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.