FIFA WORLD CUP SOCCER

Still feel it; it was here. What a major event this has been, and how well it all went off.

As a soccer ignoramus (always thought it a boring game for sissies who never actually got down to doing much) the finals meant little to me, but my, how we enjoyed it.

First it was all the fun and hype. Flags and vuvuzelas, unprecedented camaraderie and bonhomie. Strangers of all races grinning at one another, and all of us united in our anxious hope that Bafana Bafana would do us proud.

Next came the wonder at the beauty and majesty of our new stadium. Our roads were tarred, the new airport opened in time.

My man bought a SA flag for the car but then I had to wrestle it out of him to put it on the window. He didn't want it spoiled. He even got out the antique hunting horn and self-consciously blurped it at Lifestyle. Just once before ducking back into the car, but feeling he had PARTICIPATED.

After all this we actually felt like watching our boys play. They did amazingly well. How intimidating (cruel?) to have to play against teams so much further up the ability list, and in front of millions.

Observations:

                 1. The skill of a soccer player is now appreciated. That ball handling (footling?) is 
                    magic. The pontificaters who criticize the players from the side would probably fall on 
                    their faces trying it. Someone kicked a ball backwards over  his head, placing it exactly 
                    where he wanted it. Nobody fell out the the stands in ecstasy at this feat so one must 
                    gather it is not unusual.

2.    The goals are too small.

3.    The commentators deserve a medal for rapid babbling and managing all those names.

4.    Soccer players should have their names changed. Messy? Was there really a Moulin Rouge?

5.    Soccer is most frustrating. They must be dying to grab the ball and run. No wonder the spectators go on the rampage afterwards. All those almost goals. Wild excitement.. . commentator's voice rises in ecstasy . . . missed. Or stopped. Ugh!

6.    For all the joy, it was a sad time. Visions of highly decorated spectators looking stunned, players weeping as years of hard work crumbled to nothing. Heavy stuff.

7.    Don't become a coach.  They looked desperately miserable all the time. Felt like offering them a drink.

8.    A nice change now would be a good, bloody, rough rugby game where gigantic men (with nice familiar names like Hyena, Pierri-weepu, Chilli Boy and Beeeeast)  really fight for their lives.  They grab the ball, tackle each other, bleed but carry on, and the scores soar . If we could only win!