Were they not absolutely fantastic? When they trounced the hapless English team by four goals to one (almost to two) many were those who would have easily subscribed to the “even my vindaloo eating granny could do that” philosophy. In short we were prepared to concede that the merit of the four goal drubbing of the Three Lions had little to do with some kind of footballing superiority of the mannschaft and more to do with the absolute disregard to the notions of basic football exhibited by Postman Pat’s XI.
Here at J’accuse we had been viewing the battle between Good and Evil (it’s a matter of perspective) as a fight for the right to be soundly given a lesson in football by the princes of South American football (there can only be one king and he normally comes from Rio or Pernambuco).
Yet here we are today looking back in awe and disbelief as we contemplate the complete and utter capitulation of the mullet plagued team from the City of Good Winds. It must have been an ill wind that carried Bastian Schweinsteiger’s cross lightly but surely over the rudderless orphans of Javier Zanetti and Walter Samuel as the young Muller soared over the ill-organised ranks of the Argie excuse for a defence and gave the ball a sufficient twist of momentum and direction to overcome any last ditch attempt from the pony-tailed guardian to keep it out of his nest. There would be more to follow as the young German team refused to be dazzled by the supposèd new kings of entertainment football.
The secret to German success turned out to be no secret at all. You could tell as the game unfolded that they were doing what they could do best – they kept it simple. They passed the ball when a pass was needed, crossed it right when the cross was begging and shot the ball into the net with a beguiling simplicity that left anyone watching the match absolutely gobsmacked. You could not believe it when Klose was busy somersaulting in the air much to the chagrin of Lionel and Carlos. You rubbed your eyes in disbelief as Schweinsteiger and Lahm ran riddles round the albiceleste men. Like Uruguay before them these men had not read the script. And thank heavens for that.
For yes, in an ideal world the World Cup final should have been a matter between the two constellations of verdeoro and albiceleste with the supposedly cynical Europeans having packed their bags for home long ago. But that is the ideal world of press, precedent and hype that fails to take account of the truth of the game. The truth is that if it is in the game, it’s in the game. When the ball gets stroked around with such gusto and flair and with an ambition to prove oneself (as against believing that just wearing the yellow or blue and white shirt is enough) with every tackle, with every pressing and with every true ball. When the ball seems to join in the fun fluttering obeyingly from foot to foot to goal with the ease of an alphabet recited then there truly is the secret that opens the doors to the Olympian height of world cup victory.
We have a German team to thank for this revelation. For the truth that football is beyond words and hype and commercialism. It all boils down to the simple rules of the game that dictate that to win a match you have to score more than your opponents, pass the ball at the right time, cross it believing it will get to the feet of your attacker and slip it in with the calm and certainty that this is the most important kick of the ball in your life. Each and every one of them. Calmly executed, perfectly performed, world Class playing.
Simple above all.
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