Best managers: De la Fuente (Spain), Scaloni (Argentina).
Best referee: Barton (El Salvador), especially for Türkiye vs. Paraguay …
… and for France vs. Spain.
(The final will be refereed by Vinčić, the Slovenian. I thought him too generous toward Mexico; Argentina will eat him alive.)
Best goal: Kane’s second versus the Democratic Republic of the Congo.
Best games: Türkiye vs. Paraguay; Ecuador vs. Germany; Netherlands vs. Morocco; USA vs. Belgium; Norway vs. Brazil; Mexico vs. England; France vs. Spain; and every knockout contest involving Argentina (may the final be the same).
(b) permitting Messi & Co. to hammer away at the English goal …
for forty minutes;
OR:
(II) Didier Deschamps, for:
having no response for anything that Spain did.
I vote: Deschamps. This is the second time he has “crashed the Ferrari” in the World Cup. (I’m not considering France’s Euro defeats.)
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Deschamps almost “crashed the Ferrari” in the 2018 World Cup final. The Croatians were passing through the French at will, and had scored once. But then the referee gave France a second goal.
Deschamps’s tactics with France always have been simple.
(1) He fields three or four prodigious scorers – even if they don’t maintain possession, defend, etc. He values their scoring so much that he requires little else of them.
(2) He overpopulates the defense. He prefers central midfielders and fullbacks who are defensive specialists. (That is putting it kindly; at times, he seems to prefer that they have offensive limitations.)
(3) He ignores transitional midfield play. He figures that as long as (a) his attackers seize on mistakes and put in goals and (b) his defensive multitudes keep goals out, the middle of the field doesn’t matter.
In short, he gambles on offensive talent, which of course France has in spades.
Well, these tendencies bit him in 2022, against Argentina, and again in this tournament, against Spain. The vaunted attackers weren’t outplayed, exactly. Rather, the opposing midfielders cut off their supply. I had expected that Mbappé, Dembélé, et al. should have enough chances provided them. Everyone expected this. Instead, they were starved. Rodri, Ruiz, and Olmo – great players – bossed the middle. But they were aided by Deschamps’s abdication of that zone.
Halfway through, it was clear that France sorely missed the few polyfunctional midfielders employed during Deschamps’s tenure:
Griezzman, an attacker willing to drop back to defend and to build up play. (Retired.)
Kanté, ball-winner extraordinaire, known also for jump-starting the attack. (Old; languishing on the bench.)
Camavinga. (Left at home.)
(Moussa Sissoko was discarded after featuring in the 2016 Euros; Steven Nzonzi was a bit-player in 2018; Manu Koné, in this World Cup, has been an occasional substitute for the not-fully-fit, defensively-minded Tchouaméni. These are versatile players that, at different times, Deschamps has not preferred to use.)
I said, at the beginning of the tournament, that the French could win any match with just twenty good minutes. Spain granted five. By then, for France, it was too late.
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Spain’s midfield is tactically and technically superb; but so is Argentina’s. And Argentina has grit, grit, grit. Only the Croatians approximate them. This should be a fascinating final. I’ll bet on Argentina; these Spaniards have yet to meet such willful adversaries. But I wouldn’t mind if Spain won. Both these teams are worthy.
I’d hoped to write a long entry about Ecuador’s companions in misery in this World Cup. But, scanning the list, I found just two, maybe three, comparably disappointing teams: Türkiye (eliminated, having lost twice); Uruguay (nearly eliminated, having drawn twice); and Senegal (nearly eliminated, having lost twice). (I fancy Senegal’s chances against Iraq, however; I don’t fancy Uruguay’s against Spain.)
UPDATE: As I type, the South Koreans are losing to the South Africans; if the result holds, they’ll finish third in the group. And if they don’t scrape through in that position, it will be a tremendous disappointment.
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Other teams have been eliminated or soon will be, but none came into the tournament with the expectations of Türkiye, Uruguay, Senegal, or Ecuador (UPDATE: or South Korea). There’ve been no shocking breakthroughs (UPDATE: not unless the South Africans preserve their victory, anyway). But some teams have exceeded expectations on the field, if not in the standings. I tip my hat to the eliminated Panamanians. I tip it to Cape Verde and the Democratic Republic of the Congo, each of which may yet pull through. I tip it to New Zealand (in dire straits) and Iran (in straits slightly less dire).
I might be expected, for graciousness’s sake, to tip my hat to the Curaçaoans. But I won’t unless they acquit themselves against the Ivorians. Ecuador outplayed Curaçao, after all.
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More notes. This is turning out to be a World Cup for top-drawer strikers. Messi, Haaland, and Mbappé have astounded. Vinícius Júnior and CR7 have shown flashes, if less consistently. And the whole Dutch front line looks good.
Less famous but also excellent: Germany’s Deniz Undav; Morocco’sIsmael Saibari.
I couldn’t say the same for any of the defenses, except maybe Argentina’s – which is considered fragile by some pundits. (Nor have the Mexicans and Spanish conceded, but they hardly have been tested.) The best individual defensive performance was by Bosnia & Herzegovina’s captain, Sead Kolašinac, against Canada.
As late as yesterday, it was mathematically possible for Ecuador to win the World Cup without ever scoring. I told my brothers I’d gain pleasure from such an outcome. I don’t think they agreed. Their Internet silence was rather loud.
So, we failed to score against Curaçao, arguably the World Cup’s weakest participant – certainly its smallest. This is no surprise. Scoring is the surprise. Every goal of the last two four-year cycles has seemed miraculous. Enner, our country’s greatest scorer, is not a reliable scorer; he, too, is gripped by the national malaise.
My blood ran cold very early on, after Enner’s first miss. I knew it would be almost impossible to win.
It wasn’t a matter of not creating chances. Enner (and others) had chances.
It wasn’t a deficiency of technique. Enner has technique. And he has noûs. He does brilliantly until the final touch, and then he scuffs, or aims at the wrong side, or shoots too softly.
What of the longer-term perspective? How might the strategists have failed?
It’s not a matter of not having dredged the talent pool for better strikers. I doubt there are better ones. One could always scout farther afield or try out prolific scorers from the domestic league. But … I’ve watched Ecuador a long time. Even our best strikers have had miserable conversion rates with the national team.
We have no automatic scorers. No Ecuadorian believes that scoring for Ecuador is his God-given right.
Ecuadorians can believe in themselves to keep goals out, to win the ball, to pass or dribble around opponents. But tabulation is of another order.
It’s like accumulating riches. Talent, luck, and elbow grease can bring in large sums. But financial dominance requires illegal or legal ruthlessness: cheating, gouging, strongarming, or hoarding. In any case: a tremendous sense of entitlement.
For better or worse – for better, I’d say – an entitled attitude is something very few Ecuadorians have. Especially when they measure themselves, as Ecuadorians, against other nationalities.
It’s a thousand times easier for another smallish and good-willed country – Norway – to produce a goal-gobbler like Erling Haaland. Firstly, because his sort never worries about getting enough to eat. And secondly, because the Norwegians know their ancestors were Vikings. (If you don’t think old history inspires them, well, you need to watch more reels of Norwegian soccer players.)
Not that Haaland is a baddie. But one can understand why he has no trouble accepting that his destiny is to score goals.
Our next game is against Germany. Ecuador must win to advance. We could outplay the Germans. They’ve not impressed, and I do think we’re that good. But will we score?
Tuesday evening, we were without Internet. I couldn’t stream Norway’s first World Cup match since 1998 – Iraq’s first since 1986. Norway won, 4–1.
Then I missed Argentina’s brushing off of Algeria. Messi equaled Miroslav Klose’s scoring record. After his third goal, I relented and tuned in to Fox. The commentators asked how the Argentinians would motivate themselves. They played for Messi’s sake in 2022, they said, but now that Messi has won the World Cup, what will they play for?
It’s for such imbecilities that I avoid tuning in to Fox.
We reprogrammed our TV and, happily, gained offline access to Telemundo before the midnight match. I caught the Austrians’ first World Cup appearance since 1998. I went to sleep before they finished putting the Jordanian debutantes to the sword.
Iraq and Jordan were the first Asian teams to lose. Iran, on the previous night, salvaged a point against New Zealand. Humorists produced this headline: Kiwis Learn How Trump Feels after Stalemate with Iran (or words to that effect).
The French had a glorious second half against Senegal. Along with Argentina, they are the favorites (Spain failed to defeat Cape Verde). The French are frightening. They could win the tournament with just twenty good minutes in each game.
I have kind feelings but few words for: Belgium, Egypt, Saudi Arabia, Uruguay, England, Croatia, Ghana, Panama, Colombia, and Uzbekistan. Their games were entertaining.
Actually, “in the long run we are all dead” is a problem for “longrunism.”)
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The newer Fairfields may be easier to read at small sizes, but the original is more beautiful. Thankfully, the metal-type’s dimensions have been digitized as Fanwood (lighter) and Fanwood Text (darker).
The Fanwoods have no boldface. But they are free to download and use. And lovely. It’s gratifying to come across them in new books.
… is from the first scene of John Marston’s play, The Dutch Courtezan (c. 1604).
⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯
The darke is my delight,
So ’tis the nightingale’s.
My musicke’s in the night,
So is the nightingale’s.
My body is but little,
So is the nightingale’s.
I love to sleep next prickle 🌵
So doth the nightingale.
⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯
Quoted in Anthony Powell, Temporary Kings (the eleventh novel of A Dance to the Music of Time).
When the play is staged, these lines are sung with recorder music for 2 min. 30 sec. (give or take a minute). Don’t listen; the tune’ll take root in your head.
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The new pope, Leo XIV, is a Chicago South Sider and a naturalized citizen of Peru who lived in the north of that country – in Chiclayo. These places are mere stone’s throws from South Bend and Guayaquil. So, Leo and I couldn’t be much closer to each other, provenance-wise. (I actually know people who used to live in Chicagoland and in Chiclayo; but they’re disqualified: they’re Lutherans.)
I’ve read that Leo named himself after the previous leonine pope. Uh, huh. We all know which Leo he really had in mind. Yes. The GOAT. (Who, it turns out, was named for Lionel Richie.)
How are penalty takers selected? Conversion rate can’t be the whole story. Messi and Cristiano, who miss often enough, will always be their teams’ first-choice shooters.
We Ecuadorians are no wiser. We keep sending Enner to the spot. Sheer sentimentality, I suspect. It’s been years since he dispatched cleanly.
Mbappé and Salah missed penalty kicks this afternoon for Madrid and Liverpool. The commentators pretended to be surprised. Why? I’ve seen other horrendous misses by both players; everyone has.
Liverpool’s best taker by far, Mac Allister, was playing brilliantly and had already scored. He wasn’t considered for the penalty.
Salah is a good shooter, but Mac Allister is near-automatic.
I’d’ve assigned Madrid’s kick to Lucas Vázquez, another inspired player (he’d won the foul). He routinely delivers in the clutch. The weedy fellow has won five Champions Leagues, for goodness’s sake.
It’s his utter professionalism – in addition, perhaps, to his seniority and nationality – that earns Vázquez the captaincy when he comes off the bench. (Carvajal is injured.)
Anyway, I wouldn’t let Mbappé, that bundle of nerves, near the spot – not with the game on the line.
Ancelotti is no fool. His specialty is “team chemistry.” Stock me with talent, no matter how egotistical, he says, and I’ll combine the elements so they don’t clash. But his wizardry has limits. Madrid’s vaunted strikers can’t all function at once – not yet, anyway. Mbappé, the newcomer, is dead weight. His confidence has plummeted.
I believe that it was for this reason – or, perhaps, to prevent a tantrum or sulk – that Ancelotti allowed Mbappé to take the penalty. Not to maximize the likelihood of immediate success, but to promote the squad’s long-term success.
Even so, what I saw today, and have seen in many other games, shows that pro sport, so often celebrated for meritocratic purity, is in fact far from pure. If cutthroat Madrid and stats-savvy Liverpool defer to their Big Cheeses in big games, what are the prospects for meritocracy in a nation as a whole?
Thursday, September 7, in Buenos Aires: Argentina 1, Ecuador 0. Free-kick goal by Messi.
Today, in Quito: Ecuador 2, Uruguay 1. Two goals by Félix Torres.
Also of note: Ecuador’s prodigy, Kendry Páez, no. 16, aged 16, played well against and was brutalized by the Uruguayans (I mean, was brutalized physically, not footballistically).
Our goal differential is zero and our point total is zero because we began the tournament with minus-three points. Even so, in these two games, we climbed from last to second-last in the standings. Ante-ante-penultimate’ll be good enough for us to qualify for the World Cup’s intercontinental play-in round. Ante-ante-ante-penultimate’ll be good enough for us to qualify directly for the World Cup.
Why is Ángel Di María starting in the final game of the World Cup? Has the coach gone sentimental?
Yes, Di María missed the final game in 2014, and yes, he has been a great player, but now he’s past his prime … and he was deadweight in the group stage …
This is what viewers probably thought when the match began. I thought it. Then Di María beat his markers and earned a penalty kick. A few minutes later, he scored from a counterattack. He tormented French defenders down Argentina’s left wing all the first half.
Usually, he plays on the right. It was brilliant of Scaloni to put him on the left. Mbappé, the French prodigy on the opposite corner of the field, doesn’t track back. Ever. Because he’s a spoiled brat. That invited Argentina’s right fullback, Molina, to play freely down that sideline (with help from De Paul, who’d drift outward from the middle). With Molina and De Paul covering the right, Argentina had the luxury of putting an extra player on the opposite wing. And so right-winger Di María was placed on the left.
Old man? Yes, but canny and very skillful.
France’s fullback on that side, Kounté, was overwhelmed. Dembélé, his winger, tried to help him, but defending isn’t his strength. It was Dembélé who fouled Di María. Messi converted the penalty. Then the French again lost track of Di María, and he scored on the counter.
Deschamps, the French manager, had to change his personnel. Out went Dembélé; in came a more defensive right-winger. Out went Giroud, the hardworking central forward. A defensively competent left-winger was brought in, and Mbappé, France’s vaca sagrada, was slotted into Giroud’s place. It wasn’t halftime yet, and the French already had demolished and reconfigured their lineup. Deschamps, a World Cup winner – and a former French team captain – was bowing to Mbappé, whose refusal to track back had gotten the team into this mess.
If soccer always rewarded good play, the Argentinians would have ridden out this match they were controlling. But France has a bottomless supply of talent. The substitutes – Kolo Muani, Thuram, and, later, Coman and Camavinga – changed the game. Ten minutes after the latter pair were introduced, Mbappé scored twice. He scored again, in extra time; but by then Messi had added an insurance goal for Argentina. I say “insurance goal,” not “probable winning goal,” because that’s what it always was. France is talented enough to score without playing well, without doing the right things, and that’s what happened. It was Messi’s goal, though, that virtually guaranteed Argentina’s victory, even though it wasn’t the deathblow (“Dibu” Martínez had to make a crucial save). Argentina never was going to lose the penalty shootout.
Deschamps’s conundrum over what to do with Mbappé was evident before the game. ESPN’s pundits discussed it yesterday:
The pundits suggested that Giroud might be sacrificed so that Mbappé could be given a less defensively crucial function. Sure enough, that’s what happened – eventually.
Earlier in the tournament, Brazil had similar problems accommodating Neymar and Vinícius Júnior.
(Hat tip: David.)
I am so, so happy for Messi, for Di María, for the nation of Argentina, for South America. These are longsuffering people. This was the best game of this World Cup, the best World Cup game I’ve seen; and this was the best World Cup I’ve seen. I’m glad the South Americans won; if they hadn’t, it would have meant four more years of wretchedness.
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Update, December 19. Here’s a different analysis according to which it’s not such a tactical disaster for France that Mbappé doesn’t defend.
Argentina’s key to stopping Mbappé was to leave Molina on him and to keep Hernandez, France’s left fullback, from pushing up to cause trouble for Molina. Kounté was unable to drift toward the middle to help the central defenders and midfielders; he had his hands full with Di María. So the middle was relatively unclogged, and Argentina’s midfielders had enough space in which to circulate the ball and retain possession of it. So Hernandez stayed back to defend; he didn’t go up to feed the ball to Mbappé. And, anyway, Mbappé was covered by a dedicated defender (Molina). So, Mbappé hardly touched the ball.
When Kounté did drift toward the middle to help out against Argentina’s midfielders and forwards, Dembélé had to come down to defend that corner of the field, and Di María easily beat him. Di María may be “over the hill,” but he’s still a much craftier attacker than Dembélé is a defender. This is why Di María played on the left in this game instead of on his usual side.
Mbappé’s job is always to capitalize on the other team’s mistakes in France’s attacking third of the field. He’s a glorified goal poacher – just one who begins to operate outside the penalty box. Deschamps likes to start with two goalscorers: Mbappé and Giroud. But when France was overwhelmed in the middle – which doesn’t happen in most games, because the French defensive midfielders are industrious and capable – Deschamps sacrificed the goalscorer with the shorter attacking range (Giroud).
The virtue of this interpretation is that it accounts for why, against Argentina, Hernandez didn’t go up to attack as often as against other teams.
Its shortcoming is that it doesn’t account for why Argentina’s midfielders were so dominant. De Paul, especially, would’ve had less freedom to operate near the right sideline if Mbappé were the sort of player who’d track back.
But Mbappé isn’t that sort of player.
Either way, Deschamps had to decide which sort of striker to use. Since he didn’t expect that his midfielders could work the ball into the box, he sacrificed Giroud, the striker who is less effective outside it. The gamble payed off: Mbappé scored his second goal from a play in which he began to operate from beyond the box.
What it boils down to is that France isn’t the sort of team that tries to control the midfield. It tries to bend without breaking. Then it uses many dedicated attackers – one of whom is a glory hog – to try to capitalize on the other team’s mistakes.
This was how France played in the 2018 World Cup, too.
But yesterday, Argentina’s midfielders were too good. Without attackers who were willing to help defend, France’s midfield was torn to shreds, and its attackers hardly touched the ball.
I can’t but wonder if Deschamps would have bound France to this ugly strategy had Benzema been fit. Benzema is a more collaborative player than Mbappé, and he’s a big enough star to allow a manager to craft a strategy around him instead of around Mbappé. Then again, Deschamps seems never to have been comfortable managing Benzema, a genuinely authoritative player. He’s been more willing to indulge the egotists at his disposal.
Check out my friend Andrew’s YouTube channel, “This Was a Movie”: “An ongoing series of overly-elaborate film essays focusing on peculiar films on the bizarre periphery of film history.”
The channel won’t just review horror movies, Andrew assures me.
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All rightie! This is my list. My First XI are italicized.
Right-sided forwards:Álvarez (Argentina), Saka (England).
Central forwards: Giroud (France), Messi (Argentina).
Yes, I realize I’ve listed thirty players even though a roster is supposed to have just twenty-six. Feel free to draw four of the non-italicized players out of a hat and demote them to “alternate player” status.
Meanwhile, I’d like to add two more alternates: Aboubakar (central forward, Cameroon) and Méndez (defensive midfielder, Ecuador). They were flawless, except that they earned suspensions for accumulating yellow cards; Aboubakar accumulated two in the same match.
Not to be too patriotic, but I really don’t think that anyone apart from Hernandez and Mazraoui was a better left fullback than Estupiñán, even though he only played in three games and his third game was a letdown. (I chalk that performance up to a faulty tactical scheme.)
Besides, he was robbed of a goal.
Most valuable player: Messi.
Best-all-around player: Modrić.
Outstanding young player: Bellingham (England), with 19 years. One could make a case for Gvardiol, who is only 20 (almost 21).
Best managers: Dalić (Croatia) and Regragui (Morocco).
Best referee: On the whole, I was most satisfied with Wilton Sampaio of Brazil. Szymon Marciniak, of Poland, will take charge of the final; he, too, is deserving.
Best goal: There were lots of excellent short-range goals in this tournament. Brazil seemed to specialize in them. But I suppose the best one was Argentina’s third goal against Croatia, scored by Álvarez and assisted by Messi.
Best game: Brazil vs. Croatia (quarterfinal).
Bonus award – best commentator: I watched on Telemundo/Peacock. My favorite commentator was the Uruguayan Sebastián “El Loco” Abreu.
I am in awe of the Croatians. They are BALLERS. I doubt I could think more highly of a soccer team.
Brazil, not so much.
The key contest was between Casemiro and Luka Modrić. (Casemiro is Brazil’s grownup.) Modrić outduelled Casemiro all game long, including during the building up of Croatia’s goal.
Other pundits have highlighted Marcelo Brozović, whose job it was to subtly close off Neymar.
The Brazilian fans sang and danced, and I was like, don’t you understand that your team is getting schooled? That the Croatians are better than the Brazilians with the ball (and, certainly, better without it)? That they are doing what they like to do, which is strenuous and sophisticated: doing it with steel and style: and the Brazilians aren’t?
Great soccer nation or not, these colorful fans are just that: fanatics.
The second quarterfinal, between Argentina and the Netherlands, was made wild by some erratic refereeing, as well as by the Netherlands’s launching long, high passes into the box in a desperate attempt to even the score. It worked; but the Argentinians, who were briefly unsettled, gathered themselves, seized control again, and won the penalty shootout.
Messi is right to complain. The ref hurt Argentina. Even so, the Argentinians used the ref to mess with the Dutch. Their breaches of etiquette – deliberately handling the ball, kicking it into the Dutch bench – were so brazen, the ref didn’t know what to do about them, and the Dutch were put out of sorts. It behooved the Dutch, who were down by two goals, to put the Argentinians out of sorts, and they did, but then the Argentinians made sure the Dutch were put out, too, and the Dutch came out worse.
Two of the day’s goals – one scored by Neymar, the other assisted by Messi – were exquisite. The Dutch worked a stunning free-kick goal.
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This month, the poem is by me.
⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯
Sometimes, it’s hard to be a daddy
He changes diapers all day long
He changes Danny’s
He changes Sammy’s
And, as he does, he sings this song
⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯
Apologies to Tammy Wynette.
I had to change a diaper while Morocco and Spain contested their penalty shootout in the octavos de final. I did a wipe, watched a penalty kick, did a wipe, watched a penalty kick …
As if we needed more scandal, the rumor spread on Twitter that supporters of Qatar bribed several Ecuadorian players to lose the opening match. The rumorer, a British-based Bahraini journalist, has been identified and discredited.
Still, it irks.
Meanwhile, The Guardiantakes pot shots, as it has been doing since Russia and Qatar rather than England and Australia were awarded the hosting rights for the 2018 and 2022 tournaments. The paper now claims that this World Cup is a ruse for the host nation to be glorified through the Argentinian, Brazilian, and French players employed and rested by Paris Saint-Germain. (The club is owned by Qatari investors.) True or not, the criticism is silly. Is it really unfair that PSG should give Messi some days off before the tournament, when other clubs – and entire leagues – could protect their stars if they so chose?
Other criticisms of the host country, and of the social and political evils of global soccer, are more serious. Of these, some are better supported than others. The Guardian’s tally of deaths of foreign workers is especially contentious, yet it is cited without qualification by other mainstream publications, such as The Atlantic.
There is a lot of noise.
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I listened to an analysis by the Anglo-centric YouTube channel Tifo Football that got Ecuador’s tactics and personnel pretty wrong. I’m not saying we’re world-beaters or that we play the prettiest soccer, or even that we’re better than Qatar or Senegal or the Netherlands. But it’d be nice not to be slandered. When we lose possession, we don’t immediately stack our players behind the ball; on the contrary, we fight to quickly regain possession high up the field. And it’s Moisés Caicedo who attacks and Carlos Gruezo who drops back, not vice versa. Anyone who watches knows this. (This mistake would be less irritating if the analyst hadn’t just name-dropped Caicedo – a Premier Leaguer – as if he knew whom he was talking about.)
As regular readers know, this is the time when my thoughts and blogging are pretty well filled up by the World Cup.
Don’t be misled by the brevity of this review: Rumble in the Bronx is as impressive as any movie from 1996. And it’s a big ball of cheese.
The dubbing is horrible.
The dialog and story are phoned-in.
The action is set in New York City … with mountains in the background. I thought the movie might have been shot in Hong Kong, but, actually, it was shot in Vancouver.
Even so …
It’s pretty good. Watching Jackie Chan is like watching Lionel Messi in his prime. Apparently, Chan broke a foot or ankle doing one of his stunts, and then he kept on making the movie with a cast on his leg.
Roger Ebert gives the movie three stars out of four, which is about right if one is comparing it with other movies by Jackie Chan. Comparing it with action movies in general, I’d give it five or six stars out of four.
Opening credits: Chan’s jetplane descends upon NYC. Dramatic sunrise (or is it a sunset?); dramatic music.
Chan has come to visit his uncle, a grocer. As they drive through Manhattan, Chan is awed. Is this where your store is, he asks. No, says his uncle. My store is in the Bronx. Cut to the Bronx, which is almost as wild as the city in Escape from L.A.
It doesn’t take long before a biker gang threatens Chan.
Here is Love Interest No. 1 (Anita Mui).
Here is Love Interest No. 2 (Françoise Yip).
I must say, the movie’s attitude toward women isn’t radically forward-thinking.
There are lots of scenes with fighting and chasing, of course. In the final chasing scene, a hovercraft destroys about half of Vancouver/the Bronx (how this movie got made for just $7.5 million is beyond me). Chan uses an ancient Chinese technique to defeat the hovercraft. Chan isn’t just a great martial artist and stuntman. His character is an immensely likable human being: kind, polite, forgiving. Most harms, in the end, are healed – the main exception being the guy who gets fed into a woodchipper. (It turns out, Fargo didn’t produce the only dismemberment-by-woodchipper scene of 1996.)
Though it’s a very noisy movie, Daniel and Samuel slept through all of it.
… arguably the greatest soccer player. A “great man,” I heard one commentator say. I wouldn’t go that far, but, clearly, very few players have been as naturally gifted as Maradona.
In terms of natural talent, who else is in his class? Puskás? Pelé? Probably. But I know them mostly by reputation. Maradona himself admired Mágico González.
Among those I’ve watched in real time, the two players who stand with Maradona are Ronaldo Nazário de Lima and Lionel Messi. Zinedine Zidane and Ronaldinho Gaúcho, I relegate to the next tier – far, far beneath the others.
It’s also worth mentioning that Romário and N’Golo Kanté have displayed genius in their circumscribed roles. (Kanté works hard, yes, but with an instinctive clarity.)
What, then of such a determinant player as Xavi Hernández – or Johan Cruyff, perhaps the greatest soccer figure of all time (for what he did in management as well as on the field)? They were obsessives, constantly working, constantly scheming to improve. Were they naturally gifted? Surely. But their place on the podium of naturalness is hard to ascertain. The natural ability of Andrés Iniesta is more apparent than that of Xavi. (Iniesta is less conspicuous than Ronaldinho or Zidane, but he might be in their class.)
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Maradona’s other distinction, besides the naturalness of his talent, is the role he played as the “conduit” of his teams’ successes. His teammates floundered badly when he was absent. This was true at the club level and at the 1994 World Cup. The same has happened again and again with Messi. (Cruyff and Xavi also were “conduits” through which play flowed, but, when they left, their teammates were not without recourse.)
Unlike the other forementioned players, Maradona and Messi have inspired cult-like devotion among their teams’ supporters – and in an entire nation. Maradona encouraged this sacrilege; Messi, as far as I can tell, has been indifferent to adulation (though, in other respects, he’s hardly been faultless). In such cases as theirs, talent rather than personality is what has inspired devotion. Fans and teammates will tether themselves even to such a wastrel as Neymar, who is gifted but ultimately rudderless.
One achievement of Maradona’s was that, for nearly two decades, he overcame the idolatry and dependency of his worshipers forcefully enough to deliver the goods.
I feel much better, though I’m still coughing and blowing my nose. Karin and Samuel also have got bad colds. They probably caught the germs from me and then compromised their bodily defenses on Wednesday night.
We were outside in the cold for several hours because little Ziva had escaped through a hole in the screen door.
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It was a desperate time. We searched the yard and then the neighborhood. Then we heard Ziva mewing under our porch. She couldn’t come out the way she’d gone in: either she couldn’t remember how to, or she was obstructed.
We removed several boards nailed to the edge of the porch, only to come up against an even sturdier barrier of wood and concrete. This barrier had a gap in it, however, which Ziva approached. She mewed and looked out at us. We reached in and petted her. We gave her food. But the gap was too small for her to squeeze through.
We decided to tear one of the planks out of the porch floor. But it had been screwed in too tight, and so we had to wait a few more hours until a friend could bring over an electric drill so that we could make a hole large enough for Ziva to fit through. The drilling terrified Ziva.
An hour later, she finally mustered enough courage to climb up onto the porch. By this time it was about 11:00 at night.
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And so, ever since, Samuel and Karin have been sick. It didn’t occur to us to go back inside the house and leave Ziva in her despair – or to put on jackets. At the time, I hardly felt my own illness or the cold.
When a loved one is making desperate little cries, it’s easy to forget about yourself – and other loved ones, I’m sorry to say.
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Last night, then, Karin and Samuel lay around, pretty miserable, as I’d done earlier in the week. I spent the evening web-surfing until I was able to find a video stream of Ecuador’s first qualifier for the Qatar World Cup.
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I remember how, in 2004, Ecuador lost 1–0 to Argentina in a thrilling World Cup qualifier played in Buenos Aires. Hernán Crespo was the goalscorer.
They were two good teams, two mature teams.
Last night’s fixture in the Boca Juniors stadium had the same scoreline but lacked virtuosity and excitement.
Messi scored with a penalty kick and gave a few good passes.
Lautaro Martínez did nothing.
Ecuador’s lone striker, Énner Valencia, was stranded.
Our shining young talent, the left-back Pervis Estupiñán, gave away the penalty.
Alexander Domínguez had to tend goal rather too well for the comfort of the nation.
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Ecuador did improve as the game went on. I hope that, in the coming months, the team will be afforded more practice sessions with its new manager (so far, only two sessions have been held). The other South American teams also have been severely disrupted by the pandemic.
Ecuador will play the next game, against Uruguay, in Quito on Tuesday. Five substitutions will be allowed, which will enable more Uruguayans to come off the field once they’re short of breath.
This article points out what should have been obvious before Griezmann moved for €120 million from Atlético de Madrid. Griezmann is accustomed to playing directly behind another striker. At Barcelona, Messi is the only striker who is permitted to consistently drop behind another striker.
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Tonight, Karin & I celebrated three and a half years of marriage. We went to a burrito restaurant. We silently ate and admired our sleeping baby.
As November winds down, Karin dreads her return to her regular work schedule.
The good news is, I’m improving at giving Samuel the bottle.
Contrary to mystical prognostication, the missing copy of Picnic at Hanging Rock has been found (by Karin).
It’s my jobless week in between the spring semester and the first summer term. This afternoon, I’m in a lounge at Notre Dame, hoping that the strangeness of the locale will stimulate me to write.
I lunched with my dear cousin, Vickie, who’s just finished her bachelor’s work at Notre Dame. The poor thing has lost 20 lbs. during her last semester. I asked if it’s because she’s been eating phở in the cafeteria every day. No, she said, she hasn’t been doing that; she’s lost weight because of stress.
She has some jobs lined up for the next couple of years, but eventually she’ll have to decide whether to go to graduate school.
She said that in one of her sociology honors courses, the professor told the undergraduates that she expected all of them to go to grad school for sociology.
I think that’s the sort of expectation that ill serves humankind.
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The last two days, I got to watch two fantastic Champions League semifinal games.
On Tuesday, Liverpool defeated Barcelona at home by four goals to zero, gaining a decisive 4–3 lead in aggregate goals and canceling out Lionel Messi’s superb performance from the previous game.
And yesterday, the Potato Tots scored three second-half goals in Amsterdam to edge out Ajax on “away” goals. Lucas Moura, the goalscorer, prayed fervidly at the start of the half, and by the time he put in his second goal, it sure looked like he was receiving divine favor.
Still, I felt badly for Ajax: they’d outplayed the Potato Tots in three of the four halves. And I felt badly for Messi, whose teammates had failed to oblige when, in Barcelona’s home game, he’d set them up to score enough goals to put the series to bed.
The final (June 1) will be a ferocious contest. They’re two very gritty teams, Liverpool and the Potato Tots.
The one sad thing is that the Germans were KO’d while wearing their classic green “away” uniforms. I’d waited well over a decade for the Germans to bring back those uniforms. I hope that the color doesn’t fall out of favor with them again.
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The result developed as follows:
Sweden and Mexico weren’t scoring (their game was being played at the same time as Germany vs. South Korea).
Germany and South Korea weren’t scoring.
Up until that point, the Germans were on course to qualify for the second round at Sweden’s expense.
Then, the Swedes scored, leapfrogging the Germans and Mexicans in Group F and obliging the Germans to defeat South Korea.
Then, the Swedes scored again, for insurance, with a penalty kick.
Then, the Mexicans scored against themselves.
The Germans needed just one goal to go ahead of the Mexicans (they still would’ve trailed the Swedes).
The Germans sent all their players, including their goalkeeper, Manuel Neuer, down the field to chase the victory they needed. The Koreans stole the ball from Neuer and launched it into the space he’d vacated. South Korea’s star forward, Son Heung-min, reached the ball first and tapped it in.
This lifted South Korea above Germany in Group F. Germany finished butt-naked last.
The Mexicans wept all over the field, grateful that the Koreans’ defeat of Germany had allowed them to qualify for the next round (in which they surely will be KO’d by Brazil).
The Germans tried hard not to weep, but some of them did.
The Swedes looked about the same as ever.
The Koreans celebrated as if they’d won the World Cup, even though Mexico’s failure to defeat Sweden ensured that they, too, were eliminated.
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At the beginning of the tournament, it was understood that Son Heung-min, who plays for Tottenham Hotspur, would have to leave that club to complete his military service – unless the Korean team performed especially well, in which case he would be granted an exemption.
Well, the Koreans are now disqualified. But they’ve performed a service to their country – and to the globe – by KO’ing the Germans.
I hope that the Korean government recognizes Son’s contribution and lets him off the hook.
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The Germans may have been KO’d, but the Argentinians raised themselves from the dead against Nigeria. Messi scored a wondergoal. Then, when the game had nearly expired, Argentina scored again to stave off elimination. (In the stands, Maradona celebrated both goals very strangely.)
When Argentina shows more grit than Germany, you know there’s something in the water.
I wish everyone a happy Carlos Muñoz Day. In South Bend, it’s seven degrees, Fahrenheit (“feels like −8°,” says the Weather Channel). There’s no way, no way, I’ll leave the house unless it’s to eat in a restaurant.
The Xmas dust has nearly all settled. Karin’s relations don’t practice the “Secret Santa” method of giving; instead, everyone gives to everyone. Karin gave to her little nephew and niece a miniature toilet that sprays water on people’s faces. This gift was hugely successful. In turn, Karin & I received a Crock-Pot, slightly better than the one we already had; a coffee maker, slightly better than what we had; and lots of candy. Karin’s dad gave me a t-shirt that says got philosophy? Karin’s mom gave me a book: Batman and Philosophy: The Dark Knight of the Soul. One of its contributing authors was David’s teacher at Western Michigan University; I’m dismayed that his contribution, “Could Batman Have Been the Joker?,” isn’t listed on his C.V. The last gift from Karin’s mom is yet to be delivered: David Bentley Hart’s translation of the New Testament.
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On Saturday morning, I awoke at 7:00 to watch the Spanish clásico. It was worth the early rising. Messi was brilliant. The two goalkeepers, Navas and ter Stegen, were brilliant. But the game’s best play was by Sergio Busquets, who set up the first goal with a few calm turns and a short pass to Ivan Rakitić deep in Barcelona’s half of the field. As soon as Rakitić touched the ball, I could see that everything would “break” for Barcelona, that Real’s defenders would be drawn out of position and Barcelona would “run the table” and score. It was one of the best goals I’d seen all year.
After the game, some commentators talked about how this clásico lacked luster, how Barcelona and Real Madrid are in dynastic twilight. Nonsense. As long as Messi and Busquets are playing, Barcelona will be a special team.
Casemiro is the world’s MVP of soccer. Let me explain.
When I was in high school, our team gave out two awards: Best-All-Around Player and Most Valuable Player. Following that model, Lionel Messi is the world’s Best-All-Around Player. Casemiro, the workhorse midfielder at Real Madrid, is the world’s Most Valuable Player – the one who contributes the most to his teams’ successes. (Cristiano Ronaldo, who recently won UEFA’s Best Player in Europe award, is Real Madrid’s seventh-most valuable player, after Casemiro, Toni Kroos, Sergio Ramos, Luka Modric, Keylor Navas, and Marcelo.)
But back to Casemiro. On Thursday, along with arch-twerp Neymar, he’ll lead the already-qualified Brazilians against Ecuador. I expect the Ecuadorians to continue their sad tailspin. But I hope and pray for their resurgence.
I’m not sure I’ll be able to watch this game. Sheer dread.
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For the first time in well over a decade, I watched one of my favorite movies: Jodie Foster’s Little Man Tate. I remembered every line. This time, I especially noticed its echoes of Woody Allen – its jazz soundtrack and its casting of Dianne Wiest.
Of course, the movie is winsome because of little Fred (Adam Hann-Byrd). To win viewers over to his side, and to show his genius, the movie employs something like a reverse caricature. It allows Fred to speak with disarming naturalness. Usually, he speaks just one simple sentence at a time; and when he gives longer speeches, his sentences, to borrow a line from Malcolm Gladwell, “come marching out one after another, polished and crisp like soldiers on a parade ground.” Meanwhile, the movie has its other “geniuses” strain their language ever so slightly.
The result is that Fred, by comparison, seems utterly pure – Fred and his good mother, who also uses artless language.
