Soccer, pt. 2,855

Ever since FIFA created the Puskas Award for the year’s most beautiful goal in 2009, it has been my dream that an own goal would one day win it. And with goals like this, we’re definitely getting closer to that day.
[Brooks Peck]

After the World Cup, life goes on. Stephen and I have been watching the semifinals of the Copa Libertadores. In the South American leagues, the players dribble a lot — unlike the World Cup players, e.g., the Germans, who averaged 1.1 seconds in possession.

Still, it’s fun to watch these unremarkable South Americans: their play is more expressive, more spontaneous. Less scripted. Less like synchronized swimming.

Trouble is, in soccer, spontaneity and improvisation take too long to do; they require too much thinking. It’s a losing strategy. As the sport develops, play will become more clinical, more robotic. There’ll be fewer moments of inspiration.

Like vultures, we’ll have to get our kicks relishing misfortune.

Argentina 0 (4), Holland 0 (2); Germany 1, Argentina 0

The Dutch and the Argentinians were very tidy — so tidy, the ball hardly went near to either goal. But see how bright their colors were.

The final was spectacular: I don’t recall a better one. (I’m too young to remember the final of 1986.) The Argentinians were much less tentative than against the Dutch. Their goal chances were dangerous and well-crafted — better than the Germans’ — though the Germans held the ball better.

In the end, attrition made the difference.

Mario Götze, a late substitute, drifted into empty space, unmarked by Martín Demichelis and the weary Ezequiel Garay (cf. Mourinho’s comments). A pass was floated in to Götze: he chest-trapped, volleyed, scored.

Mediocre earlier in the tournament, he finished as the hero.

Germany 7, Brazil 1, pt. 2

The video:

Germany 7, Brazil 1

It was a curious feeling, knowing that what I was watching was so significant, it’d be remembered for decades by the whole world.

Some people will accuse Germany of ruthlessness. But four of the early goals came during a six-minute period, and that couldn’t have been malicious. The Germans simply were going through their paces. If the Brazilians were too flustered to play basic defense, what ought the Germans to have done? Refrained from shooting?

Since 2011, the Brazilians have looked downright incompetent. They’ve offered nothing to the sport. This year, with home-field clout, they’ve gotten away with it. Until last night.

The world can be grateful to Germany for all those goals.

Because of the goals, there was no chance of another refereeing scandal. There were no bogus penalties, as against Croatia; there was no egregious, overlooked violence, as against Colombia.

Even the announcers, usually so fond of pedigree, turned against Brazil. With this scoreline, there was no sugarcoating this team’s insipidity.

The thing from IKEA

Four underwhelming semifinalists.

This article is correct: this has not been the most interesting World Cup.

♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦

Yesterday, Mary and Mother went to an IKEA near Chicago. They ate the meatballs and came home with this thing:

(Photo by Edoarda)

(It has the same color as our curtains. Mary says this is our “accent” color.)

Mary and I assembled the thing in our living room, and then we wheeled it into the kitchen. We stood and looked at the thing. We wondered what to use it for:

• for holding books (specifically, cookbooks);
• for holding whatever other books I might happen to be carrying around the house;
• for holding Mary’s diabetes supplies (one shelf for her insulin bottles, another for her syringes, etc.);
• for holding Bianca (“We could wheel her around the house,” we said. Bianca grimaced and tried to escape down the stairs, but Mary picked her up and put her on top of the thing. Bianca immediately jumped off and ran away).

Unsure what to do with the thing, we went into the living room and lay on the couches. Bianca played with the packing debris. She was quite contented.

Presently Stephen came into the house and looked at the thing. “You could use it for holding books or medical supplies,” he said. “Or for this.” He picked up Bianca and put her on top of the thing. The cat jumped off and ran away.

Revenge

The group stage has ended, and so has the Round of 16. Last Friday was the first gameless day. I lay on the couch, quivering: an addict going through withdrawal.

Today I’ll cheer for Colombia.

On Sunday I played pickup soccer. As usual, Stephen was there, and so was David, who’s visiting from Texas. We all played on the same team. Our opponents protested — the teams were “unfair,” they said — but we vehemently denied this (David has gotten very fat, and I’m no spring chicken, either). And so, in inhuman heat, we trudged and panted up and down the field. We won nearly all of our seven or eight games (we twice tied and never lost). Our opponents scored just one goal all afternoon. The brothers all scored golazos.

Our parents have arrived from Ecuador. For the next few months they (and David) will live a couple of blocks away from us in a tiny, one-bedroom house.