good question. Please consult the Appearances box, to the left, for other appearances.) Every four years, American soccer fans are getting better at agonizing over the World Cup. As I write in my new book, eight years ago in Germany I noticed the social media raging over the lineups of Bruce Arena. This was progress as a soccer nation.
Four years ago in South Africa I was aware of how fans exulted – electronically -- over the 91st-minute goal produced by the law firm of Howard, Donovan, Altidore, Dempsey and Donovan. Now the greatest angst is over the exclusion of Donovan – that is not going away easily -- but there is also the growing sophistication on the fan sites about the fine-tuning being performed by Jurgen Klinsmann in three domestic friendlies. On Sunday, fans had the Wall Street buzz of watching the players' stock go up and down, virtually by the touch. I was not immune as I watched Tim Chandler playing catchup at left back, getting a look in place of DaMarcus Beasley, who is a decade older. Chandler, who is right-footed, is more comfortable at right back but Klinsmann thinks he needs to upgrade at left back. At one point Chandler darted forward, followed the play, caught up with a nice pass toward the left corner and centered it admirably, as the USA scored on a flubbed poke by Clint Dempsey. That will raise Chandler’s stock, I thought. But Chandler faded back to insecurity. In the 90th minute he made a mistake that led to a penalty goal for Turkey in a 2-1 victory for the USA. Oops, a late-afternoon slide, as they say on the market channels. I’m still a Beasley supporter. He plays the whole field and gives everything. The USA will play one more friendly before heading to Brazil. The fans will be watching the market fluctuations. In other countries, there is gnashing of teeth over exclusions and inclusions. Giuseppe Rossi, from New Jersey, did not make the Italian squad for the second straight World Cup. The kid tossed and lost in choosing his Italian passport over his American passport. There is still time for injuries to ruin four years, as Mexican and Italian players discovered this weekend. To get into this growing American fascination with the rhythms of the World Cup, consult your favorite fan site, as well as: http://www.nytimes.com/2014/06/02/sports/soccer/player-ratings-us-2-turkey-1.html?ref=soccer&_r=0 http://www.goal.com/en-ca/news/4176/united-states/2014/06/02/4855058/ives-galarcep-altidore-shines-chandler-struggles-and-other http://www.socceramerica.com/article/58450/usa-adjusts-enough-to-hold-off-turks.html?edition=11905 No sooner had Clint Dempsey dropped out of the starting lineup Tuesday night because of what was described as a sore groin than the flotilla of ESPN observers began speculating whether Donovan would be the first alternative in any roster switch.
Lord Landon does not go away. He scored two goals for the Galaxy on the weekend and was voted Player of the Week in Major League Soccer. That probably does not intimidate Jürgen Klinsmann, whose mind has been made up for weeks, maybe years. However, as the expertise of the ESPN commentators shows, the issue will persist right into the World Cup. Suppose, just suppose, that the USA (despite the gaggle of strangers and recruits on the back line) hangs on for a one-goal deficit in the 65th minute in the opener against Ghana. Of all the Americans since the founding of this great nation, which adult male would you most like to insert into the lineup – George Washington? Abraham Lincoln? Jackie Robinson? I would say a living breathing Landon Donovan might be the national choice, if not Klinsmann’s. So that raises the question: what is there about independent, quirky yet talented players that make coaches so squeamish? Let us recall how Italian coaches used to recoil from pigtailed, Buddhist-convert introverted Roberto Baggio. The coaches preferred stalwarts who would do what the boss said rather than think on their feet at full tilt. Crazy. Of course, Arrigo Sacchi did not mind when Il Codino saved Italy’s pancetta in the 88th minute against Nigeria in 1994 – and did it again a few days later, same late minute, against Spain. But there was something a little too independent about Baggio that threatened coaches. (It’s called talent.) American coaches have had their issues with goal-producer types. Hugo Perez, a scorer, didn’t make the flight to Italy in 1990. And that meteor named Steve Snow flamed out going into the 1992 Olympics in Barcelona. Labelled “a cocky little twirp” by his coach, Lothar Osiander, Snow grumped about his low status and was not in the lineup against Italy, and promptly went off to reporters after the match. Snow never played in a World Cup or Major League Soccer and currently runs a pizzeria in Indiana. (Read the terrific article by Nick Firchau on MLS.com) http://m.mlssoccer.com/news/article/2014/05/09/usmnt-world-cup-hero-who-never-was-word The saga of Steve Snow illustrates the point. Coaches are more comfortable with players who stay home, metaphorically. . Donovan didn’t love winters in Germany, took a walkabout when he needed a break from his sport, and generally listened to his own inner radar. He also produced probably the most dramatic goal ever scored by the USA in the World Cup – the 91st-minute rally against Algeria in 2010. From now until rosters are frozen, the name will surface every time a Yank suffers a twinge. Lord Landon Lives. Sometimes a person is revealed in the chords as well as the relationships.
There was a memorial for Joe McGinniss in New York on Friday, two months after he passed at the age of 71. Friends and family told their stories, revealing a man of vastly eclectic interests and ties. Roger Ailes, the brains behind Fox, told of a warm friendship that went back to 1968, when McGinniss, a kid of 26, wrote “The Selling of the President.” They did not fight over politics, Ailes said. They just enjoyed each other’s company. Others of the liberal persuasion told how McGinniss could write about Ted Kennedy or Sarah Palin with equal tenacity. And Ray Hudson, the garrulous English soccer broadcaster, who does La Liga of Spain, popped in from south Florida to talk about his friend, who maintained he was actually Italian despite a name and a face that insisted he was surely not. The four McGinniss children were very sweet with their memories and emotions. And one of the best stories came from Joe’s lawyer, Dennis Holohan, who told of not being able to even speak of his military service in Vietnam for 20 years afterward. McGinniss had been one of the great American journalists like David Halberstam and Gloria Emerson and Mike McGrady who went there and exposed the mission for the tragic fraud it was. Finally, Joe cajoled Holohan into joining Joe on a trip to modern Vietnam. They took different routes from Hanoi to Ho Chi Minh City/Saigon, and the lawyer arrived first, taking a taxi tour of a war museum and then a Buddhist temple, where he totally lost it. Meltdown. But his driver consoled him, saying the Vietnamese people had moved on. You’re a good man, Minh said. I can tell. You need to get past it. When McGinniss caught up with Holohan in Saigon, the lawyer told his friend what had happened at the temple with the taxi driver. McGinniss said he knew it would happen. That was why he proposed the trip. The friend is still stunned that his friend could anticipate such a breakthrough. I never met Joe McGinniss but we became email pals two decades ago, united by our love of Italian calcio and Roberto Baggio and the language and the daily pace of Italian life. I am never jealous of other people’s talent or success or dedication or great ideas but I was tanto geloso of the time he spent in a hill town, and the book he wrote about a scandal among minor-league players he knew. I got to know Joe McGinniss better from the music his family selected for the memorial:
And at the end, there was a slide show of Joe McGinniss’ life, frolicking with his children, out and about in the world, thoroughly engaged, enjoying himself immensely. The background music was:
That’s how I got to know somebody I never met. Addio, buon amico. One thing I noticed at the conference at Hofstra University the past three days: the coming World Cup in Brazil is going to provide the biggest spotlight ever pointed at the soccer establishment.
Between the rampant scandals at FIFA and the protests in Brazil, the world is going to be watching in a different way than at all previous World Cups. Now the journalists and academics and fans are asking, is this the right way to run a sport? Does soccer need to impose such harsh demands about expensive stadiums and infrastructure on people who have been told they really need this party? There were already demonstrations in Brazil in 2013, and the favelas, the neighborhoods have been further disrupted for a six-week frolic for outsiders. That conflict seemed to be the common theme among the mix of former professional players, journalists, academics and fans who mixed in esoteric panels. This really is the world’s sport. Yet it has gone ever further into the control of the corporations and networks and the murky home office of FIFA, the world soccer body. Maybe the most telling sign was raised by David Goldblatt from the University of Bristol, U.K., who noted that the organizers in Brazil are banning musical instruments in the stands. (He’s a fan of the South African vuvuzela that terrorized eardrums in 2010.) Imagine a soccer game in the land of Jobim and de Moraes, Veloso and Gilberto, Gil and Costa, Ana & Jorge and Morelenbaum2Sakomoto, without a few drums and horns and guitars? But FIFA is tone deaf as well as opaque. The restive state of Brazil was noted by Peter Alegi of Michigan State University, who recalled how home fans spontaneously sang the second stanza of the national anthem during the Confederations Cup – a sign of further independence, perhaps. Every panel reminded me of the deep hold this sport has everywhere, including my alma mater of Hofstra, where the new version of the Cosmos is currently playing. Hofstra bestowed an honorary doctorate on Pelé, the greatest of the Cosmos. He lit up the place. He is Pelé. The links between soccer success and national image were stressed by Alexander Kitroeff of Haverford College, who noted how his homeland of Greece was stirred by the surprising victory at the 2004 European championship. Greeks were also aware that the squad had been given shape by a German coach, Otto Rehhagel. One of the nicest parts of the conference was the papers delivered by young people coming along as the United States matures as a soccer nation. Christopher Davis of Florida International University gave a paper on “The New Germans: How the 2010 World Cup Showed the Evolution of Germany’s Immigration Policy” – the Turkish, African and Polish influence on the German squad. And Lisa Quach, about to graduate from Hofstra and looking for a job in publishing, delivered a knowing paper on “Black, Blanc, Bleu: National Identity in French Football,” recalling how players from the vast diaspora of France played together in the glorious home championship of 1998. One of the great spontaneous dialogues between true believers took place during the Q&A section of a panel. In the audience, Arnie Ramirez, the great former coach of Long Island University, said he preferred the short-pass offense; he wiggled his hand like a trout. Greg Lalas, former M.L.S. player and editor of MLSsoccer.com, responded, what about the laser long ball that lands on a striker’s chest near the goal? They debated for a few minutes. It was wonderful. A defiant note was sounded at the final plenary session by Charlie Stillitano, Princeton star, World Cup 1994 official and first general manager of the MetroStars. Charlie said he doesn’t want to hear any more bleats that America is not a soccer country. There are now five major sports in the United States, Charlie said. Get over it. I thank Stanislao Pugliese and Brenda Elsey of Hofstra who ran this conference, and all the other nice people who make Hofstra work. And I thank all the true believers who reminded us that, good and bad, the World Cup is almost here. Before the World Cup arrives in June, I would suggest a refresher course on the world’s sport.
Starting on Thursday, Hofstra University – my alma mater – is holding the academic conference, Soccer As the Beautiful Game: Football’s Artistry, Identity and Politics. It will run for three full days, including an appearance by Pelé on Friday, when he will receive an honorary doctorate. And on Sunday at Hofstra will be a clinic as well as a match by the new version of Pelé’s old team, the Cosmos. I will be on two panels Saturday and on Thursday will moderate a panel about the original Cosmos, still the most famous soccer club in the history of the United States. Right now, like any coach, I am sweating out the formation -- how to play Roger Allaway, the Soccer Hall of Fame historian, David Kilpatrick of Mercy College, Shep Messing, former Cosmos keeper and analyst for Red Bulls matches, and Leo Glickman of the Borough Boys. I will submit my lineup when the officials ask for it. The academics are coming from all over the world. I am hoping they will wear period costumes like the Germans and Greeks of the famous Monty Python skit, but maybe not. More to the point, they will expand our understanding of the sport. I spot one former men’s national player, Chris Armas, now the women’s coach at Adelphi, on a panel on Saturday. And I look forward to seeing – and hearing – friends and colleagues from around the soccer diaspora. For a full glimpse of the program and information about tickets (and some free events): http://www.hofstra.edu/community/culctr/culctr_events_soccer_conf.html One thing I learned from Wednesday night’s 2-2 draw between the United States and Mexico: a promising but small forward – Julian Green – is not going to help patch up the central defense for the U.S.
Watching Omar Gonzalez trudge around near the goal, suffering from Gooch’s Syndrome, I could not help but think there is more of that ahead in the Group of Death in June. Yes, the Puebla club – in Mexico, oddly enough -- did not release DaMarcus Beasley for the Mexico match. Beasley adds a lot at left back, including courage, experience and offensive range, but the U.S. is still vulnerable in front of its fine keepers. No Balboas or Popes in sight. Steve Cherundolo just retired as a right back. Trouble ahead. Wednesday’s match was also a reminder that Michael Bradley is the core of the team, as he pretty much was in 2010. He was able to attack from midfield against Mexico, which is not the Mexico of a generation ago. The theme of the night on ESPN was who is going to make the 23-player squad -- a seat on the plane. Junge Meister Green showed nice pace and speed and willingness to attack when he came into his first U.S. match in the 59th minute. He is now officially a Yank, while playing in the Bayern organization. Green is 5-8, 160 pounds, nearly infiltrated the box on a challenging dribble, but is not yet a Neymar or a Messi. So far he has played 3 minutes for the Bayern varsity. Coach Jürgen Klinsmann, with a contract through 2018, may feel he has the luxury of bringing Green along this time to prepare for the future. But if the U.S. hopes to get out of its hideous group this time, it will need every seasoned player who might poke in a goal -- Landon Donovan, Clint Dempsey, Jozy Altidore, Eddie Johnson and Chris Wondolowski. Things happen in a World Cup. Injuries. Cards. Forwards out of gas at 60-70 minutes. Klinsmann is fearless and has improved this squad. German fans thought he was a bit of a moonbeam in 2006 but he is not afraid to publicly challenge the Donovans and Dempseys. Show me. Get better. This week he dropped his long-time assistant Martin Vásquez because of conflicts. My guess is Klinsmann will let Bayern prepare Julian Green for 2018. They both have time. Really? It’s that easy? Wave a red card and people go away?
I’ve been obsessing about red cards since the United States and Russia began issuing sanctions in the past week. John Boehner can’t go to Russia? Does that apply in Congress, too? On Saturday, there was Roman Abramovich and his girl friend free to watch his club, Chelsea, rampage through Arsenal. But what if the West and Russia were to ratchet up the red cards, and the oligarchs and their money were not allowed into the West? What if the Nets’ owner, Mikhail Prokhorov, were not allowed to inspect Paul Pierce and Kevin Garnett, rusting away before his eyes? What about the billionaire who bought an $88-million pied-a-terre for his daughter on Central Park West? What’s the point of being an oligarch if you can’t go west for R&R? Why amass all that money in the first place? Speaking of sanctions, it’s time for soccer to wave the red card at referee Andre Marriner after his blatant mistake – and refusal to listen to reason – on Saturday. Chelsea was already leading, 2-0, in the early minutes. I thought Chelsea had a huge advantage, shooting from sunlight into shadow (sunlight! in London! in March!) but maybe it did not matter. Marriner correctly saw an Arsenal defender deflect a shot that was probably veering wide. Tweet! The ref promptly called a penalty kick for Chelsea and an automatic red card for Arsenal. Only trouble was, the ref waved the red card at No. 28 Kieran Gibbs rather than No. 15 Alex Oxlade-Chamberlain and his guilty fingertips, who had been closer to the goal. Anybody can make a mistake. But when the Arsenal players tried to explain, Marriner was too blockheaded to listen. His two assistants on the sideline were apparently daydreaming, so Gibbs went off. The authorities will switch the one-match suspension on Monday, but Marriner also needs time away, to learn how to reason. The match ended, 6-0, in favor of Chelsea, with José Mourinho demonstrating his seething super ego, the coldest stare this side of Putin. * * * Two other soccer observations: *-I’ve never been a fan of John Terry or Wayne Rooney, but both demonstrated their resourcefulness and skill in Champions League matches in recent days. *-I take back most things I ever said about the Dolans. James L. Dolan relinquished his wretched control of the Knicks this past week, and now Cablevision, owned by the Dolans, has added the Qatari station, beIN, to my cable package, just in time for the Clásico (Real-Barça, but you know that) on Sunday. Cablevision, le saludo. (And I forgot to thank fellow Queens-person Andy Tansey for calling my attention to the news about Cablevision.) Joe McGinniss, who died on Monday at 71, wrote about politics and scandal and hypocrisy. In his foray into Italian soccer, he found himself at that very same intersection.
In his 1999 book, “The Miracle of Castel di Sangro,” he was living in a small hill city in the Abruzzo, getting to know the players. Then he watched them blunder away a final game that allowed the team from nearby Bari to advance into Serie A. Soon he accused some of the players of throwing the game, comparing them to the Red Brigade of the ‘70’s. “Tu non sei costretto a parlare,” one key player said. You don’t have to speak. This was revolutionary stuff in 1999. Seven years later, the world discovered that major teams in Serie A were leaning on referees and some players were gambling on their sport. Joe was not surprised. By that time, he was back in Massa-chusetts. The beautiful game was much like the rest of life. We had one thing in common – awe of Roberto Baggio, the wispy pigtailed Buddhist genius, who created beautiful moments, from nothing. “Other than my sons, he's the only man I've ever truly loved,” McGinniss wrote in an e-mail. We never met. I remember seeing a very young sportswriter with a lean and hungry look, working for the Bulletin (“In Philadelphia nearly everybody reads the Bulletin.” But not anymore, inasmuch as that paper is long defunct.) He soon wrote “The Selling of the President,” about the Nixon campaign of 1968, and later “Fatal Vision,” about the conviction of an army doctor for killing his pregnant wife and two children. Janet Malcolm and others have accused McGinniss of misleading the doctor by professing to believe him to keep his access. I have never fully understood that. As a reporter, I have sat and listened to politicians, business people, sports officials, religious leaders and entertainers tell me all kinds of stupidità, and usually I kept a straight face, The trick is to keep them talking. McGinniss and I never discussed that, or his time in Alaska, living next door to the Palins. I was jealous that he had lived in the Abruzzo. I’ve got dozens of his e-mails, deploring the gun culture in America or bad soccer on the tube, but he never bemoaned his wretched medical luck – inoperable prostate cancer, 14 months ago. “Welcome to the Hotel Carcinoma," he wrote last year. He could not hang in there for the World Cup – Pirlo and Buffon and Balotelli in Brazil. I would have loved to hear his critiques. Buon lavoro. Buona vita. Riposate in pace. I was stunned by the outpouring of love for Eusebio when I wrote his obituary for the Times on January 6. There were 64 comments before the NYT closed the dialogue, almost uniformly knowledgeable and reverential.
What was the attraction of the Portuguese star from Africa that made him a folk hero, more than 47 years after his marvelous World Cup? Why do soccer stars touch this nerve? I know soccer has its share of louts, and goodness knows, American sport has its A-Rods plus football stars making jackasses of themselves in public. Beyond that is the love – there is no other word – for some soccer players of the past, who showed humanity and talent. Part of the appeal is the relative modest size of soccer players, then and now. Another part is the relative nakedness – men in shorts and jerseys, out there alone in the world. And the third part is the creativity, making something from nothing, on a field, un-manipulated by that American authority figure known as Coach. I was touched by two emails I received from a lawyer in Miami, Peter Cunha, age 28, whom I have known for several years. I have his permission to use excerpts: (By Peter Cunha) “I was asleep last Sunday morning when my phone started ringing. It was my Dad, and I knew that something was wrong based on the timing of the call. He delivered the news through tears that Eusebio had passed away the night before. I was crushed. Not just because a legend had died, but also because my father’s childhood hero was gone. “My father grew up the youngest of seven kids during the ‘50s and ‘60s in Salazar’s Portugal. His father was a farmer, and though they were happy as a family and respected in the community, they were really, really, poor, and they experienced a level of poverty that I doubt my mind will ever truly comprehend. As a child my father went Christmases without presents, and grew up in a house without running water. He recently told me this past summer, when we visited his hometown on vacation, that as a kid he never thought he would own a car or a house in his lifetime. The fact that he was able to overcome this poverty and become a successful and good person is only one of the reasons he’s the greatest man I’ve ever known. “In these conditions of his youth, the brightest spot was soccer, and, more specifically, the 1966 World Cup. My father was eleven years old when it occurred, and to this day when he recounts his memories from that tournament his eyes illuminate like no other. “In the U.S., every kid has heroes they draw from sports. The average fifth grader today probably goes from being Albert Pujols to Lebron James to Peyton Manning on a single Sunday afternoon when they’re playing in the local park. But to poor kids in Portugal in 1966, Eusebio wasn’t just a star, he was the sun: the brightest object visible to man and the center of the Portuguese universe. “My Dad can still recite the starting lineup that Portugal fielded for that tournament, but more importantly, the personal memories he recalls spent watching and experiencing that tournament illustrate why sports is so important to society and why it’s more than just a game. The first time my father ever saw any instance of soccer on television was the Brazil-Portugal match that took place during that World Cup. It wasn’t his TV: a local priest had somehow obtained one for the match and relocated it to the local parish. For the equivalent of a nickel donation for admission, my father saw Pele, Eusebio, and televised soccer for the first time in the same 90 minutes. “During the North Korea game, when Portugal went down, 3-0, my Dad left the house in tears to give some hay to the animals on the farm and get a jump start on the next day’s chores, convinced that Portugal were finished. When he had come back, my uncle told him that, led by the now legendary performance of Eusebio, Portugal had fought back and won. My Dad also remembered the England game when Portugal was eliminated, and how hard he cried when the final whistle blew. “I’m pretty sure last Sunday, when my father called to tell me the news, were the first soccer-related tears he cried since 1966, including the heartbreaking loss we had to Greece in 2004 (he expressed more frustration than sadness in the latter). Later that day, I called him to see if he was coping. He was a bit better, but he was still upset, and he was holding back tears. He told me words I’ll never forget: “Taking away my parents, it was the only thing we had growing up. We were poor. We had no money for gifts or sweets. But we had Eusebio.’” Cunha added: “Sports are a lot of different things to a lot of people. Some good, some bad. But for some people, it’s the only thing, and not in a Vince Lombardi or Bill Shankly way. I mean, quite literally, sport is the only thing that brings them joy in their lives. And that’s a powerful thing, which is why we’re sad to see it go when it’s gone. “Though I was born in 1985, I was lucky enough to see Eusebio play twice in charity matches in Newark in the early ‘90s. I’m attaching a picture I took with him when I was no more than eight years old. I’m the one on the far left with Eusebio’s right hand on my shoulder, the same hand he used to pull the ball out of the net twice in that North Korea game.” Eusebio famously rushed into the net to retrieve the ball while turning a 3-0 deficit into a 5-3 victory. People still talk about that game, and Eusebio, 47 years later. I think Cunha nails the connection between the people and the people's sport. The World Cup is coming around again in June. The obituary and the comments: http://www.nytimes.com/2014/01/06/sports/soccer/portuguese-soccer-great-eusebio-is-dead-at-71.html?_r=0 With all the changes at my old school, the sun still sinks behind the west goal. On autumn afternoons, it still glares directly at the east goal.
It all came back to me Thursday. I had not seen a game at Jamaica High since the end of the 1955 season, when I was benched after edging over to the sidelines to catch up on the Dodger-Yankee score. (It was the seventh game of the World Series, and we were playing in Brooklyn.) So much has changed. The comprehensive Jamaica High School has been phased out, replaced by four smaller schools tucked into corners of the grand old building on the glacial hill. But there is still a Jamaica team in the Public School Athletic League, and on Thursday it played a big game against Far Rockaway. The coach is Dana Silverstein, twenty-five years old, a former player for the University of Rhode Island. She says the young men have probably never played for a female coach before, but they listen to her, they show respect. I remember the polyglot Jamaica team of my years. Silverstein told me she heard at least thirteen different languages in the building but that one player will translate a fine point for a teammate, if needed. The Jamaica home uniform was a white shirt and navy blue shorts. I remembered our ratty red long-sleeved jerseys and our school song, to the tune of Aura Lee (Love Me Tender): “Red and blue/ Red and blue/ School of red and blue…” The Jamaica football team – another innovation since the 50s -- practiced directly behind the west goal. The players dressed in the fieldhouse which I remembered as old and musty, where we ate orange slices at halftime. More recently I have heard that Joe Austin, the legendary coach for St. Monica’s – Mario Cuomo’s mentor for life -- used to keep a spare set of clothes and perhaps spend the night there if the baseball games ran late. Far Rockaway had won ten matches and lost only once, scoring above three goals seven different times. Jamaica, with a 4-6-1 record, could not afford another loss if it wanted to qualify for the playoffs. From the start, Far Rockaway was more physical, knocking Jamaica players to the artificial turf, pounding the ball downfield. I have been watching games from the press tribune for the past eight World Cups, as Sócrates and Baggio and Zidane and Donovan moved forward like Pak-Men on electronic rampage, but down here on terra firma it happened fast. For this ancient defender, the old terror came back – how hard it was to track the ball while facing west, the autumn haze, the sun at a nasty low angle, and suddenly hordes of opponents would materialize, as if in a science-fiction movie, right out of the glare. Far Rockaway fired wide a few times but then scored the goal that had seemed inevitable. “Keep fighting,” the coach shouted. The teams changed sides at halftime, and with the sun at their backs, the Jamaica players seemed invigorated. They tied the match with a lightning shot from distance; a few minutes later they scored another cannonball goal. “Zero-zero,” Silverstein shouted, meaning, don’t let up. But Far Rockaway pressed toward the fifty Jamaica football players clustered behind the west goal, and with about five minutes left, the visitors scored. “Fight back, Jamaica,” the coach shouted. “This is your season.” The match ended in a 2-2 draw. The coach called her players onto the turf and addressed them: “I can’t think of a bad thing to say,” she said, her tone optimistic, encouraging. “You played well. Practice tomorrow. Game Monday.” The last game is 4 PM Monday at Campus Magnet in Cambria Heights, which used to be Andrew Jackson – Jamaica’s biggest rival in the old basketball days. My word to my old teammates, from Long Island to California, is that these guys watch the great clubs and national teams, which we never could do. My teammates would love their, power, their moves, their maturity on the field. Go, Jamaica. The roster, straight from the website http://www.psal.org/profiles/team-profile.aspx#012/28517: |
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