World Cup 2014: Football shines in its spiritual home

Well, we were due a good one. The African adventure of 2010 was a total non-event but the much-hyped return to the spiritual home of football didn’t disappoint. Why? Because the players and coaches were fully aware of that Brazilian tag, whether a journalistic cliche or not, and they weren’t going to disappoint – a win-win for all us viewers. Positive, attacking football which saw the tally of goals overtake that of the entire South Africa World Cup by the beginning of the knockout stages. Hell, even teams playing five at the back stuck three up front. Every player knew this was his one chance to experience a tournament in Brazil and he wasn’t going to go hiding. Even entertaining the passionate locals was a prerequisite. They weren’t afraid to boo if anyone dared to pass backwards when a slick crossfield ball was on.

All of which meant that when it all ended at around 23.00 BST after 64 games, it was difficult not to get a bit teary-eyed, especially when treated to the BBC’s staggering closing montage. I didn’t watch all 64 games, of course. The early morning kick-offs were beyond me, and with the last round of games in each group kicking off simultaneously that took another eight games out of the equation.

Foolishly I tipped Brazil before the tournament, partly due to lazily assuming that the media’s general consensus – that the hosts were these days better known for their defensive solidity (snigger) than their attacking flair – was accurate; although in fairness it was also based on the final of the Confederations Cup last year, in which Brazil, with a pressing game of the highest quality, absolutely battered a Spain team previously unbeaten in 35 competitive games. The Spaniards have yet to fully recover, judging by their weary exit this time around.  

Home advantage in the World Cup would give Brazil an extra couple of gears, I thought. Well, technically I wasn’t actually that far off the mark. It was clear in the first game against Croatia that despite winning they weren’t actually very good, and it was great news as it meant we had a very open tournament on our hands. 

Indeed, going into the knockout stages after Spain crashed out, it was very, very difficult to predict a winner. By that stage I’d already written off Brazil and tipped France instead. Another failure on my part, although a fairly narrow one this time, beaten by a German set piece and Didier Deschamps’ reluctance to throw the proverbial kitchen sink at his opponents until ultimately too late.  

Well done to Germany, of course. Worthy winners, although without wanting to sound harsh they still have some way to go to be the side that many predict will dominate world football in the coming years. Would they have won it without Manuel Neuer, for example? Possibly the world’s best ever goalkeeper. Imperious, domineering, great reflexes and arguably the team’s best defender as well, which proved vital as apart from Phillipp Lahm, Germany’s defence was hugely vulnerable when faced with a pacey attack. And since I started writing this blog Lahm has retired from international football.  

Ghana gave the German defence the runaround in the group stages, Algeria could have exposed them in the round of 16, and Argentina had enough chances to do so in the final. Neuer deserved to win player of the tournament but goalkeepers are never considered and the award was always going to go to one of the elite. As Lionel Messi progressed further in the tournament than Cristiano Ronaldo, Neymar, Luis Suarez, and Wayne Rooney (only kidding), he was the pick despite being far from his best.

The Germans aren’t too shabby going forward, of course, and while they don’t yet look the invincible side Spain were recently they are far more entertaining to watch. And obviously we have to pay tribute to their performance in the semi-final in what was the most astonishing match in World Cup history. At 5-0 after 30 minutes I started laughing and willing the Germans to hit double figures; they probably should have done.

No offence to Brazil but they were very, very lucky to have progressed that far in the first place, and without Neymar they were clueless. His pace, flair and fear-factor allowed Brazil an out-ball to turn the opposition round and as a result squeeze higher up the pitch. His injury meant that could no longer happen and that Germany could press higher and expose Brazil for the shambles they were defensively. Marcelo is a typical Brazilian full-back; terrific going forward but a nervous wreck in his own half, while David Luiz, as ever, resembled a kid being forced to play at the back as a punishment for bad behaviour during PE. A hugely talented player with the ball at his feet, as his long-range passing and THAT free-kick against Colombia will testify, but still a laughably bad defender. £40 million, Paris St Germain? Good luck with that. Try him in midfield.

As such I wasn’t as surprised as some by the result. It reminded me of Manchester City’s 6-1 thrashing of Man Utd at Old Trafford a couple of seasons back. United had been terrible for weeks without being punished but City took care of that within the space of one game.

The tournament had many other pluses. Tactical variation was intriguing, with several teams opting for a back three, a somewhat surprising revival for a system that had been largely written off as the popularity of an athletic orthodox full-back, rather than a wing-back, providing a team’s width became more or less the norm. True, both finalists operated with a back four, but the Netherlands played with three and were only penalties away from the final. It will be fascinating to see whether Louis Van Gaal considers playing the same way at Man Utd.

In hindsight maybe Luis Felipe Scolari should have gone with a back three, allowing Marcelo and Maicon to play as wing-backs and as a result giving them more licence to bomb forward knowing there would be at least some protection behind them. Scolari succeeded with this tactic in 2002 when he scrapped a back four because Roberto Carlos and Cafu were too vulnerable and frankly too rubbish defensively to be played as conventional full-backs. 

Even the commentary was good (OK, let’s pretend Phil Neville’s effort never happened). Danny Murphy and Martin Keown were good additions to the BBC co-commentary team and it was nice to see another Match of the Day regular in Steve Wilson join Guy Mowbray and Jonathan Pearce as lead commentators. On ITV Sam Matterface’s relaxed and professional approach to commentating was a massive upgrade on the hugely irritating pre-scripted oh-so-clever drivel of Peter Drury, and Clarke Carlisle’s no-nonsense, Geoff Boycott-esque style as co-commentator complemented it well. We still had to put up with Clive Tyldesley’s smugness as ITV’s lead but rather him than Drury.  

Difficult to pick out any real negatives. Sure, as an Englishman it was disappointing to see England go out so early but expectations were rightly low and a competition never dies with England. Mind you, I did take up an offer to watch the Costa Rica game on a big screen at work when I should have been watching Suarez planning his dinner but I’m sure you can forgive me. I was the only one left as the second half began.

Colombia’s exit was perhaps the only other disappointment. Probably the most gifted team technically in the tournament, they shouldn’t have gone out to Brazil in the quarter-finals but paid the price for sloppy defending at a set piece, being the victims of David Luiz’s wonder goal, and not capitalising when the panic set in after Neymar’s injury in the second half. Then again, even though Colombia v Germany would have been a much better encounter, it wouldn’t have been the bigger event. We wouldn’t have witnessed the rousing Brazilian anthem being belted out by even the ball boys, the look of sheer terror on the faces of Brazilian defenders when it all went banana-shaped, the tears, the open mouths, the “Olé” chants from the locals during German possession in the second half. So we didn’t ultimately lose out. Poor Brazil. You were brilliant hosts, though. Obrigado.  

  

Me and a pizza

Seeing in 2014 with a Sloppy Giuseppe. 

I spent new year’s eve alone. Did I mind? Not really. True, I’d have preferred to be with my other half – she was still away on holiday; I'd had to return early – but in the circumstances I was just fine. Why? Because new year’s eve is and always has been just another day to me – the only difference being I want it over with as soon as possible. I’ve never enjoyed the relentless hype, the countdowns, the overly packed bars, the overall fakeness of it really. Even Jools Holland’s annual Hootenanny celebration is filmed at least a couple of months in advance.

Back when I was single – and I spent many new year’s eves as a single man – I thought it was probably just a case of me being bitter at seeing so many couples so joyously happy as the clock struck midnight, but that’s proved not to be the case and I’m actually pleasantly surprised by that. I assumed I would steer down Fickledom Avenue once I entered a relationship. But no, just watching the BBC and endless images of people flocking to the Thames is enough to stress me out.

It’s easy to overthink things, of course, but from where I stand you very rarely win on new year’s eve. If you’ve had a great year then brilliant, but there’s a whiff of sadness that it’s about to be archived. Obviously when the calendar ticks over it doesn’t mean everything good is about to go pear-shaped but it’s difficult not to indulge in at least a bit of emotional reflection. On the other side of the coin a bad year can provide the opportunity to say a triumphant good riddance, but that means having to suffer in the first place. 

That’s not to say there haven’t been enjoyable occasions. In fact, perplexingly the best one was actually the biggest – the millennium, an event I had absolutely dreaded months beforehand. Thankfully plans were heroically left unmade. With little time to spare me and my best friends from school in Northampton decided we didn’t want to pay astronomical prices for some sweaty party in the town centre, and that we’d have a private house party instead. Preston may not be the most glamorous of places (not that Northampton is either) but one of the guys was working there at the time and we all trekked up north for a gathering at his place. Just five of us, a shed load of drinks and the best homemade curry ever.

Was I glad to see the back of 2013? Pretty much. It wasn’t all bad – there were two short but very sweet holidays abroad and I saw my beloved Southend United play (albeit lose) at Wembley – but it was dominated by health issues. Before June, bi-annual appointments to analyse my strange brain following a scan had traditionally been relaxed affairs, to the point where my neurologist would all but put his feet on the desk and chat to my other half instead. But following a more in-depth scan, I was told in the most it's-probably-ok-but... of terms that it was possible there had been a potential misdiagnosis and I would have to go under the knife for a biopsy three months later.

Fears of a serious problem were thankfully eased in the end but while I was stuck in a hospital bed for three days having blood pressure, temperature and oxygen levels taken every hour, I couldn’t help but think back to times when I felt fit, on top of my game and basically at my peak. For those 72 hours I was anything but that person.

Happy halloween, ladies and gentlemen.

Do I begrudge other people enjoying new year’s eve? Of course not. I like Christmas, for example, but know many people who don’t, and with good reason. Mind you, I essentially skipped Christmas this year by spending it in a country that doesn’t celebrate it and found it enjoyably surreal, particularly being able to indulge in spectacular sunshine and spend Christmas morning swimming 40 lengths in a hotel pool before being caked in mud in a spa.

In an ideal world I would have stayed and experienced seeing in a new year in a different country as well. Maybe next year. This time it was just me and a pizza.