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"

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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.

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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.

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.