Don’t blame it on the Dutch

Don’t blame it on the Dutch team, don’t blame it on van Marwijk, don’t blame it on the referee, and don’t even blame it on the boogie. Blame it on Jose Mourinho. That’s right, Jose Mourinho.

Don’t worry that he was nowhere to be seen in South Africa, the insidious influence of ‘The Special One’s’ coaching philosophy was rampant. Not merely in the final but throughout the group games. It was evident in the attitudes of Dunga and Verbeek and it threatens to go global.

We all love ‘the beautiful game’ but we are also continually told we are dealing with a ‘results orientated business’. Game or business? These seem to be the only options that managers offer the fans. If we want free flowing, attacking, joyful football we are told we are naïve and childish. Well, I’m here to tell you, people, if these are the only possibilities then the terrorists have already won.

Forget the World Cup final and the ‘passing Spanish’ victory over the ‘kicking Dutch’. It was a very close run thing (about the length of Iker Casillas’ big toe). A little more composure from Arjen Robben and the fans of beautiful football would be crying in their beer. Much more success for the winning ugly crowd and no one will want to play beautiful.

Witness the dourest Brazilian side we’ve seen for decades. As they exited the tournament they seemed paralysed by the fear of losing. Brazilians playing with fear? Football. With fear? Witness a Dutch side that disavowed ‘total football’ and were disowned by Johan Cryuff, the Godfather of attacking football. Witness an Australian manager who so lacked perspective he entered a game with eight holding midfielders and no strikers.

No doubt the managers of these teams have observed the most successful club boss of recent years, noted the tactics required to win a Champions League, watched Barcelona brought low by Inter Milan and asked themselves, “What would Jose do?”

The World Cup used to be a gift to players. A chance to represent their countries, pit themselves against the best of their generation, display to all the skills gained over a career and perhaps, when the cream had risen to the top, become champions of the world. Now it just seems to be another obligation, another grind, and another potential failure to be avoided or mitigated. There are good players in the England team. What if they came out to play to their strengths and see where their talent could take them? What is the worst that could happen? Scrape through the group and go out in the round of sixteen?

Certainly we are playing for sheep stations (and, just quietly, well done to the boys from Un Zud) and in reality probably more. I just think Jose’s influence may have spread a little far when the boys from the local under 14 side are mob handling the ref, dobbing each other in for yellow cards and screaming like Robben when they trip themselves up.

Pablo Cruise

Day dreaming of Cesc

Blinking in the winter sunshine filtering through the window, I haul myself out of the pool of dribble…for the third time this morning. What time is it in South Africa, anyway? About 4 in the morning?

Crossing back across time zones added to a diet of early morning football games is playing havoc with my increasingly delicate equilibrium. Since returning to Melbourne I seem to have become part cat. Moving around the house I loose consciousness anytime I pass through a beam of sunlight. On waking the recurring dream is not of the Brazilians, although some of their play has been the stuff of fantasy. Nor is it of the Germans. God knows I’ve woken up screaming a few times since the nightmare in Durban. Wave after wave of enormous white jerseys powering through hopelessly out numbered blue shirts, “where’s Jason, where’s Vinnie, what’s happened to Timmy? The horror, the horror…” No, the recurring dream is of Spain, less mercurial than the Dunga-boys, not as regimented as the Germans, certainly not as implausible as the Argentines, they are most similar to Dutch sides we have encountered.

Often worthy contenders for the Wold Cup they are perennial bridesmaids always falling at the final hurdle. (Now there’s a jet-lagged dream sequence, Raul in a wedding gown, galloping down the main straight at Flemington, only to fall in the mud and be passed by Maradona who later accepts the World Cup from a tipsy Sir John Kerr…)

Perhaps it’s just the caffeine talking (I find about eight espressos get me through until kick-off), but could it be different this time around?

Sure, they struggled against the Swiss but this is a tournament and nobody wants to peak in the first round. No doubt, Fernando Torres is yet to fire but big players require big matches and there is no doubt his moment will come.

Puyol and Ramos are a fine balance of ruthlessness and good grooming. (Another sleep deprived thought, do players with angelic hair get called for less fouls and if so, should Michael Beauchamp ditch the mullet?)

As the knockout phase gets under way I keep returning to the same sleep deprived thought. Surely a team that does not require the exquisite talents of Cesc Fabregas is capable of overcoming the perennial favourites.

Could it really be time for a new world champion or am I only dreaming?

Pablo Cruise