The Beautiful Game?

I love sports.  I watch them, I play them, I read about them, I talk about them with friends, always trying not to sound too bro-ishly knowledgeable, even though I usually am. ;-)

I've been so conflicted the past several days by the nature of sport.  The meta-narrative that encompasses the global sports marketplace has moved so far beyond the frivolity of stick ball in the cul-de-sac or kids shooting hoops after school. The pick-up soccer of so many kids' youth grows up and fades into a global scheme of underhand deals, machismo, abuse and greed.  Yes, greed is the prime mover, that which compels people who ostensibly love soccer as much as I to become blinded by power and money and to tarnish the joy of the game that started for them on a beat-up patch of grass in their hometown.   

As elated as I am for the start of the World Cup, the chance to cheer on my US National Team and to see Joga Bonito on display, I am well aware of the discontent within the very borders that will host the games. Many Brazilians, though they love futebol, feel hoodwinked by their government or by FIFA and bemoan the lavish spending on football pitches while children go hungry, while infrastructure crumbles. 

Millions will gather to celebrate soccer, and their respective countries.  People from different backgrounds, economic classes, regions will be unified under their flag, unified in their love for the sport.   But then the greed. How many sex slaves and prostitutes will roam the streets of Brazil in these coming weeks forced to work by greedy pimps who know the business opportunity at their doorstep. This teeming, young, largely male mass of people will go looking for something other than football between games, and what abuse, drugs, coercion will have been wrought to make sure they find it.

I love soccer, I hate the global business. I hate the betting syndicates that rig matches, the rich, powerful men in suits who make decisions for their own good rather than the good of the game or the globe.  The opportunistic pimps who take advantage of what should be a celebration and turn it to a nightmare for many women and girls.

And Then There's Qatar

As if the tension in Brazil doesn't cast enough pallor on the Copa Mundial, allegations of tremendous sketchiness abound in Qatar's successful bid to host the 2022 World Cup. The whole effort may topple if the allegations are proven.  The cynic in me feels there is little hope of that happening, but maybe, just maybe I'm wrong. Maybe there is too much evidence stacked against the greedy SOB's who have taken over our game, the beautiful game and made it into a trade-able commodity.   

But in Qatar, the scourge is far greater than bribery, blackmail or whatever else powerful people did to rig the vote.  Qatar has turned into a modern slave-state thanks to the World Cup.  Too many migrant workers have already died in Qatar under terrible, hot, slave-like labor conditions, and there are many stadiums left to build.  One life lost was too many, how many more are greedy construction corporations who are hand in hand with the Qatari government willing to sacrifice?  

Watch this ESPN E60 piece to learn more

So, you see, I'm conflicted, determined to pull good and beauty from the sport and do what I can to fight the greedy, ugly parts.

Go USA.

The Greatest

Happy 70th Birthday to Muhammed Ali.  Here's an excerpt from from a memoir project I've been working on with my Dad.  Interestingly, he's had several encounters with Mr Clay / Ali.


....On one such business trip, my manager and I were traveling in first class and our seats happened to be right behind a very familiar face - the great boxer Muhammad Ali.  I'd always assumed that most celebrities fly first class to be left alone.  However, only a few minutes after we were airborne, "The Greatest" turned around and asked us if we wanted to hear some of his poems - a hilarious question from a guy that was known to everyone!  Here was the former heavyweight champion on his way to recapturing his title and suddenly was kneeling on his seat to face us, reciting his poetry.  He entertained us for a long time with all kinds of other crazy stuff - more poems, predictions of greatness to come, and exactly how he was going to knock out his opponents to regain his heavyweight crown.  Eventually, he moved to the tourist class behind us where he did the same thing for the passengers there. 

Interestingly, this was not my first run-in with the boxer.  A few years earlier, when he was not yet champion and still went by Cassius Clay, I had seen his big bus outside a restaurant/bar in Sacramento.  Naturally, I wanted to see him, and needed to make a visit to the restroom anyway.  Once inside the restaurant, I did not see any sign of him and assumed he had left.  But on the way into the men's room I literally crashed into him as he was leaving.  He was huge and all muscle, and knocked the wind out of me.  He gently apologized for the inadvertent collision and went back to entertaining the bar patrons. 

I was to see Ali one more time, many years past his boxing prime. He had been secretly chosen to be the torch bearer to light the Olympic flame at the Opening Ceremony of the Olympic Games of 1996 in Atlanta.  He stood just thirty feet from our section and my wife, Evelyn and I watched as this now weakened and ill athlete struggled to control his shaking hands to lift the torch that would light the massive Olympic flame.  The occasion was so sad, but also strangely encouraging and undoubtedly unforgettable for the eighty-thousand people there to witness it, along with millions watching around the globe.  

Still Believing? (A Sports Post)

 Hey, remember when I enthusiastically heralded the Klinsmann era, and revealed my not-so-secret crush on the U.S. Men's National Team coach?  It seems so very long ago.  Two losses later, I guess I'm still Krushing on Klinsmann, but with a firm dose of reality.  See, two losses and zero goals later, I'm realizing that no matter what kind of magic Jurgen can conjure he can't make up for the fact that our crop of players just isn't that good.

He was hired for this reason, and for that, I say give him time.  The naysayers will bark about formation, style, personnel, but let's face it, some of the Belgian subs looked more active and threatening than the U.S. starters.  Yes, we have our Donovan (whose impressive goal tally is largely PK's and who probably wouldn't start for a top-tier premiership team), Dempsey (won't dog him because he went to Furman and I like him), Boca and Cherundolo, and big supply of world class goalkeepers.  But the supporting cast just aren't good enough. 


Take the Belgian case.  While the Flemish and Walloons squabble about language and frites, immigrant kids are busy playing pick-up in Brussels parking lots and parks.  And they're the new national team.  Still a young group, and by no means a European powerhouse, but that Belgian team showed players with individual skill that far outmatched most of what I saw from the Americans.  And their team play wasn't too shabby either.  Was it a "dominant" performance, as one writer called it, by the winners?  No.  Was it only a friendly, meaning result is less important that experience? Yes.  

But it's a loss.  And in watching the last two losses, I'm seeing why and how past teams have featured the defend-big and boot it forward method. Because we're just not there yet with the possession, slick passing game.  Trying it with players that make poor first touches or innacurate passes can expose the team much more than the bunker-down, boot it forward method.

At the end of the day, I'm less annoyed with Jurgen, than with America.  Maybe there's a someday when our immigrant kids who grew up kicking the ball around tennis courts and dirt patches will become the next hope.   I think Klinsmann is looking to that day (hence his insistence on playing an outmatched Edgar Castillo), but it does not seem quite here.  With the possible exception of Texas-born Jose Torres.  I've always been a fan, and am excited that Klinsmann sees what he can add. The potential of a Da Silva like playmaker with good skill, hustle, and poofy hair.

But for now, we may have to be patient with the good German, hopeful for a future with better players, kids who are hungry for success.  Who eat, breathe and live the game.   Maybe the recent results are unimportant if Coach he has been just weeding out the no-go's to find the top tier.  And maybe, when that top group all comes together for games that actually mean something, they'll figure out how to score goals.  How to hold a lead.  How to look dominant.  Time will tell.  But in the meantime, perhaps that open International Friendly date in November should be with some small island nation that we can easily trounce.  Just a thought.

Streaking

Yesterday, the 2nd basemen with the awkwardly large upper body had his hit streak snapped at 33 games.  That player, of course, is Dan Uggla who plays for my home team Braves.  It's always nice to have a home-towner getting press from such a streak as his, but I honestly can't say I wanted him to break the great DiMaggio's streak.  I mean, Uggla went into it hitting under .200, his own streak of miserable hitting had earned him the name "StrUggla."   But he turned it around, and raised his average like 30 points and has helped the Braves win, but still be almost out of spittin' distance with the insanely winning Phillies.

Sports, and baseball in particular, is a stats-driven game.  What would it all be without the numbers to tell us who is good and who needs improvement?   How else would we compare athletes from one generation to the next?  For what other purpose would Fox use their over-the-top animation graphics?   Goalkeepers can have a shut-out streaks, a basketball player may make 25 straight free throws, a quarterback can have a streak of completed passes, what kind of streaks to I aim for in my non stats-driven world?   What is the measure of sucess on a day to day basis for Joe Everyman?   What could I do 33 days in a row that would be record-book worthy?

Hm....If I made home-cooked dinner for 33 days straight, that'd be impressive.  If I made a home-cooked, from scratch dinner for 3 days straight that would be a feat.  I'm thinking of the DiMaggios in this realm, the marathoners who feed their families multi-colored plates of goodness every night.  Now that's a streak.   Or what if I had a streak where I responded to all emails within 24 hours for 33 straight days.  It would be unbelievable, SportsCenter worthy, right? 


What would your streak be? What would be a feat for you to do for 33 straight days?

Oh, More Mr. Nice Guy?

Last night while watching the pre and post-game commentary and interviews surrounding the U.S. Men's National Team Friendly against Mexico, I was struck with how NICE Jurgen Klinsmann seems.  The recently hired head coach was utterly positive after a very lackluster first half performance by his new team.  He smiled comfortably, vowing that there was still time to play, saying he was pleased with how things had gone for the first 45.

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Drew Hallowell/Getty Images

(Womanly Aside)

But, oh, that smile.  Here's a little tidbit overheard in the Weaver living room last night before kick-off.  Me: "Ya know, I think I have a little crush on Jurgen Klinsmann."  Jeff:  "Yea, me too."

Hm, okay, well that was easy.  Like Jurgen is easy on the eyes I guess.  I don't know whether it's that aformentioned smile that exudes a coolness and nonplussed confidence, or whether its the physique that leads one to believe he could still keep up with the pros in a pick-up game.  Maybe it's the European tan, the steely eyes or the German accent, now heavily Americanized.

"He looks like my people," I said to Jeff last night.  And maybe that's it, strangely, that his German features are so very similar to my Uncle, Father, Grandfather and so on that they seem comfortable to me.  Not exotic, just ruggedly good looking like my Uncle was at his age.  Add to that his impressive soccer lineage, and my hopes for his impact on my home-country's national program and well, there's magnetism.

The only thing I find slightly worrisome about any of this discussion, however, is that my attractions are now turning from players to coaches.  Lord, am I getting that old?  I remember going to England in 1999 and seeing a post-card of Michael Owen in his England kit and having an instant crush on him.  I bought the postcard, hung it in my college apartment for several months after returning.  Sure, I still think he's great looking, but now I also pine after Klinsmann, Leonardo, Guardiola?  Yea, I'll admit it, I even think Mourinho is attractive.  You younguns can have your Jack Wilshere's and Chicharitos, I apparently am moving on to the old guys.  Sheesh.

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Kinsmann's smiling and positivity before, during and after the game wasn't in pure opposition to his predecessor, it just had added notes of positivity. Perhaps because he had more inflection in his voice than a Speak N Spell, something which Bob Bradley usually lacked.  But my first thought upon hearind Klinsmann during his half-time interview was how much it reminded me of Pia Sundhage, another tanned European U.S. National Team coach.

Commentators seemed often bemused by Sundage's positivity during the Women's World Cup, even in the face of poor play, or frustrating calls.  But by the end of the tournament, we all expected it, and for me personally, quite liked it.  The the key result for Sundhage wasn't to ensure that critics and fans liked her glass-half-full approach, but to ensure that her team responded to it.  And they did, in a World Cup Final kind of way.

So does all this happy-clappy on the sidelines represent a turning-tide in sport from the rough-and-tumble venom-spewing macho-men inciting fear in their players?  Are we past the days of the Woody Hayes', Bear Bryants, by God, the Bo Schembechlers ?  Sure, maybe the gridiron is different, but maybe not. Perhaps even the tough-as-nails ranks of college and professional football are falling prey to the nice guy epidemic.  Are we in for more Tony Dungy mentor-types? More Mark Richt's. Sure, they might yell at you in the locker room, but then they pass you a note with an encouraging bible verse and ask about how your sick grandmother is doing. These guys are positive, kumbah-ya coaches and players like playing for them.

Shiny Happy Players

The Wall Street Journal featured a marginally scientific inquiry into the amount of body contact done by NBA playoff teams as it relate to their success.  Wouldn't you know it that the Dallas Mavericks, the most affectionately touchy team on the court went on to win the big trophy.  Those guys were always hugging, butt-patting, chest bumping and high-fiving.  Clearly, positivity pays.  (Interesting note that one of the ring-leaders in this hug-fest was German star Dirk Nowitski. Maybe we'd all be happier if we ate more brats and drank more beer. Hm.)

I've seen this happy trend on the Braves bench this year, too.  The team is transitioning from future hall-of-fame manager Bobby Cox, one of the planets most fantastically lovable, crotchety old guys to Fredi Gonzalez, a smiley, portly, low-key latino whose first name ends in "i" (seriously? Does he dot it with a heart? ).  And you know what I've noticed this year?  More hugging.  Sure, we loved Bobby's dirt-kicking, spitting, red-faced antics, but maybe Fredi's laid-back style is bringing a new sensibility to even the dirtiest, manliest place on earth - the baseball dugout. 

Wednesday night at the U.S. - Mexico game, there was an awful lot of hugging. Coach on coach hugging. Player on player, coach on player etc.  Klinsmann's first reaction in the post-game interview: "I really had fun." What coach says that? And after a tie no less.  But you could tell he meant every word of it.  That positivity seemed to trickle down to his players, even 11 days in.  I'm pretty sure I saw him tell sub Ricardo Clark (who plays in Germany) to "Mach SpaB" (that means "have fun" in German) as he ran onto the field.  Macht SpaB, eh? Naturlisch.

So, whether or not we are in a new Nice-guy era of sport, U.S. soccer is at least in a slightly upgraded version of that with Herr Kinsmann.  And I'd be happy and proud to find myself in the middle of that hug-fest.  Ja? Bitte?

Instant Replay

Last night's 19 inning marathon of a baseball game between the Braves and the Pirates not only gave baseball fans something to talk about for it's longevity, but gave way to a fresh new debate on the use of replay in baseball.  Fortunately, my team, the Braves, were on the lucky end of the questionable (okay, flat wrong) call, but as a game-decider it is unfortunate it had to come down to one man's split-second decision based on eyes that must have been tired after over 6 hours of calling balls and strikes. 

So what is baseball to do with this quandary.  Always one to hold out in the wake of technology's onslaught, America's game still holds to it's traditions. But when a call can mean a win or a loss, is it worthwhile to use technology?  Before I speculate further on whether baseball should go 21st century, I"ll comment briefly on a few other sports and use of replay.

Football.  The use of instant replay is so annoying in football, particularly the NFL (I can't even think of what the CFB rules are on replay).  That is not to say I don't think it's important, but more that I value my Sunday afternoons too much to have games last for 4 hours because guys in stripes are huddled under dark hoods for 15% of the time.  Maybe, just maybe, replay adds to the suspense of the game, but it also adds on precious minutes to a game that last for hours but where only a small percentage of those hours are actually people playing football.  The challenge system is a decent way to reign in the chaos of having open season on every close call, so for that I'm thankful, but in a game like football, you win some, you lose some, just let  them play.

Soccer.  For being as pitifully (at least according to most American sports fans) low scoring a sport as soccer is, it is inbelievably intense for that same reason.  One goal can make the difference in a game, and often does.  For this reason, I am wholly in favor of using technology for goal-line calls.  That soccer has lagged on this for as many years as it has when similarly goal-scant sports like pro hockey have had it for a while is puzzling.  Perhaps the fear is that using replay would interfere with one of soccer's greatest strengths, it's predictable time-frame.  Games last 2 hours. That's it. Tournament games can have overtimes, but even then, the utilization of penalty kicks still puts a firm end to the contest (different argument for a different day).  Since goals are so scarce, I feel that simply adding goal-line technology would do little to slow the pace or tempo of the game.  Were technology to be expanded in soccer, the next logical tiers would be to add off-side "invisible lines" which could simply buzz a line-judge if he missed a call. That's do-able right?  The second use, which would likely involve replay, would be on corner vs. goal kicks.  Because set pieces can change games, and who kicked a ball out of bounds isn't so much a judgment call (as it would be with say, a trip or a handball), I can see an argument for using technology there.  But in all, I like the flow of soccer without over-teching it, save on goal-line calls.

Tennis.  Love technology in tennis.  Those nifty shot-spots are quick, conclusive and truly can affect match outcomes.  Allotting a certain number of challenges to players means its not a line-call free-for-all, but that at key stages, a player can question the ability of a line-judge standing 8-10 feet from where a 130mph serve hits the court. 

So back to baseball.  As America's game loses traction to college and pro football, both of which have replay, adding some technology could help with fan rapport.  Plus, games are already long, so what's a few extra minutes to ensure a call is right.  From an umpire's perspective, while the use of replay may be a ding to my pride, ultimately it would also take some weight off my shoulders.  Don't you think that 1st base ump who missed the out call, thereby thwarting a kid's no-hitter chance would have liked some back-up?  If last night's umpire knew that replay technology was part of the game, he might not feel so bad this morning. 

I have the utmost respect for officials in every professional sport (Women's World Cup officials not withstanding), and particularly for baseball umpires.  I find it astounding that over more than a century of close calls, those guys have gotten it right about 90% of the time, maybe more.  But they get it wrong a few times, which is why I think I'm in favor of replay for base calls. Balls and strikes, no way, lets keep SOME drama in the game. But because of the importance of runners on base, allow managers challenges, just like in the NFL.

I would only hope that said challenge system would not do away with portly guys over 50 in tight pants waddling out of their respective dugouts to get in the face of umpires.  Because that is a classic part of baseball that no gentleman (or lady ) would want to lose.

What are your thoughts on instant replay / technology in baseball ? 

Almost Famous

I don't know if I should take it as a sign that my musings are missed, or that my friends are just bored, but 2, count 'em, 2 folks commented to me this evening that I hadn't updated the blog in a while. It gave me a fleeting warm fuzzy feeling to know that they cared and were checking in. The fuzzies were quickly overshadowed by a brow-furrowing sadness that my life has become either too busy, or too boring to have anything to write about.

So, I scanned last last October's blogs, and decided we'd get in the 'ol way-back-machine for a few minutes and reminisce about 1 year ago.
I was resting up (it is 6 hours later in France, after all) after a misty, beautiful Friday drive from Nantes to the Normandy region. Perhaps we were in Bayeux, looking into small but brilliant Cathedral nooks like this:

A few hours from now, we would be waking from comfortable slumber (remember, any bed other than our thin, tiny trailer park bed was like heaven). Our day probably started with thick coffee with thick milk and some divine locally baked pastry - enough to fuel us up as we took to the beaches made famous by D-Day. The bright sunshine seemed to fade those ghosts of years past who took those shores like heroes. We just stood and contemplated the placid sea, thinking of those young people, not too different from us, who had been there over 60 years prior. .

But reminscing can only get you so far. Today is today, and while I often miss France desperately, back here at home we have friends, family, and well, a touch of fame to enjoy. Not only has bizarro Jeff Weaver helped pitch his Cardinals to the World Series (eh..see we didn't have October baseball's magic to enjoy last fall), but the REAL Jeff Weaver has a touch of fame as well, along with several of our other pals.

Backstory: Our community group from church did a volunteer project one saturday at Cafe 458. In short, they serve good, dignified meals to Atlanta's homeless community during the week, then raise funds on the weekends by serving good, dignified meals to whoever will pay for them to support the Cafe's mission. We all played wait staff and dish-washers for the day, and really enjoyed ourselves and the folks at Cafe 458. The spirit was captured wonderfully on film by patron (and fellow community-groupie) Michael Shivers. Some brass at Mastercard found these photos on his flickr.com page and bam! Moolah for Michael and 15 minutes for Jeff and some of our friends. Visit Priceless.com (quickly before some new do-gooders steal our thunder).

Coming Soon...."Almost Famous - The Music Addition"

It's Atlanta!

Can you believe it's already 10 years since the '96 Atlanta Olympics?

You probably have some memories of that year. It was a major event in the lives of Atlantans. This was made strikingly clear to me the other day when, in a conversation with Jeff, I jokingly said, ”To Dee City of….Ahtlahnta” in a very Juan Antonio Samaranch accented voice. Jeff is not an Atlanta native, thus he had no idea what I was referencing, as many of you may not. I was imitating that famous early-morning announcement by the IOC President that our city had captured the dream. My school parking lot rang out with honking horns that morning and the city was abuzz for the day, weeks, and years leading up to our chance to welcome the world.

Maybe you didn’t live here, but us Atlantans remember eerily empty rush-hours, United Nations-like representation on Marta trains, the world’s news teams camped out in our city and a corporate “Olympic city” like none the world had seen. It’s like the Fortune100 threw up in downtown, giant chunks of glitzy, neon, Olympic marketing.

Now, I'll admit I was in collusion with this, some would say, uglier side of the Olympic memory. I volunteered at “Nike Park,” a multi-level homage to the goddess herself. The goddess wears expensive tennis shoes and makes lots of money convincing everyone else they should too. I won’t lie to you, my Swoosh summer was exciting: ushering people to one of various interactive stations where they could hop next to a regulation beach volleyball net or line up in track pose next to a cardboard cut-out of…gold-shoes guy…ah yes, Michael Johnson.

I got a neat outfit – a pair of Nike Ked-like sneakers, blue Nike shorts and a couple T-shirts which had “96” and a swoosh emblazoned on them. Rumor has it that in the Olympic memorabilia frenzy one of my co-laborers was offered $500 for the shirt off his back. I said at the time that had it been me I don’t think I’dve sold it. I’m stupid. I also probably thought I'd need that commemorative BellSouth Olympic pin someday. In all, my Nike park experience was a good one. I got to be downtown in the mix, see some celebs and attend the memorable post-bomb re-opening of Centennial Park.

My Nike gig came about as part of my participation in missions organization YWAM's olympic outreach. YWAM worked closely with olympic organizers to provide volunteers at all levels of all ages. So when I wasn’t directing people toward those misting “cooling stations”, I was going to worship services with a thousand other YWAM volunteers, playing hackey-sack and sleeping on a gym floor for 3 weeks with 250 crazy teenagers like me. We shared about 10 showers between us all. To avoid cold water and long waits, I developed a routine of waking up at 4am to shower, then returning to the “comfort” of my spot on the floor for another few hours. I ate lots of peanut butter and jelly that summer.

Its amazing to think that us YWAM kids were just 250 of thousands, tens of thousands of people young and old who flooded our city to work, volunteer, preach, sell stuff, you name it…all to be a part of this global event. We were a community in glorious struggle for 3 hot July weeks. God was very good to us and to our city.

What are some of your recollections or leftover memorabilia from that summer, just 10 summers ago?

Final World Cup Thoughts

7-9-06
I feel rather exhausted at the moment. I’ve just finished mopping up the last of my “breakfast for dinner” scrambled eggs and toast. Sure, I awoke at 7:45 this morning after a late night, sang in two church services, and just a few short hours ago my house bustled with the excited faces of American soccer fans. Those who came into this World Cup adventure swearing that they wouldn’t care, then finding themselves swept up. That made me happy. But I didn’t know I would be so exhausted and sad when it all ended.


As anyone at our little Championship gathering can attest, the Weaver allegiances were unmistakable: A giant blue hydrangea with a hangtag reading “Allez Les Bleus” adorned my front door. My table spread with all things red, white and blue to support… France of course. There was Parisian kitch (from Target no less), blueberries, cherries, and the requisite baguette, butter and camembert. Sadly, the $10 Champagne still rests comfortably on my fridge’s top shelf. There was no need for uncorking or celebration this afternoon.

Sure, I am sad that France lost, but sadder still at the surprising exit of Zinedine Zidane, who had fast become my tournament hero. The 34 year old star returning to the game, as beautiful as ever, exchanging handshakes and hugs with opposing players, rarely feigning fouls (“diving”) during games. His playing is beauty and Zidane seemed to me a class act. Which is why his senseless head-butt to the chest of an opposing player, resulting in his ejection was so frustrating. Even had France won, what a blemish to endure. French papers reported the stunned disappointment of French fans, packed onto the Champs Elysees, unable to relive the glory of ‘98.

I hope they don’t blame “Zizou” for the loss, Italy played outstanding defense and deserved to win. But I’m still sad to say bye to Zidane that way, and equally as unready to say goodbye to this quadrennial funfest of international togetherness. To flag-waving Germans who finally feel safe to rally around their country again. To Ivory Coast players whose World Cup presence halted civil war. To the mediocre American broadcast team on ESPN and ABC who tried their darndest to get all of us ignorant gringos to like soccer. To my lovely, non-sporty mum screaming at the TV and talking footie like she’s been watching it for years. To now-empty pubs, and streets and city-squares that hosted millions of fans of all colors, sizes, economic backgrounds all there together to watch, dream and soak in every moment of one of the globe’s great equalizers: sport.

Thanks for enduring the soccer craze. I’ll get back to restaurant reviews and travelogues soon enough. Allez Les Braves.

Copa Mundial

sorry for your team...(5th of World (FIFA) that is a
big mistake...)

bisous de france

i write you later after we win the world cup
-Matthieu B., in an email to me

As predicted by some of our French friends, the US is down and out of this World Cup, in no small thanks to their inability to create offense. So now my sights turn to the remaining teams. It seems that nearly each country gives me a reason to root for them. Here are some of my favorites (In no particular order)…

Germany – This is an easy one. My people. I am a Wittgens, the child of a German immigrant. Before his family fled the Russian occupation, then emigrated to the US, my dad spent his youth in East(ern) Germany playing fussball in the streets and rooting on Borussia Dortmund. Surely the host nation has my Deutschland heart. I think... They sure looked brilliant against Sweden, I would not be unhappy if they took it all this year.

France – Mon pays deuxieme. You don’t spend 4 months in, amidst, around a country like France and not love it, at least not if you’re Jeff and Katie Weaver. We watched Ligue 1 matches with friends, saw the national rugby team play live, drank Pastis, and trash-talked about soccer. As Matthieu kindly pointed out, our team didn’t live up to the hype, mais franchement...neither have les bleus so far. I still have to root for them though, at least their rouge, blanc et bleu made the 2nd round.

To have France pitted against Spain (Tuesday afternoon) is a difficult quandary. Spain is like my forbidden fruit. The one nation in Europe that most intrigues me, and the only mainland nation where I can speak the native tongue, yet I’ve never been there. I have good friends from Spain and I really love Manchego cheese. But I must raise a glass of Bordeaux rather than Tempranillo for this confrontation.

England – Another of football’s alleged superpowers who have looked less than stellar this tournament. From a pure aesthetic standpoint, the boys in red and white have possibly the best looking team on the pitch, and a charming feature film named after one of their stars. I’ve lived in England for a spell, watched many a Hyde Park pick-up game, and even taken in a Tottenham match at Whiteheart Lane. I know how much pride the English have for their footie. Take it from our favorite ex-pat in London (check out his Blackgate Blog!). I'm sure there will be utter devastation (and lots of drinking) the day England loses.

Speaking of drinking... The keeper on my recreational team is English. He showed up for our game the other night after 5 hrs and even more pints at the pub watching his boys battle. Best part is, he kept an amazing game for us, helping us win. Gotta love the English.



Switzerland – Perhaps Jeff's and my favorite country in Europe. God lives in those mountains (right Michael S.?!). I’ve had some of my most memorable experiences in Switzerland, as has Jeff. The
vistas,
cheeses, chalets, they all seem near heaven to me. I don’t think the Swiss have a yodler's chance to win the Cup (don't know what that means but it's got a nice ring); however, for their next match vs. Ukraine, I'll pick chocolate over borscht. Allez les Suisses.

Brazil – They epitomize the beautiful game. The yellow clad artists show gamesmanship and skill unlike other teams. And their team is favored to win this thing again. The culture of Brazil intrigues me: soccer and samba, carnivale and caparinhas, and on and on. I was a Latin-American studies minor in college, but never visited Brazil or learned Portuguese. I’ve heard that if you visit, you’ll never want to leave. I have friends from Brazil, and friends living in Brazil (more on them later...we hope to visit this fall.) I even have a small Brazilian flag. I need an excuse to wave it some more, so I’ll pick them to move on, probably to the finals.


Australia – The Socceroos have a cute name. Their fans boo like our US fans (all the others’ whistle when their angry). Or maybe their just yelling “kangaROOOO”. (I apologize for those who’ve heard that “joke” already from me.) The Aussie’s have played with such grit and excitement that they’ve probably converted longtime cricket and rugby fans into soccer crazies. Plus, who understands that Australian rules football anyway? I’ve got friends (okay, and an old flame) who’re Oz, and they love their country and will be feverishly rooting on their boys to victory at some ungodly hour in the streets of Sydney. While I love Gelato as much as the next person, I'd love to see Vegemite nation triumph in the upcoming Aussie-Italy clash (Monday).

And a word on Ghana – The Black Stars knocked out my US team. However, as I stood kavetsching with friends about our missed chances, I realized that whatever doom or frustration I've felt is SO far eclipsed by the sheer joy in the entire nation of Ghana, it makes it easier to take. My highschool biology teacher was from Ghana. A friend and co-worker once lived in Ghana. Plus, I'm a sucker for the underdog. All said, I think their next opponent (Brazil) is just too good.


So, there is my culinary, cultural, and virtually un-strategic reasons for picking favorites.

And finally..for a TRUE insider view and wonderful commentary on the world cup proceedings, and Europe in general, visit Andrew and Donna Helms' blog. They're back home stateside now, but their fan-hood and fun euro experiences make great blogging. (I should know, Weaver blog has gone way downhill since we left inspiring France).

So who are you pulling for?

World Cup

Jeff and I just returned from 4 days of vacation at Amelia Island, courtesy of Emory. Jeff actually had to work the mornings, but in the afternoons we were able to do fun things like play tennis, read by the pool and throw frisbee on the beach. (And stroll lovely canopied paths like that pictured at right). Mind you, any of the aforementioned activities required fierce fueling up with electrolytes, or just plain water since the heat and humidity were pretty intense. Oh well, what better place to be in such conditions than by the pool with an ocean breeze (or on a breeze-less tennis court? ...we're crazy like that).

Speaking of tennis...I found that in lieu of reading celebrity gossip magazines by the crowded pool, I preferred to hunker away most mornings in the hotel room, enjoying sports heaven. I tell you, I had French Open finals to watch, and World Cup matches from 9-3 everyday and no other real obligations...my kind of vacation. I'm not like most other girls with this sports fascination, and I'm okay with that. But, so I don't sound like too much of a vacation spoiler, I did sit by the pool and read through one whole celebrity gossip magazine and sip a pink frosty drink while a guy played Jimmy Buffett covers in the background. In my other free time, I preferred to join with the world in watching the greatest game, with rapt attention.

Sadly, our US team's much anticipated opener vs. Czech Republic didn't go as well as I'd hoped. I had a dream last night that we'd gotten the game time wrong so we couldn't get to the pub in time. I had a hard time falling back asleep. I'm pretty excited about this World Cup thing. As exhibit B - Jeff and I skipped work today to join some friends at a pub and watch the match. Despite the loss, I was glad to have done it.

Hey, if we can't live in France anymore...at least we can act like Europeans!


Allez les Bleus (pour mes amis Francais!)
& Go USA.



"Don't blame the sweet and tender hooligan..."