Writing before the date with Denmark in the Euro quarter finals is a reminder that it’s now 55 ‘years of hurt’ since the World Cup victory but that hope springs eternal. After all, Marcellus tells us in Hamlet that, “something is rotten in the state of Denmark”. Unfortunately, I am pretty certain it is not their defence because that guy Vestergaard looks a lot more solid than the ‘Little Mermaid’ and a lot less fun than Tivoli Gardens.
The misery of uncertainty will remain very much alive as I head to one of the English pubs in Little Italy, San Diego later today. I guess that it will be for the England manager and his boys “to be or not to be” but they do have the power of Atomic Kitten singing, “Southgate you’re the one, you still turn me on, football’s coming home again.” Mashing up Three Lions with Whole Again is fine but reminds me with sadness that in 1970 bringing the world cup Back Home was ruined by Gordon Banks being ‘indaloo (apologies for terrible pun and dad joke).
Whatever happens there is still the joy of Argentina v Brazil in the Copa America to look forward to on Saturday and the ongoing NBA playoff series between the Phoenix Suns and the Milwaukee Bucks will continue until at least next Wednesday. And then there is the CONCACAF Gold Cup with the chance that we will see the USA men’s team blossom or the possibility of Mexico sending this corner of California into raptures. Being an Englishman abroad means realizing that there is a big world away from England.
There is so much to love about the prospect of Messi and Neymar meeting on the field in a competition that has been characterized by the most robust tackling I have seen since the 1970s heyday of Leeds versus Chelsea. Columbia has become famous and notorious as home to coffee, cartels and cocaine but it seems that the football team consider being C in the alphabet as a slight that must be rectified against the A and B of Argentina and Brazil. So much so that blood was oozing from the sock on Messi’s left ankle last night as he took the first of the penalties that took his team through to the final in the semi-final last night.
I’ve never seen a bullfight and have no desire to watch an animal taunted and slaughtered so it is paradoxical that Bulls of Parral by Marguerite Steen is one of the books I read over and over again. Maybe it is the human condition to be drawn into fictional situations that are too gross or terrifying to ever wish to experience and I cannot imagine any other reason for people to watch horror films. Life may not be as “nasty, brutish and short” as Hobbes suggested it can be but imagining the worst things is probably a way of realizing how lucky we are.
The story itself is set in Spain in the 1950s and charts the lives and rivalry of the moneyed bullfighter Paco and a waif on the Parral farm called Ildefonso. Their courses cross with Paco being feted and showy but never loved by the crowd while Ildefonso is adored as the heir to the natural talents of the greatest matadors. It is a story which plays out the genius amateur against the tutored strategist and leaves us in little doubt where our sympathies should lie.
The European media tend to idolize Messi as Ildefonso while Ronaldo is positioned as Paco. But watching the mesmeric genius of Neymar has been a revelation to me having only previously seen him as a brattish, patchy player for Paris St Germain. My admiration for Ronaldo as a player and leader is high but his game comes with the shock and awe of a broadsword while the other two devastate with the deftness of the epee and stiletto.
Watching a game where Messi is playing to cement his reputation with a first* winners medal for his country while Neymar is defending the honour of the greatest football nation in its spiritual home of the Maracana. Both are an equal target for the hatchet men of the opposition but in this tournament they have got up, smirked and set about taunting the aggressors anew. It recalls Steen’s vivid description of how matadors are bloodied, torn and scarred by drawing the bull ever closer but continue until it can resist no more.
The stage is set, the sides are well-matched and it should be a wonderful exhibition made even better by the referees willingness to see the footballing equivalent of a mano a mano cagefight. It is made even better by the fact that I really don’t mind who wins and will not have the disappointment of having seen England knocked out of the competition at an earlier stage. Sport without responsibility is one of the few reasons that I can enjoy watching golf for its enormous skill, wonderful settings and leisurely pace.
All that leaves me a little on the fence for the basketball playoffs because I have got something of a passion for the Suns after their mighty effort to see off the LA Lakers. In a game where the ebb and flow can mean leads change hands quickly and games can become total blowouts and meaningless with a long time still to play it has taken time to love it. That may be because at Stewards Comprehensive School we had one gym lesson where the sports hall hoops were set out but the lesson become more like a session of British Bulldog with a ball than anything resembling a game with rules.
All the stranger then that I was the lead manager for the bizarre ASDA sponsorship of the English Basketball Association which saw me spending many nights watching very tall men play the game in front of very small crowds in venues more intended for darts, bowls and 5-a-side football. The overwhelming memory was that for something dubbed a non-contact sport there was plenty of testosterone and brutal elbowing between the behemoths. The crowning (sic) glory of a tournament at the Royal Albert Hall in 1984 was a reminder that the building, named in memory of Queen Victoria’s husband and opened 150 years ago, is a better setting for Land of Hope and Glory than Battle of the Giants.
I have been on a big learning curve but understanding the terminology of “pick and roll”, “in the paint”, “downtown” and “goal tending” has added significantly to my viewing pleasure. But the tactics are so nuanced and finely managed that I find myself bemused, baffled and strangely awed by the cleverness of the coaches. Working out how to draw fouls, use time outs and manipulate the rules has a level of strategic cunning that is easily the equal of any other game.
It has also become clear that appearances can be deceptive. I was commenting that the excellent Devin Booker was much smaller than most of the others and could only be about six feet tall only to learn that he is listed as 6’ 5”. I felt like one of those fabled grannies from the era TV was introduced who wondered how it was possible to get people who would fit inside the screen.
All this is a long way of saying that if I was still in England I would, quite happily, be taken up with the frenzy of England versus Denmark with all the glory or sorrow that this might bring. As it is I will be turning up Three Lions on a Shirt and Vindaloo before heading off to the Princess pub and will be drinking my share of lager when I watch the game. But win or lose I will be fortunate to be living in San Diego with South American football and the Suns versus Bucks to enjoy in this glorious week of sport.
*I know he has won a gold medal with Argentina at the Olympics in 2008 but football, as with tennis and golf, at the four-yearly celebration of athleticism is just a distraction from the driving idea of faster, higher, stronger.
Image by Reimund Bertrams from Pixabay