germany v. argentina & italy v. ukraine

Let’s just get something straight right off the bat:

I am a neither a fan of Germany, Argentina, Italy, or Ukraine. Though I do drink Beck’s beer, buy Patagonia outdoor clothing, eat pizza, and drink vodka (and, yes, it is known as vodka in all of the former soviet outposts, including the likes of Kazakhstan, Uzbekistan, Turkmenistan, Georgia {NOT the state, you southern American redneck!!!}, and Thereisntenoughvodkaintheworldformetodrinkistan), I own not a single kit or strip of any of these four nations.

However a fan of these four I may not be, I am a fan of football and, as I said earlier, I was really looking forward to the first quarterfinal between Germany and Argentina.

And while it may not have been the orgasmic, breathless porn theatre I predicted in previous, more sober moments on these very pages, it was still a spellbinding spectacle to withhold, er, behold, if only for the tension that grew more acute with every passing minute.

After a cautious first half that would have stunted the excitement of even the most ardent of Viagara users, the second half came to life when, four minutes after the restart, Argentina kickstarted the match on a Roberto Ayala goal from a corner kick that temporarily sent the home denizens into stunned silence.

Unfortunately for Argentinians everywhere, like it is with most men, that one euphoric eruption of a goal was followed by countless forays into the German cleave only for these attempted breaches to end time and again in off-target shots or flaccid displays of bravado. Meanwhile, the Germans were building and building and building, biding their time for a chance to score, waiting to hit the “G”oal spot in the Argentine defense. And so it came to pass when, ten minutes from time, Miroslav Klose rose to the occasion and put his head to the ball on a cross and buried it expertly.

80 million Germans were now in orgasmic rapture while 40 million Argentines were in unfulfilled anguish. What made the German goal even more difficult to accept for Argentinians was the fact that Argentina coach Jose Pekerman had, several minutes earlier, withdrawn two of his most potent offensive forces, striker Crespo and midfielder Riquelme, for defensive replacements in an effort to kill off the match, much like Italy has done in every single match since the dawn of time when they’ve gone ahead 1-nil.

I said it at the time, I said it again during extra time, and, just so I wouldn’t stray wide from my mantra, I repeated it again in the penalty shootout: WHAT THE HELL WAS PEKERMAN THINKING? Why withdraw two of his best players for defensive replacements against a host nation fully capable of scoring? Is Pekerman secretly Italian? Is he Sven Goran Eriksson’s long lost Argentine cousin? Playing so conservatively is not Argentina’s style—and it backfired like a rusty Plymouth in need of a tune-up.

When it went to penalty kicks after a told-you-so scoreless extra time, that Germany would win was as shocking as finding chlorophyll in the Amazon. To further dent my pre-match prognosticative prowess regarding this match, I even saw Ollie Kahn shake and spit on (in, apparently, an affirmation of brotherhood) arch-enemy Jens Lehmann’s hand for good luck right before the penalty shootout.

What a soulless way to end such a closely-fought match, but I don’t make the rules and penalty shootouts are, admittedly, intense to watch. Kudos to Germany for the fightback to level the score and then the courage to buck the shootout pressure and go perfect on penalty kicks.

As for that damned Italy-Ukraine fixture that followed, remind me never again to go the Mediterranean-Sea-v.-Black-Sea route again. I remain steadfast by my claims concerning those two bodies of water, but…

…Italy still sucks. They dismantled a poor, deer-in-headlights Ukraine side that looked as if they were in as much need of therapy as Paris Hilton inevitably one day will require. The match was so one-sided and so unappealing on so many levels that it’s not even worth an attempt at levity or serious contemplation. In fact, I’m so disgruntled that I’m using capital letters in this post. Ingrates 3-0 Unfit-daffodil-lookalikes.

Time to take a peek at the ol’ ancestral lineage and dust off some of that hidden German in me, just in time for the first semifinal Wednesday morning at 4am, Korea time.