The vagaries of goalkeeping & other football stuff

 I spent much of the morning working on the New Zealand competition entries, before realizing at noon that I needed a break (actually, I needed a brain transplant) and thought  I might make an exception to my hard-and-fast rule of never watching England play to watch England play.
 
While my antipathy towards all things English might have softened from its peak of the immediate post-Brexit times, it hasn’t completely gone away and, in the case of the English football team and its more vocal followers, it might actually have gone up a notch. So, you will understand that had my brain not been suffering from a Dubai-English-related brain freeze, I wouldn’t have done what I did. What I did was sit down and watch England play Denmark.
 
I missed the first minutes, so can’t comment on the traditional booing of foreign anthems, but from about the 3-minute mark, I sat transfixed, incapable of movement, and incapable of believing the dire, mind-numbing, ineptitude I was watching. England looked as if they had been handed a set of 19th Century diving suits to play in and spent the game waddling around the pitch looking for the ocean – or perhaps the odd banana skin. Admittedly, the pitch looked as if it might not have been completely solid, but the Danes managed to deal with bobbles and unevenness well enough, and were not reduced to slipping over as they tried to kick the ball, jumping into spaces where the ball was most definitely not, or passing to an opposing player under no pressure at all. England were shite and got away with one.
 
It didn’t help that the coverage of the game on TSN was its usual abysmal self. The screen was either filled with shots of shaven-headed Ingerlund fans with tattoos with their heads in their hands, shaven-headed Ingerlund fans flexing muscles for the camera, or shaven-headed Ingerlund fans mouthing abuse and sticking two fingers up at their Danish counterparts. The odd Danish fan crept in – and, to be honest, didn’t inspire that much confidence in me either – but at least they seemed to be enjoying the game. And as for the commentary… I’m not exactly sure who was responsible for it – but it was shocking. All about England, nothing about Denmark. I’ve been a big advocate for women commentators – they are much less vociferous than the men and have lower voices that don’t cause errant dogs to run for cover – but the mid-Atlantic Americana adopted by whoever was co-commentating was annoying, and her use of the English language was hilarious. “The England team has a very long bench,” she said, using exactly the wrong adjective to describe depth. And she invented the word “reticenceness” to explain England’s seeming inability to get into Denmark’s half of the pitch.
 
After that, I needed a sleep. The next thing I knew, Ottawacker Jr. was home and looking for food before his evening match. It was the derby against the other Internationals’ team in his division – and it seemed the trash-talking had already begun. Off we drove for the 6.30pm kick off as the traditional storm clouds gathered overhead. The rain mainly held off, which was just as well, because the game offered Ottawacker Jr. his first of no doubt many of his “goalkeeping is unfair” lessons in life. His side already being 2-0 down, the opposition was awarded a penalty. A penalty that Ottawacker Jr. saved brilliantly (diving at full length on his injured side to push the ball out for a throw in). The crowd went wild – and there was a noticeable swagger to the boy’s demeanour. On we go into the second half, the score still 2-0, when a shot comes from outside the box – hit with what can only be described as “powderpuff intensity”. What’s more, it is straight at him. Yet, somehow, he manages to not only misjudge the flight of the ball but to semi-catch it and then throw it into his own net, all in the one move. Oops. The crowd went less wild and Ottawacker Jr. started looking around for a hole into which he could crawl. Poor bugger. Thankfully, he is made of stern-ish stuff, and id didn’t seem to affect him. I’m glad to say he was focusing on that rather than the penalty save, as he came towards me at the end of the game.
 
Still the football wasn’t over for the day. Back home, Ottawacker Jr. got a phone call from Wyatt asking if he would like to come over straight away to watch the Copa America match between Argentina and Canada. We’d planned to watch it together, so I had to give way to the puppy dog eyes and sanction a late bedtime on a school night. Oh well, you’re only young once. As Mrs. Ottawacker drove him over, I started to watch – and almost choked on my Zero-per-cent-alcohol beer. I’d forgotten, you see, that the tournament was being held in the States. And more significantly in Atlanta.
 
“What has that got to do with anything?” I hear you ask. Well, a lot, actually. The game was the tournament opener and so the whole line up of sycophants and suits were there for the opening ceremony and to hobnob with Lionel Messi, including that slap-headed weasel Infantino. After the obnoxious sight of the handshakes, &c., we were treated to the most shocking thing I have ever heard at a football match. There was a bilingual “blessing” on the tournament. “Dear God, we ask you to bless our endeavours here today, blah blah blah, in Jesus’ name”… I, for the second time today, sat there open-mouthed. What in the name of God was going on? Politics and sport might not mix, but religion and sport most definitely do not mix. And what the fuck is FIFA doing sanctioning this? A lot of people might not agree with me, and I’m OK with you being wrong, but ask yourself this. If FIFA has sanctioned a Christian prayer – an Evangelical bible belt prayer, none the less – then how will the Christians feel when in the 2030 World Cup, Saudi Arabia wants to have a Muslim blessing? Or if there is a Hindu blessing before the next India vs. Pakistan match? A completely boneheaded move and one that is absolutely indefensible. I think the Argentinians might all have been of Christian origin, but I can guarantee the Canadians weren’t. And many of the people to whom the FIFA whoremongers are trying to sell their products will have been pissed off at being subjected to the sanctimonious bigotry of the American hosts. I know I was.
 
In the end, Argentina spawned a 2-0 win. They were lucky: it was all down to the length of their bench.