Oranje shame; Smerdon bested by mollusk

Well, the greatest sporting show on earth is over for another four years.  Spain has triumphed with the perfect Swiss Gambit, losing the first round and then swindling their way through to the final.  (Of course, the Swiss Gambit is not a traditional ploy for knock-out competitions, but it was always going to be a stretch getting one last chess analogy into the football World Cup…)

My tipping record pretty well matched the low expectations many have given me after my chess World Cup effort.  After unsuccessfully  predicting Australia’s ascent through the qualifying stages, as well as a Germany-Brazil final, I naturally tipped the Dutch Oranje to win the cup.  At least I can claim that this last prediction was based more on emotion than reasoning, given my Dutch affinity, but I was sadly disappointed.

To me, the Dutch are traditionally known as happy, tolerant, and liberal people, and, as national football styles are supposed to reflect national cultures, I expected a more sportsmanlike display from the Oranje.  Five yellow cards in the first half, including a sickening kick to the sternum, and a continuation in the second that led to one red card and grounds for many more, was hardly inspiring.  Sure, the Spanish team has dived more often this year than the ASX 200, but that doesn’t excuse the global epicentre of tolerance producing football gamesmanship not worthy of a juvenile detention centre lunchtime break.

Disappointing.

Almost as disappointing, but at least slightly more humourous, was the sentience of my fellow spectators during the game.  I admit that a 4am start is a little unpleasant, but of my five co-watchers,  at least three fell asleep, and one spent a fair chunk of the match playing rugby league games on his iPhone.  (In his defence, two of them are the co-founders of footyfootyfooty.com, so it could almost be classed as work-related.) 

Ah yes, the world game.  Confusing Australians since 1788.  Still, I was there, shouting at the screen, decked in my orange top, orange head band (okay, tie), and my infamous ‘naked-cycle’ Amsterdam undies.  We even had Dutch pancakes and a sad, Coles-bought excuse for stroopwafels to really get into the Nederlands culture (Fi was supporting Spain, but is usually willing to compromise where pancakes and sweets are involved).

Of course, my tipping tragedy of a zero percent strike rate was perfectly balanced by Paul the Octopus’ incredible run of eight correctly tipped matches.  Amid calls for his demise into various culinary dishes, insults pertaining to his mother’s morality, and even a declaration of sovereign protection by Spain’s leader, the octopus has certainly become the most famous sea-dweller of this world cup.  Chance?  The maths would suggest otherwise.  Conspiracy?  Hard to believe, given all matches were tipped well in advance.  Fate?  Possibly, but unlikely.  Still, the chances of me picking every result incorrectly are similarly astounding, so if Paul is to be crowned the football oracle, I feel I should at least get some consolation prize as the predictor of doom.

Plus, Paul is only expected to live another year or so, so I’ll be the one around in 2014.  Get ready to bet against me, guys.