Tshabalala!

All right, Sloppists, after careful consideration, the Solipsist has decided that it is OK to enjoy soccer. It's not like a real sport, of course, but it provides its diversions. Yesterday, while we were effectively imprisoned in an airplane, we had little choice but to watch the opening game of the FIFA World Cup --

(Digression: As opposed to what, exactly? The Chick-Fil-A World Cup? EOD.)

--between the Republic of South Africa and Mexico. We've decided that we're rooting for South Africa. Three reasons: (A) They're apparently underdogs. (B) They wear green and gold, which makes them look rather like Brazil, which is a perennial favorite. (C) How can you root against a team with a player named Tshabalala?

In case you missed the game, here are the highlights:

In the first half, after the pomp and pageantry discussed yesterday, the match got off to a raucous start. One of the Mexican players kicked the ball to another Mexican player, who kicked the ball out of the big rectangle, which is apparently a bad thing. Then, a South African player picked up the ball (Hands!) and threw it to another South African player who kicked it to a Mexican player (which seems like faulty strategy to us, but what do we know?). Then there was rather a lot of running and kicking, which went on for some time. For one brief exciting moment, we thought someone was going to score, when the ball went into the net.

Now, we know very little about soccer, but, in our experience, in almost any sporting event, when a ball goes into a net, it results in points. In soccer, apparently, when a Mexican kicks a ball into a net but the umpire waves his flag, no points are awarded. We don't know if this is peculiar to Mexicans; we're only going by what we saw. Anyway, the heart-stopping action of half one ended in a zero-zero tie.

Nothing could prepare us, though, for the barn-burning excitement of the second half. After only about twenty minutes of running and kicking, a score! South Africa took a 1-0 lead on a goal scored by our new favorite player: Tshabalala!

We do have a new appreciation for the excitement with which goals are greeted in the world of soccer. After all, THEY NEVER HAPPEN! Put it this way: There have been more winners of "American Idol" (9) than there have been goals scored in the entire history of soccer. No wonder the South African team broke into a spontaneous (?) Macarena-like dance routine on the sideline.

So, back to the action. After several more minutes of running and kicking and balls bouncing out of bounds. . . trouble! (This might be a good time to remind our readers that we know nothing about soccer.) Somehow, the South African goalkeeper found himself essentially alone surrounded by about 19 Mexican players with the ball. We knew that this was not going to end well for him. Sure enough, before you could say "Tshabalala!" the game was tied at one. No problem, though; we were sure our boys in green and gold could pull it out.

Increasingly frenzied running and kicking ensued as the clock ticked down (well, up, really--which also confused us) to the ninety minute mark. . . .and then kept ticking! Maybe the referees had forgotten to put a stop to things? Could FIFA not afford an airhorn or pistol?

Finally, the ref signaled an end to the action. OK! Overtime! Awesome! How exciting that the opening match of the World Cup would go into hey where the hell is everybody going? Why are they taking their shirts off? Why are they shaking hands? The game's not over. . . .

But it was! What the hell? There may be no ties in baseball, but there are in soccer, apparently. After four years of worldwide anticipation, the opening game of the World Cup ended in a whole lot of nothing!

Since we have chosen to enjoy soccer, we choose to celebrate this result as an illustration of the essential equality of all peoples. And, frankly, it could have been worse. The next game, between France and Uruguay (Uruguay!) ended in a tie, too: 0-0.

(Image from Peace FM Online)

Are You Ready for Some Futbol?

In what must be a nightmare vision for Arizona Governor Jan Brewer, the international multicultural lovefest that is the FIFA World Cup commenced today in that most racially enlightened of republics, South Africa. Governor Brewer, who has in fact modeled her administration on that of former South African premier P.W. Botha, could not be reached for comment. We have it on good authority, though, that the sight of all those Mexicans and black people engaging in sport and good fellowship in the tournament’s opening match sent a diarrheic chill through her nether regions.

We’ve never been great followers of the “beautiful game.” Like George Carlin, we believe that soccer cannot be considered a sport because it forbids the use of hands. We thought United States players were engaging in trash talk when they bragged about their ability to beat England with “both hands tied behind their backs.” Only later did we realize this was actually a team strategy to ensure they do not accidentally touch the ball (which, according to the official rules of soccer, would necessitate a caning). Indeed, Ukrainian soccer enthusiast Arman Talapoolhiuk had to be dissuaded from having his arms surgically removed in an effort to improve his chances of being selected for the national team: The coach pointed out that Talapoolhiuk’s legal blindness and lack of a left foot would have made him a long shot in any event.

As we write this, we are watching the match between RSA and MEX. Not much has happened yet, so we’re not prepared to provide out verdict on the World Cup. We were, nonetheless, impressed with the pre-match pageantry. Dignitaries from (we assume) Mexico and South Africa greeted each other, then shook hands with each member of the Mexican team, then with the officials, then with the members of the South African team, and finally with every spectator in Johannesburg’s Soccer City Stadium. This took approximately 19 hours. This was followed by the singing of the national anthems of Mexico and South Africa. We couldn’t help but notice (this is true) that the Mexican contingent in the stands was making a strange, semi-Fascist gesture throughout the anthem: A sort of chest-level salute that would not have looked out of place in 1936 Berlin. We’re not insinuating anything; we simply note that Mexican soccer fans appear to be crypto-Nazis.

Hey, prove us wrong, people!

OK, now that we’ve alienated the southern tier of North America, we’re ready for some futbol!

FingernailsX (A Brief Post)

So, we were reading today where Stephen Strasburg throws a 90-mile an hour CHANGE-UP! That's gotta be a joke, right?

(WOFOS: You're going to have to do some research to decipher that sentence. Sorry.)

Fingernails IX

Nation, we’re frightened.

As if the oil spill weren’t enough; as if being on the brink of economic apocalypse weren’t enough to send a chill down one’s spine; as if a plethora of deadly viruses lurking just outside our immune system’s proximity detectors weren’t enough to send one scrambling into a protective plastic bubble, now we have to worry about homicidal birds!

Yes, Nation, on the bottom of the front page of the Times, we just saw the following headline: “A More Assertive Turkey.” THE BOTTOM OF THE FRONT PAGE?!? That’s where Times editors place the “other” news: the human interest stories, the police blotter, the story about the little town in Arkansas where everybody takes part in a Labor Day Marshmallow Festival--the LIGHT stuff. There is nothing “light” about killer turkeys!

What could this mean? Are turkeys running amok in the heartland? Have they developed intellectual capacities that make them the equal--or superior--of their erstwhile human masters? We, for one, will not take this lying down. We plan to defend our God-given right to earthly dominion from these gobbling avatars of doom! And we urge all members of Solipsist Nation to join our crusade. The fight will be hard, no doubt, but we must not bow down before this new breed of “More Assertive Turkey”! We must--

What?

What “country”?

Oh.

Ahem. . .

Well, that’s probably bad news, too.

Not Coveting Our President's 'Ass'

"President Obama has repeatedly criticized BP’s handling of response efforts. He has been criticized for his seeming lack of outrage over the spill, but he took an angrier tone Monday in an interview to be broadcast Tuesday morning on NBC’s 'Today' show.

“'I don’t sit around just talking to experts because this is a college seminar,' Mr. Obama told the show’s host, Matt Lauer, in an interview in Kalamazoo, Mich. 'We talk to these folks because they potentially have the best answer so I know whose ass to kick.'”

--"Rate of Oil Leak, Still Not Clear, Puts Doubt on BP"

So you "know whose ass to kick"? Really?

Now, look, Mr. President, we're big fans here at "The Solipsist" (well, the Research Department, not so much, but aside from her. . . .). And we understand your desire to deflect some of the persistent criticism over your supposed unemotionality (unemotionalitudinousness?). But "kicking ass"? Sir, if we had wanted a President Ass-Kicker, we would have voted for McCain!

People like you because you're NOT some whacked out cowboy or back-alley thug. You're intellectual! You're urbane! As Maureen Dowd has said, you're President Spock. And we like it that way!

We imagine the conversation you had with the press secretary before your interview with Lauer:

Robert Gibbs: Now, Sir, you have to look angry.

President Obama: I know, Robert, but, "Ass"?

Gibbs: Yes, Sir.

Obama: Are you sure I couldn't just get away with "butt" or "tushie"?

Gibbs: No, Sir.

Obama: How about "tuchis"? Could help smooth some ruffled feathers at AIPAC?

Gibbs: No, Mr. President.

Obama: "Ass.". . . . You know, interesting thing about the word "Ass." If you do a biblical exegesis upon the use of the word in the Old Testament--or Pentateuch--you find that--

Gibbs: NO, MR. PRESIDENT!!!

Remember, Sir, it was tough-talking, "Top Gun" rhetoric that got this country into its current mess in Iraq. Stay Vulcan!

Fingernails VIII, or, Huh? (A Brief Post)

We were reading an article in today's Times about how the proliferation of electronic gadgets has caused a deterioration in people's ability to focus, but then we got distracted and had to run out to compose today's post. Now, if only we could remember what it was we intended to write abou--

Ooh, pigeon!

Imperfect Perfection

This will be our last word on Armando Galarraga's imperfect perfect game, which means it will be THE last word on Armando Galarraga's imperfect perfect game. Everyone else can officially shut up and go home.

In today's New York Times sports section, the entire letters page was devoted to people venting about the injustice of not going back and retroactively calling the runner out at first, thereby giving Galarraga a perfect game. Bud Selig must make this right! The hell with the rules! Exactly one letter writer got it right: Galarraga was a victim of an imperfect call in an otherwise perfect game, and imperfection is, frankly, part of the game of baseball. Why else are perfect games so rare? Why else does baseball have an official statistic for "errors"?

If we're going to go back and correct egregiously blown calls, why stop at Jim Joyce? Why not go back to, say, 1985, and correct Don Denkinger's monumental screw-up in Game Six of the, not to put to fine a point on it, WORLD SERIES? Jorge Orta was out at first--everyone knows that--and the Cardinals should have won the series. We're sure the Kansas City Royals would be fine with that call being reversed.

Consider Harvey Haddix. In 1959, Harvey Haddix of the Pittsburgh Pirates pitched a perfect game against the Milwaukee Braves--AND LOST! Haddix pitched not nine, not ten, not eleven, but TWELVE perfect innings--36-up, 36-down. His team, though, failed to score, and he finally (the bum!) gave up a run in the 13th inning to lose 1-0.

What's interesting about all the foofaraw about Galarraga's game is it's really all about the timing. What if Joyce makes the same call with, say, one out in the fourth? Galarraga and his teammates would be upset, the manager would have come out and complained, but the runner would have stayed on first. Imagine, then, that Galarraga had gone on to retire the next 17 batters. In retrospect, Galarraga would say that he had a perfect game except for that one blown call; Joyce may still have apologized, but he probably wouldn't be as broken up about it; and we suspect that there would not be as many people calling for an overturning of the verdict.

A thought experiment: Let's say the lords of baseball offer Galarraga and the Tigers (and, of course, the Cleveland Indians) a "do-over." When next the two teams meet, Galarraga can face the same batter. If he gets him out, it's a perfect game. If not, though, the game continues: In other words, the Indians get the chance to come back and, perhaps, win the game (unlikely, but not impossible: The Tigers were up 3-0; stranger things have happened). Do you think Galarraga would take that option? Or do you think he'd be perfectly happy with the one-hit shutout, the new car, and the knowledge--on everyone's part--that he truly did pitch a perfect game?

We suspect the latter.