Wednesday, July 31, 2002
Wednesday, July 24, 2002
O that is nice, thank you guys, To morrow I will go to The Faroe Islands that is my trip for this year, I will be there for one week. You might ask why I do not Travel any further this year, it is simple I am getting used to beeing here after my time in Mexico and I have been traveling with in Iceland for some time.
But since Ricardo asked about if Icelad did play football, then I want to show you this article written in weekend avisen in Denmark:
Fifa Fair Pay The Story Of My World Cup Or How The World Lost Its Cup
BY HALLGRIMUR HELGASON
One of the best ways to enjoy the Football World Cup is to be Icelandic. Then you can support any team you will. We have never made it to the finals. And never will. Not until Fifa allows us our own North Atlantic preliminary group that would consist of Iceland, Greenland, The Faeroe Islands, Canada, Svalbard and Jan Mayen. (Well, Jan Mayen is a stretch since only fourteen people live there, but still, they would have three women on the bench.) However, this kind of group hardly sounds more absurd than the Oceania-groups: Australia, Fiji-Islands, Tonga, West Samoa and the American Samoa Islands. (Australia won this group on a goal difference of 66-0, beating the U.S. Samoans 31-0 at home.)
Our only other hope is that we will be allowed to clone Eidur Gudjohnsen (of Chelsea fame) ten times. Fifa has looked into it but still not made their final decision.
But these sad facts do not spoil our love for the World Cup, nor do they hinder us from becoming football-crazy every four years, like all the other and forever bystanding “small nations” of this world. The Icelanders are in fact able to cheer for any team at all, except the Germans, who in our country are only supported by those three blonde-bearded guys who studied philosophy in Heidelberg. I don’t exactly know why we don’t like the Germans, but I guess it has something to do with their intolerable self-confidence. At the World Cup the Germans are always a bit like the fat and rich kid that used to play soccer with us after school. It didn’t matter if he was good or not; he had to play, because he owned the ball. At the World Cup the Germans own the ball. It’s made by adidas. This is why they can never go home until the last game is over.
So we, the Icelandic people, are able to go for any nation at all, as long as it’s on a winning streak. Those who don’t know anything about football support Brazil. Those who know something about football support France. And those who know everything about football favor England, since we’ve been watching FA football on every Saturday for the last 30 years. Then of course we all support Denmark, because they used to be a part of our republic. We only let go of them back in 1944 (we thought the Germans would never leave), probably the biggest mistake in our nation’s history. (Imagine Tomasson and Rommedahl playing for Iceland alongside... say 6 Gudjohnsens...) Then, finally, we have of course a very weak spot for the “small ones”, “the outsiders” like Camerun, Senegal, Ireland, The USA, Japan and yes, Korea.
The World Cup In Memoriam
You always remember where you were at each finals. You can measure your life in World Cups.
Being brought up in the harm-free idyll of middle-class Reykjavik, one of the biggest moments of my childhood was watching the final of 1966, England–W. Germany at Wembley, even though the broadcast was delayed for six months. It was shown on December 31st. (Icelandic TV only started in the fall and decided to save the big one for the holidays.) Our father even bought us a TV-set right before Christmas, just to be able to see this game. And it was spectacular. It hadn’t lost any of it’s excitement even though it had been lying on the TV-director’s shelf for half a year.
Came ’78 and I was a teenager working with a friend deep in the Norwegian woods counting trees. The huts didn’t have any TV’s, but at the time of the final-game we lost count of all the trees, made our way to the nearest farm we found on the map (a good two hour’s walk) and knocked on the door. An Amish-looking elderly couple let us in and lighted the TV. They had never heard of football and were amazed to see that there were no trees on the field. So, between four great goals, we were forced to listen to the old farmer tell us all about his favorite boyhood sport: “Woodball.”
By the time of the World Championships in Mexico ’86, I was a painter with a studio in Boston and had to watch the games on American TV, through a Budweiser advertising frame that compressed the broadcasted image into such a small square on the screen that you hardly could see the ball. The commentary was done by a CBS baseball-sportscaster who called every goal “a home-run”.
Still, you always loved the World Cup. We did everything we had to do, just to be able to see the World Cup. We waited for six months. We peered through beer-commercials. We even spoke Norwegian for two hours.
Becoming Kofi Annan
This time around I had become a writer and luckily found myself on the soccer-speaking side of the Atlantic, in self-proclaimed exile and isolation in a small village in Isola D’Elba, just off the coast of Tuscany, working on a novel.
In Italy, when you’re from the other side of the Alps, they all think you’re a “tedesco”; a German. (This is similar to our belief that all Italians are waiters.) And since I speak a bit more German than my six word Italian, the owner of the restaurant where I had my dinner every night, and who spoke fairly good German, quickly decided that I was in fact a German. As did all the German regulars in the restaurant. I tried to clear up this misunderstanding. I tried to say I was not a German, but my German was not good enough.
So, when the Germans beat the Saudis in their first game by 8 goals, all the tourists greeted me at dinner with: “Heute war doch spitze!” and “Toll, ja, nicht?”
Yeah, yeah, yeah... Klose enough.
Some of them came to the bar to watch their next game, Germany against Ireland, and promptly included me in their fan-club, until I quite subconsciously jumped off my seat cheering the Robbie Keane last minute goal. This created a very complicated discussion in the bar which ended with the local owner concluding that I was “irlandese!” and not (as I tried to say) “islandese”.
So, now I was not a German any more, but Irish, for the next couple of days at least. Until the Sweden-Nigeria game. The guys in the bar looked a bit suspiciously at the Irishman when they heard him say “jo!” after each Larsson goal. (My book did well in Sweden but the Nigerians haven’t shown any interest yet.)
Now I was really getting into the habitual Icelandic World Cup whoring: Let the good guys score! The Japanese were great, and the Koreans really took you by their energy and the incredible stadium-atmosphere. The Brazilians were on a roll, and even the U.S. team was hugely entertaining. And how about those Senegalese! Before the last group games I was feeling more and more like Kofi Annan. Wherever I went, I was always at home with my fellow countrymen. In the square, chatting with some American kids, I was a big Landon Donovan-fan. In the café I was really trying hard to comfort the local Polish priest. On the bus, asking two Swedish girls for directions, I was all “Heja Sverige!” And after the Italians had been deprived of two legal goals in one game, I had even learned to curse the “arbitro scandaloso!” in Italian.
I even made a friend. The only black man in the village; a lonely guy from Senegal who spoke French. He worked in a restaurant on the beach, washing dishes in the kitchen and was thus sadly unable to see most of his team’s games, since the TV was out in the dining area. This was symbolic: All the Senegalese players came from the French first division, deserted by their own stars after becoming World Champions in 1998. The Africans’ victory over France in the first game was a Revolution in the French cusine; the hungry dishwashers beating the jet-setters still stuffing themselves with the fruit of their past glory. The Senegal team could have gone all the way if they’d had a trainer other than Howard Stern.
Still my United Nations-mood proved a bit too strong, when my Senegal-friend stopped me short in my passionate monologue praising Diouf and Bouba Diop and African football in general, and asked where I was from? By then, my mind was all on the upcoming Camerun-Germany game, and again I, quite subconsciously, said:
“Oh... I’m from Camerun.”
But in a way it was true. This is the great thing about the World Cup. You can change your nationality every day. But then came the difficult games:
Denmark-England 0-3. As I said before, Denmark used to be part of our republic for... Yeah, for five minutes. Until that Ferdinand goal. The England team was by then quite impressive even though they were not playing their game anymore. Eriksson had taught them the Italian style of calcio. The Art of Waiting. Wait until your opponent makes a mistake. This worked quite well for them until the art of waiting became waiting for themselves to score.
Germany-United States 1-0. This game only became difficult for me because the film based on my book, “101 Reykjavik”, was released in Germany the night before the game and got really good reviews. So, I was suddenly feeling a bit sympathetic towards the kinsfolk of Kahn und Klose. But, having lived in 4 foreign countries, the United States is the only one I could ever call a “home”. It’s closer to my heart, as close as the Americans came beating the Germans. Well, of course it’s always really hard to beat the Germans. Even if you’re playing your ball, it’s still theirs.
Italy-Korea 1-2. I was in Italy. They had a great team. And they also have a fantastic TV-audience. You can hardly hear the broadcast for all the loud-mouths around you. But still, you had to admire the Koreans. They tried to play football all the time. This was probably the most dramatic game of the World Cup. It was like an opera; with 50.000 Koreans providing the music, the libretto containing a lucky hero (Ahn), an unfortunate one (Totti), and Dr. Evil himself: Mr. Byron Moreno, the Ecuadorian referee, by now the most hated man in Italy. And even though Byron (“poco Lord, molto Fifa”) and his linesmen made some really strange decisions, I thought then that this was just bad luck all over. I was the only one sitting in the bar watching the Koreans jump on top of Ahn after he scored the golden goal. All the 30 locals had rushed out in the square as soon as the ball crossed the line, and were fifteen minutes later seen asking some inquiring tourists: “What World Cup? Is there a World Cup going on?”
I did not believe the Italians in their conspiracy-theories. Not until deep into the Spain-Korea game. The day that football died.
Fifa Fair Pay
Well. We had our doubts. We had our suspicions. After the news of Fifa’s financial mismanagement and the accusations against its president, Mr. Sepp Blatter. After he banned his opponents to speak at the Fifa meeting just before his reelection at the eve of the World Cup. And after the sacking of Blatter’s assistant who betrayed his loyalty. And after seeing how the teams were placed in the first round groups. It did not look very good. It all made Fifa’s famous catchphrase “Fifa Fair Play” seem like a joke.
Germany was amongst the last countries to qualify for this World Cup, being forced to play a late qualifier against the Ukraine. Still it was first to be drawn in an easy group. Brazil the same. The Brazilians finished third (even behind Ecuador) in the South American preliminary group for the WC, but that was all forgotten when it came to place them in a group in Korea/Japan. All those eighteen games that Argentina played in such style to finish on top in the South American group came to nothing when the “fair-playing” hand of Fifa cast them in “the group of death” at the WC with England, Nigeria and Sweden, who all won their preliminary groups as well; England beating Germany for the first place. Fifa’s argument, I believe, is that Brazil and Germany deserved VIP-treatment because they won the World Cup sometime in the last century.
Well. In Fifa’s Fair Play some are fairer than others.
It was Fifa’s good old favoritism once again. Germany and Brazil will never be placed in “a group of death”. It seems like all World Cups are designed so that those two soccer giants can only meet in the final game. Because: The astonishing fact is that even though Germany and Brazil are the only two countries who’ve been present in all the tournaments since 1954, they have never met in a World Cup game, until now. Fifa finally had its dream come true. Thanks to the Brazilian Havelange, and thanks to the Swiss-German Blatter, and thanks to Korea, and all the wonderful linesmen and referees.
And actually it was worth the wait. The 2002 Final was one of the most entertaining football matches we ever saw. Maybe the best final ever. Even though they never had a chance, the Germans finally showed us that they have a good team. The final even made us forget all the preceding games’ dubious calls and disallowed goals. But only for 90 minutes.
That the Brazilians and the Germans were the ones to capitalize on the “only human”-mistakes of referees at the 2002 WC was to be expected. People didn’t even bother to complain. (The Belgians didn’t, and the Americans only vaguely so.) It would have sounded like whining about the weather. But that the on-pitch-officials were also favoring the Koreans came as a bigger surprise. Until we read all about Blatter’s new best friend, the main organizer of the World Cup, head of the Korean Football Association, as well as being the vice president of the Hyundai car-maker, the “Official Partner of Fifa’s World Cup”, and vice president of Fifa (or its president of vice), Mr. Chung Mong Yoon, who—as all these titles were not enough—also stands as a candidate in the upcoming presidential election in Korea.
Well, you had to feel sorry for the Spanish, for Raul and Morientes, Hierro and Casillas. Those truly great soccer players deserved more. The ever-humble and never-cheating Raul deserved his final. But how could the poor Spaniards know that they were not playing a World Cup football game but an important election rally in the Korean presidential election campaign?
This must be the reason why we saw all those “new faces” in charge of the Korean games in the second round: All those obscure figures from countries foreign to fast and first class football, sweating with stress and inexperience, in charge of immensely important World Cup games like Italy-Korea and Spain-Korea. It must be easier to put money in the pocket of a “nobody from nowhere going nowhere” than an experienced man of ambition and integrity. The Spanish tried all they could to get experienced linesmen for their game, but were blattered by Fifa. We have to wait for a real and honest whistleblower amongst the Fifa Refereeing Committee for the truth to come out. We have to wait until Fifa will clean it’s blattered image. We have to wait until Blatter’s Mafifa becomes our Fifa again.
You had the feeling that it all went according to a plan. Put the difficult Argentines in a group they will suffer from—and yes! even eliminate them—and then finish the other big Europeans off with referees and linesmen from obscure places: An inexperienced Ecuadorian referee for the Italians, an Egyptian for the Spaniards, with linesmen from Trinidad and Uganda, of all places; all in favor of Korea, who then would bow out with dignity and allow the Germans to proceed to the final. This is what you heard, in every bar and every square, from tourists and locals alike; that Mr. Hyundai only had paid for the semifinals.
The Italians were the hardest hit by the “village referees” as the great Vieri called them. Five goals disallowed and one ridiculous red card that looked very much like a Korean credit card. But when the Trinidad linesman Ragoonath lifted his flag on Spanish Morientes’ golden goal against Korea, and ruled the ball out of play, he ruled all of us out of the world’s biggest play. We didn’t have faith in it anymore. The World had lost its Cup.
It took the genius of Ronaldo to shoot us back into WC-mood. We were all happy that the Brazilians won, and we were all very happy to see Ronaldo get his deserved place in history. Brazilian captain Kafu would surely have lifted the golden trophy in any case, amateur linesmen or not. But still the final game was haunted by players who could have been there. The ghost of Raul constantly ran across the screen...
We used to love our World Cup. We used to do anything for our World Cup. We used have complete faith in our World Cup. But not anymore. This World Cup was a disgrace. It seems to have been sold to an Asian car-maker with presidential ambitions. All we can hope for is that Fifa got a Fair Pay for it.
Hallgrimur Helgason is an Icelandic writer. His most recent novel is “101 Reykjavik” (Rosinante)
But since Ricardo asked about if Icelad did play football, then I want to show you this article written in weekend avisen in Denmark:
Fifa Fair Pay The Story Of My World Cup Or How The World Lost Its Cup
BY HALLGRIMUR HELGASON
One of the best ways to enjoy the Football World Cup is to be Icelandic. Then you can support any team you will. We have never made it to the finals. And never will. Not until Fifa allows us our own North Atlantic preliminary group that would consist of Iceland, Greenland, The Faeroe Islands, Canada, Svalbard and Jan Mayen. (Well, Jan Mayen is a stretch since only fourteen people live there, but still, they would have three women on the bench.) However, this kind of group hardly sounds more absurd than the Oceania-groups: Australia, Fiji-Islands, Tonga, West Samoa and the American Samoa Islands. (Australia won this group on a goal difference of 66-0, beating the U.S. Samoans 31-0 at home.)
Our only other hope is that we will be allowed to clone Eidur Gudjohnsen (of Chelsea fame) ten times. Fifa has looked into it but still not made their final decision.
But these sad facts do not spoil our love for the World Cup, nor do they hinder us from becoming football-crazy every four years, like all the other and forever bystanding “small nations” of this world. The Icelanders are in fact able to cheer for any team at all, except the Germans, who in our country are only supported by those three blonde-bearded guys who studied philosophy in Heidelberg. I don’t exactly know why we don’t like the Germans, but I guess it has something to do with their intolerable self-confidence. At the World Cup the Germans are always a bit like the fat and rich kid that used to play soccer with us after school. It didn’t matter if he was good or not; he had to play, because he owned the ball. At the World Cup the Germans own the ball. It’s made by adidas. This is why they can never go home until the last game is over.
So we, the Icelandic people, are able to go for any nation at all, as long as it’s on a winning streak. Those who don’t know anything about football support Brazil. Those who know something about football support France. And those who know everything about football favor England, since we’ve been watching FA football on every Saturday for the last 30 years. Then of course we all support Denmark, because they used to be a part of our republic. We only let go of them back in 1944 (we thought the Germans would never leave), probably the biggest mistake in our nation’s history. (Imagine Tomasson and Rommedahl playing for Iceland alongside... say 6 Gudjohnsens...) Then, finally, we have of course a very weak spot for the “small ones”, “the outsiders” like Camerun, Senegal, Ireland, The USA, Japan and yes, Korea.
The World Cup In Memoriam
You always remember where you were at each finals. You can measure your life in World Cups.
Being brought up in the harm-free idyll of middle-class Reykjavik, one of the biggest moments of my childhood was watching the final of 1966, England–W. Germany at Wembley, even though the broadcast was delayed for six months. It was shown on December 31st. (Icelandic TV only started in the fall and decided to save the big one for the holidays.) Our father even bought us a TV-set right before Christmas, just to be able to see this game. And it was spectacular. It hadn’t lost any of it’s excitement even though it had been lying on the TV-director’s shelf for half a year.
Came ’78 and I was a teenager working with a friend deep in the Norwegian woods counting trees. The huts didn’t have any TV’s, but at the time of the final-game we lost count of all the trees, made our way to the nearest farm we found on the map (a good two hour’s walk) and knocked on the door. An Amish-looking elderly couple let us in and lighted the TV. They had never heard of football and were amazed to see that there were no trees on the field. So, between four great goals, we were forced to listen to the old farmer tell us all about his favorite boyhood sport: “Woodball.”
By the time of the World Championships in Mexico ’86, I was a painter with a studio in Boston and had to watch the games on American TV, through a Budweiser advertising frame that compressed the broadcasted image into such a small square on the screen that you hardly could see the ball. The commentary was done by a CBS baseball-sportscaster who called every goal “a home-run”.
Still, you always loved the World Cup. We did everything we had to do, just to be able to see the World Cup. We waited for six months. We peered through beer-commercials. We even spoke Norwegian for two hours.
Becoming Kofi Annan
This time around I had become a writer and luckily found myself on the soccer-speaking side of the Atlantic, in self-proclaimed exile and isolation in a small village in Isola D’Elba, just off the coast of Tuscany, working on a novel.
In Italy, when you’re from the other side of the Alps, they all think you’re a “tedesco”; a German. (This is similar to our belief that all Italians are waiters.) And since I speak a bit more German than my six word Italian, the owner of the restaurant where I had my dinner every night, and who spoke fairly good German, quickly decided that I was in fact a German. As did all the German regulars in the restaurant. I tried to clear up this misunderstanding. I tried to say I was not a German, but my German was not good enough.
So, when the Germans beat the Saudis in their first game by 8 goals, all the tourists greeted me at dinner with: “Heute war doch spitze!” and “Toll, ja, nicht?”
Yeah, yeah, yeah... Klose enough.
Some of them came to the bar to watch their next game, Germany against Ireland, and promptly included me in their fan-club, until I quite subconsciously jumped off my seat cheering the Robbie Keane last minute goal. This created a very complicated discussion in the bar which ended with the local owner concluding that I was “irlandese!” and not (as I tried to say) “islandese”.
So, now I was not a German any more, but Irish, for the next couple of days at least. Until the Sweden-Nigeria game. The guys in the bar looked a bit suspiciously at the Irishman when they heard him say “jo!” after each Larsson goal. (My book did well in Sweden but the Nigerians haven’t shown any interest yet.)
Now I was really getting into the habitual Icelandic World Cup whoring: Let the good guys score! The Japanese were great, and the Koreans really took you by their energy and the incredible stadium-atmosphere. The Brazilians were on a roll, and even the U.S. team was hugely entertaining. And how about those Senegalese! Before the last group games I was feeling more and more like Kofi Annan. Wherever I went, I was always at home with my fellow countrymen. In the square, chatting with some American kids, I was a big Landon Donovan-fan. In the café I was really trying hard to comfort the local Polish priest. On the bus, asking two Swedish girls for directions, I was all “Heja Sverige!” And after the Italians had been deprived of two legal goals in one game, I had even learned to curse the “arbitro scandaloso!” in Italian.
I even made a friend. The only black man in the village; a lonely guy from Senegal who spoke French. He worked in a restaurant on the beach, washing dishes in the kitchen and was thus sadly unable to see most of his team’s games, since the TV was out in the dining area. This was symbolic: All the Senegalese players came from the French first division, deserted by their own stars after becoming World Champions in 1998. The Africans’ victory over France in the first game was a Revolution in the French cusine; the hungry dishwashers beating the jet-setters still stuffing themselves with the fruit of their past glory. The Senegal team could have gone all the way if they’d had a trainer other than Howard Stern.
Still my United Nations-mood proved a bit too strong, when my Senegal-friend stopped me short in my passionate monologue praising Diouf and Bouba Diop and African football in general, and asked where I was from? By then, my mind was all on the upcoming Camerun-Germany game, and again I, quite subconsciously, said:
“Oh... I’m from Camerun.”
But in a way it was true. This is the great thing about the World Cup. You can change your nationality every day. But then came the difficult games:
Denmark-England 0-3. As I said before, Denmark used to be part of our republic for... Yeah, for five minutes. Until that Ferdinand goal. The England team was by then quite impressive even though they were not playing their game anymore. Eriksson had taught them the Italian style of calcio. The Art of Waiting. Wait until your opponent makes a mistake. This worked quite well for them until the art of waiting became waiting for themselves to score.
Germany-United States 1-0. This game only became difficult for me because the film based on my book, “101 Reykjavik”, was released in Germany the night before the game and got really good reviews. So, I was suddenly feeling a bit sympathetic towards the kinsfolk of Kahn und Klose. But, having lived in 4 foreign countries, the United States is the only one I could ever call a “home”. It’s closer to my heart, as close as the Americans came beating the Germans. Well, of course it’s always really hard to beat the Germans. Even if you’re playing your ball, it’s still theirs.
Italy-Korea 1-2. I was in Italy. They had a great team. And they also have a fantastic TV-audience. You can hardly hear the broadcast for all the loud-mouths around you. But still, you had to admire the Koreans. They tried to play football all the time. This was probably the most dramatic game of the World Cup. It was like an opera; with 50.000 Koreans providing the music, the libretto containing a lucky hero (Ahn), an unfortunate one (Totti), and Dr. Evil himself: Mr. Byron Moreno, the Ecuadorian referee, by now the most hated man in Italy. And even though Byron (“poco Lord, molto Fifa”) and his linesmen made some really strange decisions, I thought then that this was just bad luck all over. I was the only one sitting in the bar watching the Koreans jump on top of Ahn after he scored the golden goal. All the 30 locals had rushed out in the square as soon as the ball crossed the line, and were fifteen minutes later seen asking some inquiring tourists: “What World Cup? Is there a World Cup going on?”
I did not believe the Italians in their conspiracy-theories. Not until deep into the Spain-Korea game. The day that football died.
Fifa Fair Pay
Well. We had our doubts. We had our suspicions. After the news of Fifa’s financial mismanagement and the accusations against its president, Mr. Sepp Blatter. After he banned his opponents to speak at the Fifa meeting just before his reelection at the eve of the World Cup. And after the sacking of Blatter’s assistant who betrayed his loyalty. And after seeing how the teams were placed in the first round groups. It did not look very good. It all made Fifa’s famous catchphrase “Fifa Fair Play” seem like a joke.
Germany was amongst the last countries to qualify for this World Cup, being forced to play a late qualifier against the Ukraine. Still it was first to be drawn in an easy group. Brazil the same. The Brazilians finished third (even behind Ecuador) in the South American preliminary group for the WC, but that was all forgotten when it came to place them in a group in Korea/Japan. All those eighteen games that Argentina played in such style to finish on top in the South American group came to nothing when the “fair-playing” hand of Fifa cast them in “the group of death” at the WC with England, Nigeria and Sweden, who all won their preliminary groups as well; England beating Germany for the first place. Fifa’s argument, I believe, is that Brazil and Germany deserved VIP-treatment because they won the World Cup sometime in the last century.
Well. In Fifa’s Fair Play some are fairer than others.
It was Fifa’s good old favoritism once again. Germany and Brazil will never be placed in “a group of death”. It seems like all World Cups are designed so that those two soccer giants can only meet in the final game. Because: The astonishing fact is that even though Germany and Brazil are the only two countries who’ve been present in all the tournaments since 1954, they have never met in a World Cup game, until now. Fifa finally had its dream come true. Thanks to the Brazilian Havelange, and thanks to the Swiss-German Blatter, and thanks to Korea, and all the wonderful linesmen and referees.
And actually it was worth the wait. The 2002 Final was one of the most entertaining football matches we ever saw. Maybe the best final ever. Even though they never had a chance, the Germans finally showed us that they have a good team. The final even made us forget all the preceding games’ dubious calls and disallowed goals. But only for 90 minutes.
That the Brazilians and the Germans were the ones to capitalize on the “only human”-mistakes of referees at the 2002 WC was to be expected. People didn’t even bother to complain. (The Belgians didn’t, and the Americans only vaguely so.) It would have sounded like whining about the weather. But that the on-pitch-officials were also favoring the Koreans came as a bigger surprise. Until we read all about Blatter’s new best friend, the main organizer of the World Cup, head of the Korean Football Association, as well as being the vice president of the Hyundai car-maker, the “Official Partner of Fifa’s World Cup”, and vice president of Fifa (or its president of vice), Mr. Chung Mong Yoon, who—as all these titles were not enough—also stands as a candidate in the upcoming presidential election in Korea.
Well, you had to feel sorry for the Spanish, for Raul and Morientes, Hierro and Casillas. Those truly great soccer players deserved more. The ever-humble and never-cheating Raul deserved his final. But how could the poor Spaniards know that they were not playing a World Cup football game but an important election rally in the Korean presidential election campaign?
This must be the reason why we saw all those “new faces” in charge of the Korean games in the second round: All those obscure figures from countries foreign to fast and first class football, sweating with stress and inexperience, in charge of immensely important World Cup games like Italy-Korea and Spain-Korea. It must be easier to put money in the pocket of a “nobody from nowhere going nowhere” than an experienced man of ambition and integrity. The Spanish tried all they could to get experienced linesmen for their game, but were blattered by Fifa. We have to wait for a real and honest whistleblower amongst the Fifa Refereeing Committee for the truth to come out. We have to wait until Fifa will clean it’s blattered image. We have to wait until Blatter’s Mafifa becomes our Fifa again.
You had the feeling that it all went according to a plan. Put the difficult Argentines in a group they will suffer from—and yes! even eliminate them—and then finish the other big Europeans off with referees and linesmen from obscure places: An inexperienced Ecuadorian referee for the Italians, an Egyptian for the Spaniards, with linesmen from Trinidad and Uganda, of all places; all in favor of Korea, who then would bow out with dignity and allow the Germans to proceed to the final. This is what you heard, in every bar and every square, from tourists and locals alike; that Mr. Hyundai only had paid for the semifinals.
The Italians were the hardest hit by the “village referees” as the great Vieri called them. Five goals disallowed and one ridiculous red card that looked very much like a Korean credit card. But when the Trinidad linesman Ragoonath lifted his flag on Spanish Morientes’ golden goal against Korea, and ruled the ball out of play, he ruled all of us out of the world’s biggest play. We didn’t have faith in it anymore. The World had lost its Cup.
It took the genius of Ronaldo to shoot us back into WC-mood. We were all happy that the Brazilians won, and we were all very happy to see Ronaldo get his deserved place in history. Brazilian captain Kafu would surely have lifted the golden trophy in any case, amateur linesmen or not. But still the final game was haunted by players who could have been there. The ghost of Raul constantly ran across the screen...
We used to love our World Cup. We used to do anything for our World Cup. We used have complete faith in our World Cup. But not anymore. This World Cup was a disgrace. It seems to have been sold to an Asian car-maker with presidential ambitions. All we can hope for is that Fifa got a Fair Pay for it.
Hallgrimur Helgason is an Icelandic writer. His most recent novel is “101 Reykjavik” (Rosinante)
Tuesday, July 23, 2002
Monday, July 22, 2002
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