The Kelefors

A couple of World Cups ago, Zinedine Zidane, one of the legends of the game, had a moment of madness. In the face of taunting from Marco Materazzi, an Italian defender, Zidane head-butted Materazzi and was promptly sent off from the final match. It has always been inexplicable to me that a seasoned athlete who must endure verbal abuse on a regular basis would, at such an important moment, undertake an act that could only end in one calamitous way. Adrenaline, sure. Terrible words, almost definitely. But you have to think that such a player as Zidane could temper his reaction and keep on playing. I don’t think I’ll ever understand it and, for that reason alone, I’ll never forget it. So, color me astounded, astonished, dumbfounded as I watched the ghost of Zidane inhabit Portgual’s Pepe for one more moment of madness before my very eyes.

We were sitting behind the Portugal goal, watching a match billed as one of the best in the group stage. The stadium was packed, the day muggy and hot. The Germans were in full throat from the opening whistle, jeering Cristiano Ronaldo’s every touch and savoring an early two-goal lead thanks to a Thomas Muller penalty and a thumping header from Mats Hummels. It looked a difficult task for Portuguese, but still not impossible. And then it all came unraveling. Pepe’s arm hit Muller as the two tangled. Muller went to ground, feigning injury from the lightest of touches. The referee was uninterested, letting play continue, but instead of jogging forward with his team in possession, Pepe turned back to Muller, leaned down, and put his forehead against Muller’s. Not really a head butt, but FIFA instituted a rule some years ago that made Pepe’s action an automatic red card. So, how do you explain it? Pepe clearly knows the rule and he clearly understands the implications for himself and his team. Yet he proceeded to turn away from live play and undertake an act that could only end in one calamitous way. Just, wow.

Through the eyes of this American fan, that moment and pretty much everything that followed was bliss. Portugal ended the day with one center-back suspended for the game against the US, two important players injured and unlikely to be fit against the US, a goal differential of minus four, and their superstar reduced to his whining and moaning. Indeed, as much as I wanted to see Ronaldo put on a show in this marquee match-up, it was almost more fun to see him mope around the field (I’ve never been a fan of his). And then, to watch John Brooks seal an incredible, heart-stopping win for the US on the grainy television in our rented beach house a few hours later, I went to sleep knowing that I could spend the next four days taunting fans Portugal, Spain, and all the other countries who are three points behind us in the standings. But, no head-butting. I promise.

We just got back from the Arena Fonte Nove where the Dutch showed up with a chip on their shoulder and the Spanish looked hungover from lifting the Cup four years ago. As our van crawled through traffic, I asked everyone to make a prediction. There were more votes for Spain than for Netherlands and only a couple of votes for a draw. Most were quite thoughtful picks – 2-1 Spain, 3-2 Netherlands, etc. Much to my surprise, the game ended up closer to the 13-10 prediction from my brother’s 6-year-old. Well, at least Holland looked likely to put 13 past Spain’s shoddy defense and shoddier goalkeeping.

That said, it was a match for the ages and one of the best I’ve had the pleasure of seeing in person. Our crew was decked out in a panoply of Holland Oranje, Spanish Roja, a touch of Brazilian amarelo, and, of course, plenty of red, white and blue for the Yanks. We survived the sweltering walk to the stadium by alternating water (hyrdration) and Brahma beer (dehydration), feeling that incredible sense of anticipation as we closed in on the arena. By game time, the stadium was gorgeous and filled to the rafters. The Spanish fans unfurled a giant flag to make their presence known and then promptly got quiet and remained that way for the rest of the evening. Diego Costa, Spain’s dual-citizen striker who famously chose La Roja over the Selecao this year, was jeered mercilessly by the Brazilians in the crowd from the opening whistle up through his departure mid-way through the second half.

And if the quality of the game wasn’t enough, the Dutch fans showed their usual vervefrom the  get-go and grew in enthusiasm and volume as the game went on. By the time the match was in hand for Holland, their fans stuck it to Spain with a rousing series of “Ole’s” as Holland passed around the tiring Spanish defense with ease.

The game really did feel like a changing of the guard. Spain fielded a team almost identical to the eleven who suited up or the Final four years ago, while the Dutch re-built their squad with young talent. You have to wonder if Spain’s coach, Vicente del Bosque, is ruing not starting younger stars like Koke and Isco who perhaps could have kept up better with the Dutch on this night. As it stands, Spain, the team that went from perennial under-performer on the big stage to the dominant team in world football, is staring into the abyss of a group stage exit from the Cup. And all along, I thought the USA was in the Group of Death.

On the plane ride to Rio, I asked everyone in the family what they were most looking forward to. Jeannette said she was eager to see travel through the eyes of our kids. Dylan selected the USA v Germany game, with the particular expectation that Jozy Altidore would score the winner and come to our section to celebrate. Adela opted for the turtles of Ihla Fernando de Noronha. For me, the answer was simple: watch Brazil play with a group of Brazilians. After all, I’ve been in stadiums in South Africa and the States with Brazil playing and they’ve been among the best fans: high energy, positive, knowledgeable. And I’ve seen how host countries revel in the success of their teams. In Italy in 1990, a victory by the Azzurri was followed by cars honking and speeding down the street with flags waving out the window. In France, I saw fans in the cafes go from indifferent to exultant as Les Blues outperformed expectations. And in South Africa, the hopes and dreams of a nation seemed truly to rest on the performance of Bafana Bafana each time they played. So, I expected the most from Brazilians watching the Selecao.

After Game One, I have to say I’m disappointed. Our group of 16 Americans is staying in a beach house up the coast from Salvador do Bahia. On the recommendation of our driver, we sat down at an open air restaurant with two giant screens and tables full of yell0w-clad fans. All looked right. But then the game started and the fans seems downright passive. No singing, no cheering for the good plays (except for the goals, of course). Some even left at halftime! Our table, mostly rooting for Brazil out of a mix of genuine support for the Selecao and a desire to stay on everyone’s good side, showed the most passion in the place by a country mile. Indeed, the only thing that reminded me that we were among Brazilian partisans was their firm belief that Fred’s dive in the box was a penalty.

Luckily, we have two more chances to watch with the Brazilians. Maybe we’ll get lucky and find ourselves among the die-hards. Not this time, though.