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EYE ON EUROPE |
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SOCCER TEAM...
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Blowing the whistle on the
so-called ‘beautiful game’
of TheColumnists.com
After spending a few days in London last week I can report that the most important thing in the world is the sacking of Sven Goran Erksson, the wily manager of the English soccer team. (They hate it when you call it soccer. They prefer “football”, but for clarity’s sake let’s use its real name.)
Wimpy Sven looks like a grocery clerk but his busy love life and his constant negotiations for a new job with one of the English soccer clubs eventually cost him his role as national team manager. Some of his girlfriends have been stunning blondes and brunettes, often not very bright. They all kissed and told, and the tabloids ate him for breakfast.
As Sven explained his sacking, which he described as departure by mutual agreement: “I fealt it was in the arirrre that there are too many circuses around my private life. This last one (his ill-advised comments about soccer corruption) was one circus too many.”
Who will succeed the Swede? It’s a wide-open race that will go on for weeks. Sven can keep his yob until after the World Cup in Yune in Yermany but candidates are sprouting right and left.
No single name emerges as the front-runner, however, so I have decided to throw my hat in the ring.
Why not? I could do as well as Sven. He can’t even speak English properly. When his star captain David Beckham performed poorly in a match due to the flu, Sven explained: “David was not a hunnert percent feet.”
Not only that, but Sven never seems to do anything. He just sits on the bench and grits his teeth as opponents score goals against England. I could do that.
One of the more earnest sports commentators on British television ticked off the rest of the skill set:
1. Meeting and greeting presidents and
prime ministers.
2. Dealing with the reptiles in the media.
3. Working out a winning strategy for England.
I could do No. 1, easy. No. 2 would be a breeze. I spent 10 years in PR feeding the media beast. As for No. 3, this is the biggest scam in sports. Who needs strategy in a game of chance?
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because he gives us a choice of blondes, brunettes or redheads after each practice. |
I have been watching soccer off and on for 30 or 40 years and all I can see on the field is 22 men in short pants running around madly kicking the ball at each other. If the ball ever gets near the net (also known as the goal), it is an accident.
The ball pings and pongs the length of the field for an hour and a half as the crowd sings some mournful tune. Final scores are usually 0-0, 1-0 or 2-1, indicating that neither team ever builds up a clear advantage. In other words, it’s a matter of luck to be ahead when time runs out.
Periodically a player gets a knee in the groin and hits the deck, writhing in apparent agony. The game stops, doctors rush over and massage his sore spot, after which he jumps up good as new, and the guy who kneed him gets something called a “yellow card”. This is like getting a ticket in California for jaywalking.
Even the official rules are obscure. Something called the “offside rule”--which seems to more or less require that a shot at the goal cannot be made in the “box” unless an opposing player and the goalie are ahead of him--leaves players and spectators perplexed. Even professional commentators are at a loss for words. The BBC’s venerable John Motson notes that there is no “universal interpretation” of the offside rule. This is a recipe for chaos. Imagine real football with no agreement on what “touchdown” means.
The keeper, short for goalkeeper, has the easiest job on the team, spending at least half the 90-minute match yawning and leaning against the goalposts as action moves downfield away from him. This would be a good place for Sven.
Scoring a goal--that is, kicking the ball
into the cage (also known as the net) is the best illustration
of the chance nature of this game. Some 90 per cent of goal shots
(also known as “opportunities”, or “chances”
or in hopeless shots, “half chances”) are blocked.
If one slips through the forest of hairy legs, it’s sheer
good fortune.
The shooter or “striker” then peels off his shirt and
sprints around in circles as four or five fellow players jump
on his back to try to stop him and get his shirt back on.
Eventually the pinging and ponging resumes and the wily Swede gets that faraway look in his eye, apparently dreaming of his next conquest, perhaps a redhead this time. I could do that.
©2006 by Michael Johnson. The cartoons are from IMSI's Master Clips Collection, 1895 Francisco Blvd. E., San Rafael, CA, 94901-5506, USA. This column was first posted Jan. 30, 2006.
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