Observations Live, Holland vs Spain, July 12, 2010

"The most massive shared human experience on the planet..." so we're informed in the moments before kick off.

"The silky Spanish"

"The Dutch are cuter than the Spanish" ND weighs in.

"He was taken out rather cynically ..."

Half Time 0-0, an uneventful 1st half. Time to check the ribs.

"It's all push and shove..."

2nd half.

Close calls! Ramos with long hair the header over the crossbar.

Holland's jerseys are like HAZMAT outfits, like jail inmates, like highway construction cones.

Extraordinary counterattack by Robben, shouts! To no avail ... nothing happening.

Oy! Regulation time runs out, the dread 0-0 game, damn.

Overtime!

Slow motion outrage.

Spain! Save! Holland counters, corner! No!

Gestapo ref, bald headed, belligerent.

"Van Persie surrounded by Spainards."

Why take out David Villa?

GOAL!!!!!!!!  "Looks like no Dutch Delights!" Spain classically scores way late in extra time, incredible.

"The Never Never lands for the Netherlands."

And it ends .... It's over. Spain finally wins ... and Holland loses for the 3rd time.

Lemonstar to the World

All over the planet people are gathering around television sets, gathering with friends and strangers, with plates of food and bottles of beer and billowy spliffs, they're gathering on beaches, in mountain valleys, in hot noisy city neighborhoods, in nowheresville, in somewheresville, in refugee tents, campgrounds, chateaus, dachas, grass shacks, and office park cafeterias and condominium villages.

In Lemonstar summer pours on unabated, uninterrupted by the responsibility of adulthood, unchallenged by the More Important, it is July, the backyard long grass is cool, damp from hosing down, bees tap nectar from clover blossoms, the finches ply the bird feeder in bunches, happy with their blunt beaks and sunflower seeds. Puffy cumulus float overhead and intermittently pass across the sun in its bright blue sky, the garden hums in photosynthesizing eagerness, butterflies jaunt about the sultry air.

Holland vs Spain, the great 4 year struggle culminates today in South Africa. Tonight, one nation will celebrate with shouts of triumph while the other will wrest lamentation from otherwise glory.

More even than the Tour de France, the World Cup unites disparate people, unifies a fractious and amorphous collection of humanity into one vortex and focal point - a football pitch, 22 men running around in funny outfits taking themselves too seriously, a stadium of 84,000 vuvuzela-blowing football fanatics, the cacophony of possibility and hope.

Ah Lorca, Picasso, Van Gogh, Rembrandt, Cervantes ... art from the low country and the Spanish plateau.

Voortrekkers and Don Quixote

Die Groot Trek

Cold beer in the dusty veldt. Veld, prairie, outback, pampas. The hinterlands. The place where the world breathes hot breaths of wind and sun.

Spain or the Netherlands. The bulls run in Pamplona, Hemingway's rash bravura emanates yet. Wine squeeze the bota, hoist the porrón, sluice nectar of plenty for the planetary ball game. Holland canal meander on bikes, windmill stereotypes, herring galore.

But who will win the World Cup?

Observations Live, Holland vs Uruguay, 2nd Half

Darke, describing a Ducth player, declares he's "...a small little terrier of a mid fielder."

It's anybody's game early 2nd half. "Looking for the little flick-on ... but nothing comes of it."

The Ski Bum needs just one goal to be tied with Spain's David Villa in the Golden Boot competition. That's a hellluva prize, eh? "The Golden Boot" Let's see, if other occupations and pastimes gave out prizes, you could award the Golden Fork to a restaurant-goer, the Golden Skillet to a chef, the Golden Plunger to a plumber, the Golden Spliff to a reggae star. And so on.

Uruguay hasn't reached the quarter finals in 40 years, since 1970. "Forlan a flick-on!"

"I think they fancy they might pull off the shock here..." Darke, describing Uruguay's presumed mental state given the confidence with which they're playing.

John Harkes follows up. "bllahhhheeeeasshhhhhaaanbllahshhhhhhhhaaaaahsay."

Holland has a winger who looks like a young Billy Bragg. He hopes he ain't crying Levi Stubbs' Tears when the game ends.

GOAL!!!! The Netherlands, Wesley Sneijder! in the 70th minute. Sneijder now tied with David Villa for most goals during the tournament, five each so far.

"I have a feeling they're not going to lie down here." One more from Harkes' stock of sports cliches.

GOAL!!!!!! Again! In the 73rd minute! Diablo! Robben on a bald-headed header, brilliant strike!

Princess Maxima and Crown Prince William Alexander, Dutch royalty, the camera keeps cutting away from the pitch to show them cheering in the crowd. Thankfully, Bill Clinton is long gone, we're not subjected to his red-veined mug. Much rather see the Princess who, oddly enough, is wearing what appears to be a guernsey pelt, some odd cape-like garment, black & white like a milk advertisement cow.

The Dutch have really come into their own in this 2nd half. Wonderful control and possession.

Exit the Aspen Golden Boy, the Mighty Diego Forlan, golden locks and all, he's gone to the bench. If we were still back in the '80s, he'd pose nude in Playgirl.

"3-1 to Holland, sitting pretty, looking good."

GOAL!!!!!! Uruguay steals one LATE in the game, in extra time, incredible!

Referring to a last desparate throw-in, Darke shouts about "Uruguay's very last drink in the Last Chance Saloon!" while Harkes prattles that tired cliche about Uruguay's "never say die" attitude. What a godawful broadcast partner, oy. And come on, we all lament not hearing the energy and passion of Andres Cantor of Univision.

And then it ends ... "DUTCH DELIRIUM in Cape Town! They've held on!" Holland in the World Cup Final.

Observations Live, Holland vs Uruguay, 1st Half

To think that Uruguay has won the World Cup twice, both times way back in the early mid 20th century, while the Dutch, always good and sometime great, has never won, seems a bit of Magical Realism.

Diego Forlan looks like an Aspen ski bum.

"Orange Crush" they call the Dutch. Their hideous solid orange uniforms (including socks) do full justice and then some to that moniker. With the overhead camera view, even on a 36" flat screen TV in High Def the players look like so many orange crayons blipping around the pitch.

Are we sick of commentator John Harkes' nasally monotone yet? He's as exciting as an accountant.

Not so Ian Darke (Darke of the "volaitle cocktail" remark): "Van Bronckhorst with an absolute FIRECRACKER!" he shouts as Holland notches the first goal, it comes at the 17 minute mark. And what a goal! A cannon blast perfectly struck from ten yards or more outside the box by Giovanni Van Bronckhorst, zowie!

The Dutch are divers unfortunately -  "histrionics and amateur dramatics" intones Darke. Truly one of the more undignified aspects of the game.

"... rubbing horse placenta on the injured area..." What?? Missed that comment, it was Darke discussing some injured player's special treatment back in England.

By the way - it's 100 degrees in Lemonstar today, the banana I'm eating is hot, the air is thick, the house is without air conditioning, it's best that way, easier to conjure a sense of malarial backwater, tropical torpor, just lacking an avuncular Graham Greene character in white linen suit and Panama hat to give it the authentic touch.

Darke - "Diego FORLAN! He's done it again with his 4th goal in this World Cup!" The Ski Bum strikes! A wicked blast, also, like Van Bronckhorst's savage strike, from outside the box.

Harkes is clinically, numbingly uncolorful. How's that for irony? The ESPN color guy lacks all color, he's as colorful as over-milked tea, he should be named Wan Harkes, not John. We see an AMAZING goal, we get a blast of excitement with Darke's enthusiastic English boom, then we get Harkes following up with some monotone, banal analysis of the goalie's poor effort. Argh!

The first half ends, a 1-1 tie. Good viewing so far!

Brit Color

The British World Cup commentator for ABC offered the best quote of the tournament yet. Referring to the high strung Argentine forward Tevez, he said:

"He's a volatile cocktail, ready to spill over at the slightest shaking."

Brilliant.

Ghana Gone, Dunga Dunga Done

In the end, the defensive game failed the traditionally offense-minded Brazilians. I remember Dunga, their rugged fullback from the '90s, the World Cup held in the US in 1994. No wonder he employs a defensive strategy, that's what he played, that's what he knows. Pity Felipe Melo who scored an own goal and then got himself red-carded so his colleagues ended up a man down. Or perhaps no pity. Soccer is a cruel master.

I didn't see any of the game itself but the Costa Rican food service guys in the corporate cafeteria watched it in the back kitchen. Two mistakes, they told me, that's all it took for Brazil to fall.

I did see much of the second half of the Uruguay/Ghana match, an ugly affair. The Ghanans seemed to have heart but little else - their effort was a clunky one, mistake-prone, inelegant, and ultimately futile. Uruguay showed little more flare, their chiseled featured striker Forlon the exception. He wouldn't appear out of place in an ad shoot for Big Sky country - or International Male, for that matter, give him some leather chaps and a soccer thong and you'd have an eye-popper. But over all both squads displayed nothing remotely resembling finesse and though I didn't see the penalty shots it didn't surprise me to hear that Ghana had failed to convert two kicks. They were a lumbering, raw, wild team and now they're done. And Uruguay, inexplicably, is on to the semi finals.

Maradona and Guillermoprieto

Alma Guillermoprieto, writing for the New York Review of Books blog, has a fun piece on her experience as a young reporter given the task of writing about Diego Maradona. This was in the 1980s, the "hand of God" era, the days when the stocky Maradona was the most dynamic, enigmatic, and heralded soccer player in the world. Guillermoprieto knew little to nothing about soccer and that's part of the self-deprecating good humor of the piece. Read her blog entry here: Maradona and Me

USA/Ghana Aftermath

All is right in the football world, it seems. Ghana, upon which a whole continent's hope rests, continues on while the pedestrian squad from the United 50 dissolves back into irrelevancy. And the 'fans' of the Team USA? Well, NASCAR and vampire TV and early summer Major League Baseball are on so adios, Team Amigos.

I'm not sure why but the sight of Bill Clinton partying with Mick Jagger in the VIP Booth struck me the wrong way. Politricks and entertainment, two great deceits.

USA vs Ghana

The karmic collision. An intrinsic sense of solidarity with the American lads, their upbringing on suburban soccer pitches or grade school gravel stone playgrounds similar to my own. Yet the raw cultural baggage of this nation's intercontinental aggression weighs heavily. How root for the Monster?

Ghana. Africa's last hope this 2010 World Cup, this billion strong pageant of sport. The first African World Cup, a competition dominated for decades by Europeans - except for Brazil's periodically puncturing the balloon of plenty.

Landon Donovan might have played soccer with my nephew on Jersey Shore town fields. Youth leagues. Babysitting leagues. The embarrassment of riches. The Corporation - entertainment a-plenty. Where do we go from here? What if the USA wins? How celebrate? How revel in the vanquishing of the last African nation in the first World Cup in Africa?

But this IS sport, and to engage in sport is to compete. So compete we must. Football will never replace warfare  in deciding the globe's conflicts, but such ritualistic engagement does break down cultural barriers. Stadiums of cheering, chanting, singing spectators engaged in the ritual of Sport. Along those lines we pretty much all measure out. It's in the grim minutiae of the Haves and the Have Nots where the poison percolates.

So from the nation of Have, the Monster oil slick nation, the Toxic Nation Apocalypse, I deliberate my allegiance, shrug my red, white, and blue shoulders, muse my black, red, yellow, green solidarity Ital oneness, and decide to embrace whatever outcome emerges from tomorrow's epic clash of Africa and North America on a football pitch at Royal Bafokeng Stadium, Rustenburg, South Africa.

Memorial Day Weekend Musing

New England breathes easier this Saturday morning of Memorial Day Weekend - the Celtics closed out the Eastern Conference Finals in Boston last night and now have their sights set on the Finals, whether against the Phoenix Suns or the Los Angeles Lakers is not known yet. Having gone up 3-0 against Orlando, the Celtics couldn't finish the sweep at home, lost game 4, then lost game 5 in Orlando giving rise to a region-wide sports anxiety attack - Gulp! What if the Celtics, storied in so many ways, became the first NBA team to lose a series after being up 3-0? That terrifying prospect seemed possible, collectively spooked as everyone was given the Bruins' collapse just two weeks ago (they, too, had been up 3-0 and then lost four games in a row and the series against Philadelphia).

But all is right this morning, the long weekend that inaugurates the beginning of summer commences with the stars in alignment and the sports headlines all trumpeting the Celtics' triumph. Four victories are all that's now required to claim banner # 18.

The Giro D'Italia continues, Ivan Basso now in the pink jersey as the race attempts the last mountain stage, the Passo di Gavia - if, that is, the weather cooperates and snow doesn't fall. Snow plows have allegedly cut swaths through the massive piles and opened the way for the riders. I haven't paid near enough attention to the Giro this year, I'm saving myself for the Tour in July, a Tour once again shrouded by scandal. So much is written about cycling and doping however, that I intend to avoid the topic throughout the rest of the racing season. Lescaret's incipient coverage, the Bonques On Tour postings, will focus on other, more interesting subjects such as food, wine, and the Lantern Rouge.

Finding time for dedicated sports-watching is now complicated by the 2010 World Cup in South Africa, a sporting event of such awesome global proportions that it will be impossible not to be completely swept up the frenzy of that mad spectacle. Occasional dispatches from viewing stations in North America (read, the TV in the living room and the now-and-then ethnic cafe or bar in Boston) will, of course, be necessary.

In literary developments, the Norman Mailer Writers Colony has added blogging to their website, though no entries as yet. The blogs are organized by Fellows, Workshop Attendees, Faculty, Staff, Miscellaneous. I considered the idea of contacting fellow workshop-goers via email or blog postings but then thought again. I don't want first impressions, either others' of me or me of others, to be formed by cyber communications. My preference is to meet people face-to-face and go from there. Perhaps others feel the same way. Or maybe the new blog options on the Colony's site just haven't been discovered yet.

Lastly, happy 50th birthday to a fine photographer, cyclist, epicurean rustique, and all around honest soul, Ben Barnhart. A loud and gustatory dinner party tomorrow at his hillside compound in Conway, MA, champagne on the deck, a table laden with Turkish slow-cooked lamb, grilled whole red snapper stuffed with tropical fruit compote, fried polenta cakes, various salads, breads, cheeses, and numerous bottles of wine including luscious Rombauer chardonnay, a favorite of this crew of celebrants. Huzza!