My cup runneth over :The 2010 World Cup

After months of hypes and vibes, the 19th edition of the World Cup finally opened in Johannesburg last Friday with typical African pomp, pageantry and beehive blaring of the vuvuzelas. I was moved by Jacob Zuma's opening speech: 'We as a country are humbled by this honour to host one of the biggest tournaments of the world. Africa is indeed happy. This is the African World Cup. I declare the 2010 FIFA World Cup open'. Such brevity, such humility. No political statement, no personal grandstanding. A minimalist and measured performance, by a leader better known for his shady past and many wives. How I wish our own leaders take a leaf out of this PR playbook, and apply the same restraint in their public proclamations. No puffed up numbers, no developed nation crap, no bankruptcy threat.

My first brush with the World Cup was way back in 1959. Man that's half a century ago. I was in standard one. I stumbled upon a grainy footage in Utusan Melayu, a Jawi newspaper, the only Malay language daily at the time (?). I could read and write perfect Jawi even before that year (I struggle now, of course. I blame my eyesight instead of hating myself). Anyway, it's a French player, probably the legendary Just Fontaine, executing a bicycle kick. I must've been peering at a 1958 newspaper, because the World Cup was held that year in Switzerland. My football exposure at that time was limited to Kelantan Third Division league, in which our local team played. That's the lowest tier, and our team never got promoted, but we never got relegated either. Half the team were full-time teachers, and their own students had a dandy time heckling them for miskicks and own goals. Win or lose, all home matches were sell-outs hours before kick-offs. It's no Nou Camp or San Siro, but it's a sell-out all the same.

England won the World Cup in 1966, my first year at secondary school. That's a pivotal year for my football fall-in. It sparked off my football interest, and it grew as classmates Hamid, Ibrahim, Yuzer, Bain were tossing around names like Pele, George Best, Bobby Moore, Bobby Charlton and Gordon Banks. I doubt they'd actually seen them in action. The main news feed was the Straits Times and the football mags: Shoot, Goal etc. Yes we all could read and write a fair amount of English. But until today I still can't figure out how was it possible for us to pick and choose our favourite teams and players just from the still photos, staid match wrap-ups and gossip columns. It made sense if we all picked smooth strikers like George Best as locker pin-ups. But some of us inexplicably plumped for defenders; my dorm-mate fell for the dentist-driven Nobby Stiles.

You could say that I was late catching the World Cup bug, but when the 1970 edition kicked off in Mexico, I could name all the England and Brazil players, their positions, back-up player for each position and players' smoking habits. Banks, Moore, Charlton, Lee, Mullery, Peters, Pele, Tostao, Rivelino, Gerson, C Alberto, Jairzinho, to name a few. My maths and physics, already bad to begin with, turned for the worse. Those days recorded or delayed telecasts were unheard of, let alone live ones. We'd to rely on unreliable RTM news for scores and the papers for match reports. Anyway, Brazil beat England and later Italy to win the World Cup for the third time. This team is still considered the best football team ever. I'd little to argue with that. A few months later FIFA released 'The World at Their Feet', a movie chronicling the 1970 World Cup, with relatively lavish clips of crunch matches. I watched the movie at Lido theatre in Ipoh three times.

The 1974 World Cup was a milestone of sorts. For the first time the World Cup was telecast live in Malaysia. It's in black and white, but who cared. I'm not sure now how many games were shown, but I managed to watch only the final (TV was quite a rarity at the time). The Cruyff-inspired Dutch team delighted the world with its brand of 'total football', where players switched positions at will to confuse the opponents. They stormed to a final showdown with the then West Germany. About everyone outside West Germany wanted the Dutch to win. But the West Germans somehow wised up to the Dutch tricks, and took the World Cup.

From 1978 onwards, live telecasts of the World Cup, at least for the big games, were routine and in colour. Now of course it's in high definition. Next will be colour, HD and 3D. But colour or not, every World Cup is special, spectacular and always colourful. It's rich with prodigious talents, ground-breakers and one-time wonders. Pele, Hurst, Muller, Cruyff, Zoff, Platini, Figo, Zico, Zidane, the list rolls on. But for me the greatest of them all is Diego Maradona. When he's not drunk or doped, Maradona was a miracle and God's gift. He single-handedly (pun intended) won the World Cup for Argentina in 1986. For sheer artistry, no players before and after him came close. His vision, skills and trickery with the ball were simply, well, scary. He declared recently that the current Barcelona hotshot Lionel Messi was better; it's his way of motivating the pretender. No way.

The ongoing World Cup in South Africa is yet another milestone. I'm watching it with the free, flowing and flexible mind of a retiree. England vs USA live at 2.30 am? Argentina vs N Korea repeat at 7.00 am? I'm game. It's up to me now. I can now watch with open eyes and mind. No bosses to please, no projects to finish. Only real, total football.

Expect some shockers and controversies. Italy won the World Cup in 1982 without a single Italian expecting them to make the semis. Brazil were firm favourites in every World Cup, but won it only five times. Italy dumped by South Korea. Beckham banished. The headbutt of hate. The hand of God. And that iconic waltz past five English defenders for goal of the century. The list is long. Spain and Brazil are early front runners for 2010. But who knows? Most Malaysians, including me, are England fans at heart, but expect other teams to win. Germany is again the team to hate. My pick for champions? Argentina. The team is bursting with talent. And, in case you forget, the coach is a certain Diego Armando Maradona !

Mindless Miscellany (No.2)

A week hardly passes without an update on the supermodel Amber Chia. Supermodel? Pah! I guess a super title nowadays is a dime a dozen. Void of all body fluids, she looks more like a super cashier with an eating disorder. But with the political landscape now clouded by the impending gassing of a long-time super leader, an unwanted update on an overrated model brings a whiff of fresh air. Life's full of delightful odds and ends. Let's celebrate them. This week's picks:

1. It's inevitable that MIC saw UMNO's hand all over the plot to GAS its super president. Desperate times call for desperate measures. My humble theory is that MIC accused UMNO simply because it couldn't pin the blame on MCA which, to all intents and purposes, had already been gassed for good. That MIC so brazenly accused UMNO of complicity is unprecedented, and only further underlines UMNO's descent from super boys to whipping boys.

2. After weeks of Bondesque hypes and teasers, Imam Muda finally kicked off with some style. It's a religious reality flick but the set, suit and songkok are bold, sharp and contemporary. Anything but conservative. The all-male cast of ten aspirants were picked after a round of auditions, ostensibly based on religious skills and competencies. But I've a nagging suspicion that, just like other talent contests, flair and hair were very much part of the criteria. Kudos to Astro for such a fresh and provoking offering. Do we have to wonder forever why it takes a fiercely profit-driven network with a non-Muslim ownership to produce a watchable religious program?

3. Now let's brace ourselves for crunch time. Everything from teh tarik to toll tickets will cost more if the government lives up to its promise to scrap subsidies and save the country about RM100 billion in the next five years and avoid bankruptcy in 2019. Scare strategies and scary scenario, all too familiar. My view is that subsidy economics has been oversimplified. Deliberate or oversight, who knows. The heavy, quantitative treatment of the cost side without even a casual inquiry about the upside renders the whole argument one-sided. Europe and the US have been dishing out farm subsidies for ages. I'm not advocating subsidies. But as literate and tax-friendly citizens, we all deserve a balanced and enlightened analysis.

Mindless Miscellany (No.1)

World is full of mindless minds. Somebody (probably a half-brain flasher) asked in a motor advice column in the New Sunday Times yesterday which one, between the Lamborghini and Ferrari, is a better choice in terms of maintenance and resale value. The adviser's response: buy a Perodua.

If you're fixated on reason and logic, things like this can drain your brain faster than no time. Let's celebrate them instead. And here's more:

1. About 90% of men worldwide would rather talk about football than about their wives (45%) and their work (34%) . An unrelated survey carried out at about the same time reveals that, as far as wife and husband relationship goes, 63% of married women, also worldwide, prefer reading or sleeping or watching TV to sex. I think these two sets of findings are two sides of the same coin. They explain each other. What's there to talk about your wife if she's only turned on by books, Astro and pillows? Likewise, is there anything left to bother in a football-fatigued husband?

2. Inter Milan won the Champions League final with only 35% possession. That's what Hull normally get when they play Liverpool. No regret missing the 3 am telecast; a final without a Spanish or English team is never worthwhile. For such success, the coach would immediately get a lucrative contract extension. But Jose Mourinho, the Inter coach, immediately quit the club and joined Real Madrid. What do you expect from someone who's proclaimed himself 'the special one'. Just hope Real won't win with 35% possession.

3. The 8th Akademi Fantasia ended with the predictability of a declining franchise. Yes, I watch this low-brow show, and I won't apologize (actually no choice, wife loves this show). The winner was a loverboy from Perak (wife swooned every time he crooned). The only standout for me was the five new KRU compositions for the finalists, complete with video clips. With trade-mark titles like VIP and RSVP, they're all gems. For talent and creativity, KRU rules. After eight years, the popularity of AF is waning. Fire the teachers, please. The talent pool has dried up, and mediocrity has crept in. If something is not done fast, it'll lose out to Imam Muda !

Dio, RIP

Chances are you've heard of Ronnie James Dio and don't like him. Or you've never heard of him. No, no, he's not a US past president. That would be Ronald Reagan. Dio was a metal rock firebrand; a champion and leading light in a rock music genre that's been variously labelled as medieval, classical, doom, suicidal, trash, dragon, gothic, demonic, you name it.

One look at some of his song titles and album covers and you know why: the devil you know, live evil, the temple of the king, kill the king, neon knights, killing the dragon, dream evil, heaven and hell. With Dio, it's kill, kill, kill. He died yesterday (Sunday) morning, 16 May 2010, succumbing to stomach cancer, at 67. Tributes from fellow doomers are still pouring in.

It's inevitable that Dio and his dark offerings have had an unfair share of bashings and brickbats. Much of what has levelled at Dio by the mindless music critics was nothing more than misguided diatribes. There's plenty of clarity, consistency and understated artistry in his musical direction. Unlike some of his metal brethren, he remained faithful to his roots till the end.

Admittedly his brand of beautiful noise won't please your average neighbours, but there's a steadfast and unwavering niche and cult following that would mourn his passing. I'm not ashamed to admit that I listen to Dio. I mean his music, not his satanic verses.

My first Dio experience was way back in 1975. Ritchie Blackmore, Deep Purple's vagabond frontman, had split to form a new act called Rainbow, and he roped in Dio to provide the vocals. You should listen to him screaming, wailing and rousing above Blackmore's catchy licks, with power and muscle far beyond his meagre body mass. 'The temple of the king' stormed the Malaysian music scene with its melodic and mellifluous strains that remained iconic until today. But my favourite is the more obscure 'Self Portrait', with Dio powering forth ".....Hey, hey, hey, there's only the devil to pay". Pure and sheer Dio!

Over the years my music taste has wandered a bit, mellowing and ageing towards the mainstream crowd (Boz Scaggs, hahaha), probably the brunt of long hours pandering to bosses of diverse leadership genres, from the easy-listening type to the head-banging variety. Dio and his vocals have since migrated to Black Sabbath and later to lesser-known collaborations. But it's doom and devil all the way. No mellowing, no middling for Dio. Before his death, he'd been busy with live gigs, fronting a brand new metal lineup. He named it 'Heaven and Hell'. Well, we wouldn't have expected him to name it the Singing Nuns.

My plan was to end my tribute here, but a casual reading of a Dio obituary and trivia left me pondering life's little quirks. The late singer actually studied pharmacy in early 60's . Good thing that he didn't graduate. You wouldn't want your hypertension medications dispensed by a devil-worshipper, would you? Dio actually did his pharmacy stint at a university in Buffalo (UB), New York. Nothing macabre about this except that I went to the same university twenty years later. We're both Buffalo alumni!

Chelsea, Chelsea, Champions

So Chelsea are the EPL Champions for the 2009/10 season, by a whisker. What a breathless build-up to a cliff-edge conclusion. Chelsea took the title with just a single point ahead of Manchester United aka the world's most valuable brand aka the world's most debt-stricken football club. The rollercoaster season began with Spurs pretending at the top before the usual suspects Chelsea, Man U and Arsenal took turns and restored the normalcy of a three-horse trick. In the four-week finale, Chelsea held a slight advantage but Man U, with lady luck forever on its side (injury-time goals, dubious penalties), could still nip in. Both teams finished with a flourish, scoring a dozen goals. But Chelsea ruled. Arsenal hung on to third and Wenger blamed Blackburn, Gordon Brown and everybody except himself. Spurs finished fourth and celebrated like they'd won the World Cup. Shameless Shebby Singh, Malaysia's only known Spurs supporter, cried live on Astro after that clincher over moneybags Man City. My former boss Jan, a fierce Spurs supporter and unapologetic Man U basher, must be brimming with double delight. Did he also break down in tears? Not in this world.

Am I happy that Chelsea are the champions? Yes and yes. I'm not a Chelsea fan or fancier. But Man U with Sir Alex and his attack dog Gary Neville just turn me off (understatement). So between the two, my preference for the title is a no-brainer. A former office mate, Ramzul, happens to be a hard-core Man U fan, and there's been some kind of running war of words going on between him and another office mate, Anuar (not Anuar the VP). Don't guess which side I'm on. These verbal skirmishes have been a fertile ground for Man U bashing. Our modus operandi is simple and ingenious. Anuar and I would SMS or text each other (with a copy to Ramzul every time) snide and snappy comments about Man U, especially when they lose. We had a field day when Man U were bumped off by Bayern Munich in the Champions League. So the final and deciding Chelsea/Wigan and Man U/Stoke games on Sunday were a huge motivation for us to taunt and attack Ramzul, who doggedly believed that Man U still had a chance. (At the same time KL was abuzz with Thomas and Uber Cups preliminaries featuring make-weights German, Peru etc.) Sensing that Wigan were just a piece of cake for Chelsea, we drew the first blood. Anuar lobbed an SMS (copy to Ramzul) and I returned (copy to Ramzul), and fierce exchanges followed until the game ended. Highlights:

Anuar: Nak tengok ke Chelsea game ni? Macam tak ada makna aje....It's not academic. It's history.
Me: Yeah, watching Uber Cup is better, the girls slugging it out, more meaningful...
Anuar: Chelsea two goals up, can somebody tell the referee to stop the Man U/Stoke game...
Me: Don't, Man U are also two goals up. If they score eight goals, they might be champions...
Anuar: Even eighty goals is meaningless. Please stop the game........
Me: No, they've to keep playing and scoring goals. Sir Alex says Man U can carry forward the goals to next season, and start the first game next season with goals in hand. Then they don't have to wait until 95th minute to get the goal.....
At this point, Ramzul just couldn't take it any more, and jumped in:
Ramzul: Glory, glory Manchester Utd....
Anuar: Geli, geli.....
Ramzul: Man U are runners up even without Ronaldo, just unlucky to lose to Bayern, Wayne Rooney the top scorer, Glory, glory...
Anuar: Sir Alex wants to propose that Man U play in the World Cup....
Me: And become runners up again?......Felda Utd. is better.
Ramzul: Glory, glory, Reds march on and on.....glory glory
(Ramzul fired this SMS five times in quick succession to jam up our cell phones)
Me: Chelsea are six goals up. Gory, gory, Anuar you better take leave tomorrow or buy special
insurance......
Anuar: Glory, glory now gory, gory?.....
Me: Gory, gory when Ramzul sees you tomorrow....
Anuar: Eight goals now, I'll take two-week leave....
Ramzul: Man U till I die. Glory, glory. You know nothing about football. Go watch Thomas Cup....

Lots of fun. Ramzul would win a Man U supporter of the year award hands down. I stayed up until 2 am to watch the Chelsea celebration. Real spectacle, footballers dancing and prancing, showing off their wives and kids to the world. And why not? Football now is very much a family thing. With a contract running at RM500,000 a week, the wife has to be interested. I'm not sure what to make of two-timing Terry hugging his suffering wife. Fake? Farce? Who knows. Maybe Ramzul is right after all. Football is complicated now. Badminton is easier.