"Surely I must be somebody else you've known..." - a few World Cup "lookalikes"...

Dave Hill (Slade)

Maniche (Portugal)







Robert Duvall (The Godfather)

Esteban Cambiasso (Argentina)







Terry Gilliam (The Life Of Brian)

Tomas Ujfalusi (The Czech Republic)







Robert DeNiro (Heat)

Ricardo Lavolpe (Mexico)







David Cameron (Conservative Party)

Robert Huth (Germany)







Jon Tickle (Big Brother)

Theo Walcott (England work experience)

"Brazil, where hearts were entertaining June..."

Ola, Brasil. Welcome to the World Cup.
After almost a fortnight of a finals just so wunderbar, there was just one notable element missing.
Better late than never, tonight it arrived – the beautiful game, samba-style.
Perhaps there’s a danger in going overboard with the same old Brazilian clichés, after a comfortable win played out in an end-of-term-style atmosphere.
Yet after a brace of underwhelming wins, it was a joy to see Brazil turn on the style in their 4-1 win over Japan tonight.
For the first time this tournament, Ronaldinho was sublime not just in the briefest of cameos, but for his 70-minute starring role before a well-earned rest.
Stand-in full-backs Cicinho and Gilberto showed the kind of intelligence, flair and commitment to suggest perfect long-term replacements for the winding-down Cafu and Roberto Carlos.
And a man named Ronaldo demonstrated, with ideal and historic timing, that maybe he’s not quite ready to be wound down himself just yet.
The rapturous Japanese fans swarming down the steep slopes of the stands, so close as to be almost spilling onto the pitch, kept chorusing Scott Joplin’s The Entertainer.
And their players certainly contributed to the entertainment, passing as neatly as throughout the tournament yet this time suggesting they might finally have located that elusive cutting-edge.
Tamada and Maki seemed quicker-thinking than the front pair they replaced, keen to catch the flat back four off-guard and slip in behind.
This Tamada did to give Japan a surprise lead, latching onto an inch-perfect pass from Brazilian-born wing-back Alex Santos.
The breakthrough sent the Japanese players and fans into understandable raptures – though no doubt there was a certain shock to the celebrations too.
The goal came against the run of play, though for the previous ten minutes Brazil had appeared to lose a little of the first half-hours rhythm.
From the kick-off, Ronaldo, Robinho, Ronaldinho and especially Juninho Pernambucano were thundering so much shots Kawaguchi’s way, it was only a matter of time before his net began bulging.
Perhaps the Japan goal stunned Brazil back into more clinical frame of mind, after drifting into sloppy complacency.
Maybe, in fact very probably, it caused Japan to relax a little too much, content to have achieved their excitement, their moment of glory – and that would do.
The ever-eager Robinho had impressed again with his willingness to hare about here, there and everywhere in search of the ball – but with the nimbleness of feet to dance his way through any return tackles.
But it was Ronaldinho’s more languid approach which helped carve upon Japan and turn the game back around.
His loft across the box, cleverly headed by Cicinho, into Ronaldo’s sights for the equaliser?
His effortlessly stylish through-ball for Gilberto to suddenly arrive upon and drive emphatically past Kawaguchi for the third - just minutes after the ‘keeper was fooled by the swirl of Juninho’s fierce thunderbolt through his arms.
The skipping backheel volley. The bunny-hop with the ball in an intricate one-two-three-four which should have created another goal-of-the-finals contender, only for Ronaldo to inexplicably screw wide.
Maybe they felt a little riled by the accolades bestowed upon Argentina in recent days, especially after Cambiasso’s breathtaking 28-pass goal.
Brazil seemed to string together at least 50 passes in the closing moments today, each player adding almost-experimental variations of spin, loop and pace on each contribution, as if daring each other to keep up, keep control, then do better.
Ronaldo’s second goal, Brazil’s fourth, was also his 14th in World Cup Finals – equalling German Gerd Mueller’s record.
And the way he maaged it was assuredly the Ronaldo of old, giving little thought but power and precision from the edge of the box, having been fed by surging Gilberto.
The Ronaldo of old? Well, with a few more pounds – several, several more, indeed – and even less willingness to break into the laziest of jogs than ever before.
The wanderings of Ronaldinho and Kaka behind him, drifting wherever and whenever they want with no mind given to tactical restrictions, allow him to prowl a confined but deadly space in between the centre-backs.
With the record now equalled, indeed there soon to be beaten, those ridicule-laden reports of Ronaldo’s demise were certainly slightly premature.
He’s not finished yet – and it seems Brazil are, finally, just getting started.

"You can blow out a candle, but you can't blow out a fire..."

The 1986 World Cup in Mexico was the first one I really remember - squinting at a little TV in my bedroom, from my top bunk bed, at midnight matches such as England's disastrous 0-0 draw with Morocco (my mum called out before going to bed herself, to ask how we were doing: "Not good - Bryan Robson's just gone off injured, and Ray Wilkins was sent off a minute later..." "... Oh. Oh dear...")
Or the teatime games such as the famous "Hand Of God" nightmare on a Sunday evening - and the wild claims in school the next day that so-and-so had heard Fifa were going to order the game replayed (just as similar tales spread in desperation after the 1990 semi-final, this time that an Argentine player in the other semi had failed a drugs test and for some reason, England not Italy would benefit by their disqualification... Such useless self-delusions...)
Other memories of '86: Lineker's wrist cast - and the agonising way the ball somehow bounced back off his head instead of into the net as that Argentina game came towards an end; Maradona's solo goal in the semi-final win over Belgium, a lesser-remembered rival to his England effort as a World Cup thing of greatest beauty; Jorge Valdano, in the same game, trying to get away with a copy of Maradona's other England goal, only this time being caught football-handed; the giant spider-shaped shadow thrown over the Aztec Stadium pitch in midfield; Uruguay's Batista being sent off for a foul on Gordon Strachan after less than a minute - and Scotland still being unable to get better than a goalless draw; the cartoon chilli pepper mascot Pique, and his imprint all over the free merchandise brought back home by my dad; Josimaaaaaaaaar the flying Brazilian right-back drilling a speculative but spectacular shot past a stunned Pat Jennings; and a series of penalty shoot-outs, the most dramatic coming in France's quarter-final win over Brazil.
Before the shoot-out, Brazil should have won it in normal time but with the aid of a penalty - only for newly-arrived, injury-hampered sub Zico to miss.
He scored in the shoot-out, but two team-mates didn't - allowing France through, and ending for a third time Zico's hopes of winning the World Cup, one of the finest footballers never to have done so.
Well, he won't win it as manager of Japan, but it will be intriguing this evening to see his adopted side take on his homeland, here in the fine old Dortmund stadium.
His side look likely to bow out of the tournament today - but hopefully Zico's Japan will do so with a little of the style and flair of Zico's Brazil, while inspiring today's Brazil to finally start doing the same this summer...

I don't really like that song about him by Peter Gabriel, though.

"I've been turned down, I've been pushed round..."

Dutch defender Khalid Boulahrouz could for given for feeling a little left out - all because he's been left in.
When playing for RKC Waalwijk, then-boss Martin Jol (who he?) condemned his fitness levels as "equal to a policeman's". Cutting.
Now, having fought his way back from this hurt and toned himself up, he found himself playing for Holland in the World Cup tonight.
Lovely.
Except, of nine players on both sides to have already picked up a yellow card, and facing suspension if booked again tonight, he was the only one not given the evening off.
A rather harsh little message seemed loud and clear.
Robben, Van Bommel, Van Bronckhorst, Mathijsen and Heitinga in one dug-out, Heinze, Saviola and Crespo in the other - each and every one, too important to risk.
Khalid Boulahrouz - hmm, not so much...

"For the love you bring won't mean a thing, unless you sing, sing, sing - sing..."

And there I was, preparing to write something about the English being no good at the Eurovision Song Contest but by far the finest singers in this alternative global tournament.
But then – came the Argentines…
Tonight’s match against Holland wasn’t perhaps the classic, such an encounter between these two could and should have been in a knock-out round. Or if tonight’s game had any meaningful matters of qualification hinging upon it, other than who finished top and who second in Group D.
In fact, Holland may be the more pleased with a potential route offering up Portugal then England, rather than Argentina’s of Mexico and then, crucially, hosts Germany.
So for all the quality, the decorative passing from two sides flexing their squad muscles, a stalemate was always likely: some spasms of sparring, each weighing up the opponent but ultimately keeping something in reserve for more important days to come.
Not that Tevez and Messi didn’t fizz up-front for Argentina, nifty feet moving several times swifter than even the most watchful Dutch defenders. Riquelme was graceful, Cambiasso all-action.
But perhaps, on another day, a left-winger like Arjen Robben would have enjoyed taking on replacement right-back Coloccini, the crazy-haired hacker coming on early for the trampled-upon Burdisso.
But still… those fans. A Trivial Pursuit chunk-shaped bunch to our left, of bouncing blue-and-whites, twirling their Argentine sashes around their heads while bellowing out non-stop anthems, the odd swirl of ticker-tape fluttering down upon them.
Did I say ‘bellowing’? Too harsh – for this was an awesome roar which was also powerfully melodic. Thousands of voices in unison – but sounding as true as just the one, segueing wordless chants into hymnal glorification.
And they just wouldn’t shut up. Much like, also, the English – taking for granted a tradition of ‘sing-up-sing-up-and-play-the-game’, whether desperately trying to infuse our dirge-like national anthem with rousing joy (the linking ‘all together now’ surely not in the original lyrics), or the irresistible Great Escape, or the basics of ‘Ing-er-lund’ or ‘Roo-ney, Roo-ney’, or homely little tributes, tricked up by someone or other – ‘Steve Gerrard, Gerrard, he swings it from 40 yards – he’s big and he’s fookin’ ‘ard – Steve Gerrard, Gerrard…’
Like the flags pasted to blank space, all-out singing on this scale seems the domain, mainly, of just the English and the Argentines.
Germany’s following seem to peak too soon – sucking in hefty breaths to holler the surname of each selection as names are announced pre-match.
Number ten Michael – ‘BALLACK!’ Number eleven Miroslav – ‘KLOSE!’ Number 17 Bastian (deeper breath) ‘SCHWEINSTEIGER!’
But then, that done, the game tends to progress to a stable rumble, leaving the songs to the stereos.
Ah, Brazil give good noise too, of course – those stereotypical samba rhythms, when not whistling their own players for daring to pass back to the ‘keeper.
So Brazil lays down the percussion, Argentina supplies the tunes, England the bombardment of backing vocals.
There’s the sound – add Holland for the sight, those banks of orange advancing like several armies.
All advancing onwards, for now – Argentina in stylish ease, Holland skilful patience, Brazil doing just enough while still finding their magic feet…
And England – ah, what to say? Which England to see?
Hopefully not Sol Campbell, misleadingly solid enough for much of last night’s cameo, then dreadfully sloppy at the important last.
Sadly not Michael Owen, cursed ever since – silly boy – signing for Newcastle.
But ideally, much much more of the joyous Joe Cole, the wonderboy Wayne still an agonising fraction away from bringing off great thoughts, and bumblebee Lennon as a terrorising late arrival.
And also, it might be nice to have a little more variation from our should-be-deadly set-pieces.
See, for example, Sweden’s last night : a different tactic each time, near post, far post, penalty-spot – not just a hopeful chip across goal.
But above all else, please produce a performance on the pitch, to match that in the stands, when singalong Saturday comes…

"For a minute there I lost myself, I lost myself..."

ONCE you’ve wandered into weird “Worldcupworld”, time quickly loses meaning beyond the essentials - 3pm kick-off, 6pm, 9pm.
When exactly does the night before blearily become the morning after?
It gets just too tricky to tell.
Is the day finally done, when fans still in the parks stop re-enacting the latest winning goal – and start crumpling into lumpen human heaps?
Maybe as you fail to focus on the pre-dawn timetables, cursing all the booked-up hotel rooms this side of the Luxembourg border?
Or when, stationed in the station, the blues and reds of tonight at nine start merging with the greens, whites or whatevers of tomorrow at three?
More likely yet, yellow everywhere you look – a mustard fug blending Brazilian and Australian, Swedish, Ecuadorian and Togan, back always to Brazil?
Perhaps it’s when the chants start to change, new melodies replacing the raucous choruses of tonight’s winners and the rueful defiance of the losers.
If it’s Thursday, if it’s Friday, it must be… who?
“Aussie, Aussie, Aussie – oy, oy, oy”…?
“Porrr-TEW-gal, Porrr-TEW-gal”…?
“Hop, Schweess! Hop, Schweess!”…?
“Braaaa-seel, Braaaa-seel”…?
Or, of course, “Ing-er-lund, Ing-er-lund, Ing-er-LUND”…?
Perhaps instead the hosts, gradually growing in assurance as they insist: “Wir fahren, wir fahren, wir fahren nach Berlin”…?
Or can you tell the time, by scanning the students signed up as dogsbody stadium volunteers…?
All the night long, you’ll see those recently-fresh faces now turned grey and drained – their sky-blue uniforms navy-stained by sweat.
Yet through the opposite station doors, the next bright-eyed batch arrives - in impeccably-pressed, soon-to-be-sodden shirts, and dreaming of meeting Beckham.
Maybe tomorrow becomes today, when the patient café-mistress brews her first fresh pot then toe-taps alive again all those under her tables?
Or when the impatient, passing Polizei take a more direct approach, ordering all awake and out of each waiting room – come on, come on, raus, raus…?
After all, there’ll be plenty of time in this life to sleep - once the football’s finished, the final’s final whistle blown.
(Or if you must – catch a quick nap, when the French next kick off...)

"But sleep won't come, the whole night through..."

Germany's resurgent footballers have had to share front page space with TV star Ottfried Fischer (nope, me neither), mired in a quickfire sex scandal.
First came photos of the married celeb with a young mystery blonde.
Then his wife kicked him out, his new love’s sex-worker past was exposed and – it never rains, eh? - he crashed his car and ended up in hospital.
Still, one columnist thanked poor Otto for distracting attention from any great discussion of the German team’s weaknesses.
If only a TV star back in Britain could have made a similar sacrifice for Sven’s sake.
Well, anyone but Ulrika...

"Nowhere man, please listen - you don't know what you're missing..."

Hmm. With South Africa preparing to host the 2010 World Cup, you might expect the country to take a keen interest in this summer’s contest.
Yet among more than 2,000 journalists accredited by Fifa, only four are from South Africa.
And one of those hasn’t bothered to turn up after all.

"Got to match the engine's pace, win imaginary race - yeah..."

This World Cup could prove costly for Diego Maradona.
Not only has he booked suites in four separate hotels for himself and his ever-growing entourage.
It would be a surprise if they got to bed in any of them, after leading the raucous revelries when Argentina hit Serbia and Montenegro for six.
Just hours before kick-off, Maradona had been forced to put his hand in his pocket again after being caught speeding by German police - fined 200 Euros for driving 120km per hour in an 80km zone.
Next time, Diego, give the keys to someone else – or at least apply the (ahem) hand-brake of God.

"The trouble with Fred is, he's too hasty..."

They attack with pace, piling on power, passion and devilish trickery – with ruthless results.
Not, for the moment, the Brazilian players – but the Brazilian Press.
I’ve just emerged, sweat-sodden and woozy, from my first experience of a World Cup “media zone”.
Just? Only just about.
Unlike the mediator-led, polite probing of the managers’ post-match Press conferences, the media zone is a frenetic free-for-all - and not for the faint-hearted. Footballers included.
As the players rush along a thin alleyway separating dressing rooms from team buses, reporters get to holler questions and prod recorders in their faces – in the hope that someone might just take the bait.
And when it’s the fearsome might of the Brazilian media coming a-calling, it's probably wisest not to think you can resist for long.
If only the footballers had been quite so dynamic in the Munich Arena tonight, labouring England-style to a flattering 2-0 triumph, just days after a similarly underwhelming 1-0 victory.
Before the World Cup kicked off, most England fans would probably have been delighted to be told they would be bearing comparisons with Brazil nine days in.
Sadly, the manner of both teams’ performances has been rather more underwhelming than the scorching standards set by, say, Argentina and Spain.
At least Ronaldinho looked to be slowly cranking into something approaching the right gear tonight.
And The Guardian’s so-called “man who ate Ronaldo” contributed too, setting up the first goal - despite contributing little else beyond an embarrassing airshot and plenty of plodding and wheezing.
As the woman from The Sun sitting next to me appeared to be drafting it: “The two Ronnies finally got their act together last night” – but again, only just about.
The great “walking football” of swaggering Brazilians past was slowed to a pensioner’s pace for long periods.
The ever-vivid crowds were not quite so slow to begin jeering and whistling, especially as key midfielder Emerson kept indulging a fondness for very unBrazilian backpasses from the halfway line.
The arrival of Robinho with 20 minutes left couldn’t have offered a starker contrast to Ronaldo, the man he replaced for the second game running.
For a start, Robinho actually seemed to want the ball – even haring back into his own half to scythe a couple of Aussies, each almost twice his size.
His instinctive, diagonal drive as injury-time began, provided the rebound which fellow substitute Fred (Fred??!) couldn’t help but tap in from two yards.
That sealed a hard-fought win, which at half-time had looked a long way away.
Adriano’s calm pass past goalkeeper Mark Schwarzer, shortly after the second half kicked off, had first broken down the tough, Lucas Neill-led Australian resistance.
The Australians, cheered to the rafters and beyond by their own bright yellow army, could even have scored several times themselves – especially after Harry Kewell replaced Tim Cahill.
Unlike Cahill, who sped on head down, mouth clamped shut, Kewell was chatty in the media zone.
He predictably sidestepped attempts to lure him into complaining about his relegation to the bench, while talking up both teams in perfectly placid footballer-speak.
Mark Viduka was the media zone star, though, chattering on for what seemed like hours, bounding from hack-pack to pack, even gabbling in Croatian for a select few.
Yes, he does take some relentless abuse when playing the pantomime villain at White Hart Lane – and, to paraphrase Alan Partridge, I may occasionally have been party to that goading.
But he was surprisingly personable this evening – even joking about the pre-match AC/DC played over the Tannoys, and how he was inspired by the thought “it was just like wrestling”…
Eventually, though, even Press-feeding powerhouse Viduka was desperate for respite, desperately shrugging: “I’ve just finished a tough game – I’m stuffed, guys!”
Similarly-helpful Gilberto Silva, the one Brazilian source for us English hacks to pounce upon, finally had to be dragged away by one of the team minders.
But Ronaldinho was still somewhere buried in the crush, Brazilian reporters aggressively hollering questions in a manner which seemed to have reduced Roberto Carlos to the brink of tears.
Ronaldo was one of the first to face the herd – and long after assuming he’d escaped, I spotted him furtively rising from one scrum and making a relieved dash for the exits.
Goalscorer Fred, on the other hand, had entered the media zone with the broadest of beams illuminating his face, and looked like a man prepared to answer questions and pose for photos until the minute before kick-off next time around.
Then again, seeing how the eight-goal hero of four years ago has now become a laughing-stock (not helping himself, of course)...
Perhaps Fred should just enjoy this moment while he can.

"Don't you forget about me..."

Graham Poll really has been groomed for great things by Fifa, hasn't he?

After being given the privilege of refereeing Togo versus South Korea, the "Thing From Tring" has been handed the one must-must-must-see of the coming week: Saudi Arabia against the Ukraine.

No doubt the bookies are preparing themselves for a welter of bets on just how many times he will inevitably award a penalty, flourish a red card, wave his arms in the air like he just don't care, or whatever else it may take to guarantee his rightful place at the centre of attention.

Perhaps, just perhaps, though, the refereeing powers-that-be don't have quite such a lofty opinion of Graham Poll as, well, Graham Poll does.

"If you're rated X, you're some kind of goal..."

Phew. Hopefully the reluctant little girl forced into heartstring-tugging, ticket-seeking duties by her dad will join the ranks of fervent football fans.
But perhaps it would have been better if her family did indeed miss out on tonight’s pulsating Italy-US match.
With all the crunchy tackles flying in, this blood-and-thunder, ligaments-and-lightning cup tie was anything but suitable viewing for children.
Fantastic fun for adults, mind.
After the fiasco of their three-goal rout by the Czechs, the Americans were a team transformed tonight.
This time, against the defensive masters of world football, the US were a much tighter, controlled unit at the back.
Tactically, that is – sadly, not tackling.
Sadly, a certain indiscipline probably denied them the win they deserved, more than their opponents.
This enthralling World Cup may have captivated every country in the world except the US, where friends assure apathy reigns, and remains, rampant.
But the American supporters here were proudly outsinging the Italians from the first whistle.
And their players were the most positive, testing the full-backs if not the goalkeeper, and provoking Totti into a fifth-minute booking.
Captain Claudio Reyna and defensive midfield lynchpin Pablo Mastroeni were putting together intricate passing movements, starting to jut into the final third of the pitch.
But just as wingers Bobby Convey and Clint Dempsey were realising they had every right to feel confident, the Italians struck first blood – metaphorically speaking, though the real stuff would flow in the fullness of time.
Mastroeni’s enthusiasm got the better of him, for the first ominous moment, when he upended Totti on the right-hand side of the US box.
The American accused Totti of diving – not the first nor last time for the Italian playmaker.
But harsher injustice – albeit comical, too – came when Andrea Pirlo floated over the free-kick and Alberto Gilardino stooped low to nod past Kasey Keller.
Replays showed Luca Toni and Oguchi Onyewu locked in what looked the most passionate of embraces.
A wrestle-turned-romantic it may have appeared, but the Americans weren’t whispering sweet nothings as they protested about the clear obstruction on their most impressive defender.
Toni versus the centre-backs, Onyewu and Eddie Pope, could have made for a lively, honest, six-of-one-half-a-dozen-of-the-other battle of the powerhouses.
Yet despite his 1.94m in height, 89kg in weight, Toni kept crumpling like a Wendy house in a strong wind, every time Onyewu so much as glanced his way.
When the game was still goalless, he had helped find Pope’s way into the book, collapsing under a 50-50 challenge in a chase for the ball.
But just as they had set themselves up for a comfortable cruise into the second round, the Italians pressed the self-destruct button – twice in as many minutes.
First, the often-hesitant Cristian Zaccardo swung a left foot at a Reyna free-kick that had cleared a congested penalty area – only to swipe at thin air, the ball bouncing off his standing foot and dribbling into his own net.
Seconds after the restart, snarling Daniele De Rossi – already facing a third-match ban for any yellow card – received a straight red for bloodying Brian McBride with a flying elbow.
He made as if to protest his innocence, before rightly stalking straight off the pitch – the clearest-cut dismissal so far this tournament.
The inevitable Italian sacrifice, sadly, would be Totti – hauled off after just 35 minutes, to allow the tenacious Gennaro Gattuso to shore up the midfield.
This invited Andrea Pirlo to sit even deeper in front of the centre-backs, while switching Perotta from probing right-wing to defensive left.
As the game turned out, Italian manager Marcello Lippi might later come to regret the loss of Totti from the attack.
Mastroeni, at that point the most dynamic player on the pitch, might have made the difference with a curving 30-yard drive which landed millimetres high, on top of the net.
But he ruined the effect a minute before half-time, lunging late and two-footed into Pirlo’s thighs and promptly following De Rossi down the tunnel.
He too tried to look innocent and bemused at Jorge Larrionda’s decision, but for all Pirlo’s predictable histrionics, the foul was flagrant – and dangerous.
Lots to do for Larrionda – barely two minutes into the second half, he was again flourishing that fluorescent red, this time despatching US veteran Pope for a second yellow.
The first had looked harsh – the US later insisted the second was too, though he was far from the ball in a hack from behind on Gilardino’s ankles.
Perhaps greedily looking for further US dismissals, the Italians continued to sprawl theatrically at the slightest touch.
In this, captain Cannavaro seemed to be setting the unsavoury example, infuriating his counterpart Reyna with lengthy calls for “treatment”.
In contrast, Reyna was a more admirable inspiration, keeping his calm, keeping his position – and keeping his thoughtful passing going, from the heart of the midfield.
When dropped DeMarcus Beasley got a shot at redemption, as a 62nd minute sub, he and Reyna were unprepared to let the nine-man team simply shut the game down and hope to hold the score level.
Their canny one-twos threatened to carve open the surprised Italian defence, only to be let down by McBride’s slowness of thought and delivery when set free.
The lone striker was to blame for a Beasley “goal” being ruled out, sloppily straying and staying offside as the substitute – and a deflection – lashed the ball past Buffon.
Full-backs Carlos Bocanegra and Steve Cherundolo proved as sturdy and stubborn as their Italian counterparts looked flaky and uncertain.
Zambrotta at least earned relief from Cherundolo’s rampaging raids, by surging forward himself and daisy-cutting a shot just wide.
But Zaccardo, an own goal to the bad and perplexed by Convey and, increasingly, a right-drifting Landon Donovan, was put out of his misery and replaced with 35 minutes still to play.
Lippi’s most progressive shift was to bring on Alex Del Piero for Zaccardo, encouraging him to fill the gap left by Totti.
Del Piero came closest to breaking the deadlock, stretching to flick a toe to a volley, only for Keller to arch even more painfully to tip it away.
Keller then produced a more conventional save, to beat away a long-range Del Piero drive – sealing for himself the man of the match award.
But while Del Piero worked hard to conjure these two three-quarter-chances, he lacked the Totti curiosity to wander deep and dictate attacks a little more imaginative.
The excellent Onyewu had finally seen off Toni for the equally-ineffective Iaquinta.
And he rudely interrupted the final Italian attempt to steal the win, by hoofing into Row Z a Del Piero cross.
Like the game itself, it certainly wasn’t pretty – but in the moment, in the circumstances: worth a hearty cheer or several, all the same.

"Gee, we looked swell - full of that yankle-doodle-dum..."

Any game featuring Germany, England or Brazil – sure.
But Italy versus United States didn’t appear the most obvious target for ticket touts hoping to do big business.
Yet walking through Kaiserslautern today, I saw more people appealing for tickets than during any other pre-match afternoon hours this past week.
Of course, when seemingly every other passer-by is proffering a card saying “Need tickets / Brauch Karten”, the true entrepreneurs turn more emotive.
One burger-munching American dad had weighed down his young daughter under a sweltering Stars and Stripes felt hat, and a billboard bigger than herself.
‘Her’ message read: “I really need to buy four tickets for my family – pleeeease help!”
Let’s hope daddy dearest was at least prepared to foot the bill, rather than raid his downcast-looking daughter’s piggy bank.
The ticket-beggars seemed split between the Italians – whose players will hopefully maintain last Monday’s superb standards – and the Americans, whose players surely can’t play any worse.
Perhaps a clue to this match’s popularity should have been picked up, when it became impossible to book overnight accommodation afterwards.
Not even a Linton Travel Tavern-style “sordid little griefhole” is on offer for me tonight.
Instead, I’ll be either hanging around the poky Kaiserslautern Haupbahnhof – or, more likely, nipping onto the first Munich-bound train I can find, and catching whatever sleep possible.
Hopefully the match will prove worthwhile, for all concerned.
After all, the Americans appear to have taken their defeat to the Czech Republic rather badly.
Or, indeed, maybe not. Maybe one day...

"Don't stop moo-ving..."

ENGLAND may have plundered the Network Rail book of excuses by blaming the hot weather for their poor performances, as Mike pointed out earlier.
But Germany’s rail equivalent, the Deutsche Bahn, came up with their own alternative to “leaves on the line” and “the wrong kind of snow” today – suicide cows.
The train on which I was travelling, heading for the Holland-Ivory Coast game in Stuttgart, was delayed for an hour after colliding with two cows who had paused on the line while on the run from a farmer.
Even when the train finally got moving again, everyone on board had to endure a grim journey at an unrelenting 28 degrees Celsius, since the crash had knocked out the air conditioning.
Then again, the poor cows didn’t come out of it too healthily either...

"Pass, the Dutchy, on the left-wing side..."

Job done. The Gottlieb-Daimler-Stadion Stuttgart has been effectively fumigated.
(Hopefully that was originally done when the stadium was renamed from the Adolf Hitler Arena, anyway).
After the French-Swiss snoreathon of 72 hours earlier, only a twin outbreak of end-of-season Spurs-style sickness could have stopped Holland and the Ivory Coast serving up anything other than a breath of fresh air here tonight.
An all together more invigorating evening was guaranteed with the arrival of the Dutch supporters in such force, in such vivid colours – that is, colour.
Every England matchday is a full-on flag day, with fans bringing more banners than you’d find on the Incredible Hulk’s family tree.
But with Holland, only the simplest of dress codes applies – wear what you like, as long as it’s orange.
Not a faint, flimsy, namby-pamby-pastel orange, either, but the most garish blaze which turns the terraces into what resembles a genetically-modified poppyfield gone slightly, strangely wrong.
The players, while wearing the same, were not quite so dashing, save for a brutal double-blow in five minutes of the first half.
First, Robin van Persie punished his Arsenal team-mate Kolo Toure for bundling him over on the edge of the Ivorian penalty area.
Van Persie himself swiped the free-kick into Jean-Jacques Tizie’s top right-hand corner – yet again this tournament, the new football swerving and spinning and rising and dipping along the way.
Four minutes later, with not yet half-an-hour on the clock, the other Dutch winger Arjen Robben came skipping inside from the left.
Apparently only reluctantly lending the ball to Marc van Bommel, he made the most of the midfielders half-return ball, half-stumble to cleverly reverse pass into the path of Ruud van Nistelrooy – with inevitable, net-bulging results.
Van Nistelrooy seemed overcome with relief more than anything at scoring his first World Cup goal, sinking to the turf and hollering joyfully to the sky – or perhaps towards Manchester.
To suddenly find themselves two goals down again, for the second successive game, was tough on the Ivory Coast who had started positively again.
Again, Didier Drogba was leading the line powerfully, surprisingly selflessly – and again, amazingly ready to rise from the ground quickly rather than writhe in supposed agony.
Didier Zokora and Yaya Toure, behind the single striker and bunch of support strikers, belied such apparently defensive roles by proving more artist than artisan.
Zokora, especially, was unfortunate to step inside only to see his 25-yard shot cannon off the corner of crossbar and post, and bounce safely away.
But one of the two Kones, the more creative Bakary, swung them suddenly back into the game after picking up an innocuous pass from Zokora.
In a run reminiscent of Michael Owen’s against Argentina in 1998, he swept his way past the Dutch defence before lofting the ball powerfully past Edwin Van Der Sar.
Is it just me, or is every goal this World Cup a stunner?
Well, maybe not Gamarra’s own goal against England – but still…
When the goal of the tournament nominations are in, even such belters as Steve Gerrard’s last night may struggle to be remembered.
After such an end-to-end, pulsating but high-quality first half, the second surprisingly lost a little pace and excitement.
The Ivorians, needing at least a draw to keep their World Cup alive, kept on trying to drive forward.
Drogba, especially, was desperate to dredge up an equaliser, after a harsh booking for appearing to stick a late foot in on Van Der Sar – he is now suspended from the final group game.
But then again, he was perhaps lucky the referee did not notice his flying elbow which sent Mathijsen sprawling.
Bakary Kone’s replacement by Aruna Dindane seemed a little baffling, with his side needing a goal.
Kone had been one of those troubling Dutch defenders the most, despite the steady sturdiness of Mathijsen and Ooijer (the latter not to be confused with the similar-sounding song by Chas and Dave).
Dindane, in contrast, repeatedly failed to force his way past an Argentinian defender during his cameo last Sunday, and remained consistent at least today.
The Lens winger has been linked with West Brom in the past – perhaps a more suitable level than World Cup football, on this evidence.
The Ivory Coast, thought of as the best hope among the Africans and the World Cup debutantes this year, stepped up the pressure in the final minutes.
They forced a quickfire series of corners and free-kicks in a lengthy injury-time, with the referee perhaps reluctant to end such an entertaining game.
But as against Argentina – and as with Ghana against Italy – their finishing was just too wayward to reward their build-up play.
Ivory Coast had 24 shots, to Holland’s 17 – but thinking back, van der Sar was not seriously tested nearly enough.
Well might manager Henri Michel have broken a corner bar of his dug-out in frustration, after Drogba’s downhard header across a congested box was chested off the line by Van Persie.
When the final whistle finally sounded, the jubilant Dutch players took an age to be dragged from the pitch, dancing along to Go West and Amarillo as only distraught Bakary Kone stayed, statue-like in the beaten team’s dug-out.
Three groups have now sent a pair of teams safely through, with a round of games still to play.
That’s a shame – the more last-day drama, the better (as long as it’s not England involved).
But even if both Holland and Argentina rest a few players, and ease down a gear or two next Wednesday, there should be enough quality – and pride – in abundance to produce more pleasure.
Even if both have now survived the “Group Of Death” with not even a flesh wound.
Hopefully the attractive Ivory Coast players, rather than the rather dirty Serbian side, get to go home with a consolation win when they meet in Munich.

"I'm a travellin' man, and I've made a lot of stops..."

This here-today-gone-tomorrow approach to the World Cup is enabling me to enjoy plenty of wonderful football, both live in person and on the stadium screens – none more pleasurable, perhaps, than the sublime performance Argentina have just completed.

Yet there are some days it would be good to stick around in one city a little longer and see some of the sights – for a good example, Nuremberg yesterday, which gave glimpses of fascinating, low-lying yet high-soaring medieval architecture, the olde-worlde churchyards and Holy Roman Empire-hosting official buildings and somehow-sinister arenas and sparse cell-like blocks giving off the air of Nazi fervour past, and steel-eyed eventual justice.

Even when swarming with beery, cheery England fans around the Hauptbahnhof and the central squares last night, crowding around diner TVs to eke out any inkling of excitement from the Sweden-Paraguay game, or peering blearily at train timetables, there was a feel a little different from some (just some) of the other German cities through which I’ve so far shuttled – far fewer glitzy blinking towers, or identikit Apothekes or sky-nudging advertisement billboards than scattered around, say, Frankfurt.

A more downhomie atmosphere, touching a little more on the feel of that first night in neighbouring (well, also Bavarian) Munich. But these were merely instinctive impressions – a few repeat trips to cities should fill in a few richer shades and tints…

I’m especially looking forward to finally reaching Berlin, the week after next – at which point, indeed, we hit the first real breather of the tournament. Two days without a game, between the second round and the quarter-finals, which should allow a little exploring of both Berlin and, en route, Hamelin, which I last visited as a six-year-old enthralled by the Pied Piper story.

When attending the Euro 2004 semi-finals in Portugal, we got to stop off at a few interesting heritage sights on the trip from Lisbon to Porto and back – including Fatima, where the Virgin Mary is supposed to have appeared to two young boys and their sister (and where ardent Catholics still come, trudging the last stretch of the journey on their knees in self-abasement), as well as the Santa Clara Convent and cathedral in Coimbra. This all made for a fascinating distraction from just football, football, football, and now the first week’s done and dusted and I’m well settled in, I could and should be doing a little more such similar here in Deutschland.

As it is, I'm becoming more of an expert on the relative differences between the Ibis and Etap budget hotels (I prefer Ibis - a slightly friendlier feel from the staff, and more fruit and cheese at the stock-up-for-the-day breakfasts...) I did have to spend an astonishing 285 euros on a Novotel night in Kaiserslautern the other night, but at least it was just a few minutes' walk from the stadium. And the nearest alternative hotel available at short notice that night was in, er, Luxembourg...

But still... away from the art and history, displays such as that of Argentina just gone have their own aesthetic wonder, as well...

I’m in Stuttgart now for Holland versus the Ivory Coast, and while it would be good to see Van Basten’s men hitting their heights – and firing up even further the vivid orange spreading across the city – I’d now prefer an Ivory Coast win.

This would mean that the forthcoming Holland-Argentina game, to which I’m also going, would have something riding on it still.

As long as tonight’s game is better than the last one here in Stuttgart, though, any result’ll do.

That one stank the stadium out – time to cheer on even the Chelsea boys on both sides, Drogba and Robben, to help well and truly clear the air...

"Everyone walks around, with a perpetual smile upon their face..."

AUSSIES, Aussies everywhere (and all of them on the drink).
No matter which German city you visit, you’re never too far from an inflatable kangaroo with a sozzled “Socceroo” at the other end.
Their first World Cup finals appearance for 32 years has attracted even more Australians than a job ad for bar staff in Earls Court.
Okay, so some seem a little confused as to what this World Cup is all about.
Amid the herds of toy marsupials bounding the streets, one group wielded an inflatable David Boon.
Though perhaps that actually was David Boon.
A-plus for optimism – but D-minus for geography – for the Australians occupying a hotel in Frankfurt for all four weeks of the tournament.
Their only chance of a game at the city’s stadium is by topping Group F ahead of Brazil, then reaching the quarter-finals.
More realistic focus is fixed upon Stuttgart next Thursday – when Australia’s Croatians clash with Croatia’s Australians.

"It's gonna take patience and time, to do it right..."

There appears to have been an attack of the clones in Nuremberg tonight.
For a start, they’ve clearly replicated Trinidad and Tobago coach Leo Beenhakker and been letting their creation loose to wreak media mischief.
The real Dutchman has just had to fend off a challenge that he described his England opponents, at half-time tonight, as “too predictable”.
What rubbish, he quickly countered.
“I wasn’t interviewed at half-time. That wasn’t me. Call me a lookalike – I don’t know…”
Not content with that stunt, the copycat-creator must have set to work on a few of those wearing England shirts this evening.
Surely, for instance, that can’t have been the real Frank Lampard, scourge of Premiership defences with his fierce firepower, his pinpoint accuracy?
This one certainly looked like the real deal, sure, in face and physique.
But he might as well have been one of those life-size Lampard cardboard cut-outs following you at every turn in Tesco, for all his accuracy when countless chances came his way.
Then how about that alleged “Paul Robinson” out there in Nuremberg, going walkabout and flapping around with all the goalkeeping prowess of his Neighbours namesake?
Most misguided impression of all, however, was the entire England side’s pale imitation of genuine World Cup contenders.
Except, except… they got away with it. Again.
David Beckham, switched to right-back in one of the most unlikely of improvisations, redeemed his stinker of a performance with the dead-eyed cross for Peter Crouch’s late breakthrough.
That 82nd minute goal redeemed Crouch, who had earlier combined truly humiliating finishing with a shoddy lack of effort to track back and generally do the good-natured hard work he should at least always have in his favour.
Then Steve Gerrard, like Lampard and Beckham a calamity against the Caribbeans tonight, also salvaged the night – albeit in more stunning style, with the injury-time flyer.
So we’ll moan, and it was miserable for much of the match. But we’re through to the next round with a game to spare – and the boy Wayne-der was resurrected, for a heftier-than-expected 35 minutes too.
Also encouraging was the cameo for Aaron Lennon, ever keen to skin a full-back with his pace and trickery.
He even managed to stretch his tiny frame a crucial extra millimetre or two to head an ambitious Downing pass back into play, teeing up Beckham to tee up Crouch.
So England managed to rally in Nuremberg, endured an arduous trial, and eventually got out of jail.
Or something like that, I’ll leave tomorrow’s papers to polish the inevitable metaphors.
Perhaps, if tonight’s Sweden-Paraguay game ends a draw, guaranteeing us top of the group, we might even see key players rested and our rookies blooded in an experimental line-up next Tuesday?
Certainly a change of approach of some kind would be welcomed, if we are seriously to trouble the likes of Italy, Brazil, Argentina, the Czechs or even Germany?
For long, oh-so-very-long periods tonight, we were just so laboured, so ponderous and predictable (yes, Leo may not have said it but plenty did).
Neither were we the stylish, patient passers of Continental aspirations – nor the pacy, pressing
This was the third way – and it proved a dead end.
Or surely will do if we don’t move into a higher gear – and then another, and then another – when the serious stuff starts, second round onwards.
So Beenhakker was eventually tempted to say, in a detailed and convincing critique of his (narrow) conquerors tonight.
“Almost every time, the first option for them was looking for the high ball for Crouch. I understand that.
“But at the moment, you’re eliminating some very important midfield players like that.
“Every coach is driving the same road, but we’re all of us driving in different cars. Coaches of other teams know their players much better than I do.
“But to go on in this tournament, you have to demonstrate a little bit more patience.
“It’s important and dangerous to bring in someone in the box like Crouch or Ibrahimovic.
“It’s an option – but not the only option.
“When they meet stronger teams, they will probably have to show more patience.”
Friendly and intelligent guy, that Beenhakker. Maybe it’sch that Dutschh accschent that does it.
But still: “This is free advice. I will not ask payment for it.”
Minutes later, we had Sven insisting: “I think we played a lot better than we did on Saturday, especially in the second half. We showed a lot of patience.
“If we had taken the chances in the first half or earlier in the second half, it might have been a different match.
“If we play the big teams in the tournament, it will not be much like today. We will be better.”
A bargain at a meagre £4million per year...!

"Poles" apart...

You can take the boys out of Poland, but maybe you can’t entirely take Poland out of the boys.
Germany’s adoptive strikeforce Lukas Podolski and Miroslav Klose somehow spurned the simplest chances to score against the land they left as children.
The misses may have endeared them to their Polish partners – and they can blame Oliver Neuville for the strike that finally sent Poland packing.
Pre-match, the émigrés from Eastern Europe had tactfully praised Polish women as prettier, calmer and “erotischer” than German girls.
But perhaps it would be best to avoid both subjects when the in-laws next come to call.
The "derby" was typically tasty and frenetic – the rivalry between the two countries does, as they say, have a little history to it.
But not everyone was enticed.
Yes, German Chancellor Angela Merkel was there, despite failing to disguise just how dull she finds football.
But it was hard to ignore all the empty seats in the VIP area around her.
Presumably Fifa will be enforcing their policy of yellow cards for all no-shows – and warning: one more absence, and you’re out for good.
... Won’t they?

Bochum around the clock...

“Hilfe, unsere Nerven!” was the headline on the front-page of today’s Bild, which must have had many early morning commuters – or late-late-late-night bedragglers – painfully nodding their hungover heads in rueful recognition.

The opening-day victory over Costa Rica ushered in the feelgood factor, the introduction to what looked like becoming an enjoyable, if merely frivolous party for the hosts.

Last night it turned serious, however. And that last-gasp goal by Oliver Neuville, more or less securing safe German passage to the second round at the expense of niggling Poland, kicked open a pressure valve.

News reports today suggest about 300 fans were arrested in post-match skirmishes, which had been feared since Poland and Germany were drawn together and self-consciously stoked up by media-manipulating hooligans’ “spokespeople”.

But coming away from the Dortmund stadium – or trying to – last night, the major mood music appeared to be, not howls of pain or threats, but joyful chants and cheering. Even from the defiant “Polska”, in place, but mainly from those decked out in the “rote, gelbe, schwarze” decorations which now seem de rigeur wherever you look.

England in 1996, France in 1998, Portugal in 2004, and now Germany in 2006 – on an international football level, there’s little more enthralling than being among a host nation crowd, inside or outside stadia, when their team is doing well in a major tournament.

Everything here in Germany, every subject, every announcement, every story, is seemingly now being streamed through the imagery of football, the atmosphere of celebration – qualifying for the next round, and the privilege of hosting this whole jamboree, combined.

There is, of course, a long way to go. But already I’ve decided: England-Germany would be the perfect final. The resurgent host nation following, up against the ever-exhilirating swathes of support behind England. Purely before you get to any added spices such as that long (mostly good-natured nowadays, surely?) rivalry, and the resonances of 40 years since ’66.

Assuming all goes well enough to see England safely through Group B, we’re in line to play the hosts in either the second round – or the final.

Germany’s exuberance last night, with car horns blaring, crowds carousing, anthems reverberating, may indeed have penetrated England’s pre-match preparations. Reports today suggest the noise was likely to have filtered through into their Nuremburg hotel.

At the classically, right-angle-contoured Dortmund stadium, standing areas temporarily removed to reduce to a mere 65,000 spectators, what in the first half played out like a scrappy, but spicy local derby, looked like settling up as a thrilling goalless draw – as the ball ricocheted back and forth off Polish bar, post and lunging central defenders. Philipp Lahm at left-back for Germany again posed as much danger powering forward as your most conventional of left-wingers, puzzling the Polish defenders with his right-foot chips for his back-to-goal strikers to spin on. Ashley Cole and Roberto Carlos, so long seen as the world’s leading left-backs – despite Cole’s injury problems, and Carlos’s recent performances not matching the ball-bending hype – may have serious competition for that unofficial title by the end of this tournament.

Oh, and inevitably today’s papers have linked Lahm with a move to Chelsea.
Another day, another day…

Dad drove me to my latest of one-stop shops last night, a hotel in Bochum – 15 miles from Dortmund, but feeling like so much more as we trundled along in car park-like conditions on the rammed Autobahn – and this at two o’clock in the morning.

Approaching 6am I was back up and out again – as were the multitudes, still. Still singing and drinking and embracing and pledging, as ever but with rising certainty: “Wir fahren, wir fahren, wir fahren nach Berlin…”

Some were starting up early for the day, many more were still running on late-late-late from the night before.

Klinsmann’s players may have taken their time to break down a stubborn, if unambitious, Polish rearguard – and the Polish-born German strikers seemed curiously reluctant to accept great goalscoring opportunities.

The defence can still look creaky, even if Per Mertesacker was much-improved and slid in for two crunching, crucial tackles in his own area. And Michael Ballack’s much-hyped return to the side seemed oddly ineffectual, perhaps distracting Torsten Frings alongside him while not suggesting too much danger going forward.

But this German side looks as potentially-progressive in attack as any of recent memory. And the swelling momentum piling up behind and around and amongst them can’t be too much of a hindrance, either.

After all, of the last 13 World Cup finals, all but one have featured either Brazil or Germany or both – such as four years ago, when Rudi Voller’s men somehow scraped their way through by dint of, er, efficiency and resolve despite obvious limitations.

Nuremberg is about to give England the ideal platform to prove the Paraguay performance was merely a stumbling start, from which things can and will only get much, much better.

If the result from Ecuador-Costa Rica, about to kick off, manages to make a German first-place in Group A much the most likely, then that dream final could…

Nah, steady on now. One careful step at a time.
Especially if your name’s Wayne Rooney.