It ain't over till it's over!

Towards the end of the match, I was asked to come up with a hypothetical headline to sort of capture the amazing spectacle that had earlier unfolded before our eyes. "Man U Thrashed at Theatre of Doom". Nah too long. "Red Devils slaughtered like lambs". No punch. "4 shoved up Man U's ass". Too vulgar. "Liverpool spanks Man U into meek submission". Too erotic. And my tongue started twisting as I was launching into the next one, which sounded like "Day of the Triffids at Old Trafford"... Writing headlines is not an easy job.

Why not just "Liverpool beat Man U 4-1", asked my incredulous friend. No! We Liverpool fans had been waiting for a day like this for a long time coming. It would have been a journalstic travesty to let Man U off with just any other headline. For almost 2 decades(can anyone even fathom the length of 20 years?), Liverpool had been living in the shadows of a dominant Manchester United team. If there was any team who had gotten on the wrong end of a stuffing, Liverpool would be it. Painful memories of a Jamie Carragher double--own goal doubles-- way back in 1999 came flooding back to my mind. A last min O'Shea goal at Anfield a few years back nearly set off an internal haemorrhage. At last, I managed to make peace with the devil and actually admired how Manchester United make the art of playing effective soccer seem so easy. Why? All you need to do is to send your defenders up at the last minute and pop your head at goal. Liverpool had become so pathetic that a draw at Anfield was considered a gift from the gods.

In many ways, we found our lives running in parallel with the fortunes of the football club we support. Somehow cheering for a chronic loser seem to condition one to be a loser in life. We learn to accept our lot, and learn to accept that the others will always have it better, and easier. Liverpool fans tend to hang their heads a tad lower, and smoke, and read Camus.

Until today, that is. We simply could not believe our eyes as the goals went in one after another. Manchester United given a hiding at Old Trafford? The expensively-assembled team of arrogant entertainers taught a footballing lesson from the gentlemen of Merseyside? It was like George Bush pleading for forgiveness for his Iraq fiasco. But happened it did. The last time Man U was thrashed at home by any team was in 1992, and by Liverpool, 1936. 1936! John Lennon and the state of Israel weren't even born yet. Perhaps it was the genius that was Torres. Perhaps it was the inspiration that was Gerrard. Or perhaps the industrious Kuyt, or the exuquisiteky-skilled Aurelio. (I always tend to notice the underdogs, even in a team of underdogs.) It didn't matter why. When Andrea Dossena signed off the match with a lob that floated into goal with such careless mockery, we were already delirious with joy and pride. With new-found self-confidence, and boasting pools of testesterones we never knew we had, we roared ourselves silly with delight. And with each roar, the years of frustration just melted away. And they always say, "Even the dogs have their day". But I say, this is a new world order. If it's always about fighting anyway, let's just fight to the end.

As for the headline, how about this: Liverpool strips Man U off their cloak of invinsibility. Summer is coming, but Man U may yet catch a chill they're never forget.

France vs Romania JokeFest

Football journalists were busy whipping out their poison pens after France and Romania threatened to bring the beautiful game into disrepute, an accusation more often levied at "enemies of football" such as Jose Mourinho and er..Marco Materazzi. Even England, like an unfortunate kid picked on for no apparent reasons, was not spared the collateral damage. From perennial underachievers to plucky minnows? Ha!

From Guardian:
To be fair, Romania have only ever won one game in the Euros and that was against plucky minnows England.

From International Herald Tribune:
On a mild and sunny evening, the best that could be said of the tired spectacle was that the grass was a particularly restful shade of green and, to the naked eye, appeared to be growing well.

Unfortunately, there was nothing of wit from Soccernet this time. When it comes to wit, no other publication does it better than Guardian. Here are some Guardian gems to savour(drawn from other occasions and in no particular order):

[England-Croatia]
After all the debate over the shape England ought to adopt, Croatia decreed that it would be a severely dented one.

[France-Italy WC 2006]
Zidane looked relaxed, sharing a joke with Fabien Barthez who, coincidentally, has often been described as a joke.

[France-Romania Euro 2008]
For the first time in a year or so, Malouda broke dangerously down the left. He jinked into the box but his shot sailed somewhere over the Alps.

[France-Brazil WC 2006]
Now that the over-hyped Ronaldinho has been absolutely rubbish in the entire World Cup as well as the Champions League final, thus shrinking continuously in the big stage, could he be dubbed the New Old Thierry Henry?

[Man U-?]
Wayne Rooney struggled to contain his fiery temper and screamed 'You Kant' at a linesman when called for offside, and then 'Foucault' at the referee. Rare for a player to react to an unwelcome decision by critiquing the philosophical underpinnings of the rules.

Why Liverpool?

Why, of all things, would I fall in love with a perennial loser like Liverpool? There was no denial the stinging mockery in the question often posed to me, after yet another disastrous English League result.

Yes, it's been torturous, even downright maddening at times. In Gerard Houllier's time, you wished you could spin him like a gyroscope after yet another "corner turned". Could we also rotate Benitez somehow, churning his innards inside out after yet another rotational policy that backfired? But some things are inexplicable, much like how we struggle to explain away romantic love. When things got so dark that you think God had switched off the lights at Anfield, The Cheeky One switched it on again with something like this:

Hapless against Barnsley, imperious against Inter Milan (check out the cross-field passes--sublime!) there is simply no team, not even France, like Liverpool. Stay away from Liverpool if you prefer the mundane, but if you happen to enjoy a bit of unpredictability in your life, hop onto this rollercoaster. But don't ask me where it's taking us. I don't have a clue!

SuperCool says...

...with a shrug of his Gallic shoudlers, "It's football, isn't it? When a game goes to penalties you have to accept it. It's the way things are sometimes."

Ominous....ominous...

No bravado talks, no sneering, no juvenile talking down like the boys from Spain, the Brazilian coach Carlos Parreira only has a venerable air of respect for France. In fact, he got it spot on with his quiet observations --'Our rivals are no ordinary team, they were world champions.'

'We know what awaits us,' he continues. 'They are in no hurry to play their game, they play with a certain calmness and suddenly explode with a fast manoeuvre.'

His words carry a certain aroma of ancient wisdom, notably from China, when Sun Tze decreed elegantly in his Art of War:

知己知彼, 百戰百勝

Tersely intepreted as Know thyself, know thy enemy, a hundred battles won, will France perish by the Brazilian sword of wisdom?

The ghost of 1998

It's time to lay to rest the ghost of 1998. Wasn't it France who lifted the trophy in one of the most entertaining competitions ever?

Ronaldo's ghost. The final, in which France triumphed 3-0, was forever remembered by Zidane's goals as much as Ronaldo's supposed mystery illness that caused him to appear listless during the match. The world has not, and could not, give due credit to this French team, who, before the tournament, has been written off by all and sundry. They could not be blamed, for history has shown that France has been woefully inadequate when it comes to anything requiring some mental toughness and real fights. Wars and football matches are just beyond most Frenchmen it seems.

But this squad is special. Those who have witnessed only the French triumphs in 1998 and 2000 would not realise some distinct oddities about this squad. For it was the exact squad who contrived to almost draw with Andorra in 1999 Euro Qualifying Match, but for Franck LeBeouf's last min goal, and the same team who bored me to near death in a 0-0 draw with Czech Rep in Euro 96. The boredom was so intense that I thought it impossible to be upstaged again, mumbling professors in antiseptic lecture halls notwithstanding.

The same team brought as much grief as joy to the full-time supporters like me, beating the likes of Portugal, Spain, England, Italy, but they have their Senegals and Greeces. For lack of a better word in English, doppenganger, German for shadow or double, is the best thing to describe France. This France team has the knack of playing in fits and starts, but shadow copying what the opponents do. Play against a slick team, and France will be slick. Play against a team completely bereth of ideas, and France will be completely ruderless. Play against a samba team, and France will samba through the night.

So, come Sunday, show the world how these band of doppelgangers can beat Brazil in their own game and lay to rest the ghost of Ronaldo!

It's all Park Ji Sung's fault

Following the English penchant for laying blame on everything from dry grasses, frivolous girlfriends, the scorching German heat for their less-than-stellar performances on the field, it's time now for the Spanish to look for a scapegoat for their demise in the World Cup 2nd round.

Spain have gone into the tournament looking like the regal conquistadors of medieval yore, boasting somewhat threatening names like Torres, Iniesta and Pernia. They conjured a majestic 4-0 win over Ukraine, followed it up with a gritty come-from-behind 3-1 win over Tunisia, and rounded up Round 1 by fielding a team of reserves against the luckless Saudi Arabians---for all their money in the world, their search for a replacement for the 37-year-old Ali Daei have so far been futile.

The stage was all set for Spain to impose their latin influence on the latter stages in the world cup. Such a young team, averaging 24 years of age, and such boundless talents like Fabregas and Torres, who run the fields like the wind, they are the neutral's favourite.

But for a quirky change of fate in the other group match. France was casually strolling to a victory against the Koreans, which would most probably give France the top table position, steering France and Spain well clear of each other's path. 83min--Park Ji Sung had no right to be there, but pop the goal he did into the French net. 1-1. Spain has no chance against France. It was written in the stars.

So was it youthful naviety? Was it Raul the not-so-golden boy of Spanish football? Was it Alonso who inadventently headed the ball back to his own goal? Did the Spanish backline play too far out? No, it's all Park Ji Sung's fault.

Anyway, what's a World Cup without some Spanish tears? Ahh....some things, comfortingly, never change.

Henry and Saha -- dream pairing?

My Winning Eleven buddy, with whom I have spent the better part of my life hunched over the console box, have often dispensed advice as we prepare ourselves for yet another England-France friendly. "No way I'll put Trezeguet as a striker. Put Saha lar!" As advices go, they often fall on deaf ears.

Try as I might vehemently deny, I'm actually quite a sentimentalist, and a pretty disturbing one at that. I could just see myself as a really bad manager, and an even worse referee. What? Drop McManaman from my first-team, even if I'm painfully aware of his inability to pass, dribble or shoot. What? Award Manchester United a penalty? With abundant goodwill, I'll most probably just wave any appeals away, with a yellow-card for diving if he happens to call himself "Ruud".

So there, Trezeguet happens to be a player I kinda admire. I have known him since the days of ....Championship Manager 2, when he and Thierry Henry were bosom buddies under Wenger at Monaco. Wenger and a few other coaches (including virtual ones like me) were raving about the two French fledgings. Nobody really listened, even after Trezeguet banged in a 30 yard stunner to knock Manchester United out of a Champions League quarter-final, back in 1997. The seeds of my admiration for him was sown.

His golden moment came, not in World Cup 98, but 2 years later in the classic final against Italy, when he became an overnight star by scoring the golden goal which clinched Euro 2000 for France, baring his emanciated frame in the process. It was an image that burnt forever upon the memories of all who watched that match, whether they liked it or not. Ah! Those were heady days indeed when France ruled the soccer world with a Napoleonic fist.

Since then, he's established himself as a top striker for Juventus, the closest thing to a fox-in-the-box in the modern game, though he never really endeared himself to the Turin faithful the way Platini or del Piero did. But that's just because he's too quiet, too selfless and too thin.

Saha, on the other hand, did not possess such a polished pedigree. Not born in Argentina like Trezeguet was, he plied his trade in unfashionable Fulham, before compounding the problem by committing the cardinal sin of joining the Red Devils. Somehow, I am never truly excited by his blistering pace and deadly finishing, which he demonstrates on a weekly basis for Alex Ferguson. Therein lies the whole problem, I'm utterly biased when it comes to Manchester United.

Raymond Domenach, though, has put one ahead of me. Henry and Saha have been named in attack against Denmark in a warm up friendly. Putting aside my tribal rivalries and my feeling sorry for Trezeguet, I shall wish them both the best tonight.

The goal that brings me tears of happiness

It's a French thing

If you, like me, get high from reading bad news, you should seriously consider supporting France. Now, those England fans would be up in arms to contest what they believe is their sole ownership over the domain of bad luck, what with unfortunate injuries at the most inopportune moments on the most important players. "Metartasal" has catapulted itself onto the English consciousness in recent times, even the grannies there can give you a verbal diagnosis if you are ever in need of one.

No, I don't mean bad news that boil down to strange quirks of nature or fate, rather, those that you take a gun and shoot yourself in the foot, or the metarsasal as an Englishman would be quick to point out, and you go, "fuck.....that HURTS!"

So every morning, I eagerly turn my copy of The Straits Times over its side, bypassing the truly depressing "Thousands perish in quake" and going straight for the jugular. "Thousands boo France team". Just a few days ago, Coupet walking out on France team made mini headlines in my local newspapers and brought a wry smile to my face. But booing your own team for no particular reason just about ranks up there in the "shooting yourself in the foot" category.

'You would never see that in England,' said Henry. 'Even when we're losing at Highbury, the fans keep cheering and supporting us. Fabien received a yellow card at one stage and you had the impression that it made the fans happy.'

Liverpool forward Djibril Cisse was also surprised by the hostile reaction from the fans.
'I can't believe it', he said. 'In England such a thing would be unthinkable. Maybe it's just a cultural thing but it is a problem.'

So there you have it. It's a cultural thing, some sort of national pasttime. It's some innate French need to be, to borrow from Hokkien colloquial, "sibei kwailan", a trait which filled our history textbooks with unapologetic revolutions and our soccer annals with unforgettable anecdotes. Just ask the Crystal Palace fan who was famously kung-fu kicked into notoriety.

Trawling the Net for more updated France news, I was not disappointed with the day's offerings:
"Cisse unwanted at Liverpool"
"Trezeguet may play in Seria B"
"Giuly swears never to play for France"

Maybe its about time to call it a day. C'est la vie.

World Cup:France Watch

The die is cast. Raymond Domenach has selected his 23 men tasked to lead France to glory once again. But his whirlwind decisions left a lot of fans in its wake grieving at his list, which was bizzare to say the least. My heartfelt condolences goes out to Ludovic Giuly, and to lesser extent, Pires and Coupet, whose place in the France setup was revealed to him in one ego-crumbling "Barthez shall (forever) be my No 1" phrase.

What? Barthez the Botak? Bathez the spitter? Barthez the clown? Whatever incarnation this Barthez fella comes in, he does not inspire fear or command respect. The highlight of his Manchester career was marked not by goalkeeping heroics but by one particular incident where he valiantly tried to con di Canio to stop playing football just as he was about to score, hoping that the wily Italian would take to his tricks. Well, as the story goes, Manchester went out 1-0 to West Ham, and his place in the goalkeeping gaffes is assured.

>Bartez Hailing Taxi

What irks me though, is that Barthez was banned for 6 months this season for spitting at a referee whose decisions he did not take particularly well to. So, 6 months of idly his time away as Marseille struggled, while Coupet toiled hard in a Lyon team which was going places both domestically and European wide. Coupet deservedly picked up the French goalkeeper of the year award, but that, somehow, wasn't good enough. Domenach insists that he prizes experience over competency, but how does he explain away his decision to pick Chimbonda and Franck Ribery, 2 uncapped French players? He didn't. He muttered something about the planets and stars on the day the names were released and strutted off-stage, without fielding a single question from the reporters. Glenn Hoddle would have been proud.

And what about Giuly, Pires, Mexes, Anelka, Dacourt, Zebina, Malbranque and half dozen other French names plying their silky trades across Europe? Instead, we have Jean-Alain Boumsong, someone whose Mum would be proud of if he can find his way home everyday, and Alou Diarra, a Liverpool and Bayern reject. How many more rejects do you need to claim to earn the enthusiastic approval of Domenach?

Only recently, Coupet, unable to tolerate the clowning Barthez and the delightfully unreasonable Domenach any longer, almost walked out of a team-building session up in the Alps. Suddenly, the Les Bleus are living up to their names too literally.

It would be good if these woes consigned themselves off-field. Unfortunately, France have never acquired the art of free scoring. When they had the likes of Dugarry and Guivar'ch, strikers who can't score in a Thai massage parlour ( phrase coined specially for Crouch though) it was understandable, but the problem becomes more perplex with the likes of Henry and Trezeguet leading the front line.

People have questioned just how someone can dazzle like only true-blue legends do on a Saturday, then play like Boumsong WITH Boumsong on a midweek, then turn on his va-va-vroom again on a Saturday. With his usual nonchalance, Henry waves that away with his usual sage-like demeanour, "I'm not a machine, you know." Fair enough. His achievements at Arsenal have rendered him virtually untouchable. Referees think twice before yellow-carding him, and mere mortals struggle to breathe in his divine presence.

(For Thierry's sake, Henry's French, not English, despite his blessings to England, and his name is pronounced ON-RI, not HON-RI, or HEN-RI, or ON-NE-RI or any other permutations you can come up with. I will not hesitate to stop you in your tracks and correct you on the spot.)

Lastly, woe betide Zizou the saviour designate, who, at the ripe old age of 34, besides worrying about receding hairlines and impudent kids, has to somehow find a way to inspire his jaded bunch to the Jules Rimet. Things do not bode well when a nation places so much expectation on the square shoulders of any being, man or god. Just yesterday, France managed to overcome Mexico at their favourite stadium 1-0, courtesy of Florent Malouda. But there was another compelling statistic which releases a sense of foreboding to any France fan out there: Zidane gave the ball away 7 times, and was so awful he had to be substituted by Vikash Dhorasoo after half-time.

Facing a tigerish South Korea, a youthful Swiss and an athletic Togo team, is another first-round exit on the cards for the moribund French?

Auditioning as a Football365 writer

the aftermath of the Chelsea-Liverpool shambles of a match. sigh...

'I am in a hurry because I must go to the hospital because the injury was so serious that maybe he (Robben) will be there for one week,'
--Benitez, in no mood for the press conference, as his heart reached out for poor Robben

'I have just finished a big game, a game that we won and played very well. A game where we scored one of the most beautiful goals in the Premiership this season and the referee didn't allow it. A game that leaves us in the countdown to be champions. A game that gave us the 50th victory in the Premiership in the last one and a half years. A game that out of nine against Liverpool in this period, we lost one. A game that proved we are the best team in the country and so I am happy with all things.'
--Mourinho, giving an inspired speech on why he is contented with life at the moment

'Why should I comment on Rafa's words. He can say what he wants but sometimes we say things without thinking, especially after we lose."
--Mourinho, ever so empathatic towards fellow colleagues

'When they are defending and the result is not against them, they are fantastic and defend very well. But if you score first against them you know that you have great conditions to do what we did at Anfield.'
--The Special One, a self-proclaimed guru on many things in life, offers advice on some random topic

'What kind of professional can you be against another professional if you leave the other player not playing for three games. It is crazy.'
--Benitez, on poor Reina not playing for the next 3 games, conveniently forgetting how a certain Jerzy Dudek has not played for 50 games. Talk about favouritism.

'William Gallas was touching Reina but did Reina dive? No!'
--Benitez, on a parallel universe where people are expected to crumble onto the floor when when touched

Blogging is addictive!

Immediately after viewing my first post, I got this un-explainable adrenalin which forces me to post again.
Wonder if this email to some colleagues would work perfectly fine as a blog entry in itself.

Random Soccer Musings

the most often heard sentence in soccer commentary nowadays...next season they (the relegated team) will face Mansfield in place of Manchester, Crewe in place of Chelsea, and Luton in place of(duh....you saw it coming miles away. But for the record, its LIVERPOOL! Yes, Liverpool is officially a big club which any other self-respecting teams would die to play with. But of coz, they are after all the Champion's Champions, come end of May). Ok, my grouge is this:why can't commentators be slightly more creative? At least pick words which actually rhyme...like "Swansea" for Chelsea.

Pity Fowler, condemning his club and his best fren Macca to a European-less season... Last minute penalty for man City, and he kicked it like Beckham...poor and predictable. Actually Macca doesn't care. He's been warming the benches all the way from Spain to England. Oh...I think he's not even in the teamsheet nowadays. He's lost his right to warm benches. Sigh....my fallen idol.

the celebration scenes at West Bromwich Albion was simply astonishing. Thewhole pitch was flooded with supporters in a never-seen-before sight on TV. How thrilling to finish 17th! YEA!!!!! Even Chelsea's fans never celebrate until like dat. One would think that it would be better to finish 17thrather than 1st.

West Bromwich Albion is actually pronounced West Bromwee Chiao Bien. The French Liaision at work! I love languages with liaisions, which was partly why I like French. Heard from a colleague Tamil is another language full of liaisions. I tested her with some Tamil of my own ."Yuan-de-bu-nen-na!", and true enough, she din understand a word of it. So she's juz bullshitting.

Winning Eleven on PC is realli damn shiok. Graphics are unfortunately much better than the playstation2. ( PC 1 Playstation 0 Mac -9999) It was $800 well spent! It would be very very very very very difficult for me to get out of my house ever again. Unless of course, my boss is not on leave and I have to report for work.

And lastly, this is an official invite to ES the trophy girlfriend to join the trophy girlfriends gang that Mediacorp Djs bring along with them. You can always sit around looking pretty while admiring the footwork of Glenn, me, Daniel and Mark.

So? I get to rub shoulders with celebrities. I get girls coming off the street saying "I love you" to me. And I get fellow bus passengers trying to stab each other with pen-knives on a Monday morning bus to work. That's my life...the life nobody believes.

Wah! 8:00pm! Going home liao lor! Once again, kudoes to blogging!