Pining for a Depor.

In Phil Ball’s quite excellent book on Spanish football“Morbo” he uses the story of a young Galician women who upon being asked by a TV crew wither she felt sorry for the incessant rain that was pouring down an the rest of Spain replied simply “Que se jodan” translation: “F*** them”. The rest of Spain were outraged at the woman’s crass reply but were also amused by the typical Galician sprit. That was in the summer of 2002 when Deportivo La Corunna regularly thumbed their nose at the perennial powers in Spanish football; Barcelona and Real Madrid. Depor had won La Liga in 2000 having challenged for it consistently before then. Javier Irureta, the man who makes Avram Grant look like a jester led Depor to the championship, Kings Cup and the quarter-final of the champions league in a glittering three year period punctuated by the brilliance of Juan Carlos Valeron. Now a mere seven years later Valeron still plays for Depor, he still sprays those passes but like his club he is a fading force.

For Depor, read Villareal or Valencia. The top table in Spain used to be able to accommodate more than Barca and Madrid. But it seems, no longer. The chastening chasm between the big two and the rest appears to be widening even greater this summer. Take a look at the starting eleven of Spain’s victorious team in the final. Three Madrid, seven Barca. One Villareal. It is an apt indicator of where the power lies.

Sando Rosell, the new Barca president confirmed last week that the club had to take out a huge loan to ensure they could meet their wage payments. Of course the loan was never in question, Catalan banks are only too happy to help their standard-bearer but consider that Valencia, who are in dire financial straits had to sell David Silva to Manchester City and David Villa to…..Barca. Madrid financed their splurge last season on the back of bank loans, all this despite the fact that both enjoy a far greater share of the T.V money than anyone else. In another fine book “Why England lose” Simon Kuper argues that the normal fan is happy with the status quo. Happy that say Man United win the league every other year as long as its competitive and there is drama.

That is no longer the case in Spain. Rafael Benietez’s Valencia were the last to really split the big two but that is not likely to happen again. Not as long as any bright youngster such as Sergio Canales is whisked away to Madrid at seventeen. Not as long as money remains a monopoly plaything to Barca. Not as long as television money is not distributed fairly.

So I am left hoping for someone, somewhere to thumb their nose at those two. As the Galician lady said “F*** them”. It never seems to rain on them.

Iniesta.

He starts in the centre of it, as he usually is, from the corner of his eye he spots Busquets and flicks an impudent back-heel into his path. He carries on. Spain press, two passes later he is in Villa territory, that little pocket between the penalty spot and eighteen yard line. Dutch squirm over their shoulders, “Do you have him?” A panicky swipe of a clearance sends it to Fabregas. He looks up. Andres Iniesta has moved only slightly, about the distance of his back-heel to stay onside. The ball is played to him. The world stops just for a millisecond. Control and shoot. World champions. Many blink, many panic but this is Spain, this is Iniesta. Instant control but the ball rises a little too much. No matter, adjust, get over it. Laces lash against the ball. World champions in a moment of beautiful simplicity.

It is simple because the little man makes it so. For if Holland were best summed up in Nigel de Jong’s karate kid moment then Spain are best encapsulated by the technique of Iniesta. Wide left or right? Through the middle? No matter. That deftest of first touches that lures you in. Makes the defender think he can take it before it is snatched away. Iniesta is that rare breed, a footballer who stirs up your own memories as a child knocking it about. He has that innocence, that carefree manner on the pitch. He was rattled briefly last night. Van Bommel twice tried to force him off the pitch but thankfully to no avail.

For a player who has had such an injury-disrupted season as he, Iniesta’s bravery last night must also be applauded. Not in darting out of the crude challenges, he does that every week but in demanding the ball despite the attention. Winners want the ball.

It has been a dour world cup apparently, one suffocated in defensive tactics and strategic fouls. Perhaps so, but I’ll remember his side foot against Chile, him dancing past Paraguay, me screaming Villa’s Open! Only for him to slide in Pedro. I’ll remember countless times thinking he was boxed in only to see him scuttling off with the ball. I’ll remember his winner for all time but most of all I’ll remember him. Andres Iniesta. In the centre of it.

The Dutch are finally real.

The Dutch appreciate space like no other.Years of foraging for their own has given them an innate sense and acute awareness of space and how best to utilize it.In his tremendous book on Dutch football, David Winner marks the use of space as the defining attribute of the Netherlands as a football nation.Indeed if you were to think of football and Holland you would more than likely picture a skinny general named Cruyff or maybe one of the De Boer's raking a ball to Denis Bergkamp's chest. This Dutch side are perhaps more of a paint by numbers rather than a Van Cough but with a history forever casting judgement over them they have found their own way.

The great Ferencvaros and Hungary forward Tibor Nyilasi speaking about Hungary's cruel loss in the world cup final to Germany in 1954 commented years after "It is though Hungarian football is frozen in that moment, as though we have never quite moved on from then" It would be churlish to suggest that Dutch football has fallen to the depths of Hungarian but it could be argued that despite reaching the final again in 1978, The Netherlands have not recovered from that epochal loss to West Germany in 1974. It remains even today such an iconic game full of the greats.

Thanks to the wonder of the Internet it can be viewed easily. There is a wonderful moment at the start, Cryuff demanding the ball from the back and starts to amble a few passes away before launching into the penalty area and getting hacked down by Hoeness. Neeskens blasts it down the middle and the Dutch are one up without Germany touching the ball.Holland toyed with the Germans soon after but lost to a penalty conceded themselves and a Gerd Muller strike. Despite the loss the dye was cast for future Dutch teams.Total football became as synonymous with them as scoring became with Der Bomber.A succession of teams passed and moved and lost.Only the Milan trinity of Van Basten,Rijkaard and Gullit brought silverware in '88 but on the world stage the Dutch became the perennial dark horses. The "maybe" pick if all conditions were met.

Coming into this tournament they could boast an unbeaten qualifying record and in Arjen Robben and Weasly Snejider the two stand-out attacking players in the Champions league. They cruised through the group stage and edged past Slovakia in the round of sixteen game but were then expected to bow to Brazil in the quarter-final. They played the first-half of that game as if they agreed with the conventional wisdom but two freak goals, one a Julio Cesar flop, the other a Snejider header landed them in the semi's where despite some scares they dispatched Uraguay.

So they are back in the final. Playing a brand of football that can be described as pragmatic or downright nasty depending on your point of view. For some it is not the rapier Robben that epitomises this team but rather the, let's say robust Van Bommel who has summed up them up. All snaps and snarls in the middle of midfield. He negotiates that landmine with one of his own and seems to leaving a charmed life when it comes to yellow cards.

The Netherlands coach Bert van marwijk makes no excuse for Van Bommel or his tactics in deploying him. Graham Taylor remarked before the semi-final that Holland too often lose when they should win and he was right. They have had some wonderful teams in the recent past, think of the France 1998 side but they lacked a realist. Van Bommel and De Jong are that. Win the Ball. Keep the Ball. Slow the game. Win the game. The darker arts of Van Bommel game, the cynical, cruel fouls are an affront to the Dutch tradition but will that matter in Amsterdam should they win on Sunday? If van Bommel knocks Xavi out of his stride as Berti Vogts eventually did to Cryuff won't the end justify the means? Holland have deviated from Cryuff.The old master once said "It’s better to go down with your own vision, then with someone else’s". There are still flashes of him in a Snejider pass or Robben drag-back but winning ugly is still winning and Jules Rimet glistens either way.

Spain have the game to tame Germany.

It has, by general consensus been a strange world cup. A traditional power-house Italy exited with barely a murmur. England, widely fancied from their qualifying record went without even a penalty shoot-out and the French had a seismic meltdown. All the so called stars failed to fire, a plastic horn became a talking point and America briefly cared about the world’s game. It is no surprise to see perennial contenders Germany involved at the semi-final stage but it is the manner of their progress that has stunned.

The Germans have been electrifying. A blur of rapid passes and efficient finishing. Between them Bastian Schweinsteiger, Thomas Muller and Mezut Ozil all have legitimate claims to be player of the tournament so far. The devastating nature of their counter attack has left luminaries like Argentina choking in their dust. Even their stereotypical captain, a defender, is better known for his bursts forward than his defending. The loss of Michael Ballack, instead of hindering them seems to have liberated them. Schweinsteiger drives from the middle with the nimble Kediera dove-tailing with him perfectly. Ozil is humming as the creative hub while Podolski and Klose have found their international mojo.

But despite that there remains some doubt about Germany. In both wins over England and Argentina, they had the luxury of an early goal to calm any nerves of a young team while their centre of defence looks susceptible, especially to quick feet. It is unlikely that their opponents Spain will gift Germany oceans of green in which to launch a counter attack. The Spaniards relentless possession game may also tire Germany while Alonso and Busquets will not so easily be lead out of position as Gareth Barry was or be left isolated like Mascherano. Busquets in particular is important for Spain. For years they lacked his type. For all the artful flourishes from the likes of Xavi, it is the more Machiavellian nature of Busquets and his predecessor Marcos Senna that give Spain the edge needed at this level. Should they sit and play their “tika-taka” and force Germany to devise a way to break them down then they will prevail. It may not be the classic we all want but for Spain it may mean the final.

The tallest tale.

“I don’t care how tall he is, he can’t hurl so he’s height doesn't matter”. It is a warm June day in my local and the start to the eagerly awaited clash between Cork and Tipp has been delayed because of a northern football match. The conversation has settled on the merits or lack of, of Cork’s starting full-forward Aisake O hAilpin. Seventy minutes later the Tipp full-back line was reduced to quivering Lilliputians blinking at the Gulliver that had escaped, the giant had proven himself as he always has to. It is ever thus. From the player who has a good touch for a big man to those whose height is their principle force they are judged on their size first and ability later. Often they are stereotyped as gentle giants. It is a tired phrase but every once and a while it is appropriate. Picking up Sports Illustrated last week I discovered a man who the phrase perhaps best sums him up, or did. Only in his passing did I discover the remarkable story of Manute Bol. A man who stood out as a giant in a sport full of them.

One wonders what the reaction would have been last week in the most predictable of NBA drafts had Washington picked the son of a Dinka tribe chief from Sudan instead of John Wall. Bol ended up in Washington by way of Cleveland but his accession to the NBA was delayed by two years. Stating a technical fault with his file and passport which said Manute was nineteen they decreed that he was too young for the draft. The passport also said he was five feet two. Bol was measured while sitting down. In Cleveland University his base basketball was improved but it was his rudimentary English that was his biggest challenge, his English instructor Arleen Bialic explained “He couldn't’t use a telephone. He couldn't’t operate a coke machine. He didn’t even know how to hold a pencil, never had done it” But Manute soon learned and got his grade average up to scratch and earned his move to the big time.

In the NBA he was an oddity not just for his enormous size but for the statistical fact that he had more blocked shots then points scored. He was the man who Bill Walton said “throws everyone out of sync”. His stats remained average throughout his career. He was conspicuous by his size. But his career was far more than stats. It was about raising money and awareness to the unceasing suffering of his homeland. It was about blazing a trail for Sudan athletes and showing that a man who stood at seven foot seven could survive in the NBA. He passed at the young age of forty-seven on June nineteenth. Commenting on his height he once said “I am never bothered by the fact I am tall. My height is a gift from God. That is what I say. I did not create it. You have to leave with what you are given. Who Knows what God is dreaming for us? There is a reason. Look at what he has dreamed for me”

Perhaps he couldn't’t really play but his height in body and spirit mattered.