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