A Fever Pitch
SEOUL — The banner hanging from the Miyagi Stadium stands read, “Godzilla Comes To Kick!”--an intriguing substitution suggestion Japan Coach Philippe Troussier should have considered more seriously during his team’s 1-0 second-round loss to Turkey.
According to the scouting reports, Godzilla is quite the physical presence inside the penalty area. A little slow, perhaps, but tough to defend in the open field. And what about Mothra, who also didn’t play a minute?
It’s common knowledge throughout the soccer world: Mothra is very, very good in the air.
Troussier decided to resign after Japan’s elimination from the World Cup. And, of course, he had to. A coach who doesn’t use all the resources at his avail hasn’t done the complete job.
Only one sci-fi monster has been unleashed during this tournament. It is called Fevernova, and it has wreaked havoc on the countries of Japan and South Korea.
No one expected it when 32 soccer teams arrived here in late May. Everyone realized that soccer can be an unpredictable game and that every World Cup has its share of upsets. But everyone also knew that once a World Cup reaches the second round, the ageless forces of nature--Italy’s defense, Argentina’s grit--begin to exert themselves and the tournament rocks back into its customary rhythms.
That hasn’t happened here, not by a longshot, and there are many of those still hanging around in the quarterfinals. Brazil, England and Germany somehow made it to the final eight, but everywhere else, there has been panic on the pitch and hysteria in the streets.
Blame it on the ball.
Blame it on the Fevernova.
Every four years, the World Cup rolls out a new official ball. This year’s model, the Adidas Fevernova, has been especially insidious, on several levels. First there is its color: a slightly goldish tint, apparently designed for its subliminal potential, making defenders and attackers alike drool like Pavlov’s dog as they vie for the golden prize at the end of the line.
Then there’s the hallucinogenic logo design, which looks like a spinning Ninja weapon and creates the optical illusion that it is wobbling like a knuckleball every time it is lofted in the air. Defenders trying to head the thing have complained about it from the start. England’s David Beckham, who is paid by Adidas, raves that this ball is more accurate than any previously used in a World Cup.
Try telling that to Christian Vieri, whose shank from the six-yard line against South Korea will be haunting Italians for the next four years, or generations.
Once the Fevernova started bouncing, all bets were off. It began by caroming crazily off the backside of France’s Emmanuel Petit to Senegal’s Papa Bouba Diop to the back of the net, and off we went.
Three weeks later, the fever continues to spread by the minute.
You cannot sleep in Seoul on the night of a South Korea match. After the overtime upset of Italy, the red-clad masses clogging the streets were still cheering, still honking car horns and still banging drums well past 1 in the morning.
You can, however, get a seat on the subway. From kickoff to final whistle, the streets and subway stations are ghost-town empty, with an entire nation, it seems, hunkered indoors to root on the Reds. Or inside makeshift “virtual stadiums”--temporary bleachers erected around a massive television screen, such as the one next to the international media center. For South Korea-Italy, it was packed to capacity and then some, with hundreds spilling out onto the sidewalk, all wearing red T-shirts, all on their toes and craning to catch a glimpse of the action.
Those red T-shirts, by the way, are the hottest souvenirs at the World Cup. Some are short-sleeved, some are sleeveless, but all carry the same off-kilter slogan: “BE THE REDS.”
It’s very easy for a foreigner to fit in here. Just peel off a few thousand won for a T-shirt, join the crowd, be the Reds and root enthusiastically for “Korea Team Fighting,” as the Korea Telephone-sponsored advertisements tout the home team.
Or you can wrap yourself in a massive, full-color silk-screened Guus Hiddink bib. A man outside the media center was selling these bibs--as big as beach towels--out of his van. You buy this cloth image of the South Korea coach, the pores on his face as large as sesame seeds, and then you tie the upper corners around your neck and walk away trying not to trip on the bottom corners.
Hiddink has become a cult hero here, with South Korean government and soccer officials already offering him honorary citizenship, free first-class air travel for four years, free beer for life and, possibly, a statue in his honor. The newspaper Chosun Ilbo has also proposed giving Hiddink his own Korean name: “Hie Dung-gu”--which means “happy while climbing to the top.”
There’s another name being planned for Luciano Gaucci, president of the Italian soccer club Perugia. Ahn Jung-Hwan, who scored the winning goal for South Korea against Italy, plays for Perugia--or, at least, used to. Gaucci, deeply disturbed by the result, announced that Perugia was immediately releasing Ahn, saying, “Ahn will never play for Perugia again.... What did you expect me to do? That I would keep a player who ruined Italian football?”
The fever can get ugly, and it can be dangerous. In Suwon, Spain’s overtime struggle with Ireland had Spanish television broadcasters all but swooning as their team saw star forward Raul limp to the sideline, saw another player red-carded, saw Ireland equalize on a 90th-minute penalty to send the match into overtime and, eventually, a shootout.
As exhausted players from both sides took turns missing their penalties--two Spanish players missed the net entirely--one broadcaster appeared to be doubled over in pain. Finally, when Gaizka Mendieta converted to clinch it for Spain, the broadcaster leaped from his chair and began hyperventilating while screaming in between gulps of oxygen.
“GOAL! GOAL! GOAL! GOAL! GOAL! GOOOOOOOOAAALLL!!!”
He was still screaming when he picked up his chair, raised it over his head and brought it down hard on the concrete beneath his feet, again and again, hammering the metal legs so hard they almost bent.
“GOAL! GOAL! GOAL! GOAL! GOAL! GOOOOOOOOAAALLL!!!”
The fever doesn’t subside, even if your team already has. A half-hour after the Spain-Ireland match, writers waiting for a shuttle bus had their postmatch banter interrupted by the lilting strains of a soulful, mournful tune.
Trudging out toward the street were three green-shirted Ireland fans, dealing with the trauma best they could. One was playing the bagpipes. The others flanked him on either side, upper lips stiffened and eyes fighting back tears, saying nothing as they stared out into the evening, looking ahead to 2006 because it was too wrenching to look back.
Sometimes, the fever is the only thing that gets you through the night.
