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.

world cup draw: group f

Skipping right past Group G, a sucking fen of depression too awful to contemplate without the consolation of alcoholic beverage (my prediction: Germany wins by a half a gazillion points, barely pausing to clean the opponent from their cleats as they sail on to the Round of 16, Portugal takes a characteristically ugly but definitive second), let's have a look at a more interesting gathering.

Bosnia-Herzegovina is one of those sides, not unlike Algeria, sprung up from the muck and ashes of a truly hellish war, this one not two decades past. Times are still dark in the country, but the footballing team is a shining hope, composed of ethnic Serbs, Croats, and Bosniaks together. Twice in recent history have they threatened to erupt into the limelight on European fields, and twice (in 2010 for the World Cup and 2012 for the Euro) been summarily put down by (a characteristically ugly but definitive) Portugal. This year, they're in the final running, sporting an attack-minded formation featuring top scorer Edin Dzeko from Man City and Roma's Miralem Pjanic, and with Stoke City's Asmir Begovic in goal. Coach Safet Susic says, "There is a huge risk in the way we play," using a single holding midfielder behind a strong line of forwards and attacking midfielders, "opening up huge space for an opponent-- but it would be unfair to the fans, to the game and to us if we were to suppress such a talent." I call that a refreshingly honest and brave approach, and I wish the Zmajevi, the Dragons, well.

Iran's Team Melli has two connections with the USA: Mehrdad Beitashour, a defender for the San Jose Earthquakes, and an assistant coach, Dan Gaspar (of dual Portuguese-American citizenship), who began his footballing career in Connecticut. He landed this unusual job after having worked with current head coach Carlos Queiroz on the national Portugal team (from which Queiroz was fired in 2010, ostensibly for having insulted an anti-doping squad who was trying to take samples at his training ground). Living year-round in Tehran, Gaspar has met the last two Iranian presidents, and says ex-president Mahmoud Ahmadinejad has "an impressive knowledge of soccer." Iran's first World Cup appearance was in 1978 in Argentina, where they did not emerge from the group stage. As of September of this year, FIFA had them ranked first in Asia, and 45th worldwide.

You've seen Nigeria's Super Eagles before. Beginning official play in the late forties while still a British colony, they've become a great footballing force in Africa, winning the Africa Cup of Nations three times, taking the gold medal at the Atlanta Summer Olympics in 1996, and reaching the World Cup Round of 16 twice. They've qualified for five of the last six World Cups, stirring up an intense rivalry with Cameroon along the way, and a sort of ongoing grudge-battle against Argentina, as well, who have beat them in the last two group stages, et voila! Here they are, rematched again.

There was, in fact, something of a brouhaha after their early exit from the 2010 World Cup. According to Wikipedia, Nigeria's president, charmingly named Goodluck Jonathan, suspended the Eagles from international competition for two years as a sort of punishment, I guess, for their bad luck and poor showing. FIFA retaliated by making the ban official, for "political interference," but the whole thing blew over in a few months and they are back in action, ready to have another crack at the Argentines.

Which brings us neatly round to the heroes of the hour, Argentina's Albiceleste. When you go back and watch the Argentine side in the last two World Cups, a few things are clear. One is that in 2006 Jose Pekerman was in charge of a squad so electric with talent, some of it admittedly very young, that their beautiful play could take your breath away (see Argentina v Serbia-Montenegro). Why they lost out to the evil Germans in the quarterfinal is a controversial matter (they took the Argentine keeper out with a knee to the ribs, then won in penalties. Deliberate or not, I will never forgive them. There was also a lingering question about why Pekerman failed to deploy his shining wild card, the young Lionel Messi, against the Hunnish Maleficience. In any case, the match was close and ugly, the Bosch scraped by in penalties, there was a fight on the pitch afterwards, and Pekerman, a smart, likable and possibly even noble manager, had delivered his resignation before his feet hit the pavement).

The Germans took them out again, this time in an agonizing shambles, in the 2010 quarterfinal. This time (although, admittedly, the Germans were very good, and I want you to understand how difficult it is for me to say that) the reason for the rout was clear: Diego Maradona is a crazy man, and you don't let a crazy man coach your team. The greatest practitioners are often (usually?) not the greatest teachers, and Maradona is unquestionably bug-fucking mad. Point taken, lesson learned.

This year, we have Alejandro Sabella sporting the coaching hat. A midfielder in his time, he began with River Plate then moved to England for a four-year spell at Sheffield and Leeds. A great success at Sheffield United, he didn't take well to Leeds, which was suffering a time of turmoil and uncertainty in leadership. He returned thereafter to the Americas, where he would spend the rest of his career both as player and coach, finding particular success guiding Estudiantes to the 2009 Club World Cup final, where world-dominators Barca only managed to beat them in added time. In short, he has the international experience, the coaching smarts, and, gods help us, the anti-Maradona-ish humility, to coax a fine team to a long-coveted trophy.

As far as players go, Captain Messi will know this is his chance. He'll probably have Barcelona teammate Javier Mascherano behind him, a man who has always played as a holding midfielder for his country but who has proved himself a powerful and reliable centerback in Spain. Also fresh from Madrid will come Angel Di Maria and (from Madrid via Naples) Gonzalo Higuain, with powerhouse attacking midfielder Javier Pastore emerging as a force to be reckoned with from his recent successes at Paris Saint-Germain (along with rumors linking him to either Arsenal or Liverpool).

My question, though, for Sabella is this: why no Willy Caballero? I haven't been following closely this season, but for the past few years, the Malaga player has been my favorite goalkeeper in La Liga, brave and forthright and untiring. Why no Argentina joy?

My prediction: Argentina takes first, Nigeria a hard-fought second.

world cup draw: group h

Yeah, tough draw. If you're American or English, I mean. If you're French, congratulations, you lucky bastards, who've barely scraped through only to find yourself a place in the sun, fighting folks like Switzerland (see Orson Welles' observations about the Swiss and cuckoo clocks in the Third Man). And my Argentines have got what looks to be a fairly cushy ride into the Round of 16, or I hope so, as I'm counting on La Albiceleste to take the whole shootin' match, the whole nine yards, the entire ball of proverbial wax. This is the year, this tournament at arch-rival Brasilia, this is the time for my boy Leo to stake his claim as the greatest footballer who ever lived. This is his moment, and I'm brooking no argument about this. It means too much to me. I've always been a Spain fan, but I'm letting my Spaniards have the year off. This trophy belongs to Argentina.

But on to Group H. I thought I'd start here because these are the folks about whom I know the least.

Algeria, for example. Les Fennecs, or the Desert Foxes. Their footballing road has been harsh and uncomfortable as their political road. In 1982, the World Cup was in Spain and West Germany were the reigning champs, but that didn't stop Algeria from upsetting the apple cart by beating their Teutonic foes on opening day, 2-1; this after the Germans had mocked their unknown rivals heartlessly in a pre-game press conference ("We will dedicate out seventh goal to our wives, our eighth to our dogs"). The Foxes, remember, were a team whose origin lay in the freedom fighters of the decades previous, and there was a strong sense of national honor at stake. The upset led to one of the great scandals in World Cup history: it was West Germany v Austria on the last day of group stage. If West Germany won, then both Germanic sides would go through, but if Austria won, it would go through with Algeria, who had already played their final match. In the tenth minute, Germany scored, and then both sides effectively stopped playing. Algerians in the crowd waved money at the mercenaries, German fans burned their own national flags in protest, Spaniards shouted, "Fuera! Fuera!" and waved hankies, a delightful tradition in showing disdain.

So Algeria was out, and the world knew the Huns were cheaters and cynics. When their own German fans showed up at their hotel to protest, the unrepentant players pelted them with water balloons. The debacle led to a new FIFA ruling: all final group stage matches are played simultaneously now, to circumvent the temptation to the cynical cheat and the Biscuit Ending.

Then, in 2010 qualifying for South Africa, Algeria's hopes lay on a final showdown against Egypt in Cairo. Before the match, their bus was violently attacked by hooligans, and several members of the team injured. They lost the ensuing match, and the scandal led to a diplomatic dyspepsia between the two countries, resulting in a shutting off of trade. (The Foxes still managed to scrape through into the Group Stage, where they tied with England, but headed home after losing to both the United States and Slovenia.)

Then there's South Korea, the Taegeuk Warriors, starring Park Chu-Young from Arsenal, hometown hero Lee Keun-Ho of Sangju Sangmu Phoenix, and Bayer Leverkusen striker Son Heung-Min, all formidable forwards. The coach is Hong Myung-Bo, the Korean Republic's most-capped player and ex-L.A. Galaxy defender. These Warriors made it into the draw by the skin of their teeth, beaten by Iran, but still sanguine. This is South Korea's ninth appearance. Its best moment of shining glory was in 2002, beating Italy 2-1 in the Knockout then Spain in penalties in the Quarterfinals. In 2010, they made it into Knockouts but were ousted by berserker Diego Forlan and his back-up Uruguayans.

About Russia I can glean little, other than running across chilling headlines in my search ("Russia Chief Quits After Meeting With Vladimir Putin". Brrrr). Currently managing is Fabio Capello, a man who's enjoyed a success or two in his time (OK, and a failure or two as well), and all the players seem to be culled from home-country teams except one: Denis Cheryshev plays in the front line at Sevilla. The last I remember these guys was from the 2008 European Cup. Gus Hiddink (previously seen managing the intrepid Soccaroos in 2006 in Germany), was at the helm and they made it into the Semifinals, but my Spanish boys were having what you might call a good day, and the Russians headed home after that.

The fourth side are the Belgians, a team I've never seen before, but after a glance at their line-up, I wonder why that is. From Eden Hazard on down, practically all these guys are top-flight players in the Premiership or La Liga. Their goal-keeper is Thibaut Courtois, currently guarding the net for Atletico Madrid against the likes of Ronaldo and Messi, guiding his team to a second place so solid they're threatening to undermine my Blaugrauna, who currently lead by a slim margin of two goals. And that's just for starts. You've also got Arsenal captain Thomas Vermaelen, Man City's Vincent Kompany, Jan Vertonghen and Mousa Dembele and Nacer Chadli from Spurs, Daniel van Buyten from Bayern Munich, Kevin Mirallas and Romelu Lakaku from Roberto Martinez's wonderful Everton (among others! I'm not even mentioning them all).

And their mascot is a lion named Benelucky, which is sweet, right? These guys are going to be gangbusters in Brazil, and I can't wait to watch them play.

Prediction: I see Belgium going through on top, with Russia squeaking past South Korea for runner-up.

zlatan disses barca: "they didn't act like superstars. it was strange."

The Guardian this week affords us tantalizing peeks into Zlatan Ibrahimovic's pending account of his footballing adventures, confirming the common-sense notion that most footballers think their lives are more important than we think they are.

THRILL to the news that he very nearly landed at Arsenal, a match foiled by Arsene Wenger's temerity in insisting on an audition from the striker before laying out the massive bucks. It wounded the tender sensibilities of the galloping Swede, and he was having none of it.

GASP IN ASTONISHMENT as he lays bare his undying devotion to a certain Portuguese super-manager, the capo at Inter during his time there, another man-child cut from his same man-child cloth.

Concerning Pep Guardiola, he relates a dressing-room dressing-down in which he gave his old Barca boss the old what-for, telling him he hadn't "got any balls," and that he should "go to hell." What happened next apparently mystified the striker, truly an innocent abroad in the world of fully-grown adults: Pep turned around and "left, never to mention it again, not a word."

My favorite bits are where he's trying to make sense of life at Barca, which obviously has a calmness and order which makes his yahoo-skin crawl. "...it was like being back at school. None of the lads acted like superstars, which was strange. Messi, Xavi, Iniesta, the whole gang – they were like schoolboys. The best footballers in the world stood there with their heads bowed, and I didn't understand any of it. It was ridiculous."

The poor fellow gave it the old college try and failed dismally: "I didn't fit in, not at all... So I started to adapt and blend in. I became way too nice. It was mental... I hardly even yelled at my team-mates any more. I was boring. Zlatan was no longer Zlatan."

Which is such a pity, right?

(POSTSCRIPT: In case you're worried about him, set your mind at ease. He's obviously found his Zlatan-ness again.)

a quiet day at spa

Drivers love the track at Spa: "it's a REAL track," you hear them say, by which I guess they mean it's a good one for adventures in overtaking. Kimi Raikkonen in advance of the day called it the greatest circuit in the world, and his Lotus team-mate Romain Grosjean says it's "a superb rollercoaster." Kimi wound up with a crushing early retirement due to brake failure caused by a blocked cooling duct (just as he was overtaking Massa. A lesser driver could have made a sublime clusterfuck out of that, but he swerved his machine to safety without incident). Grosjean, on the other hand, started seventh and finished eighth, but just keeping all four tyres on the ground and not decimating his neighbors counts as a cheering improvement in Belgium for my favorite mad Frenchman.

Lewis Hamilton in his Mercedes took pole again, as is his wont these days, but the ease with which Vettel's Red Bull slid past him in turn one was almost eerie. ("There was no defending, really," Hamilton said. "I just had to watch him glide by.") After that, Seb's race was like old times, back in the days when he could be counted on to shoot out miles ahead of everyone else, reveling in clean air and the clear zen of driving free of challenge, alone in his race except while joyriding past back-markers on his way to the podium. It was one of those races. You forgot he was even driving because the camera never watched him. Winning by a landslide may feel great from the cockpit, but it's not exciting viewing for your television audience. And, in fact, it became an apparent enough rout that it wasn't two minutes after he pulled away his team boss Christian Horner gave him the old paternal "relax and save your tyres" advice, which he traditionally offers far later in the proceedings. (And, incidentally, which Vettel rarely follows.)

Despite Seb's return to a blissful state of oneness with his auto and his easy podium ascent, you might say the race belonged not to him, but to two others. Fernando Alonso, first of all, that delightfully cool-headed Spaniard (I will never forget last year's Spa: after Grosjean's car flew over his bonnet and forced him into retirement, he emerged shaking his head as if admonishing the French boy for kicking a football through his window), who slotted in ninth at the start but threaded his way with fierce determination into a solid second-place and kept hold of it with grace and ease.

The other real superstar of the day was the man who's been on every tongue lately as a probable surrogate for Mark Webber after he strings up his garish red-and-blue racing gloves next year to step into an impossibly sleek Porsche and drive into glory at Le Mans. Daniel Ricciardo, long-time Torro Rosso pilot, is a front-runner in the race and his performance at Spa has to have upped his chances. Stumbling in "quali" and starting from a discouraging 19th place, he made his way forward into the points to finish tenth behind Adrian Sutil's Force India.

Meanwhile, the word on the street is that Webber's replacement will be announced sometime at or after Monza.

why cesc must not go to man u

First of all, there's the honour thing. English football fans easily forgave his move away from Arsenal (where he had enjoyed both love and praise since he'd arrived as the wunderkind Spanish princeling barely out of his short pants), forgave him because he was returning home, and a yearning for home is a thing everyone understands. Who cannot look at so Catalan a player and say, "Well, he's been living in the rain for these many years, every night dreaming of the scent of orange blossoms and a place where the sea is warm enough you can swim in it"?

But moving to Manchester? It would be a Cristiano Ronaldo thing, without heart or integrity, one which would leave his former English fans embittered. If he were Ronaldo, he would not care, but he is Cesc, and, for better or worse, what the world thinks of him makes a difference to him. Could he live in such a cold country, knowing that the hearts of its people have iced over against him?

I understand the temptation. How flattering must it be, all that money on the table, and after these last years playing among a squad of footballers so great that he is considered very near to second-string, how glorious must it feel to have the high-powered new manager of the richest and most successful English side in history wanting to build his remodeled team around you?

But here's the rub: London is one thing, and Manchester quite another. How long would Daniella put up with it? Not a full season, I'd put money on it. Sign that piece of paper in Moyes' hand, and within a year your glamour-puss girlfriend will have found herself a Greek tycoon and an island in the sun, and you'll be seeing your daughter for two weeks at a time, every third month.

Stay in the sun, Cesc. Stay in Barcelona. It's a time of transition there. Wait and see.

malaysian malaise, or the sad lament of seb and mark

Yes, they feign excitement, those talking heads, but the new Grand Prix season is off to a rocky start. In Australia, hampered by rain, caution was the word, with everyone learning the new tyres (and that the super-softs, annoyingly, seem to last a few laps, tops). Kimi Raikonnen took the top spot in that one, presumably with the Lotus crew sitting quietly and not bothering him with information or instructions.

Malaysia was more educational, and a sobering douse of politics it was. In the end, the race came down to two teams: Red Bull and the Mercedes, those four cars pulling so comfortably in front of the bulk of the wolf-pack that they were instructed by their various team leaders to slow down, relax into it at any easy pace, and proceed to the podium. Alas, if only it were so simple. If each team had two drivers of equal importance, it would be, but they don't, and therein lies the rub.

The Red Bull plan seems to have been that Vettel (the Primary Driver) and Webber (the Secondary) would trade first and second place with each pit-stop, and whichever landed in front would cruise to the finish. It doesn't matter to Christian Horner or to Red Bull as an entity which guy lands highest on the podium, as long as they're wearing the red and blue. But you don't get to be the youngest-ever three-time world champion without harboring both ambition and a limitless appetite for speed and glory, and so in the final laps we were treated to Vettel in his petulant-little-girl persona complaining that Mark was too slow, that he should let him past. His request denied, he disobeyed orders and we we all got to witness an admittedly exciting struggle, hard fought, which might have gone either way (or, alternately, ended in bent metal and retirement). We all heard Christian Horner's completely fruitless transmission (in his dad's-had-it-up-to-here voice), "Come on, Seb. This is silly." And we saw the Australian's fury as he sat next to his treacherous team-mate on the podium.

Vettel has apologised, but with some insincerity, claiming ignorance as to team orders, but that is the way of Vettel. Off-track he seems a very likable fellow, a fan of the Beatles, with a mischievous sense of humor; on-track, he will do anything to win a race. In his defense, rarely does he cause a crash, but it might be argued that if Mark Webber were a lesser driver, he might have done on this occasion. The rivalry between the two has always boiled beneath a professional demeanor, coming to a rage in Turkey in 2010 in a similar situation when Vettel actually did instigate mutual wreckageand retirement while trying to pass his team-mate. That same year during a practice at Silverstone, Vettel damaged his front wing and was given Webber's. When Webber won the race, he said, "Not bad for the number two driver." Later in that season, Webber told reporters that his good form was "an inconvenience" to Red Bull. Now, Webber says he will go back to Australia, do some surfing, and ponder his future. No doubt he will finish out the season, but he will not be back next year, unless he's wearing different colors.

Ferrari has long been a player in this sandbox: many times, even back when "team orders" were still against the rules, Felipe Massa was told to slow down in support of star driver Fernando Alonso. Possibly they caught a little flak for that (only a very little, though, because they are, after all, Ferrari), and maybe that's why they started trading radio transmissions in Italian instead of English (also, incidentally, against the rules). Last season, of course, the ban on team orders was overturned and it's considered entirely ethical to sacrifice the ride of one of your men for the more favoured other.

Which brings us to the second, and, I think, more poignant drama of the day: the race for third and fourth place between Mercedes team-mates Lewis Hamilton and Nico Rosberg. Hamilton, head-hunted from McLaren, a huge star, an expensive one, is wearing the silver for his first season; Rosberg has been a faithful number two for some years. Like Vettel, Rosberg was complaining that he could go faster if he could have permission to pass Hamilton. Team principal Ross Brawn replied that Lewis was slowing down by his order, to conserve fuel, and that Rosberg should not pass. Unlike Vettel, Rosberg followed the rules, although it meant he missed out on a valuable podium, one which was almost certainly within his grasp. At race end, we heard him say to Brawn, "Remember this."

With astonishing grace, Hamilton came out with a sincere apology, saying he knew Rosberg deserved third place. "He drove a smarter and more controlled race than me," he said. There is a melancholy to that particular battle, because a sense of honor was maintained by both drivers, and so everyone comes out with both respect and regret in the end. (The other thing Lewis did was to drive accidentally into the McLaren pit, which added some time to his race, but was sort of endearing.)

There's been little news of "first-lap nutcase" Romain Grosjean so far this year, which bodes well, since hopefully it means he's learning to drive with a modicum of caution. Alonso ran into Vettel at the outset and damaged his nose, which led to a spectacular moment later when it dropped off and he drove over it in a storm of sparks. The McLarens are still struggling: Sergio Perez has not yet found his form, and although Jenson Button looked to have had a good race, a bungle in the pit cost him his left front tyre then saw him rejoin the race in fourteenth place before eventually retiring early.

an introduction to some formula one drivers by turning them into verbs

Say you live in a tourist town, like I do.  You’re stuck on a crowded sidewalk filled with vacationers who amble, looking in windows, enjoying the sun, infuriatingly unaware that people, like you, actually live in this town and need to go places and do things.

You have options.

You might MALDONADO your way to the front, a messy fracas involving elbows akimbo and ruthless footwork.  (KOBAYASHI-ing results in similar injury to the malingering tourists, but without the malicious intent:   rather, you zero in on your target,-- say, the next corner,-- with such furious intent that your peripheral vision is nullified and you cast yourself forward with  such reckless speed that collateral damage might easily include friends and pit crew alongside your enemies.)

BUTTONing is subtler process, in which you ease up behind two tourists, wait until the one behind goes to pass the one forward, taking advantage of the awkward moment to zip beyond both.

If you decide to VETTEL, you will sidestep the problem entirely by walking off the track into the street and circling around the crowd.

GROSJEANing is the boldest choice, requiring great exertion and hours of practice.  To GROSJEAN, you send yourself hurtling into the air over the heads of the tourists, an awesome spectacle which often involves everyone in the vicinity crashing into walls.  It is not recommended if you are on your way to work or to do anything that cannot wait while you recuperate in hospital.

luis suarez and the joy of carrying liverpool's considerable darkness

Poor Brendan Rodgers has been embarrassed by his players telling truth in public. The question on his mind is not so much why Luis Suarez went all Italian to get the penalty against Stoke in October, but why did he feel compelled to talk about it?

The answer is both obvious and sort of endearing: this player cannot comprehend why it might matter. Suarez is an on-pitch sociopath in that way that children are sometimes, in the way of Adam and Eve in the Garden, with no inkling of right or wrong. There is only winning, which is pleasant, and losing, which is repellent. We all got a very good introduction to him during the World Cup with his obviously deliberate handball against Ghana. It was a calculated risk, entirely unethical, and he was red-carded off for his troubles, but, most crucially, it worked, since Asamoah Gyan missed the ensuing penalty chance, leading directly to an Uruguayan advance. What kind of a lesson does such success teach a developing child? A bad one, as evidenced by his subsequent crowing over the event (see "My handball was the real Hand of God!") .

Shadow-carrying is a dynamic more easily traced in football than in real life. Most teams have a designated shadow-man, but rarely is he a striker. (I am excepting, of course, Italians, who all carry trickster capabilities and thick, dark edges on their ethics with an exhausting consistency. Something in l’acqua, I guess.) The fellow is more likely to lurk in the defense or the back of the midfield. One of the oddities of Rafa Benitez’s legacy at Liverpool is Lucas Leiva. Where the rest of us saw a fairly useless Brazilian kid, Benitez saw potential, and bulked him up, rebuilt him to inherit the mantle of Liverpool’s shadow-bearer. After Sami Hyypia’s exit, Xabi Alonso took on the role (and must have impressed, since he showed up at Real Madrid in a darker, more calcified version). After Alonso’s exit, Leiva was up, and has proved far worthier than his pre-warrior persona would have suggested possible.

The first Clasico I ever saw was at the Bernebeu, and back then Real Madrid was packed with golden men: Roberto Carlos, Beckham, Iker Casillas, Raul, Zidane, Ronaldo, Robinho. Had this team been a wrestler in the WWE, it’d have been the strong-jawed guy with flowing, blond hair who fought for the love of a good, buxom woman. And there, in the midst of the shining men, was Pablo Garcia. The announcer called him, straight out, Real’s hitman. He looked like one. Tarantino would have cast him as such, with his gorilla-like bulk and weirdly false-looking hair, and he went to work, giving Deco a cut on the temple with an elbow, skillfully managed so the linesman could not see it, and finally getting slapped with a yellow for picking up Oleguer bodily and throwing him. (Garcia, incidentally, is also from Uruguay.)

Now that you mention it, what about a team like Barca? How does a side with a reputation for the luminous and beautiful apportion its share of the shadow? Sergio Busquets very quietly holds a lot of it, discreetly drawing and delivering fouls in the midfield. Then there was the match at Sevilla in September in which Cesc Fabregas made a calculated decision that only amoral behavior would win the day and took the burden fully on his own shoulders. Not only did he manage to have Gary Mendel red-carded off for a head-butt which didn’t quite connect (but the effects of which he sold magnificently), he also scored two of Barca’s three goals, one delivered off a handball from Thiago. Instead of celebrating his second goal, you see him howling. I scrawled on the front of my DVD, “Cesc is like a dark force of nature here." He will always be hated in Sevilla now, and I believe that’s hard for a such a player, who seems, --dangerously,-- to care what the world thinks.

But back to Luis Suarez, who cares not one whit, not for any of us, just so long as he wins: Brendan must stop the hypocrisy. Liverpool (a team I love, by the way) has always run rough-shod and tumbling over all comers to its victories. If you look back to one of the Scousers’ all-time great moments, at Istanbul in 2005, that unbelievable comeback to victory over an unmistakably superior AC Milan side, you’ll see it all began with a sacrificial foul from Sami Hyypia. The first half had seen the Liverpudlians scraping and chasing the smooth Milanese with no glimpse of joy. Even after the half, Milan kept easy control of the reins until around the 50th minute, when Kaka launched into an unstoppable run up the center of the pitch. A fourth goal seemed inevitable, and then the unthinkable happened: Hyypia stuck out his foot and brought the midfielder down hard. It might have been a red-card crime, but Hyypia walked away with a warning, and somehow, through that window of opportunity, the Zen descended and Liverpool enjoyed some ten minutes of grace during which the Football Gods smiled and everything went their way. After that, it was back to scrap and struggle, but persistence and hard work held true, and the Reds came away with a very roughly earned trophy.

The point is, Suarez has not just shown his colors, but wears them proudly, and he's following a long-standing Liverpudlian tradition. Everyone knew who he was when he was hired, but the British press is (sometimes breathtakingly, to yankee eyes) ruthless towards its footballers. The fact that Pep Guardiola is rumored to be hankering for Suarez from his golden-feathered eyrie atop Germany should be a pretty fair sign that he’s worth his keep.

Regardless, he’s not going to get any nicer.