Brazil 1 Chile 1 – Brazil win on penalties
In the Elizabethan ‘Great Chain of Being’, there’s a place for everything and everything is in its place. God rules above all; Kings rule the rest of humanity, having being placed there by God; then it’s the Church, the rest of the nobility, the merchants and finally the peasantry; the lion is the king of the animals, the rose the uppermost of flowers, the oak the highest ranking tree, gold the most worthy of minerals. Had football as we know it today existed back then, the Elizabethans and their Renaissance counterparts may well have had a place for that, too, in their rigid order and if so, would likely have had Brazil at the top. Brazil, football’s artists, aesthetes playing with creativity and joy, merging results with entertainment; or so the myth football likes to tell itself goes. And if Brazil is at the top then Chile are, if not quite part of the peasantry, still well short of the nobility; and thus for Chile to defeat Brazil, even a Brazil without a striker of recognisable and appropriate talent – Fred was poor and Jo, well, Jo was somehow worse, nor anything resembling a more than workmanlike defensive line – that would assuredly disrupt the divinely ordained natural order of things. As it was, Chile put up a damn good fight, conceding the opening goal but capitalising on a horrendous series of Brazilian mistakes; deep in their own left back corner, David Luiz’ lazy and probably illegal throw in – but why bother being pedantic about that, when of all the atrocious foul throws in this World Cup only one has been called, in the Algeria vs Russia game, and if we’re not going to call it why bother having the rule as it is now at all? – was lazily flicked back by Hulk, only David Luiz had inexplicably vacated the space where the ball was aimed at, where he should have been. It was something straight out of the VPL it was that semi-pro. The Chileans swooped and made the most of it, and though Brazil probably had the better of the rest of the game, it was the Chileans who could have pinched it right at the death, but alas the woodwork denied them. The penalty shoot-out was prefaced by a very unusual SBS panel discussion, which happened to have have Zeljko Kalac on board. As the resident goalkeeper, it seemed only fitting to ask Kalac about the strategies a goalkeeper may use in penalty shoot-out situations. Kalac went on to provide a convoluted answer which seemed to start off on one point and then end up at its opposite argument, but I didn’t really give it much of a second thought. But it was on the day after the match, while watching Mark Schwarzer continue to prostitute himself and his reputation for the sake a betting company and more money, because that non-leper infested Hawaiian island isn’t going to purchase itself – portraying himself as a man not only emotionally distant from his (played by actors) friends, but especially as someone who can’t help but keep track of his bets at all times, and a person for whom mobile computing and communications technologies serve only one purpose; someone who can’t even focus on cooking food on a barbecue without wondering about his wagers – that it struck me as so completely obvious. Shouldn’t the roles have been reversed? Kalac is apparently fond of a bit of a punt; Schwarzer has a knack for making clutch saves in penalty shoot-outs. Anyway, the Great Chain of Being manifested itself at the end of the game and Brazil won the shoot-out, preserving for now at least the divine footballing hierarchy, which I suppose is the important thing.
Colombia 2 Uruguay 0
The removal of Luis Suarez could have turned Uruguay from one of the most insular teams of world football to something more outgoing, more expressive, less predictable; in their own eyes, less themselves perhaps, but nevertheless still a version of themselves. Instead they became even more insular, collapsing upon themselves, their ‘us against the world’ mentality on this occasion crippling them rather than energising them, forgetting that perhaps the removal of that one specific supremely talented individual could allow the rest of the team to breathe. Uruguay employed the tactics that worked so well against England – and really, who are England anyway? – and Italy, albeit an Italy that is far less capable that perhaps we would like to admit; an Italy that suffers enormously when compared to its great teams, teams that even recently were filled with talent and came from a strong league and knew how to shape up for the big occasion – but failed. That Uruguay would attempt to employ these tactics against Colombia – admittedly a team in good form, but more or less existing on the same second tier of South American football as Uruguay, one step below the big two, but above the also rans of Peru and Venezuela, and here’s the kicker, the game wasn’t even played at altitude – spoke volumes. Uruguay has a World Cup history that has outshone anything that the Colombians have ever achieved – not only the two World Cup wins in the mundial’s antiquity, but a semi-final appearance just four years ago. To be fair, their tactics were working in this match; working that is until James Rodríguez intervened with two goals: the first, the one that’s already become beloved around the world; the second, the result of almost equally exquisite teamwork. In response Uruguay finally came out of their shells, and even occasionally looked dangerous, but by that point it was too late. A group of reasonably talented individuals petrified by fear – fear of what, it’s hard to pin down at the moment – lost against perhaps an overall lesser team, but one who dared to win the game from the start, and who won’t die wondering.
Costa Rica 1 Greece 1 – Costa Rica win on penalties
Woken up by the old man, and it feels like it must be 2:00am, even though I told him last night not to bother waking me for the early game. To my horror, it is actually close to 6:00am, and thus me and my recently resuscitated patriotism, barely breathing and with a weak pulse, get to the couch in time for the anthems, and I shall always recognise you by the dreadful sword you hold, as the earth with searching vision you survey with spirit bold, and whatever the Costa Rican anthem is, who cares, they didn’t invent everything important 3,000 years ago and then rest on their laurels waiting for the rest of the world to catch up to our greatness, our ancient and undying greatness which, while sullied by austerity measures and copping a goal where the keeper didn’t even move, and ’twas the Greeks of old whose dying, brought to birth our spirit free, at least saw parity restored late, late, late on thanks to eventually taking advantage of the fact that Costa Rica was a man down. And because this game went into extra time, I couldn’t change the channel and be patronised by a bloke who claims in every single episode that because he can cook a four course meal in 30 minutes, that I can, too, because all of us have every spice ever invented at our fingertips, exactly the right bags of the right stuff on hand at that moment at the front of the fridge to make that specific meal, a kitchen the size of a small flat, knife skills that will dazzle one’s guests and not send you or them to the emergency ward and those bloody wooden boards he uses in every single episode because plates are apparently so 1996. No, because Greece could not take advantage of their numerical superiority, I did not get the chance to be told that whatever he was doing was so easy that even a ravin’ idiot could do it, regardless of being a complete and utter unco, as he sprinkled freshly picked herbs from a great height purely for the aesthetic effect, and not bothering at all with who would clean up the mess afterwards. No, because we had to watch Greece throw away their chance at a maiden World Cup quarter finals appearance by losing in a penalty shoot-out, I did not have time to wonder how much it would cost and indeed where I could find a food stylist to make my meals look as good as the ones on this fellow’s show. Now with ancient valour rising, let us hail you, liberty, as I am freed from the ordeal of having to care primarily about the results of this tournament, and can instead now enjoy the spectacle in its own dramatic merits.
