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.
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