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Showing posts with the label Spain

Sweet teeth

For the longest time, Abel had just two teeth, and then this week four more broke through the top gum. How long he’ll keep them is anyone’s guess. We trunk-or-treated last night at the school where my brother Stephen teaches, and I was amazed that so many of the teachers tried to give Abel candy. (He’s only ten months old.) Afterward, as we waited in the McDonald’s drive-thru, Samuel told us that children eat McDonald’s at school on their birthdays. I’m skeptical, but it’s within the realm of possibility. (For his upcoming birthday, he’s asked for McDonald’s, chocolate cake with icing, and a piñata.) Daniel ate sweet toast for breakfast today, like most days, and then asked for ice-cream. I held him off fairly comfortably by pointing out that he’d only eaten half of his toast.

Abel’s pediatrician told me that children’ll eat anything until they start eating sugar, and then that’s all they’ll want.

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Karin uses Duolingo (an app, if you didn’t know) to practice Spanish, Welsh, math, chess, and sometimes piano. The sentences for practicing Spanish are like a high school/​Almodóvar melodrama.
No saldré con él si usa ropa anticuada (I won’t go out with him if his clothes are out of date).

Todas mis amigas son lesbianas (all of my woman friends are lesbians).
Some Welsh sentences, translated:
Owen is eating parsnips in the rain.

After the dragon had eaten Owen, it went to Cardiff.
See this compilation. A literature grad student ought to publish a paper about national stereotyping in Duolingo. But isn’t that what the app is for? When, really, will we have occasion to meaningfully use Icelandic or Korean? Isn’t mental tourism the point?

Sexy beast

R.I.P. Terence Stamp, of The Limey (1999). In his honor – more or less – I’m watching another fine movie about aging, expatriated, English gangsters: Jonathan Glazer’s Sexy Beast (2000), starring Ray Winstone and Ben Kingsley (not Terence Stamp). I don’t know why it’s called “Sexy Beast.” This is my third viewing. Once each decade is about right. Winstone is Gal, a genial gangster who has retired with his woman to a villa in Spain. He stretches out beside his pool, drinks his beer, and roasts. Or he potters around the countryside with another retiree and an errand-boy, shooting at rabbits. It’s a good life. There’s the occasional hiccup. A boulder rolls down a hill, almost kills Gal, and wrecks the bottom of his pool. Worse, Don – Kingsley – arrives from England to browbeat Gal into going back for a final robbery. (Gal is a safecracker or some such technician – I don’t quite remember; I haven’t reached the “heist” scene yet; I watch in installments, late at night.) Don is a honey badger. Or a demon. Gal dreams about Satan the night he finds out that Don is coming to Spain. The longest section of the movie shows Gal enduring Don’s relentless abuse. You’d think this would make for lousy viewing, but it doesn’t. Everything about this movie is entertaining. It wouldn’t be so much fun set in a dark den in East London, but this is Spain, specifically the sunlit, garish, hallucinatory, Mediterranean coast: the backdrop for such varied screen oddities as Morvern Callar and Benidorm: where pasty Britons flock to party or lie low or simply turn beet-red. That Gal has opted for the good life is an affront to Don’s frenetic code. It’s amusing that someone as nasty as Don should follow a code; but, does he ever.



Tournament honors

A young man tried to kill Trump but only wounded him slightly. Bystanders were hurt; one was shot dead. The attacker himself was killed. Investigators say his motive remains unclear.

Of course this tragedy is more important than soccer, but I don’t know what else to say about it.

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Congrats to Spain and Argentina for winning their respective tournaments.

Congrats to the Colombians for playing so well. They collapsed in the end. Their semifinal had been the more tiring one, and they’d rested a day less than the Argentinians.

Here is my Copa América “team of the tournament” (with honorable mentions in parentheses):

Martínez, ARG (Vargas, COL);

Nández, URU; Romero, ARG; Martínez, ARG; Mojica, COL (Sánchez, COL; Hincapié, ECU);

Ríos, COL; De Paul, ARG; Caicedo, ECU (Valverde, URU; Koné, CAN; Lerma, COL);

Rodríguez, COL; Martínez, ARG; Díaz, COL (Córdoba, COL; Rondón, VEN).

The Euros’ official “tournament team” is here. I mostly agree: I’d choose Mamardashvili (GEO) over Maignan (FRA), and maybe Carvajal (ESP) over Walker (ENG); and I wish I could make room for Çalhanoglu (TÜR), but not at the expense of any of the tremendous Spaniards.

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I finished reading the First Movement (novels 1–3) of Anthony Powell’s A Dance to the Music of Time. The pace is 20 pp./day, no more than 1 novel/month, for 12 months. Repetitious though much of it is – the narrator has to keep reminding us what his dozens of characters have been up to – its soap-operatic tidal wave swamps the intricacies of E. M. Forster, whose novels I’m also reading.

Sméagol has appeared in LOTR and is, in his way, delightful – a grotesque busybee. He, Sam, and Frodo have reached Mordor’s Black Gate. Two towers flank it. Are these the titular towers? I thought Orthanc was one, and also the Dark Tower. Is the question ever settled?

I finished reading the longest appendix (A).

More results

Copa América quarterfinals

Argentina 1 (4), Ecuador 1 (2). We outplayed the world champions but lost the shootout. Pity.

We almost were knocked out by soccer kindergarteners, one Argentinian journalist complained.

Our coach, Félix Sánchez Bas, a Spaniard, resigned afterward. Rumor has it, his wife and children have been unhappy in Ecuador; they may even have been bullied by fans. I’m very sorry if this is the case. Sánchez is likely to take another job in Qatar.

Brazilians and Uruguayans are scoreless as of this writing. Canada beat Venezuela in another shootout, and Colombia thumped Panama, 5–0, in the Darién Classic.

UK general elections

Labour thumped the Tories. No Tories won seats in Wales.

Euros

Türkiye 2, Austria 1. A good game. Afterward, the Turkish goalscorer, Merih Demiral, was suspended. The Dutch eliminated the Turks today.

Spain 2, Germany 1. A good game. Alas, yellow cards were distributed willy-nilly, and various players were suspended. Spain’s is the only pleasing team left in these Euros.

The French are still tedious to watch, and the English are still putrid. Both teams have reached the semifinal round. Both could reach the final. Wouldn’t that be nice.

I liked what the Mexican commentators said about the English and Dutch fans: For all their color, they’re tepid once the game starts, probably because they’re already soused.

This would explain why the Turks outcheer pretty much everyone during the games.

Leverkusen

Congrats to Leverkusen for securing the club’s first Bundesliga title, in the sixth-to-last round of matches, with a five-zero rout of Bremen. After the fourth and fifth goals the fans stormed the field and had to be shooed back to the stands. My brothers and I are especially pleased for the starting left-back, the esmeraldeño Piero Hincapié. He almost scored what would have been the title-clinching goal, but Bremen’s goalie made a heroic and ultimately pointless save.

Xabi Alonso is the sport’s managerial celebrity du jour. Indeed, this team reminded me of the 2010 Spaniards who, in game after game, would keep opponents pinned back and then eke out a winning goal in the dying minutes (although this match was more like the blowout final of the 2012 Euros).





Bathtime; speech patterns; Orwell, pt. 2

Sick kids today. Right now they’re feeling OK; they’ve been medicated and bathed. Samuel has been granted six more minutes in the tub. I don’t want him to drown, but I don’t want to sit by the tub all that time, either. I’m a busy guy.

Sing to me, I tell him.

(I want him to make noises while I’m out of the room.)

No.

Sing “The Greatest Adventure.”

No.

(Alas, Samuel is no bathtime Pavarotti.)

I keep suggesting songs for him, he keeps saying no, and then it’s time for him to get out of the tub. That’s one way to do it.

Now the boys are chowing down on sandwiches. They wouldn’t eat the chicken noodle soup I cooked earlier tonight.

I usually drain the water out of it, says Karin.

Indeed.

Uh, says Daniel.

He means Ziva. He’s picked up the habit of saying only final syllables (or, in some cases, vowel sounds). If I put him to bed, he’ll say er, meaning pacifier. Suppose he’s talking about planets. He’ll say Nus. I’ll have to use contextual clues to figure out whether he means Venus or Uranus. He knows how to say full words; he’s just awfully casual.

Samuel, on the other hand, distinguishes every word, every syllable, every audible letter, with the utmost care. No “Mairzy Doats” for him.

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More Orwell. I’ve reached his Spanish Civil War essays. Not having read Homage to Catalonia – or any survey of that war – I find myself pretty badly out of my depth as to what all the different parties were trying to achieve. But then, Orwell’s point seems to be that the conflict was largely misunderstood outside of Spain, and that the few who did understand it used it for their own ends, as propaganda.

Interestingly, as the volume’s content becomes more complex and abstract, Orwell’s tone gets angrier. Traveling to Spain and fighting with a haphazardly chosen militia must have been a whole other kettle of fish than going, soused, into the clink for a few hours with burglars and embezzlers.

Europe vs. South America; a new phone for Karin; mischief

I just realized: of all the World Cup winners, Argentina has the second-fewest people; only Uruguay is smaller. Spain boasts more souls than Argentina, and so did the old West Germany – even the West Germany of the 1950s.

Contrary to popular belief, Europe vs. South America isn’t mainly a contest of old vs. new, rich vs. poor, sophisticated vs. naïve, scientific vs. intuitive, central vs. peripheral, networked vs. disconnected, etc. (and not all of those dichotomies correctly describe the two regions, anyway). No, it’s mainly just bigger countries vs. littler ones.

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Daniel has been throwing things into the toilet. He clogged it up for a couple of weeks. We had to hire a plumber.

Last week, he threw Karin’s phone into the toilet. Karin bought a new phone.

Tonight, Karin and the children have been taking selfies and filtering them through TikTok. I’ve never heard Samuel laugh so hard for so long.



One more. No, it isn’t Daniel’s face on Samuel’s t-shirt; the filter gave a new face to Thomas the Tank Engine.


I had no idea a phone could do this sort of thing.

R.I.P. Dick, pt. 2; body-text fonts, pt. 16: Calisto; a Father’s Day joke

The Cornell Chronicle has published the best overview so far of Dick’s life and career. I especially like what it says about Dick’s contribution to the philosophy of science, and I like the reminiscences of Cornell PhDs Koltonski and Jezzi.

I also like the word “reminiscences.”

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The screenshot of this month’s body-text font has been chosen with Dick in mind. The passage is not a quotation from one of Dick’s books or articles. Rather, it showcases his patience. It’s the most self-indulgent footnote in the dissertation I wrote for him, which I set in Calisto.


Dick’s comment: What is tackling?

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Happy Father’s Day.

Quarterfinals 1 and 2 – the best day of the World Cup; December’s poems

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 …

All right, that wasn’t much of a poem, so here is one from The Atlantic: “Ode to Not Watching the World Cup.”

I am not convinced …

Daniel is dedicated; speech and song

What do you get when a writer and director of commercial TV is a trained phonologist (and a person evidently steeped in great literature)? Brilliant YouTube, that’s what.


In Disgrace, Coetzee writes of his protagonist:
He finds … preposterous [the premise]: “Human society has created language in order that we may communicate our thoughts, feelings and intentions to each other.” His own opinion, which he does not air, is that the origins of speech lie in song, and the origins of song in the need to fill out the overlarge and rather empty human soul.
Funny to think that iambic pentameter is what fills out the overlarge and rather empty English soul.

Un mundo inmenso’s newest video, on the Canary Islands, also touches on some distinctly musical speech.


Topography determines phonology which determines usage. (Of necessity, the speakers of this whistle-language use a lot of synonyms. The video explains.) Mindblowing stuff.

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We took Daniel to the front of the church on Sunday and dedicated him to the Lord along with three other infants. He was observed from the pews by four grandparents, two step-grandparents, and two great-grandparents, as well as by his brother, Samuel, who howled and squirmed in Karin’s dad’s arms.

Afterward, my half of the family posed for this photo. (Karin is behind the camara.)


Only two games per day now. I have World Cup withdrawal: twitching, hallucinations, etc. But yesterday I made up for it by streaming France vs. Poland a day late (it was broadcast while we were in church). Mbappé made two golazos. He is so good, but he is such a twerp. He did a couple of ostentatious, pointless backheel touches. He is out-twerping his clubmate, Neymar, who has been injured most of the tournament.

An anniversary outing

Happy wedding anniversary to Karin & me – our sixth. My Aunt Ruth and her husband, my Uncle Tim, visited from Spain; they looked after Daniel and Samuel so that Karin & I could go on a little date. We went to Kroger and Goodwill. Because of the latest COVID surge, we got takeout instead of eating in a restaurant. We would’ve eaten at a park, but today was rainy. We took our food home and ate it in front of our guests and sons.

Uncle Tim liked Samuel’s murals (wall scrawlings). He kept talking about the pictures he saw in them. (Whenever he looks at a Rorschach test, he immediately sees dozens of pictures, I gather.) He wanted to take Samuel’s crayons and draw his own embellishments upon the murals, but we wouldn’t allow him to; Samuel can do with less encouragement.

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I’m reading The Premonition, Michael Lewis’s COVID book, another of his tales of “mavericks” outperforming “experts” by looking at statistics and ignoring red herrings, social pressures, etc. The previous book I read by Lewis, The Fifth Risk, was about how the government keeps disaster at bay. The Premonition, so far, is about how it’s a wonder that the government prevents disaster at all, so unbudgeable is its bureaucracy. If a few brave statisticians didn’t do their statistics in obscurity, on their own time, in defiance of CDC orthodoxy, the country would crumble to pieces. The book has a couple of nice stories about George W. Bush and Barack Obama. In the mid-2000s, Bush read John M. Barry’s history of the flu pandemic of 1918, decided the country needed to prepare for another pandemic, and set wheels turning which generated a containment strategy. Then, in 2009, a swine flu was detected in Mexico, California, and Texas.
What’s the worst case? asked the new president [Obama].

Nineteen eighteen, said Carter [Obama’s lone holdover from Bush’s pandemic containment team].

What happened then? asked Obama.

Thirty percent of the population was infected, and two percent died, said Carter. In the current situation, you’d be looking at two million dead.
Bush was a terrible president, but I’m grateful that he read books.

A far-right political party

Samuel has good and bad days. On Monday, we again tried to use cloth diapers on him. He cried every waking minute, except when held. Today he cheerfully spent hours playing with his toes. I was able to wash the dishes that had been stacking up since the weekend.

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I viewed a couple of Oscar nominees that I missed when I was younger.

Elizabeth wasn’t great.

The Pianist, which I saw yesterday, was much better. It concludes with forty-five minutes of shattering quietness. As in Shine – another movie of music and Holocaust survival – a sort of love, or at least fellow-feeling, blesses the protagonist.

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I also saw Elizabethtown for the first time in over a decade. I realized I’d overlooked that Claire, the Kirsten Dunst character, is, in fact, a spirit sent to coax the protagonist into choosing to live, like the angel Clarence of It’s a Wonderful Life. (I’m not the first to notice this: this guy already has. Not that I agree with him about all the particulars.)

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A northern-hemisphere-style, far-right party has formed in Ecuador. According to El Universo,
Más que por los postulados que defienden, se apasionan por lo que rechazan. Reivindican los valores cristianos, la familia, la vida, la corrección moral, el libre mercado, el porte de armas, la propiedad privada y la hispanidad. Y, con la misma o mayor vehemencia, rechazan cualquier atisbo de izquierda, feminismo, ambientalismo o, lo que llaman, “internacionalismo infantil”, refiriéndose a los Organismos de derechos humanos de la ONU o la OEA.
Which I translate:
They are stirred less by the principles they accept than by what they reject. They affirm Christian values, the family, the sanctity of life, moral fine-tuning, the free market, arms-bearing, private property, and Hispanism. And, with equal or greater vehemence, they reject any hint of the left, of feminism, of environmentalism, or of what they call “infantile internationalism,” referring to such human rights organizations as the United Nations or the Organization of American States.
Their flag is like those of Alabama and Florida in showing a red saltire on a white background. Specifically, it shows the Cross of Burgundy, a Hispanic symbol (Hispanic in the narrow sense of European Spain).

This is an odd development for Ecuador. I suppose one could explain it as an extreme reaction to the “pink” government of the last dozen years, though it strikes me as yet another foreign import totally out of step with the broader national culture (not unlike the extreme free-market emphasis of the Universidad San Francisco de Quito, where many of the pelucones and would-be pelucones study).

It’s odd, yes, but there’ve been similar and more alarming developments in, e.g., Brazil.

The little prince

Netflix has released a sixty-minute documentary, Antoine Griezmann: The Making of a Legend – an appropriate title since its depiction of that player’s World Cup triumph is dishonest.

Recounting Griezmann’s “Man of the Match” performance in the World Cup final, the movie focuses on his successful penalty kick, which gave France a 2–1 lead over Croatia. The movie completely ignores how, earlier in the game, Griezmann fooled the ref into calling a nonexistent foul for him. His ensuing free kick resulted in France’s first goal. (For brief commentary on that “foul,” look here and here.)

Griezmann is a wonderful player to watch. He succeeds because of brains, not strength or speed. Despite not caring about the French team, I rooted for him all through Euro 2016.

But his is no “underdog” story (even if, when he was a youngster, the French scouts overlooked his quality and he had to go learn his trade in Spain). As the movie makes clear, he was given sufficient opportunity. He certainly wasn’t shy to seize it.

The movie shows him weeping after France’s defeat of Belgium in the semifinal. “That’s when I knew we’d be world champions,” he says. “There was one match to go, but I thought, ‘It’s okay, it’s mine.’”

The Belgians comment: “We lost to a team with no real game.”

To which Griezmann replies: “If it came from the other team, I’m pleased. It’s what I want, for our game to get to them, nobody able to find a solution.”

But I was a neutral viewer, and I agree with the Belgians. France had loads of talent but no real game.

In this world, you can win a lot without having any real game. You need a sense of entitlement, which the Belgians lacked against their larger neighbor. That is what Griezmann has in spades.

The first knockout stage

… has been played out.

I just finished watching England defeat Colombia in a penalty shootout. This game had a villain: U.S. referee Mark Geiger. He called a very dubious penalty against Colombia, forfeited his credibility with the players, and was generally incompetent. In fact, he was a jackass. Given his history, he shouldn’t have been assigned to the World Cup in the first place.

With Colombia’s disqualification, one half of the playoff bracket looks utterly dismal. One of these sorry teams will reach the final game:

  • Russia (KO’d Spain in a penalty shootout after playing bunker defense)
  • Croatia (KO’d Denmark in a shootout after an utter snoozefest)
  • Sweden (KO’d Switzerland with a goal from a deflected shot, mercifully ending an utter snoozefest so that extra time wouldn’t have to be played)
  • England (toothless)

So far, all knockout games between two European teams have been deadly dull. We can expect more of the same for the quarterfinal and semifinal games in this half of the bracket.

The other half is much better. These are its surviving teams:

  • France (scored four goals against Argentina)
  • Uruguay (scored twice, and at will, against Portugal – seven minutes after beginning to play, and seven minutes after having been scored upon – and with breathtaking technique; dominated play without possessing the ball)
  • Brazil (broke down Mexican resistance with two well-crafted goals)
  • Belgium (showed attacking prowess by surmounting a two-goal deficit vs. Japan)

Even if France and Belgium should defeat the South Americans in the quarterfinals, we can expect them to give us a rousing semifinal game.

Some links pertaining to the World Cup

It’s the summer’s solstice, but you wouldn’t know it from South Bend’s dark skies and pouring rain.

In Russia, the World Cup has continued its string of bizarre matches.

Colombia was upset after suffering an early red card against Japan.

Poland was upset by Senegal, who scored a wacky second goal.

Spain defeated Iran with another wacky goal.

Argentina was badly upset by Croatia.

I could discuss many more games, in minute detail. But I’ll leave it at this: general weirdness is this World Cup’s main theme.

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The trappings have been more wonderful than the games themselves. The crowds, in national dress, have lent their usual pageantry. The stadiums also have been lovely to behold – even on TV; even the one in Yekaterinburg, which has seats built on high stilts outside the stadium proper. (Yekaterinburg, I learned today, is east of the Urals, which makes this World Cup the second one held in Asia.)

And here is Telemundo’s rousing musical theme for the tournament. It’s played during every commercial break. It builds gradually. At the end, it introduces vocals, sounding very Russian.

A sputtering start

Who will seize control in this World Cup? So far, none of the “powers” has seemed capable. Germany has lost to Mexico; Portugal and Spain have drawn against each other (these teams have shown perhaps the best potential); Argentina and Brazil have drawn against Iceland and Switzerland, respectively. Only France has won – against Australia – but hardly in a convincing fashion.

Russia, the host nation, scored five times against the dismal Saudis without playing especially well. I expect the Russians to qualify for the next round, and then to get knocked out.

Only Uruguay – not a “power,” but still a team to be reckoned with – defeated its opponent, Egypt, in its usual manner. It eked out a 1–0 victory in added time, with a goal by a central defender. Uruguay will be very comfortable in games like those that have occurred so far.

Belgium, England, Colombia, and Poland have yet to play any games. It’s too early to say how they will do.

Trash-talking

The Champions League final will be played in two days.

Vicente del Bosque, who has won the Champions League as the coach of Real Madrid, as well as the World Cup and the Euros as the coach of Spain, believes that Real Madrid will handily defeat Liverpool. He doesn’t think there’s “even one Liverpool player who would improve Madrid, not even [Mohamed] Salah” (the quotation is from this article).

Actually, right now, Salah is better than any of Madrid’s forwards, but del Bosque has an excellent point. Player for player, Real Madrid is overwhelmingly the better team.

Then again, that is why Liverpool employs the “storming” tactic (see two entries ago). It allows a team to have a good chance, head-to-head, against an opponent whose players are more skillful. Already this year, it has allowed Liverpool to thrash Manchester City.

In other news, the legendary Xavi, formerly of Barcelona, offers this amusing analysis of Real Madrid’s defensive midfielder, Casemiro:

“Madrid break apart, seven players attack and Casemiro stays back on his own to cover the centre.”

Pretty impressive, right? Covering the center all alone? Not impressive enough for Xavi:

“He does not dominate space-time.”

Whoa. That’s a tall order. I’m not even sure if I dominate space-time.

I predict that the score will be Real Madrid 3, Liverpool 1. But I want Liverpool to win, and I think that that could very well happen.

There’s a storm coming

The final of the UEFA Champions League will take place in about one week, on Saturday, May 26. Liverpool and Real Madrid are the contestants. Neither came close to winning its respective domestic league this year.

How, then, did these teams manage to do so well against the cream of Europe?

This article by Simon Kuper explains a key tactical concept: “storming,” or relentlessly trying to steal the ball in the other team’s end of the field.

Storming is my preferred way of playing small-field soccer. Imagine playing a full-court press on a basketball court against opponents who aren’t allowed to use their hands. The odds of stealing the ball are good.

On a full-sized field, however, ball carriers have more space, and those who press must sprint farther. Storming is much harder to pull off.

Regular soccer is like stone/paper/scissors. Teams that specialize in keeping possession and passing out from the back are vulnerable against teams that specialize in storming. This is because storming creates turnovers near the goal. But teams that are good at storming suffer more against less skillful teams that settle for “parking the bus” in front of the goal with nine or ten defenders. This is because teams that storm are more vulnerable to counterattacks. They also thrive in chaos, which is what other teams avoid succumbing to when they park the bus.

This explains why F.C. Barcelona, the renowned master of keeping possession and inflicting “death by a thousand cuts,” continues to dominate in the Spanish league. Barcelona and the stormers at Atlético de Madrid both play against less skillful opponents who try to park the bus. Over the course of a lengthy round-robin tournament, this favors Barcelona over Atlético. (Real Madrid isn’t a pure representative of any of these styles. More on R.M. later.)

On the other hand, in the Champions League knockout stages, Barcelona must occasionally get past a storming team without relying on its superior record against other contestants. Barcelona faces much worse odds when it goes head-to-head against such foes. And so it has been knocked out by such stormers as Atlético, two years ago, and Roma, this year.

In its quarterfinal, Liverpool, a storming team, knocked out Manchester City, which likes to do some storming but is more of a possession outfit. Liverpool then outstormed like-minded Roma in the semifinal.

(In the English league standings, however, City left Liverpool in the dust.)

Of the three strategies, “death by a thousand cuts” and “storming” require the most specific personnel. (Just about any team can “park the bus” as long as it has one speedy forward who can retain possession long enough.) In particular, it’s hard for a team to acquire midfielders who are good possession-keepers and good stormers. The mindset required for making sustained charges into the thick of things is the opposite of the mindset for drifting into space, receiving the ball, slowing things down, and making judicious passes.

This is where Real Madrid, with its great wealth, has the advantage over everyone else. It has enough good players to try either strategy. When an opposing team parks the bus, R.M. can inflict the thousand cuts. And when R.M. comes up against a storming team, it can bring in players to switch out of its usual possession mode. Thus, at each new knockout stage, it adapts itself to its opponent.

This ability to match up well against a variety of foes is what allows R.M. to get through knockout tie after knockout tie, year after year, even in a very bad year. Of course, all it takes to be eliminated is one bad matchup. Liverpool isn’t built to win a round-robin league against good possession teams, but it is built to shred even the best opponent on a given night.

If I were coaching Real Madrid against Liverpool, I’d have my defenders simply kick the ball down the field and hope for my skilled attackers to retain possession. And if they couldn’t, I’d switch tactics and park the bus.

Whatever happens, I don’t think this game will offer much by way of midfield sophistication.

Real Madrid vs. Barcelona

The clásico played today in Spain was the best match I’d seen all year – maybe in the last two or three years – in any sport.

A detailed summary is here. It includes videos. They’re all good.

The best video, of course, is the one with Messi’s last-minute goal. The goal is good. The madridistas’ reactions are good. Messi’s celebration is superb.

Take that, Real Madrid.


UPDATE (Monday): Here is a video of the full game.

UPDATE (Tuesday): The video is gone.

Semifinals

In their Quito leg, Independiente del Valle defeat Boca Juniors, 2–1. The Goodness Gracious moment comes at the end of the first half. IDV’s goalkeeper appears to step completely into his own goal, carrying the ball with him. But there is no goal-line technology to denounce him.

The Buenos Aires leg will be played on the 14th.

♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦

Germany’s semifinals, these last ten years:

0–2 vs. Italy, 2006;
3–2 vs. Turkey, 2008;
0–1 vs. Spain, 2010;
1–2 vs. Italy, 2012;
7–1 vs. Brazil, 2014.

Not one drab contest among them.

This year’s semi against the French is, I think, hands-down the best game of these Euros. The Germans play artfully, airily, especially in the first period. But it is “Little Prince” Griezmann who puts in the goals.

♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦

On a tip from Karin (by request of Karin, with Karin), I am watching Holes, a wonderful, strange movie about children forced to dig holes, for their own moral good.

On a tip from Coetzee, I am reading and re-reading “Death Fugue”:
Black milk of daybreak we drink it at evening / we drink it at midday and morning we drink it at night / we drink and we drink / we shovel a grave in the air there you won’t lie too cramped / A man lives in the house he plays with his vipers he writes / he writes when it grows dark to Deutschland your golden hair Marguerite / he writes it and steps out of doors and the stars are all sparkling / he whistles his hounds to come close / he whistles his Jews into rows has them shovel a grave in the ground / he orders us strike up and play for the dance

Black milk of daybreak we drink you at night / we drink you at morning and midday we drink you at evening / we drink and we drink / A man lives in the house he plays with his vipers he writes / he writes when it grows dark to Deutschland your golden hair Margeurite / your ashen hair Shulamith we shovel a grave in the air there you won’t lie too cramped / He shouts jab this earth deeper you lot there you others sing up and play / he grabs for the rod in his belt he swings it his eyes are blue / jab your spades deeper you lot there you others play on for the dancing

Black milk of daybreak we drink you at night / we drink you at midday and morning we drink you at evening / we drink and we drink / a man lives in the house your goldenes Haar Margeurite / your aschenes Haar Shulamith he plays with his vipers / He shouts play death more sweetly Death is a master from Deutschland / he shouts scrape your strings darker you’ll rise then in smoke to the sky / you’ll have a grave then in the clouds there you won’t lie too cramped

Black milk of daybreak we drink you at night / we drink you at midday Death is a master aus Deutschland / we drink you at evening and morning we drink and we drink / this Death is ein Meister aus Deutschland his eye it is blue / he shoots you with shot made of lead shoots you level and true / a man lives in the house your goldenes Haar Margarete / he looses his hounds on us grants us a grave in the air / he plays with his vipers and daydreams / der Tod is ein Meister aus Deutschland / dein goldenes Haar Margarete / dein aschenes Haar Shulamith