Swindle On Soccer, Vol. 1: Sputtering To Life

Swindle's Opening Salvo
Good morning, America--and you're so, soooo vulnerable right now, waking early in the morning of what could argubly be called the worst calendar month of sport, June, when the NBA Finals involve two teams no one seems to care about, baseball's not interesting yet (and for some of us, will never get interesting,) and football's still an eon away from reality. You are weak, desperate for passion...and along comes the World Cup to soothe your fears and give you hope again, to convert you into the legion of soccer-mad hooligans that genetically you should be.

Unfortunately, your first couple of dates with this new flame--the hot, cosmopolitan one who's so worldly and elegant--haven't gone as planned. In fact, they've been a bit awkward at times.


You know you need him

Sure, the opening date was nice: Germany-Costa Rica at least featured a boatload of goals, momentum swings despite Germany remaining firmly in control for much of the match, and Ticos team that would not die. If the Germans were the Mexican army in some strange international transposition of the Alamo scenario, Ticos striker Paulo Wanchope played the part of doomed John Wayne, firing in two valiant goals in the face of a stronger, more coordinated, and intimidatingly Wehrmachtish German attack. The Ticos now stand an Alamo's chance of getting out of the bracket, too, while Germany looked aggressive and ready to beat some ass. Which, true to national stereotype, is exactly how Germany should look.

Poland-Ecuador? At least it was a surprise, despite being a relatively uninteresting game across the board. Poland looked discombobulated, which could have been the product of the stunning Polish ladyfans jiggling away in the stands. (Thus far, from cursory scans of the stands, Poland has taken the lead in ass-factor differential, which would be part of World Cup scoring in a perfect world.) Ecuador pulls a stunner while dodging not one but two Polish bullets late in the game in the form of thundering shots off the bar, leaving Ecuador to figure out exactly how to flake out and blow the strategic position they've gained in game one, since that's what mid-size South American teams are born to do. Poland needs to seek solace in the arms of the milkmaids, down some glumki, and regroup for the upcoming match with Germany. Poland vs. Germany...aah, no historical enmity there whatsoever. We're sure it'll be sportsmanlike.


The P in Poland will stand for "pain" in '06

Most troubling of all to this point: the reappearance of the bickering, shambolic excellence that is English soccer in their first game against Paraguay. England's 11 outstanding, ridiculously well-compensated world-beaters filled that form perfectly, dithering around for at least 75 of the match's 92:14 span. The Ostrich, Peter Crouch, fell under the stinkeye of the refs early, earning a yellow card and drawing numerous other penalties while jockeying for position on headers. At 6'7", Peter, you are already guilty of a foul whenever the question arises; don't make it easier by arguing. Beckham sailed a few typically beautiful corner kicks into the box, including the one that turned into the only goal of the game, an own goal off a Paraguayan defender some four minutes into the game.

Beckham and the rest of the team together refused to take over the game, though, piddling away the clock following the initial score. Beckham remains singularly frustrating to the soccer fan: infinitely talented, blessed with a artilleryman's foot capable of smart weapon precision, yet ultimately just an nth of a degree shy of the freaky athletic dominance of a Ronaldo. Ashley Joe Cole seemed to lead the charge himself much of the time, and much of the time he remained just that: alone in his aggression.

In all fairness to England, that's just what most teams resemble playing Paraguay--shit. If the game Brazil plays is the joga bonito, the Paraguayans play what the Germans would call der scheisseballspiel, "the shit game." Strategy centers around keeping the score very, very low and losing by as small a margin as possible, much like Akido transferred to the footy pitch. Paredes played the part of "melodramatic Romance language-speaking dive whore" in the match, spending most of his time writhing on the ground in between fruitless runs into the teeth of the English defense. Paraguay plays a tenacious game, and once informed that putting the ball into the opponent's net advances you to the next round could one day be more than a spiky early-round curiosity. As it stands now, they're just one of the more aggravating games you can watch as a fan.

(Our favorite announcing moment: we think it was Eric Wynalda talking about how the formerly penniless Paredes used to walk miles to practice and use his bus fare for meal money, then letting everyone know that he was dating one of the top models in Paraguay and living the fat life. This fast-forwarded our brains to this afternoon's match with Cote d'Ivoire, where we'd be the entire squad is sleeping in a youth hostel and taking public transportation to the game. This should only serve as a reminder that Cote d'Ivoire is the greatest early stage story of the game, and we hope against all rational hope that they demolish the Night Ranger-loving mullet crew of Argentina this afternoon. Which. Will. Not. Happpen.)