It was that summer again when people all around seemed excited about the funny game where a bunch of guys in shorts pursue a round lump around a rectangular field.
When the football jerseys of various nationalities were worn for aesthetic hollowness rather than enduring honour.
When the players were more often venerated for the sleek coiffure they sported than for their silken touch of the ball.
When the games were followed for the fodder they provided for imaginative updates and not for their tactical plots.
When the aliases of teams were bandied about in foreign tongue for topical charlatanism and not for historical perspective.
When the undivided loyalty to a team was purely on the basis of the recent success on the pitch rather than original affiliations.
A lot of things were said of the teams and players, which the fastidious purist in me ached to hear.
The Hidekguti, Kocsis and Puskas triumvirate of the Magic Magyars couldn't overcome the steel of the resilient Die Mannschaft at the Miracle of Bern in 1954. That was a Mean German Machine. The current side resembles a fun and slick joyride in comparison.
The humiliation of the Seleceao in the semis wasn't entirely due to the crack in the vertebra of a certain lanky 21 year old bloke and the subsequent national mourning. There was also tactical naivety at play with the buccaneering full backs showing scant regard for their primary job role and leaving spaces for the opposition free-roaming bohemians to exploit throughout the tournament, crescendoing into the massacre at Belo Horizonte.
Lionel Messi for all his unbelievable exploits for "Mes Que Un Club" has not shone at the international level like some of his luminary compatriots of the past. Speaking of him in the same breath for the La Albiceleste as the electrifying Maradona or the prodigious Kempes would be blasphemous.
The long-haired retro stars directed by Rinus Michels and featuring the irrepressible
Johan Cryuff showed the world the beauty of harmonised attacking flair and the unadulterated joy of Total Football in the 70s. The Oranje side of 2014 rely largely on the pace and cunning of their two nimble left footed forwards.
Who cares for the decade and a half of watching the game being played across various leagues, countries and tournaments. Who cares for the infinite time spent going through the previews, reviews, analysis, reports of the innumerable matches. Who cares for the insights gleaned from watching and re-watching the official documentaries of many a competition. Who cares for the numerous books, articles, editorials read in an attempt to assess and understand the beautiful game in all its glory.
Who cares, when your flashy mobile app gives the popular predictions and the funny tit-bits. Who cares, when the sports section of your favourite newspaper shares oversimplified stats and juicy WAG stories. Who cares, when you have a hilarious joke about the Suarez bite or the secret diet of the sculpted Ronaldo.
It wasn't enough for me to back France, the team I have supported since inception or the secondary inclination to Italy courtesy of the Juventus connection. I was expected to support one of the two teams in every match played. That was the whole point of watching the contest. After all what sort of a person would follow a match for the clash of opposing tactical philosophies. What sort of a person would view the game for the defensive solidarity and passing proficiency exhibited. What sort of a person would see the contest for the skill and technique on display. After all what sort of person follows the sport for the sake of sport.
The vast majority would have preferred to see the dream contest of a Brazil Vs Argentina or the galactic clash of a Ronaldo Vs Messi in the finals. It wasn't to be. Instead it was going to be a battle between two golden generations cultivated over the last few years by meticulous harnessing of alluring talent for collective brilliance. Only a faithful bore like the author could see the beauty and romance of such a match-up.
After all, football is a simple game. 22 men chase a ball for 90 minutes and at the end, the Germans always win.
When the football jerseys of various nationalities were worn for aesthetic hollowness rather than enduring honour.
When the players were more often venerated for the sleek coiffure they sported than for their silken touch of the ball.
When the games were followed for the fodder they provided for imaginative updates and not for their tactical plots.
When the aliases of teams were bandied about in foreign tongue for topical charlatanism and not for historical perspective.
When the undivided loyalty to a team was purely on the basis of the recent success on the pitch rather than original affiliations.
A lot of things were said of the teams and players, which the fastidious purist in me ached to hear.
The Hidekguti, Kocsis and Puskas triumvirate of the Magic Magyars couldn't overcome the steel of the resilient Die Mannschaft at the Miracle of Bern in 1954. That was a Mean German Machine. The current side resembles a fun and slick joyride in comparison.
The humiliation of the Seleceao in the semis wasn't entirely due to the crack in the vertebra of a certain lanky 21 year old bloke and the subsequent national mourning. There was also tactical naivety at play with the buccaneering full backs showing scant regard for their primary job role and leaving spaces for the opposition free-roaming bohemians to exploit throughout the tournament, crescendoing into the massacre at Belo Horizonte.
Lionel Messi for all his unbelievable exploits for "Mes Que Un Club" has not shone at the international level like some of his luminary compatriots of the past. Speaking of him in the same breath for the La Albiceleste as the electrifying Maradona or the prodigious Kempes would be blasphemous.
The long-haired retro stars directed by Rinus Michels and featuring the irrepressible
Johan Cryuff showed the world the beauty of harmonised attacking flair and the unadulterated joy of Total Football in the 70s. The Oranje side of 2014 rely largely on the pace and cunning of their two nimble left footed forwards.
Who cares for the decade and a half of watching the game being played across various leagues, countries and tournaments. Who cares for the infinite time spent going through the previews, reviews, analysis, reports of the innumerable matches. Who cares for the insights gleaned from watching and re-watching the official documentaries of many a competition. Who cares for the numerous books, articles, editorials read in an attempt to assess and understand the beautiful game in all its glory.
Who cares, when your flashy mobile app gives the popular predictions and the funny tit-bits. Who cares, when the sports section of your favourite newspaper shares oversimplified stats and juicy WAG stories. Who cares, when you have a hilarious joke about the Suarez bite or the secret diet of the sculpted Ronaldo.
It wasn't enough for me to back France, the team I have supported since inception or the secondary inclination to Italy courtesy of the Juventus connection. I was expected to support one of the two teams in every match played. That was the whole point of watching the contest. After all what sort of a person would follow a match for the clash of opposing tactical philosophies. What sort of a person would view the game for the defensive solidarity and passing proficiency exhibited. What sort of a person would see the contest for the skill and technique on display. After all what sort of person follows the sport for the sake of sport.
The vast majority would have preferred to see the dream contest of a Brazil Vs Argentina or the galactic clash of a Ronaldo Vs Messi in the finals. It wasn't to be. Instead it was going to be a battle between two golden generations cultivated over the last few years by meticulous harnessing of alluring talent for collective brilliance. Only a faithful bore like the author could see the beauty and romance of such a match-up.
After all, football is a simple game. 22 men chase a ball for 90 minutes and at the end, the Germans always win.
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