and the question echoes round the world: did he really just BITE that guy?

It's the ugliest squeeze-through since Luis Suarez stuck out a hand and saw Uruguay past a dogged Ghana side in 2010. No, this is uglier, since in that instance the penalty was given, Ghana had their chance and missed converting. Let's say it's the ugliest squeeze-through since Fabio Grosso swerved to take a middlin'-convincing dive across Lucas Neill's leg in the Knockout against Australia in 2006. So you could call this Italy's 8-year-old chickens coming home to roost.

The thing is, this Italy isn't that one. These players are more direct, more attacking, a little (dare I say it?) nobler than those shadow-tricksters of old. As personified by their unflappably regal captain Andrea Pirlo, this new Italy is easier to love, but perhaps easier to beat, as well. Particularly if you have no conscience, as Luis Suarez does not.

You Englishmen already know this: Suarez is a biter. Intrepid Italian defender Chiellini is the third fellow to suffer the Uruguayan striker's toothmarks in his flesh: once in Holland and once in the Premiership Suarez has been punished for making like the vampire on a defender's neck or shoulder. And that's only the guys we know about. Probably in his home-country there are whole legions of young men from his generation walking around with overbite-shaped chunks missing and rueful stories to tell about the day they were assigned to mark this conscienceless free-spirit. Time will tell if Roberto Martinez and Ruud van Nistelrooy are correct in their outraged, post-match assumption that Suarez's action means we've seen the last of him in this tournament. Certainly he slipped it past the match officials at the time. He ought to be ashamed of himself, any normal human would be, but he's not, I guarantee it, because he's Luis Suarez, and a sociopath.

*****

But, in happier news, let's all celebrate Costa Rica's Ticos, the underdogs who go through top of their group. You gotta love 'em, but I worry that they may not have the rugged experience necessary to put paid to Dutch and Teutonic hopes later on.

Speaking of underdogs, who doesn't love Clint Dempsey? stoical, broken-nosed, unstoppable. That Portugal match was a nail-biter, a joy to behold.

I came into this tournament determined not so much that Argentina should win but that Messi should, putting to bed all the "well, if he was as good as Maradona" comparisons for good and all. And so far, so good. That Iranian defense was some kind of beautiful, smooth and capable and untiring, and then, in the last minutes of overtime, Messi steps up with a miracle goal, curving through three layers of red-shirts, beating a keeper who made no mistake. It was an impossible goal, and it's the reason that Messi is the greatest player who ever lived.

Second favorite goal: Tim Cahill for Australia in counter-attack against the Dutch, in full stride, a perfect long-ball from behind, controlling out of mid-air. They may be on the plane home, but they're going out with flair.

Third favorite: Gervinho's hard-fought goal for Ivory Coast in their doomed effort against Colombia, a goal created out of thin air, out of nothing at all, just will-power and determined scrabbling past one defender after another into the box.

After the Italian loss to Costa Rica, I wrote this: "Italy has grown up. If this were 2006, and Costa Rica had the edge on the Azurri, somebody (no doubt Casano, who is unquestionably a cheater and diver and liar) would have gone melodramatically down in the box to equalize on the penalty. Thank you, Italy, for not making us hate you." I'm afraid now that they will go back to their dishonourable ways, as Uruguay have proved yet again, and proving it seems to be the overriding Uruguayan mission in football, that being a cheating sack of shit is indeed profitable in this sad, tired, old world.

The Chilean way of playing: I want to like Chile, I really do. That strike-force up front, with Sanchez and with the formidable Vidal providing chances, they are to be admired, if not exaclty loved. But the strategy seems the same in every game: get a goal or two up, then everyone start falling over clutching various body-parts every time someone looks at you cross-eyed. Come on, Chile. Watch how Costa Rica plays: they get a goal, then they fight for another, not allowing Italy to fall into a rhythm, not by cheating, but by playing well. Honor is not a dirty word, Chile. Man up.

And how about El Tri? Celibacy, or something, is doing the trick. Maybe the best thing that might have happened in that first half were the two blatant Croatian handballs-in-the-area which were not called (one which sent a fast Croatian attack towards goal and which Rafa Marquez had to stop using a foul from behind, drawing a card for himself). Mexico are one of those bulldog sides which do not fold, but use such injustices to super-power their play, much as a Formula One car uses reserve energy from the brakes to super-power a charge down a straightaway. I wish I'd been watching Mexico v Croatia in a local saloon. The joy would have been intoxicating. I even thought for a minute they were going to swipe top spot away from Brazil, and therefore escape the awfulness of facing Holland for a little while. Ah, well.

And let's not forget the name of Guillermo Ochoa. Every World Cup has one superstar goalkeeper, and I think we've found our man for 2014. My own personal runner-up is Buffon, who is not afraid to run all the way up the pitch to do any damn thing he can to see that right is done by his side. But by tournament's end, I fear all that bravery from the early stages will be forgotten. My good hope is that there will be more, in the end, than pale northmen left on the pitch. Is it true that no European side has ever won a World Cup in South America? Good. Some traditions are worth keeping.

Postscript: Did you watch Spain v Australia? No, I think I'm the only one who did, but it was worth seeing. Australia, without their galvanizingly totemic Tim Cahill, failed to shine, but they were up against a reshuffled Spanish side which, frankly, had the old magic back. Instead of Casillas at the back and the Barcelona boys at the heart, this team kept Iniesta for his excruciatingly lovely threaded passes, Alba on the wing and brought Cesc on later to electric effect, but most of the rest were gathered in from various other teams and leagues, and it worked a charm. They played easily and well, with the old, quick but easy triangles, exchanging smooth passes and assists, joking together over readily won goals. (Torres, as usual, shows up shining for the lesser matches after choking in the tough ones.) It was the old "training-ground" charm that Spain always used to show us... and will again. Personally, no offense to St Iker, I love seeing Pepe Reina in goal. He's small but supremely vigilant, and always ran a tight ship at Anfield.

first impressions

BRAZIL v CROATIA: Croatia hit the ground running, all cleats and business, thankfully less brutal than they were in 2006, and a lesser team might have been cowed by the rough determination. Brazil, however, rose lazily from the pitch and moved at an easy canter, sometimes downshifting to an amble, but punctuating it with moments of accelerated agility. The consensus seems to be that they under-shone, but I was struck hard by the sheer confidence they exuded, oozing it from every pore. Even at Croatia's toughest, fastest moment, even though Dani Alves was severely off his game up the flank, there was a palpable air of to-the-manor-born privilege, as if the gods had spoken, the die was cast, and the boys in green and yellow knew for an absolute fact that there was no way they were going down.

GREECE v COLOMBIA: I'm ecstatic to see that Pekerman's Colombian side is still world-class even without Falcao, an ambitious, fast, hard-attacking team. Greece, no surprise, is playing a tough catenaccio, but Colombia slipped one in early, and it was smooth sailing from there. The thing about a team like Greece is that although you know they won't get far, they can do some damage to your guys along the way, and in so doing, change history.

AUSTRALIA v CHILE: And here's another one, another enthusiastically attacking South American side. That first goal was a lovely one, hard-fought, a team goal, but Alexis Sanchez's, too. If Spain keep choking (they won't), Chile will deservedly go through. But here's the thing about Australia: every World Cup they come in as underdogs, certain they won't progress beyond Knockouts, probably not that far. And every World Cup they win me over with their sheer doggedness. These guys WILL NOT FOLD. It doesn't matter how outclassed they seem, or how intimidating the other team is, these guys just never fold. You can't relax, as Chile started to do later on, allowing Tim Cahill one of his smashing headers in, because they will give every ounce to the game. And they have that guy, Leckie, who's one of those Rooney/Ronaldo kind of freight-train attackers: big as a house, strong like an ox, but faster than most little guys. This is one of my favorite matches so far. The best ones are always between two sides you sort of like but for whom you have no passionate feelings, and both sides play well. In those matches you take pleasure in the triumphs but don't suffer the agonies you do when, say, Spain plays Holland.

SPAIN v HOLLAND: Listen to me. This Spanish side has won three major tournaments in a row. Euro 2008, World Cup 2010, Euro 2012. These are good, life-loving guys. There's just no way they can retain the hunger to win a fourth. Plus, it was a very tough year in Spanish football, not just for Barca, who got battered and bruised down to both bone and soul, but for Atletico Madrid, who busted their asses to have the champion season they did, and for Real as well. Saint Iker has played hardly at all the last two seasons in Madrid, and his first World Cup match is against the ravening, mad-dog Dutch? I'm not surprised. But it's not over. I still think Spain will squeak through over Chile... only to face Brazil in the Knockouts. Note to Del Bosque: I don't think Diego Costa is the right fit up front. You need to explore some other options there.

A Word About the New Technology: Yeah, they keep waving the Goal-Line Technology in our faces, showing us all manner of goals that were obvious (but skipping some that were not). It's good we have it, but I'll tell you my favorite new tool: the can of shaving cream the ref carries in his belt. Why didn't anyone think of it before? Year after year, wall after wall inching forward, hoping to catch the ref out, all that's done with, boyo. A single sprayed line which will disintegrate after trampled on with boots. Voila. Argument over.

URUGUAY v COSTA RICA: Wow. You talk about Spain in an upset? At least Holland we all expect to get through to the finals. Costa Rica? Yeah! How about that Joel Campbell, huh? Who doesn't love an underdog story like THIS? Here's Uruguay, a team which has the mighty Three Lions a-flutter in their little boots, a team of huge, muscular men in extraordinarily tight shirts who look like they're going to trounce all over everyone in their path, and Costa Rica creates a magical three-minute golden period just following the half in which they take a beautiful, well-earned, incredible and unshakable lead. With Luis Suarez out injured, and Cavani struggling to connect in a meaningful way with the ball, and Forlan and Lugano possibly too long in the tooth to make the necessary difference, the way may be cleared for Italy and England to shoulder through to the Round of Sixteen together. (Although, to be fair, Forlan had that beautiful, dropping strike from distance in the 45th minute, and a lesser keeper than Navas would have been beaten by it.)

ENGLAND v ITALY: ...because they both played well, didn't they? I only got to watch the first half, but I was proud of both sides. England played more as a unit than I've ever seen them do before. The young kids were fast and brash and convincing, the elder statesmen filled in the holes, took their jobs seriously and didn't grandstand. The announcer (Macca) kept saying how Wayne Rooney was having to drop back and play defensively, which my eye wasn't trained to see, but it explains why we didn't see much of him up front. He did create that lovely goal for Sturridge, though, just at the right moment, in counterattack after the first Italian goal... which was very cleverly created by Pirlo with a feinting walkover. I used to hate Italy (or part of it. Luca Toni, Marco Materazzi, Fabio Grosso. I still don't trust De Rossi), but this is the trickster part of Italy that I love. They also have that lovely trickster way of changing pace quite suddenly: trying to hypnotize with a slow passing game then suddenly accelerating into action. And Buffon's understudy is no slouch, either. What's his name? Sirigu? Having the PSG keeper sitting on your bench gives you a pretty cush operation.

If England is to go through, I think it's up to the Liverpool contingent: Gerrard, Johnson, Sturridge, Henderson. These guys are the ones who will not be cowed by Suarez, if he shows up, which I assume he will. As West Ham is the team that led the '66 Brits to victory, I look to the north to lead these Lions, if not to the Cup itself, at least into the Knockouts, and, if the gods smile upon them, to the Quarters.

IVORY COAST v JAPAN: Again, a team of huge, muscular guys in tight shirts who seem like they ought to be playing more effectively than they are. Yaya Toure is at the top of his game in the Premiership these days, but in the first half here he didn't seem to connect. Then, like magic, in the second half, the totemic figure emerges: Didier Drogba has only to gallop onto the pitch, a roar goes up, and his team pull together and get the two necessary goals. Funny the power one beloved player can have.

on the verge of the cup: last minute news

As my brother puts it, "The bad news is that the Brazilian public transportation workers have gone on strike, so there's no way for fans to get to the stadia. The good news is that there are no stadia to reach."

The Great French Hope is sidelined: Franck Ribery is out of the squad with injury.

Jose Pekerman's Colombia squad, too, loses its greatest shining hope to bad timing and ill luck aimed at Falcao's knee.

Meanwhile, Cristiano Ronaldo has been cursed by a Ghanian witch-doctor. We should have some of those in America.

And, while the Yanks will have access to the supermodels in the hot-tub, the Mexican side will be channelling that sexual energy into the game.

Finally, in longer-term news, Sepp Blatter dreams of interplanetary tournaments, but anyone who's read the John Carter of Mars books knows that the ball will behave differently there.

cesc may be blue

Ah, Cesc. I felt it coming, your move; I dreaded it as one does a pending tsunami, whose force is already set in motion, and all one can do is brace and survive it. It seemed apparent to me that you would never go back to Arsenal (because a player of your magnitude moves only forward), so I hoped you would avoid the Premiership. I was thinking maybe Italy, where your darker instincts would be laughingly welcomed by friends and shrugged off by opponents well-versed in the shadowy arts of fregatura.

But back to England it is. Not in red, but in blue. The dreaded Chelsea, that cold mechanism trained to snuffle out any hint of humanity and crush it between jagged, steel jaws, ruled with the iron fist (occasionally, but only occasionally, blunted by velvet glove) of the Special One. It doesn't look like a match made in heaven. I can't imagine Jose having an interest in you (except as, say, the hamburger-chef is interested in the cow which he will grind into unhealthy food for the masses).

Let me warn you about a few things. First of all, a good half of London will begin by hating you. All those Gooners who once loved you, for a start, stripping those old Fabregas posters off the bedsit walls, watching you from beneath surly brows as if they can smell the thirty guilty silvers jangling in your newly blue pockets. There's no hatred like one which began as true love. And then the Chelsea fans will be both slow to trust you and quick to kick you to the kerb. (It is not their fault; they are so inculcated from birth as part of their training in the brumal and the love of the ruthless.) You think this will be alright, because you are so long acclimatized to the ways of fame and the fickleness of your public, but I believe it will be harder than you think, because your heart, beautifully, has not yet calcified.

And then there will be Jose.

When you first arrive, he will give you a look of such withering contempt, somehow suggesting also a depth of discernment, that it will freeze the blood in your Spanish veins and drain secret residues of joy from your spirit. This is a look he will repeat, alternated with sudden and inexplicable smiles of approval, complete with sparkling eyes. These smiles at first will be seldom and seemingly random, later to be obviously linked to specifically desired behaviours. A successful dive, for instance, or a drama-queen hissy fit which browbeats a cowed ref into submission, or a professional foul, the more thuggish the better, as long as it works. Anything, in short, that comes from the Arjen Robben playbook will inspire the good will of your new boss. This is how he will try and destroy you, for your own good, he will say, to recreate you in the image of the uber-strong, trickster-clever, utterly ruthless player which is his continuing ideal. (For a good, strong lesson in effective psychological terrorism the likes of which he will use on you, see the Brad Pitt movie the Assassination of Jesse James by the Coward Robert Ford.)

He will begin once you are disheartened to the point of despair, disheartened by the rejection from your previously loving home, by the difficulty of the move from sultry Spain to methodical, chilly England. He will whisper into your ear that the People are not to be trusted, that they will never again love you. He will imply, without coming out and saying it, that you are, in fact, unlovable, and that the only possible source of the approval you crave is himself. Let me put it another way: he will coax you into a metaphorical cage and poke you with metaphorical sharp sticks, first starving you then feeding you solely on metaphorical slabs of raw liver torn from the torsos of Spanish players like yourself until you have become the red-eyed, snarling yard-dog he's looking for in a player. In short, Arjen Robben, only in the midfield.

He will speak softly of Macchiavelli, expound on the undeniable charms of Cesare Borgia, another handsome and accomplished Spaniard like yourself. He will give you Il Principe to read, point to the page where it says it is better to rule through fear than through love. But bear in mind how Cesare ended: quickly, precipitously, from the heights of a seemingly impregnable political and military power, because it was built (albeit through his own admirable military and political skills) on the foundation of his father's power. When his father fell, suddenly, probably poisoned by his enemies, Cesare's massive fortress collapsed overnight. Barely escaping imprisonment and execution, he died fighting as a lowly mercenary for the King of Navarre, the rough equivalent of you going to play for the Seattle Sounders. Point is, Mourinho will grow bored and petulant (what is it with those Portuguese and the petulance?) and leave Chelsea and England behind him to go boss around some Germans instead, and you will be left to rebuild your career without him. If you let him recreate you in the image of his own undead fantasy, there will be no returning to a life of playing with heart, with soul, as we've watched you do so often, seen you do so recently, and expect to see again as you play amongst your fellow Rojos in Brazil.

My fear is based in this: although we all see the beauty and heart in the way you play, we can see the shadow there, too. You have your own fondness for fregatura, for diving and histrionics, for drawing the foul. I believe you secretly admire the Hand of God goal which goes undetected, the callous, Teutonic dogma of crushing the enemy by any means possible, ethics and rules be damned. Mourinho will try and draw this part of you forward, try and amplify it, until you are among those steel-hearted storm-troopers who laugh at that one noble concept which raises football above other mere sports, the concept of Beautiful Play.

Be careful. Keep your heart intact. Don't forget that the soul of the game is in its beauty, in the warm laughter and group embrace which follow a gorgeous team goal, and that the soul of the game, its anima, is more important than any single match, than any one man's career. It's more important than anything.

this is the man who should manage barca

"The duende, then, is a power, not a work. It is a struggle, not a thought. I have heard an old maestro of the guitar say, 'The duende is not in the throat; the duende climbs up inside you, from the soles of the feet.' Meaning this: it is not a question of ability, but of true, living style, of blood, of the most ancient culture, of spontaneous creation."

"The bullfigher who terrifies the public with his bravado is not fighting bulls, but has lowered himself to a ridiculous level, to doing what anyone can do, by playing with his life: but the torero bitten by duende gives a lesson in Pythagorean music and makes us forget that he is constantly throwing his heart at the horns."

-- Federico Garcia Lorca, "Play and Theory of the Duende"

***********

When the Spanish poet Lorca tries to define the dark and numinous concept of "duende", he can do it only in cascading imagery, because there is no direct translation. It is a power which emerges not from training, not from skills and savvy, but drags right up from the blood and the marrow of the bones. It is true in any art form: you can play well, even brilliantly, without the duende, but once you've seen a great player under its influence, all else seems mere shadow-play.

With the new shock of Tito Vilanova's death comes a flood of memories, some no doubt romanticized, but there it is, that yearning for the Old Ways at the Camp Nou, for the wonderworks of the olden times. Somewhere, on the Guardian, I think, someone was giving Tata Martino credit for having settled Barca's ethereal feet onto the ground, given them a more streetwise, if less breathtaking, mode of play. At the time, in the wake of our trouncing at Munich, I took some comfort in it. And, indeed, I wonder if Martino's entire approach has been dictated by that devastating Champions League tie: as if, since the Germans were able to re-invent themselves by incorporating a more Spanish style, then he ought to Teuton-ize his Spaniards in response. I think he was trying to give them a sort of gravitas which the lightness and delicacy of their style has always resisted, a solidity they had previously managed to dance playfully around. It was a decent thought, but instead of strengthening the side, it has rather played against their greatest power, that playfulness itself.

Recently, after having watched February's match against Rayo Vallecano, a game in which the old fascination re-emerged, that old Catalan tiki-taka glee, the flaws in Martino's long-range game-plan were painfully apparent. The tired virtuosos were suddenly reborn, like kids released at last to the playground after a long and gruelling spell indoors, mischievously shrugging off their instructions as they interacted with a joy and fluid ingenuity I had not witnessed in some time, had almost, indeed, forgotten, although it was once so frequent a presence as to have seemed a twelfth squad-member whenever they stepped onto a pitch.

***********

There is a certain pleasing concinnity inherent in the notion of a holding midfielder excelling in management, something to do with his having spent his playing years with one eye on defense while the other was scanning for space in which to place an opportune pass. Roberto Martinez played as such, briefly with Zaragoza and Balaguer, his home port in Catalonia, then on to England and Wigan, where his stay was longer and more fruitful. He transferred to Motherwell in Scotland for a season, where he made only eight appearances but met his future wife. Then it was on to Walsall, where (according to Wikipedia) he only started once, a home match against Reading, during which he was sent off. Later he found some stability at Swansea City, which is also where he began his managerial career at an earlier age than most.

Despite having spent so little time professionally in Spain, anyone who has heard him speak during a Barca match can sense his deep respect for the club and its tradition, and a full appreciation for its mode of play, the beauty of the constant, delicate movement. He has, in short, the necessary poetry in his soul to coax forth that thaumaturgy which is not lacking, merely dormant, in that small gathering of Catalan magicians.

Martinez has proved himself in the Premiership a capable manager, both at Wigan and at Everton, although "capable" is far too stodgy, too earthbound a word to do him justice. Alongside the necessary pragmatism, he also owns the fortitude, vision, and trickster capacity to guide a hardscrabble outfit like Wigan to the FA Cup trophy even as they headed, probably inevitably, towards relegation. Barca is facing a hard time: the sobering loss of that irreplaceable duo Valdes and Puyol, the claustrophobia of the just-postponed, but still looming, transfer ban, and probably the first season without a trophy since Frank Rijkaard was in charge. Although I dislike the alacrity with which footballing managers are sacked without ceremony these days, I think Martino is not our man. Another change is in order. We thank him for filling in, and wish him well on his journey back to Argentina.

Instead, we look again to the Spanish mysteries. "The arrival of the duende," Lorca says, "presupposes a radical change to all the old kinds of form, brings totally unknown and fresh sensations, with the qualities of a newly created rose, miraculous, generating an almost religious enthusiasm." Martinez, more than any other manager, seems intimately connected with these old numinous magicks, able to communicate them to his jugadores, inspiring them to moments of crafty greatness which perhaps surprise even themselves.

I believe he is the man to ignite another Renaissance in Barcelona, and if we can lure him away from Everton without, for God's sake, breaking any laws, we ought to put our backs into it.

world cup draw: group d (well, half of it, anyway)

Uruguay: Luis Suarez, the Mad Dog of Liverpool, he of the impeccable flash and conscienceless charisma, strikes fear into the hearts of all Englishmen, and on June 14th, it will be Suarez v. the Three Lions at the Arena Amazonia in Manaus. That said, he is not the kind of player who can win alone (few are), and there is some creakage at the back amongst the (albeit very tall and experienced) defense, as evidenced in this week's 1-1 draw with Austria. The goalkeeper, Fernando Muslera, however, currently at Galatasaray, is indisputably formidable. In the 2010 quarterfinal penalty shootout against Ghana, Muslera jumped in the correct direction EVERY TIME. He will be up, of course, against two of the best keepers in the world (Buffon and Hart) in this round, but can absolutely hold his own.

Diego Forlan, 2010's Unstoppable Force of Nature, will be back but surely is old enough that he cannot run the whole shebang like he did four years ago. (Can he? He'll be 35 by then.) That said, Edinson Cavani, the PSG striker up front opposite Suarez, ought to give pause to any footballer with the temerity to disrespect Suarez.

If the relative lack of experience in the midfield and the possible age factor at the back don't hinder this unabashed team of superheroes up front, everything might be coming up La Celeste.

Italy: Never a side to be ruled out lightly, always a contender, they've still got Gianluigi Buffon, still one of the best keepers in the world, at the back. This week brings the news (worth the raise of an eyebrow, but certainly not an audible intake of breath) the old veteran holding midfielder Daniele de Rossi has earned himself a three-game ban at Roma for punching ("deliberately punching", read the headline I saw. Was anyone even considering it might have been an accident?) Inter forward Mauro Icardi. He was left out of the Italian squad for this week's friendly against Spain (Spain wins, 1-nil), and will no doubt recur, but it brings up shades of the 2006 red card, for bloodying Yank Brian McBride's face with the full force of his Italian elbow.

The Dynamic Attacking Duo of the unpredictable Balotelli and Fiorentina's (born in New Jersey!) Giuseppe Rossi may be Italy's best hope for goals, and, providing the opportunities, the always-magnificent albeit 34-year-old Andrea Pirlo. But the question on eveyone's mind is: which Italy will show up? the World Conquerors, or the world-weary, blase, and slightly hungover?

world cup draw: group e

Honduras: Josh Voorhees on the SLATE website wrote a piece aiming to let down gently any American fans still holding out hopes of reaching the Knockouts by saying, “If you look around your group and you don’t see a Honduras, then you’re the Honduras.”

Which brings us in an oblique but tidy fashion to the Honduras team. Most readily memorable in footballing circles for the 1969 “Football War” it fought against El Salvador following violent qualifying matches for Mexico ’70, the country’s shining star this year is Roger Espinoza, a strong defensive midfielder who grew up in Denver, went to college in Ohio, started his professional career at Kansas City, and was summoned by the magical Roberto Martinez to Wigan, where he played all 90 minutes of the glorious FA Cup triumph against Man City in 2013. Espinoza led Los Catrachos into the Quarterfinals of the 2012 London Olympics, performing well against major teams (Brazil and Spain).

Currently ranked 41st in the world in a group of sides all else in the top 25, Honduras will bear aloft the underdog flag for Group E.

Interesting side note: did you ever see the Alex Cox movie “Walker” with Ed Harris? Odd movie (well, it’s Alex Cox, so, yeah) about a true moment in history when crazy visionary gringo William Walker invaded Nicaragua and proclaimed himself ruler. All of Central America banded together to oust him (successfully, obviously), and the generals of the Honduras contingent were at that time led by two brothers, the Xatruch brothers. It is their surname which was the origin of the nickname “Catrachos”, which now refers to all citizens of the country. Thanks to La Gringa's Blogicito for the insight.


Switzerland: The Swiss team, according to the Politics of Football website, is “known for its discipline and strong defense,” which I interpret to mean that they tend towards catenaccio and dull viewing for you and me. They “lack a true goal-scorer,” which means we’ll see lots of stodgy long-ball. They came away from their qualifying matches having scored a total of three goals in ten matches. The great hope we might have for some excitement in the Swiss line-up comes from Xherdan Shaqiri, a Kosovo-born midfielder, a strapping youngster thriving these days under the tutelage of Pep Guardiola at Bayern Munich. (Interestingly, in a country troubled by racism and anti-immigration rumblings, the football side is composed largely of second-generation nationalized immigrants.)


Ecuador: Currently ranked 23rd by FIFA, La Tri are strong in attack, led by Man U winger Antonio Valencia, a playmaker and provider of assists rather than a finisher. The history is this: they have yet to win the Copa America. In 2002 at Korea/Japan, they were defeated in their group by both Italy and Mexico, picked up a win against Croatia but headed home. In '06 Germany, they advanced into the Round of 16 to be knocked out by England (with one of those gorgeous, bending free-kicks by Beckham, as I recall).

According to The Road To Brazil website, they enjoy an unfair advantage in home qualifying matches, as they are played 2800 metres above sea level.

Former Birmingham striker Christian Benitez died tragically young this past July, leaving a vacant spot in the front line, traditionally the side’s strongest point. To adjust to this loss, Valencia himself may be moved into a more central role, as the side is currently strong in wingers. In the meantime, questions about the defense are ongoing, brought recently to the fore during a friendly against a B-team Germany last May.


France: Les Bleus had a manager they hated; now the bad man is gone. There is some talk that Ribery, the magnificent Ribery, might be kept back from the squad, something about whoring, but this is ridiculous; we are Frenchmen, we have needs. These petty hypocrisies weigh upon me, weary me. The French at the World Cup are inevitable, like death, like taxes. Let us speak of it no more. Hush. Hush, now.


My prediction: Switzerland at the top, solid but unexciting, followed by a sort of deer-caught-in-the-headlights, evanescent France. This may well result in the Swiss continuing on into Quarterfinals, as their Knockout opponent will probably be Nigeria. The French, on the other hand, will be up against Argentina, and I wish them a quick and painless flight home.