To Cesc-With Love and Squalor on The Night Before Spain's First Game

Hey, Cesc. Can you hear me? You seen any elephants yet? Oh, right. Stupid question, Liz. Ok. I know it's late there. It’s just that- I’m gonna see you for the first time tomorrow and it’s hard. I mean- to see you with them. No, not Switzerland. Them. All of them. And him. Pique. Do you have any idea how it feels watching you guys laughing and joking and having cool hair together? No. I know we've been over this: it’s not your fault you have cool hair. I know Pique's hair just does that. But hey- we've got good hair too. Arshavin: babysoft. Rosicky: bohemian chic. Sagna! What about- ok. You're right. The hair's not the point. But I still can't bear the thought of you all listening to dance music together and you getting that glow you get when you hang out with them. You know you do, Cesc. Your Catalan glow. 

And I get it- I mean, who I am anyway? Just some lousy fool who against every contrarian impulse has chosen to believe in Arsenal and its built-in suffering. A club that’s made me believe in the RIGHT WAY OF DOING THINGS, in- oh. Rhetorical question. Right. That’s another conversation. But- is it? I mean:  think about it. You are the most perfect product of our footballing philosophy. Yes yes I know. You are not a product. You are a person, Cesc Fabregas, you are a person. I’m not being sarcastic. That’s just the way I talk. I’m American, remember? Hey, don’t forget: we have the same birthday. That should count for something shouldn't it? May 4 buddies in the house! Ok ok. I'm sorry. Weak. Won’t bring it up again. 

Being Boring

I don’t think Spain is boring, but I understand the thrill that comes from saying they are. A couple of weeks ago I decided to advocate for benching Xavi knowing I’d get destroyed for it. A journalistic death wish. It felt great, even if I didn't let anyone read it. I’m not crazy, after all. There are finer football minds engaged in this debate, and every possible point has been covered. I thought a very forlorn Raphael Honigstein summed it best when he was asked on the podcast why Germany didn’t play the game we were used to seeing against Spain. “It’s difficult to express yourself when you’re being asphyxiated.”

And there you have it. Spain creates a vacuum of beauty on the pitch. The tragic aspect of their dominance in possession is the way they make the giddiest teams like Germany or Russia of 2008, teams that rely on counterattack, that run on oxygen and sparks, look cheap and desperate, even a little pathetic. Spain is a charming girl at a dinner party who wants you to laugh at all her brilliant jokes but won’t even let you tell yours. It’s a bit exhausting to always be in thrall. 

Match Report: My Soccer Heart & My Human Heart: (Spain v. Germany Semifinal)

I think Alexi Lalas was speaking about the Algeria game when he said it first. At the time I took it as confirmation that he was a robot come to torture us. Well, I wish to publicly rescind that: I think Mr. Alexi Lalas made an exceptionally eloquent distinction when he attempted to explain the different desires of his “soccer heart” and his “human heart.” What I liked about his mumbled, attempted differentiation was that it wasn’t just a lazy breakdown between thinking and feeling, or between head and heart. What he seemed to be attempting to express was that different parts of your heart can long for different things, and find beauty in different things, and need different things to satisfy it. And so last night I watched - just as I had exactly two years ago when Spain decimated Russia, the first team I ever fell in love with- my human heart be broken while my soccer heart nearly exploded with joy.

When Spain is playing well, I am reminded of why I watch football; the infinite possibilities of space. A few times, when I’ve concentrated hard enough, I can see them as points in space, and not people. It’s difficult for me, but it has happened. Watching them beat Germany yesterday made me understand football better. And in no way is it only “intellectually rewarding”: it’s guttural, alive, immersing. And when it was through I was devastated that it was over: I knew with another half an hour, there was more they could teach me. When I’m watching Spain spin their web, well, it’s like being in love.  

Missing Muller and Considering The Psychological Wonders of Nicklas Bendtner

If Thomas Muller becomes a great German player and this young German team becomes a great team, which all signs are certainly pointing to, his unfair exclusion from the semi-final will take on more and more historical importance. I expected a louder outcry over his preposterous yellow card; all I can assume is that Suarez had already used up the all the possibilities of indignation in the tournament. And that it was a matter of timing: at that moment in the win over Argentina, Germany was flying so high it felt like they had players to spare, an embarrassment of counterattacking riches. But if for some reason this kinetic young team falls apart due to injuries, or internal strife, the only thing keeping it from being a "what if?" for the ages is the clear technical superiority of the Spanish. Because Muller's absence was an obvious game-changer. They obviously missed his presence in the box, and his height and ability to convert set pieces. But as I watched the Germans come out of the tunnel without Muller, and I saw Ozil’s nervous, stricken expression, and the changed demeanor of all of the young players, I wondered if it wasn't more than that. I wondered if they didn’t mainly miss The Bendtner Factor.

(And just like a woman I used to work with who managed to bring everything I said, however idiosyncratic and obscure, be it meeting times or printer ink, back to what she had eaten for lunch, so today I am with Arsenal. It’s what happens at cusp times like this. The end of the regular season seems to exist only to tell us about the country teams; the first friendlies were useful mainly to confirm what we knew was broken about the club teams. And so in order to re-engage with club and prepare to face the spiritual abyss after Sunday, I’m grasping at any metaphor and connection I can and hoping for multiplication. Let’s just see if this one holds, shall we?)

International Levitations & Optical Illusions: Assorted Thoughts on Watching Germany Beat England & Argentina

It’s all so gorgeously disorienting. Pleasure comes from the most unexpected sources. Every team is pulling a fast one on us, or really, they’ve been there under our noses the whole time as we allowed ourselves to keep watching ghost versions of them, reflections of who we wanted them to be. I pride myself on not falling prey to stereotypes of national identify, and yet I’ve been as exposed as anyone for holding nonsensical notions. Right now, we can’t trust our eyes.  Or actually we can only trust our eyes, and nothing else. 

After watching Germany’s last couple of games I have no idea what is real and what I’m creating out of some sort of heady liberation from my preconceived notions and my senses. All I know is we might only have another 90 minutes to watch it happen. So we need to keep our eyes peeled. They’re moving fast; they’ll dummy us all if we’re not careful. As for me, it’s clear I can’t trust myself. I am under various spells and being acted on by various forces. The first opiate: bandwagon fumes.  I’ve always been susceptible, it's the curse of the contrarian. So driven by my own resistance to what is popular that the harder I fight the harder I fall. The spring from my own resistance has a momentum of its own. Perspective is lost. 

Here is Where I Sleep Through The Ghana v. Uruguay Game

And briefly lose all hope. This is also where I start to worry about what my life will look like on the other side of the formation I've constructed as a shelter. It's a simple 4-2-3-1. I needed something safe. I wanted to blend in. When I tell the story of today, I'll try to tell you from the inside and not the outside where I'll already be, even though something will be lost; the day's unglossiness, some necessary frictions.

On Mornings

You sit in smoke residue and drink strong tea, or warm beer, and you are happy. You love the shuffling in, the shared sense of shame and mischief and mutual addiction: no one has ever wandered into a darkened pub in a snowstorm at 8am on a Sunday by accident. Men, young and old, shake snow off jackets, the night before still written on their faces, and in their hair. You attempt to remember a time when you were content to spend Sunday mornings pressed up against and screaming with, sometimes at, only one dirty, hungover boy. Now anything less than fifty is a disappointment. But the sleepy smell of contented aggression, of soap and the scorned possibilities of soap, is the same.

Every once in a while there’s a girlfriend along, half-awake and texting. You’re careful not to judge them: after all, you started as a girlfriend enjoying the simple idea of the game, the feeling of the pub. But then you didn’t want to be a girlfriend anymore, and then you weren’t, and you realized you found neither the feeling nor the idea simple at all. So you kept coming. Anyway, usually there aren’t girlfriends or any girls at all that early in the morning. There is only you.

A Strategy of Hugs

Any follower of English football would be touched by the site of Carlos Tevez beaming with pride at Maradona after his second goal against Mexico. Tevez’s history with management is complicated and genuinely sad- manipulated, used, bought and sold, discarded- and look at that! Maradona figured it out. All Carlitos really needed was to be told he was doing a good job. Tevez has come alive under Maradona’s Papa Smurf Brand of Inspirational Methodology- he’s having a cracking tournament and reminding every team Argentina meets how unwise it is to undervalue him. 

And yet- I’m surprised by the unilateral endorsement of Maradona’s displays of affection. I acknowledge their charm. All that boisterous male cuddling and hair tousling would thaw even the coldest heart (um, mine). For better or worse, Maradona has staged the most sustained and authentic-ish show of male affection in recent history. That’s worth something. Think what fun it would be to see them play the Dutch, a team whose peculiar icy repressions and unwilling communications isolate them on and off the pitch. I can already see Van Persie looking to the sidelines longingly at the prospect of a big bear hug and a pat on the back.