But enough of that, onto links and classic videos from South Africa 2010.

The final was not particularly memorable but for the dirty Dutch and Iniesta’s wonderful strike in injury time. Here is that strike again…

The only thing sharper and more brilliant than that sweeping Spanish attack was Nick Dunmore’s satire of the latest incarnation of Dutch Football, known simple as “Total Bastard Football.” You must read it. Here.

Brook at DirtyTackle has done an admirable job of aggregating every single amusing celebration-video-gone awry. The first is what happens when you combine Germans’ two loves: fast cars and celebrating their national team’s success on the international stage.

I assure you no Kraftwerks were injured in the filming of that video. Conversely, Spain celebrated their first title in style, with Pepe “Reigning King of Mirth” Reina a bit tipsy on the team’s bus after too much sangria.

Pepe Reina’s antics began several hours earlier, though, where he led a drunken conga line in the airplane that carried the Spaniards home.

Does anybody else find it odd that he is so excited to have won a title? After all, Liverpool finished a respectable semi-finalist in the Europa league and have a new manager. I hope he does not expend all this “title celebratory energy” too early on and not have enough gas in the tank come next May.

The Tournament’s Best Player, Diego Forlan, showed a samuraiesque mastery of the jabulani. While others complained about the shape, size, and flight of the new ball, Forlan spun miracles with his right foot. His first goal of the tournament, against South Africa, defied gravity, aerodynamics, and your lowly expectations of Uruguay.

Forlan was not done there – in the quarterfinals against Ghana, his spinless free kick fooled the keeper, finding the far corner and even fooling one of the cameramen. (Please ignore the commentator)

But, ahem, he similarly was not done. With his charrua compatriots overmatched by the mighty Dutch, Forlan’s fearsome left foot let go from distance, again fooling the keeper and keeping the match close.

I know what you’re thinking – yeah, this guy has a cannon of a shot, but where’s the touch, the timing, the grace, the balance? Is he just lugging a rocket launcher around the field? Nein. Just ask the Germans…

Wow. Shades of Zizou? Yes. Granted, the third place game is not as grand a stage as the Champions League final, and it was on Forlan’s favored right foot, but the bouncing was beyond fantastic. For you Spanglish speakers, the proper term would be “picadita.”

So there you have it – drunken Spaniards and dancing Uruguayans, the World Cup summed up in a handful of Youtube videos as you get ready for the European transfer rumor mill and a boring August. Hasta luego…

Take a deep breath. And try to hide your disappointment.

We often approach the past as we do societies, creating a metanarrative with a set result in mind, reducing the individual and autonomy to mere wheels in the cog of a grandiose machine. Looking back at World Cup 2006, we always knew that Totti would bury that penalty kick against Australia with the Italians a man down and fighting for their life. David Terezeguet’s shot will always kiss the post, gifting Italy the title. Yet in the moment, we held our breath and said our respective hailmary’s.

To repeat the obvious – this truly is a golden generation of footballers for Spain. It seems like yesteryear that Figo was turning Puyol, Xavi was coughing up balls to Frank Lampard, and Sergio Ramos galloped up and down the flanks in Sevilla. Flash forward to 2006, when Spain held a 1-0 lead over France in the quarterfinals and dominated possession. Only a collective surge from the veteran midfield trio of Makelele, Vieira, and Zidane could asphyxiate Xavi and company, but you knew the seeds of greatness had been planted.

Tiki-tak. Juego tram tram. The Spanish game has a number of adjectives, some positive, some negative. My preferred metaphor has always been the anaconda – the furia roja keeps the ball and slowly wears down defenses both physically and mentally, preferring a safe pass backwards to a risky attack. Over the course of 90 minutes, a gap or two will open. A defender will slip or not step and commit an error. And then they squeeze their grip.

The Dutch defense grew tighter and compact as the game wore on, with De Jong and Von Bommel practically holding hands in the later stages and Schneijder rarely foraying into the attacking half. Robin Van Persie, starved of service, almost completed disappeared from the match. The only hope was the soccer equivalent of the Hail Mary, a long pass to Robben over the top. And it almost worked.

Robben the goat. Iker the savior. Take your pick of blame and credit and label the players as you deem appropriate. The harsh reality: the ball did not enter the net, and relying on balls over the top of Pique’s head was a low percentage strategy to begin with anyway. The red card for Holland was the stage cough, the forshadowing of an imminent demise. When the Dutch defense finally opened up and Iniesta got a half chance, nobody doubted he would bury it. This was a man that two years ago had dashed Chelsea’s dreams with a wonder strike deep in injury time.

Clutch. Brave. Persistent. Pick your label and place it on Iniesta, whose presence added an offensive spark to Spain when compared with last summer’s Confederations Cup. When looking back at World Cup 2010, Spain’s first star, and this golden generation of the furia roja, Iniesta’s right footed strike will fill the eyes with a shining example of timing and technique.

It’s a mere puff of the pipe, but it’ll have to do.

What he had to say will probably only confuse you, unless of course you obtained a doctorate from the European School of Philosophy. But not the University of Chicago – everybody knows those hacks just say really big words. Ahem. Now onto the interview!

Slavojile, you’ve argued very vehemently against the hegemony of regimes that presume interpellating individuals in a set polity. Is that really just a subtle dig at Total Football?

The problem with a set polity and an emphasis on individuals as parts is that it overlooks the important role of psychology within each individual. Only when we focus on the category of the subject, accepting a degree of “manque”, will we begin to decipher anything of worth.

Slavdawg, you seem to walk a fine line in your interpretations of consciousness according to Marxist ideals. On the one hand, you reject the concept of “false consciousness”, yet you also claim no individual truly grasps their own motives. So, does Sergio Ramos wear tight green pants because he knows they’re ridiculous? Or is he clueless?

The existence of tension underscores a truth that cannot be plastered upon every landscape at every given time. On the one hand, the Marxist notion of false consciousness represented quite well the 20th century bourgeoisie – the prevalence of creature comforts sedated them into submission, and any attempts to empathize with the proletariat were hollow. However, just because the self cannot pinpoint it’s won motive, that does not foreclose a better appreciation of conscious workings in how those motives play out in the real world.

Slavvyslav, your work has been summarized as the Lacanian approach to reconciling the eternal tension between materialism and idealism. Basically, “the Real” is not experienced by the subject as our systems of comprehension order it. Does that explain why Camacho flipped his shit when Villa scored against Paraguay?

Sadly, your question answer itself with a very important presupposition. If we begin our analysis with a non-referential scope of ideology, then the domination of the subject’s senses and experiences clouds our conclusions. Only by rejecting these assumptions and inverting the pyramid can we approach a true and accurate Lacanian understanding of the modern self at this exact point in time.

Audioslavoj, you have steadfastly critiqued the modern desire to scientifically analyze the brain, concluding that a biological description would still leave a gap between material reaction & consciousness – that very gap, known in Freudian terms as “the death drive”, is, in your understanding crucial. Will Spain find any similar gaps in the Netherlands’ back line on Sunday?

A techno-scientific discourse is to philosophy as the conquistadores were to the natives of the Americas – all consuming, destructive, and a retardation. The desire to paint ourselves in a black & white light is tempting, yet ultimately this picture reflects more of what we hope for than the reality beneath. More troubling, this discourse, with its matter of fact descriptions and conclusions, obscures and ignores the more important, fascinating, and overarching questions of morality that guide the subject conscious self.

Slobslav, relying heavily on Descarte’s problem of possible automation, you take the controversial conclusion that consciousness is opaque – thus, one can never know if another conscious being is truly conscious or a mere mime. Do you think Xavi will dance circles around Von Bommel, like those annoying mimes along Las Ramblas?

The problem of interacting subjective conscious entities always comes back to the Husserlian failure to account to the other’s selfhood. Von Bommel and DeJong do not accumulate yellow cards because they are a tad slow or reckless in the tackle, but rather because they do not acknowledge the consciousness of opposing attacking midfielders.

Luckily, Junito is still a decade or two away from such problems. Although he did recently throw a tantrum so ugly it would make Franck Ribery appear a GQ coverboy.

The other day, Junito, Angie, the missus, and I were kicking a pelotita around when Junito got mad at not receiving consistent service. Se enojo and was inches away from pegging one of his trademark mordiscos when I restrained him and placed him in timeout. I can handle some heat in the locker, err, living room, but unlike the stargazing Domenech, at some point one must impose authority or all hell breaks loose.

So Junito sat in his chair in a rinconito, and I still couldn’t help but reflect upon the subtle effect of time on character. A few years ago, Gattuso was talking smack about Zidane and his club was a Champions League finalist. Now, humbled by a first round exit, he admitted he deserved scorn. Cannavaro fared little better – his second spell was Juventus was a disaster, and a date with a Persian Gulf paycheck awaited the former World Champion.

I looked back at the Italian run to the top, smirking at how easily we write history in stone yet live the present on a whim. Italy, after all, barely edged Australia on a horrendous penalty kick call. The match against the Ukraine ended 3-0, but any neutral saw a tight match where but for a few friendly posts, the game could have gone either way. And, of course, the final was decided by a single errant shot in a penalty kick shoot-out. Football, even of the non-American variety, appeared a game of inches (perhaps centimeters).

The career arch of Junito is still squarely in the “petulant and cocky Frenchman” point, what with his cocky showmanship and silky first touch. Still, if history is any guide, if genetics play a role, then I like to think that Junito could enjoy perhaps a career of two decades. Why? No, not because of me. If he eats half the enchiladas I have, he will be lucky to make his high school team. No, because of Junito’s abuelo.

Last October, we received the chilling news that foretells the tribulations between adolescence and adulthood. Junito’s abuelo had a stroke. We all worried about my papy’s health, some fretted about a will (or lack thereof), but naturally my thoughts turned to the most important thing of all – soccer. Would my 60 year old dad still be able to play?

The answer was a thunderous, joyous, and rapturous yes. During the Dia de Gracias, spent at the abue’s, grandpa could still pivot like a teenager at a school dance and chip thirty foot passes like a 60 year old Xavi that recently had a stroke (use your imagination). I was alleviated. I was elated. Despite the worn legs, the brain’s cruel recollection it too is a muscle, smile after smile graced my papy’s face.

In this game of inches, where young French men cry and fight like three year olds, they forget a simple truth: the game should never cease to be a game. Despite aching knees, mistimed tackles, and the fatigue dizzies, the Italians marched into the World Cup for one simple reason, for the same reason that a 38 year old Maldini deputized at leftback for AC Milan….

“Jugamos pelota nietito?”

“Clarisisismo que si!”

From the audience perspective, the German counterattacks play out like a creepy killer carefully entering and walking through the house. As the masked villain slowly tiptoes down the hallway towards the bedroom, we flash to scenes of the impervious back line, taking a shower. Will Heinze step in time to rule Podoslki offsides? Oh no...he’s decided to use conditioner and can’t hear the killer turning the door handle to the bedroom!

On the other hand, with enough possession and half chances, the victim always manages to kick and punch and wrestle her (or his) way out a window, only to find that she’s stranded on the roof. She manages to wriggle down a nearby tree, but you know the killer is already hiding in the backseat of her car. In this sense, the German victory resembles the finality of surgery, where anesthesia dulls the pain until the very end. Instead of seeing the victim’s eyes as the knife enters the abdomen, the last ten minutes of the match we witness slumped shoulders and half-assed runs. The curtains slowly close and soon the credits role.

This game presented a contrast to the Argentina of 2006, which I argue was built like Dunga’s Brazil. That albiceleste side packed the midfield with Maxi, Mascherano, and Cambiasso – all of whom worked as ball winding bodyguards that in turn supplied Riquelme. The emphasis on possession and organization yielded a draw against Germany, which they won on penalty kicks. This Argentina side rode on the backs of three strikers, sacrificing meaningful possession for offensive forays. Mascherano ran his tail off, but the trifecta of Higuain-Tevez-Messi failed to seriously trouble a packed German center.

The few moments of danger came from Dimaria, which is the closest proximity to a winger that Argentina has produced as of late. The lack of width, and notably of overlapping runs, was the antithesis of Brazil’s over-reliance on the galloping Maicon. Yet neither served either country in their quest to advance past the quarterfinals. For all the talk of nationalism, of how importing foreign players dilutes national teams, the two largest suppliers lost to the Dutch and the Germans. And in 2006 they lost respectively to France and Germany.

So the only answer is for the respective Argentine and Brazilian leagues to open up a large pipeline for German, French, and Dutch players. Or something like that.

Regardless, the press will jump on Maradona for the lopsided defeat. Still, he took his side as far as Pekerman four years ago, albeit losing in emphatic fashion. The Argentine questions of “por que no puso a Milito” will cascade throughout the internet, but such tactical substitutions and ruminations will amount to little. The Germans on their day are always one step quicker, jump an inch higher, stay composed in the box, and are a few steps behind you with a shining dagger in their hand.

However, this was not a case of the swashbuckling jogabonito Dutch vs. the boring Brazilians. The Holland on display fielded three central midfielders, Schneijder, Von Bommel, and De Jongo, two of which are more janitorial than artistic. Up front, Van Persie found himself isolated as Kuyt’s chronic lack of pace and Robben’s left leaning proclivities starved him of quality service. Did Gio overlap Robben even one time during the course of the game? Cruyff’s total football is dead. Long live the Cruyff.

So, if we cannot fault for philosophical impurity when facing an equal evil, what can we say? Well, Felipe Melo had a terrible season at Juventus and Gilberto is on the wrong side of 30. Was this truly the rock solid center around which to construct a team? Of course, Elano’s injury and Ramirales’ suspension deprived Melo & Gilberto of a reliable sidekick, but Von Bommel and Schneijder recently faced off in the Champions League final. Comparatively, Melo lost to a miraculous Fulham in the Europea league quarterfinals and Gilberto took the Orient Express East across the Mediterranean a few years ago.

We could also play the Brazilian keeper blame game, a historical favorite and emotional crutch of a nation. If only Cesar had been stronger in the air, then Melo’s indecision would have meant little. Just like four years ago, a clever setpiece bamboozled the Brazilian backline for the winning goal. This time, instead of Roberto Carlos adjusting his sock, Juan and Lucio bit on the Kuyt header, allowing the elusive Schneijder to head freely from five yards.

Yet these two moments underscore a larger problem – the lack of clear cut chances by Brazil. Kaka, Robinho, and Fabiano rarely combined, their heels, flicks, and feints smothered in a sea of orange. Kuyt hustled and bustled to neutralize Maicon, and suddenly the lack of a Plan B became apparent. Nilmar and Gilberto Melo are good players, but not game changers. The cries for Pato and Ronnie fell on deaf ears.

Still, Dunga is the loneliest man in the world today. His Brazilian team, built on European organization and discipline, failed to out-European a well disciplined and disciplined European side. In a tense game of few clear cut chances, one can watch the replays over and over again with no clue as to who will win or who should have won. The game was not a game in any sense of the world, but more of a mixed arm wrestling – staring contest.

If Kaka had kept his sole shot low, the streets of Rio would be filled with samba dancing fans draped in green and yellow. But Brazil blinked first.

The typical suspects have overcome group stage difficulties to rise to the top. However, no smoking gun has appeared to point out the single culprit most likely to win the tournament. Using a really big magnifying glass, a trench coat, a smart talking sidekick, and intuition, we embarked on an investigation of the remaining teams in this World Cup quarterfinals, searching for clues in a sea of uncertainty. Our conclusion as to who will win the World Cup?

All signs point to….

Let’s start with the obvious – you knew nothing about Paraguay except that their A closer inspection reveals a side more than capable of holding la furia roja without a goal for 90 minutes. Also, Argentine born – big in Germany -forward Lucas Barrios has proven potent up top, while Oscar Cardozo shined in Portugal this past year. Still, the albiroja would be a long shot for a finals appearance. Thus, they are among the list of secondary suspects – dangerous, but not requiring closer inspection at this time.

As for Uruguay, admit that you knew about Diego Forlan. He had a good season at Atletico de Madrid, scoring clutch goals in their successful Europa league campaign. However, aside from the game against South Africa, he has taken on an accomplice role. Diego is the distraction to the deadly, deceptive, and delightful enrachado Suarez, the Dutch young player of the year who has scored crucial goals this tournament for the charruas.

Despite the  world class striking tandem, depth at midfield poses a problem for Uruguay. Do they have the bodies to pull off a heist of global proportions? Probably not, as a nearly disastrous double yellow in the opening game against France revealed. Thus, the Uruguayans may pose a bigger menace than Ghana, they remain a secondary suspect.

Ghana is better than you thought. Despite the injury to Michael Essien, the seeds of the successful under20 side are blossoming nicely. Even Muntari, a strong role player in Inter’s successful treble winning season, struggles to get minutes. However, a glance at the magnifying glass reveals overly defensive tactics and a team too wet behind the ears. Could they upset Uruguay? It’s a remote possibility. But the semi-finals will probably be a bridge too far for Africa’s last remaining representative.

Now we move onto the primary suspects. The first is obviously Spain. The furia roja edged out a negative Portugal side which lacked any ounce of creativity in midfield. Still, David Villa aside, the Iberians have lacked a cutting edge in the 18 yard box. Despite Fernando Torres’ attempt to conceal his identity via hair color change, his lack of fitness has hindered his contributions. And his athletic and direct approach always stuck out like a sore thumb for Spain.

More troubling is Del Bosque’s overly negative tactics. The Spaniards two holding midfielders, Xabi & Busquets, means that Xavi has limited attacking targets. The lack of movement has been troubling. David Villa’s individual brilliance can probably lead them past Paraguay, but the semi-finals should see the limping Spaniards bounced in convincing fashion. The Spaniards are a primary suspect, but only just barely. Don’t count on finding their prints anywhere near the trophy.

Now, we turn out attentions to the disappearing Dutch. A glance at the roster gives us ample motive to assert Holland as favorites. However, going from paper to people, reasonable doubt creeps in. The Dutch locker room is always volatile, a tempestuous sea of swirling emotions where placid surfaces mask powerful undercurrents. Robin Van Persie’s recent outburst and lingering resentment from a basic free kick at Euro 2008 reveal a group of mean spirited, needy, and insecure professionals.

Up until this point, the Dutch coach has refrained from criticizing his own players, a rarity in the “everybody else is to blame” orange establishment. However, when the going gets tough, when the chips are down, the stylish Dutch 4-3-3 reveals a gaping hollow in the center as wingers complain about a “lack of service” rather than backtracking. Not to mention that this Dutch side has hardly played stylish attacking soccer so far. The orange’s suspect back line will haunt them against Brazil, in a closely contested affair more akin to involuntary manslaughter than premeditated murder.

Argentina has scored goals by the bucket, shielding an aging and lead footed back line. Javier Mascherano, aided by either Veron or Maxi, has worked tirelessly to feed the three striker attack while provided cover for Heinze and Demichelis. But will Di Maria provide enough width against a well organized German defense?

The bi-polar Diego gives both reasons to both suspect and discount the Argentinians. On the one hand, he has a happy locker room and confident group of attackers. On the other, he has failed to show the capacity to make an astute tactical substitution to turn a game in the albiceleste’s favor. The young Mueller and speedy Podolski may reveal the wear and tear on the defensive tires, but no team with Leo Messi and the in-form Tevez & Higuain can be dismissed out of hand. Expect a breathtaking quarterfinal, with the Argentines willing to attack, and the counterattacking Germans inviting them forward. Who will win? That would be more guesswork then detective work. A coin toss.

You can never underestimate the Germans. Never. Just when you figure the old guard has advanced into the sunset, a group of young and sprightly blonds, tall as an oak, sprint by your wingbacks and outjump your centerbacks. The biggest cause for concern, and suspicion, is the Turkish central playmaker.

Mesut Ozil’s ascent has been meteoric. June 29 of last year, he led the Under 20 side to a 4-0 thrashing of England. And this summer? Just a 4-1 drubbing in the World Cup. With the tireless Schweinsteiger in midfield, the ageless Klose occupying defenders, and the fearless Podolski out wide, Ozil offers a touch, vision, and reading of the game rarely seen in Deutschland. He is a primary suspect and must be watched closely, along with the rest of his German cohorts.

The primary suspect is the typical suspect is the usual suspect. Brazil. However, this Brazil wears gloves, a mask, dusts its own prints, and leaves no trace of impressive success in its wake. Not wanting to leave behind a shell, a bullet, or any other clue, the Brazilians prefer a much simpler, less noisy, and less messy manner of murder: asphyxiation.

Gilberto and Felipe Melo slowly wrap their paws around the game, patiently passing the ball with Lucio and waiting for a moment of weakness. All your intuition and instincts point to Brazil, yet no smoking guns appears. You blink your eye, and a first touch combination by Kaka, Elano, and Luis Fabiano leaves another talented side dead in the water. You blink a second time, and Robinho has just turned his defender and sidestepped a centerback, setting up Corrales for a tap-in.

And then they go back to pedestrian passing, a five foot pass backwards to a defender, a ten foot pass sideways to another, as if nothing had happened. You scratch your head in bewilderment, unsure of what you’ve just seen but uneasy all the less.

I, however, prefer to be a bit more general my blame, so that those accused cannot defend themselves. And the largest group of individuals with the least opportunity to defend themselves is children.

So, yes, I know your immediate reaction. It was mine as well. When Matthew Upson failed to head away a simple long ball, when Jay DeMerit misread a hoofed Hail Mary, before the ball had rippled the back of the net, my mind buzzed…

One simple fact dawned on me – are the English and Americans not doing enough to expose their soccer playing youth to the aerial game? There’s this perpetual myth that our kids don’t play the “continental” way, that if we dress up our six year old boys in leotards and ballet slippers then in ten years time we will dominate the World Cup, crushing the Germans and Brazilians beneath our heels.

First, let’s look at the German’s opening goal – a moment of intricate build-up play and brilliance.

Now, let’s take a brief look at the game winning goal from Ghana.

The delicately weighted passes, the subtle pivots, the heel flicks, is there anything more beautiful and easy on the eye? I thus conclude that there is only one way for England to regain prominent and the US to rise even higher – we must teach our children to hoof the ball 60 yards by instinct, bypass midfield play, and outrun and outmuscle centerbacks.

Because we are not already doing that. And it’s the only explanation, aside from the prospect that the US never had the horses and England’s horses were too old.