by Shannon Teoh (Photos by Ariff Hashim in Kuala Lumpur)

I’d been waiting here at the Cedars Road bus stop for awhile now. Several calls to Suja (who had told me to wait at Siddhar’s Road, and I was wondering why they’d name a road after an Indian dude down in Clapham until she spelt it out for me) reached the cold female voice that informed me that I had not, in fact, reached Suja, who is a pretty warm female.

The problem was that she’d been wanting me to stop at a different Cedars Road stop, which, thanks to the vagaries of Transport For London’s naming conventions, was actually ON Cedars Road, rather than on a main road NEAR Cedars Road.

What was supposed to be an arrangement to cut down a few minutes of backtracking for me ended up in an extra 15 minutes of kicking our heels, wondering what was up. The best laid plans of mice and men indeed.

In any case, brunch was to be somewhere along this street with some nifty looking cafes and ‘lepak’ spots. You know, macam Bangsar la. This is where the middle and upper-middle class people come and kononnya be Bohemian and slum it. But in fact, the food here costs twice as much as other places this far from central London.

The saving grace? Supposedly the best hollandaise sauce this side of the North Sea (for the benefit of those that don’t get this lawak bodoh, the North Sea is what separates the United Kingdom and Netherlands. Holland-aise sauce ma…) [sigh – ed.] and hence, awesome eggs benedict. Or florentine, for those like me, who wanted to fool himself into thinking he was eating healthily.

It was a 1pm brunch, and with only six hours to go until it was time to park oneself in front of the telly for the final, everyone was making plans. Adam, Suja’s antipodean squeeze, was going to head over to the pub with some friends… now. As far as they were concerned, parking yourself about five hours early was the best way to ensure great seats.

Suja, on the other hand, preferred to let her friends park themselves there for five hours and get pissed drunk before the game while she herself waltzed in at 7pm and weaved her way past the throngs of people who, like her, had better things to do on a Sunday afternoon and did not arrive five hours early.

Me? Simple. Watch it at a friend’s who had a flat widescreen LCD TV. Better yet, Jeremy would pick me up and send me home. All I had to do… was get the beer.

Easier said than done. Every damn supermarket here closes at 5pm on Sundays, so I had to scurry over to the nearest off-license, which was still a good half a mile away. Got in, checked my phone, still 20 minutes to kickoff. Now, which would be the best beer?

If you’re one Cina like me, sure must look for the best offer… but wait. Got San Miguel, and we were supporting Spain. Set. Pay a bit more and get, well, Filipino beer but with a Spanish name.

Got out of the shop, just in time, Jeremy pulls in and I get in the car and we whizz off to his house. We miss… exactly four seconds. Not exactly the best timing, but hey, it’s still 0-0.

Now, as we all know by now, the game was hardly a classic. Some frankly horrific challenges came flying in from the Dutch, most notably, the attempt by Nigel De Jong to perform open heart surgery on Xabi Alonso with his studs. He was only moderately successful.

Spain were also not their normal self, passes were going astray and the midfield pyramid of Xavi, Alonso and Andres Iniesta failed to fully mesmerise their opponents as they usually do. To be honest, I missed quite a few minutes as Jeremy, myself and his flatmate got into two different debates.

One, which is the best cuisine in the world. Two, who is the most widely known sportsman – Tiger or Becks.

I’ll save you the specifics but suffice to say, there was no conclusive answer by the time Iniesta had slotted home the goal to make Spain the best team in the world.

Or were they?

They were ‘better’ than the Dutch on the night for sure, but it would be difficult to argue that after they scraped through with five wins, a draw (extratime wins officially count as a draw as far as I remember) and a loss, their record was not superior to the technically (by the same token of an extra-time defeat) undefeated Netherlands. Meanwhile, Germany had accumulated the best goal difference in the tournament.

To make things more opaque, Howard “Wants To Have Fergie’s Children” Webb [Oi! – ed.] had a shocker of a game. I don’t care how tough the teams made it for him (be it Netherlands kicking lumps out of the Spanish, or the distasteful way the Spanish dove, exaggerated and waved imaginary cards), nor the fact that the game would have been less intriguing if players were sent off early in the game. He did not make the correct decisions early on and therefore encouraged ever more extreme examples of the beauty-less game.

Should I really have expected more than that? All day long, plans had gone awry.

But you know, they had not gone awry enough to have spoiled what ended up being a rather enjoyable Sunday.

There may very well be some parallel universe where Suja and I had met at exactly the right bus stop and I had gotten actual Spanish beer and actually got into Jeremy’s place in time to watch the national anthems. We’d also have settled the questions of best cuisine and biggest sports star while watching a World Cup Final that ended up with a 4-3 scoreline only because both goalkeepers saved about a dozen goalbound shots between them.

But in this one, I’d just capped off a month’s worth of decently watchable football with the best hollandaise sauce in London. Well, possibly the best.

by Umapagan Ampikaipakan

I used to be one of those people who called it “soccer”. Not to be different. Not to be facetious. I just preferred the way those two syllables rolled off my tongue. They weren’t nearly as abrupt as “foot-ball.” Not nearly as harsh. “Soc-cer.” I would say it with an American accent. Just to be precise. “Sock-her.” I would say it with a drawl.

Now I know that it’s wrong. Now I make it a point to correct people. It is a knee-jerk. It is subconscious. It is obnoxious. I can’t help myself.

This World Cup has taken over my life. For the last four weeks, it has imbued itself into every aspect of my existence.

“Robbie Fowler” and “classic world cup goals” and “yellow card statistics” have replaced “great French food in KL” and “iPhone 4 antenna death grip” and “Maria Ozawa naked naked naked” in my Google search history. In my YouTube search history.

It has affected my reading habits. I have never, ever, read a newspaper back to front. Not until now. When in a bookstore, I now find myself browsing through Franklin Foer’s How Football Explains the World, through Gavin Newsham’s Once in a Lifetime: The Extraordinary Story of the New York Cosmos, through In David Peace’s The Damned Utd, through John King’s The Football Factory. I could never relate to Nick Hornby’s Fever Pitch. Not until now.

I can barely recognise myself. I am like so many religious converts, like all of those born again, holier-than-thou, and morally superior.

Danny Lim has created a monster.

I am picking fights with complete strangers on twitter. With German fans. With Portuguese fans. With Dutch fans. But mainly with German fans. I speak about the subject like I am some sort of authority, like I’ve known these things all of my life. I spout statistics. I belch forth obscure bits of trivia in an attempt to silence those who disagree with me. I sound off. I mouth off.

I am arguing with people in pubs. I used to know better than to disagree with a white guy who is almost three times my size, whose biceps are the same size as my waist. Now I can’t help but point out just how stupid he is for being a Fulham fan.

I get palpitations when the team my team of choice is losing. It doesn’t matter how arbitrary that choice is. And believe you me, it is arbitrary; random, a personal whim. There is no rhyme or reason; no system. Why Spain? Because I like Moro. Because I know Spanish people and they’ve always been nice to me. Because I like how they name their kids “Jesus.” Because the Gypsy Kings make me want to dance. Because Almodovar is awesome. Because I’m gay for Javier Bardem. Because Penelope Cruz is hot.

I used to think football fans were just angry people. Now I realise those are just the England fans.

Now I realise why 22 grown men chasing a ball around a pitch for 90 minutes can be so damn engrossing. Addictive. Because it fundamentally feels good. Because I am a sucker for all of those stories, about overcoming the odds, about superhuman feats, about going to bat for king and country. Because they are nothing if not evocative of so much chest thumping.

Because they invoke certain chemical reactions in my body. Dopamine creates those feelings of euphoria. Adrenaline causes my heart to race. Endorphins create an overall sense of well-being.

It is an excitement that can easily be mistaken for love.

Ayah and Me

by Elizabeth Wong

It was set in motion when a bright spark decided it could be advantageous for me to meet his boss – touch base, drink tea, shoot the breeze. Since I’ve always been intrigued by them, we decided to have our first introductions on the final night of World Cup.

My only encounter with this society was some years ago, during a by-election in Malacca. I was in a car with politicians on their nightly ceramah rounds. We arrived driving on freshly tarred roads to a tiny village bathed in ochre light. Being behind time as always, the politicians leapt out of the car towards a house with tents and a makeshift stage, leaving the driver and me behind.

When I got out of the car, I noticed a red Mercedes with a single digit, ‘Setiausaha Politik’ seared on the plate, parked a few feet away. Two steps towards the tents, I had my doubts it was a Barisan Alternatif ceramah. Tents at that time would be a little too posh. Another five steps, the politicians walked briskly towards our car and hissed, “Wrong kampung… let’s go… fast!”. Once in the car, I heard the story of Tiga-Line for the first time.

So tonight I am scheduled to meet this society, so fearsome as urban legends go, their name is whispered, never spoken. The bright spark who had initiated the meet-up was nervous, repeating dos and don’ts.

At the rendezvous point, around a hundred people had already parked themselves on white plastic chairs, waiting for the match. Here, I’m not referring to football.

We sat down for a meal of ayam penyet, satay and Raja Ulam, together with his boys who ate with their eyes fixed on us. I figured, tearing at chicken wouldn’t be appropriate at that point, and that maybe, I really should have worn a baju kurung.

My conversation with Ayah spluttered and wheezed like an old Morris on a cold morning. Ayah was outfitted in white, accessorized with a shock of pepper mustache and shades. His voice soft and measured. He spoke a little about growing up in the backstreets of Kuala Lumpur, working for a local Umno politician. I asked if his society’s patron was still Pak Lah. Yes, he replied and the rest was lost in the din of the live band.

He went on to talk of the times where he witnessed politicians treating people badly. Once, someone chased away a group of poor who had gone to seek help.

“He called them animals. I hope you aren’t like that.”

“I don’t want to be like them.”

“Hmm.”

Ayah described himself as a peace-keeper of the area, where discipline is key, and how he had to take care of his boys. He said he liked what I was doing in his turf, having activities once in a while for the residents.

“I guarantee you, next week, Umno will organize something here, but what matters is that you did it first!” he laughed aloud without warning.

I asked Ayah, how many members he has. “Many. That’s why we have three Ayahs here.”

“And he is also an Ayah,” he pointed to the man who had been sitting silently on my left.

The man dressed in blue batik nodded.

Minutes before kick-off, I had to leave for another World Cup function. When we exchanged contacts with plans for a tea meeting with all three of them, Ayah lifted his shades and noticed something about my telephone number.

“Seven-seven? Good.”

“Why?”

“Seventy-seven is a powerful number.”

Finally a breakthrough. This could determined the course and substance of our future interactions.

“What is the meaning of seventy-seven?”

“We believe there are seven layers above, and seven layers below us.”

I told him seven was my favorite number.

“Good, keep that number, but you must have two sevens.”

“So I pass?”

He laughed. So did everyone at the table, eyes still trained at us.

by Shannon Teoh

All through this World Cup, the only thing that has remained consistently true, is that football divides opinion, and it divides it absolutely.

For example:

1. Love vuvuzelas, or hate vuvuzelas. Many have screamed bloody murder at the fact that the droning and incessant noise of the African trumpet has killed off all the normal songs and chants you hear. Where’s the football culture, many ask, without any sense of irony. In any case, the UAE has issued a fatwa against the things.

2. Bring in technology, don’t bring in technology. Would England have beaten Germany, scraped past Argentina, vanquished Spain and dumped the Dutch if only there was goalline technology to spot Frank Lampard’s goal? Well, who knows. It’s nearly a trusim, but goals change games. Still, there is no excuse for the way England capitulated in the second half. No team that wants to be called World Champions should ever produce such a display. OR think that Emile Heskey is going to score a hattrick.

3. Metrosexual, or booger-eater ? Just watch the videos.

You’d think that at the very least, in the exhibition match of the tournament, people would just get along. But no, they’re fighting for third place, mate. The bronze medal. Germans and Uruguayans still cared! Strange for teams that have actually won the World Cup multiple times each rather than say, Ghana or Japan who were trying to achieve national or even continental bests.

Credit to the two teams, they did take it seriously and played their hearts out, even if some of those carrying some knocks decided to look ahead to the upcoming season of club football instead. This meant that Miroslav Klose would not break Ronaldo’s 15-goal record at World Cups. A shame for such a nice guy, but yet, perhaps it is fitting that the once unplayable Ronaldo retains his seat among the pantheon of football legends.

However, you’d think that fans would settle down and enjoy a good show of football and treat this as a post-tournament celebration of actually being one of the world’s top four teams. This is out of like 200 countries or so, most of which couldn’t even book their tickets to South Africa.

Well, most fans really didn’t quite care anymore. Twitter was indiscreetly NOT abuzz with the normal banter and (twitter user) @polytikus even posted, “a yawns match. tidur time” after a half of football that saw two pretty good goals and attacking football throughout.

On the other hand, there were still the minority who took it quite seriously. About half a dozen German girls strode into the empty-ish pub I was in and began screaming and dancing and cheering as Uruguay displayed some woeful defending of crosses into the box.

“Behave yourselves!” shouted back an ironically drunk and hefty Englishman seated next to my crew.

Too serious? Or not serious enough?

I guess it’s difficult not to be distracted by the fact that the actual game that mattered was happening the next day, between Spain and the Netherlands – which would inevitably result in a first-time winner of the greatest sporting event on earth. So much so that one Natalie Ambrose (read her musings at standingonpointe.blogspot.com) reached over mid-game and asked me, “Eh, so are you gonna mention me in your Gol? article?”

But here, I want to refer back to my teacher in Standard Three. She used to say, in Malay, that “if you want to do anything, make sure you are the best. If you want to be a doctor, be number one. If you want to be a thief, also be number one.”

I take it that she meant that you must always strive to do the best you can, and then do even better the next time. Strange since she was by no means the teacher with the most initiative…

It’s something we, as sports fans, expect of those we fanaticise over. Show some pride when you pull on that jersey!

But I wonder how often we hold ourselves to the same standards, when we are given the responsibility – I really like the sound of the Malay word for it, Amanah – to clear our intrays at our deskjobs, make best use of our place in university, or, well, when we are given some space to write and express ourselves. Or do we hide behind the dimwittedly faux-enlightened stance that “I don’t have to live up to your expectations.”

While I had to be called off the subs bench to fill in and write this piece for Gol?, as I had to do with a couple of other articles, I would like to think that I have done so while taking some pride in my work and wanting to give my best to all the readers – yes, all six of you.

I might not have had the privilege to have written for the final, the Big Kahuna itself, but being able to be read at all, is still a massive privilege.

So, mission accomplished I hope, for me, you and Ms. Ambrose.

oleh Hafiz Chan

Jam menunjukkan pukul 7.30 pagi. Sinar matahari pagi sudah mulai memancar, memberikan kenikmatan kepada warga kota Kuala Lumpur. Kabus balik bukit, udara segar, juga titisan air hujan yang berbaki semalam. Jalan raya MRR2 kelihatan masih basah, suasana redup dan sejuk sungguh memberikan satu perasaan yang sungguh mengujakan. Sunyi dan damai, bebas dari bunyi ekzos overhauled Mat Rempit. Pasti mereka sedang tidur, ye gua pasti!

“Fatin habis kelas pukul sebelas, nanti Fatin tweet daddy ok” anak gadis gua bersuara. Ewah, sejak ada BlackBerry Bold 9700 lengkap dengan akses internet, bukan main lagi budak ni! Hari ni Fatin ada kelas taekwondo, mula pukul lapan. Sebagai bapa mithali, maka haruslah gua bangun awal menghantar Fatin ke sekolah. Rutin sejak awal tahun. Daddy’s little girl, takpelah! Tapi seperti kebanyakkan bapa-bapa yang lain, gua malas sebenarnya. Mengantuk.

“Daddy tengok bola semalam?” soal Fatin. Haruslah gua tidak menonton. Ye, semalam Piala Dunia ‘merayakan’ perlawanan penentuan tempat ketiga antara Jerman dan Uruguay – walaupun ‘merayakan’ bukanlah perkataan yang tepat untuk menggambarkan consolation game, atau, yang lebih kejam, the losers’ final. Gua syak diorang pun main-main je semalam, tak bersungguh. Alah kalau menang, bukannya dapat masuk final pun, tiada AF Masuk ye. Eh sekejap, lu orang ada layan AF tak?

“Daddy, sebab apa kita tak masuk World Cup?” pergh soalan anak gua. Daddy’s little girl, takpelah! “Sebab zaman dulu-dulu, kita dijajah England, Jepun & Portugal. Tengok, antara tiga negara ni, cuma England yang pernah menang. Tu pun sekali je, menang nasib. Jepun & Portugal, hmm lagilah, final pun tak pernah. Tapi…” gua mengambil nafas sebentar sebelum terus bercerita. “Tapi kalau Jerman jajah kita, konfem kita dapat masuk World Cup. Fatin tahukan Jerman dah tiga kali menang World Cup? Hah, cuba google.” Gua harap anak gua faham dengan jawapan gua. Tapi gua bimbang juga, sebab gua lupa nak tanya tu soalan Bahasa Melayu Penulisan ke? Kalau ye, ada harapan gua kena panggil mengadap cikgu dia. Tapi kerisauan gua menghilang, sebab setahu gua cikgu Fatin cantik. Lepasan siswazah pulak tu!

Tapi seriusli, gua pernah terfikir juga, kalaulah betul-betul kita dijajah Jerman dulu, pergh! Haruslah orang-orang kita lebih memahami ‘guten morgen’ berbanding ‘good morning’ bukan? Manchester United, Liverpool, Chelsea, Arsenal? Agh gua konfem, kita pasti lebih mengenali team dari Bundesliga berbanding English Premier League. Setakat nak pronounce Borussia Moenchengladbach & Piotr Trochowski, tadak hal lah! Satu lagi, dari segi Bini Dan Awek (BDA). Sarah Brandner dan Claudia Schattenberg mungkin akan menyebabkan Coleen McLoughlin Rooney hanya berstatus underdog. Itu belum termasuk hal-hal pencapaian Jerman dalam World Cup lagi tuh! Haih, malulah dengan bekas penjajah – England.

Sempat juga gua bercerita pasal loser yang satu lagi, Uruguay. Gua cakap dekat Fatin, Malaysia dengan Uruguay banyak persamaan. Kalau Uruguay pemenang pertama World Cup bola, Malaysia pulak pemenang pertama World Cup badminton, atau bahasa urbannya Thomas Cup. Bendera pun lebih kurang sama. Belang-belang dan berbintang. “Enjin jet kita, haritu kan hilang. Tapi last-last jumpa kat Uruguay. Sebab tu kita patut support Uruguay dalam World Cup” gua berhujah dengan Fatin. Ye gua tahu, Fatin mungkin terlalu muda untuk mengambil tahu hal-hal dalam negara.

Pukul lapan, gua sampai depan sekolah. Kelas taekwondo belum mula. Fatin segera ke padang, gua nampak dah ramai budak-budak siap dengan baju taekwondo dekat sana. Owh ye, nama je kelas taekwondo, tapi buat dekat padang, bukan dalam kelas. Gua pun berlalu ke kantin sekolah.“Boss lepak dulu” Pak Mat tokey kantin sekolah mengajak gua duduk. Nasib baik ada Pak Mat, ada juga member untuk borak-borak. Kantin sekolah ni moden! Siap ada Astro B.yond dengan skrin TV 42 inci.

Gua order air paling hipps dekat Malaysia, teh-o ais limau. “Sayang masa semi, Thomas Muller kena ban. Dia takde, Mesut Ozil tak berapa nak function sangat. Hah kalau tak, Spain konfem kalah punya” Pak Mat mula mengeluarkan pendapat. Kebetulan TV tengah menayangkan ulangan match pagi tadi. Dan kami terus berbicara, termasuklah mengenai Paul kurita. Haih apalah nasib Paul agaknya ye? Pasti lazat dimasak ala Soljanka untuk hidangan sekeluarga, pergh! Bercakap mengenai Paul, kalau (kalaulah) Malaysia masuk World Cup, haruslah kita mempunyai Paul versi tempatan bukan? Setakat ni yang gua boleh fikirkan, ramalan menggunakan lembu. Lembu ni gua cadang nak kasi dua bekas dedak siap dengan bendera negara terlibat. Atau, satu lagi pilihan, gua cat-kan dua bahagian rumput dengan warna bendera. Lepas tu, tengoklah lembu ni makan rumput yang belah mana. Hah, cara tak? Cuma, disebabkan ini agenda nasional, gua tak berani nak namakan lembu tu lagi. Even our Prime Minister pun minta rakyat namakan kucing beliau, inikan pula gua.

Berbalik kepada ulangan match di TV, gua tengok player Jerman celebrate menang tempat ketiga macam nak-taknak aje. Kalah gaya penggiat MLM berposing di tepi kereta sambil membuat isyarat bagus dengan kedua-dua belah ibu jari!

Dan seperti mana dijanjikan, Fatin tweet gua jam sebelas. “Daddy, kita pergi lunch? Fatin ajak Cikgu Liza sekali ok?” Haih Fatin, memang Daddy’s little girl. Gua syak Fatin nak makcik baru ni, hmmm. Apa nak dibuat, dah nasib badan. Gua plan petang ni gua nak tidur sampai malam. Nanti pagi nak berjaga, nak layan bola, final. Dah sebulan rupanya gua melayan TV dengan bunyi lebah bersenggama. Gua tak kisah sapa menang, sebab bukan Malaysia yang main. Haih, sampai bilalah kita nak layan iklan ‘cucuk Hassan cucuk‘ kan?

oleh Jimadie Shah Othman

Hanya satu cara bagi mengalahkan kuasa judi bola sepak sedunia. Ia lebih berkesan daripada ‘demonstrasi tak nak judi’ di Masjid Negara awal Julai lalu: ramalan yang tepat.

Dengan keupayaan manusia menjangkakan keputusan perlawan, semua penjudi berpeluang meraih keuntungan berlipat kali ganda, sekali gus menyebabkan kapitalis judi dan taikun-taikun besar gulung tikar.

Bayangkan setiap yang berjudi pasti menang dan mendapat bahagian daripada ‘pelaburannya’. Alangkah bagusnya.

Awal pagi tadi, Jerman menepati ramalan apabila berjaya merangkul tempat ketiga dalam Piala Dunia 2010.

Perlawanan di Stadium Nelson Mandela Bay itu menyaksikan pasukan dengan barisan pemain muda paling banyak itu mengecewakan Uruguay dengan jaringan tipis 3-2.

Paul Si Sotong (Paul the Octopus) – dengan 85 peratus ketepatan ramalan – masih selamat daripada disembelih, disiat-siat dan digoreng tepung.

2

Rizal, teman lama saya – tidak pasti sama ada beliau menonton bola – kali terakhir kami bertemu, beliau masih makan kerang, masih berjudi dan masih menang secara kecil-kecilan.

Tetapi bagi laki-laki daripada Gombak itu, cukup untuknya judi empat nombor yang dibeli di kedai Sport Toto.

Daripadanya saya mengerti pelbagai perkara, khususnya bagaimana keputusan nombor ekor diramal.

Rizal menceritakan kepada saya pelbagai kaedah, meliputi yang saintifik dan yang tahyul-mahyul.

Beliau cuba kedua-duanya, termasuklah menggunakan perisian ramalam komputer, menyimpan rekod keputusan nombor ekor selama15 tahun dan menurun atau ‘puja nombor’ di kubur Cina.

Tetapi Rizal masih makan kerang. Mungkin tidak sanggup kehilangan nikmat itu. Mungkin sampai hari ini.

3

Juruteknik komputer itu, ketika ghairah, ia bercerita sampai habis tanpa rasa berdosa.

“Cari sepuluh kulit kerang, tabur dalam takungan air. Catatnya berapa kulit yang terbuka. Buat empat kali sampai dapat empat angka. Pasti kena.

Tetapi nombor itu kena ‘pusing’ dulu,” kata Rizal.

“Syaratkan, kau tidak boleh makan kerang seumur hidup. Itu perjanjian antara kita dengan dia.”

Saya percaya.

Sepanjang Piala Dunia kali ini, mungkin ada yang membaling cengkerang binatang laut itu dan melupakan kerang rebus sampai bila-bila.

4

Kami menonton di Skudai malam tadi. Setiap kali melihat ramai apek Cina sudah sedia menunggu di kedai mamak sejak jam 2 pagi lagi, saya bersangka buruk. Saya memang bersangka buruk.

Saya teringat kata-kata mantan Perdana Menteri Tun Dr Mahathir Mohamad dalam sidang media di Kuala Terengganu selepas merasmikan perhimpunan kontroversi “Melayu Bangkit”.

Beliau antaranya menyifatkan “orang Cina memang suka berjudi”, justeru judi sukan tidak boleh dielak daripada diperkenalkan.

“Orang Islam jangan berjudilah. Kalau dia pergi berjudi, tangkaplah. Sama juga (bila) orang Islam tidak makan babi. Kalau orang bukan Islam hendak makan juga, itu hak dialah,” Dr Mahathir dipetik sebagai berkata.

Malam tadi saya berdosa. Saya mengesyaki orang-orang Cina di kedai mamak itu bukan menonton bola, tetapi berjudi.

(Cina-cina tua itu tidak menjerit pun setiap kali gol menerjah jaring atau melintas palang! Gayanya macam penganalisis di bursa saham saja.)

Dan seperti biasa, bagi saya dan Ichi, di kedai tepi jalan itu, bola sepak hanyalah perlawanan sukan yang tidak memberikan faedah kewangan kepada kami.

Siapa yang menang ataupun kalah, segelas teh tarik, rokok kotak besar dan telur separuh masak dua biji itu tetap kami bayar sendiri.

5

Lebih 2,000 tahun lalu, sebelum Nabi Isa lahir lagi, Orang Cina sudah pandai bermain bola. Bola sepak – digelar Cuju – ketika itu merupakan sukan negara.

Bintang Cuju pada ketika itu mendapat populariti setaraf dengan apa yang dimiliki pemain sekarang – seperti pemain tengah Sami Khedira yang menjaringkan gol kemenangan Jerman pada minit ke-82 awal pagi tadi.

Bagaimanapun, Cuju pastinya bukan semata-mata sukan untuk menyihatkan badan. Cuju dimainkan supaya bangsawan Cina dapat berjudi.

Maknanya, boleh sepak itu sendiri lahir dari rahim yang sama dengan judi. Seperti Adam dan Hawa. Atau barangkali menurut Dr Mahathir, seperti orang Cina dan judi.

Jangan kata saya rasis, ya. Saya takut masuk ISA.

6

Kan dari awal lagi saya sudah tinggalkan pesanan di laman blog mikor Twitter:

“NGO antijudi patut lamar Sotong Paul jadi maskot. Ramalan tepatnya buat taukeh judi muflis.”

by Nik Nazmi Nik Ahmad

Last month The Economist argued that one of the ways you can understand the English is through their so-called “national game”, football. In 2006, while the country exhibited what the magazine describes as ‘rampant materialism’, the English footballers epitomised the spirit of that age by openly flaunting their WAGS (wives and girlfriends), mansions and cars. They were furthermore dubbed the “Golden Generation”, representing the country’s best hope of winning the World Cup since 1966.

How times have changed! Remember Gordon Brown claiming that he had “ended boom and bust” economics? Yes, that was borne out by subsequent events, wasn’t it?

In this World Cup too, the English fans were still hopeful (as all football fans are), but more subdued, a reflection on their dire economic fortunes back home. Realism replaced optimism. It turns out that their caution was appropriate, as the “Three Lions” struggled to the second round, whereupon they were thoroughly trounced by their youthful archrivals Germany.

As I watched Germany lose to Spain at a mamak shop (wearing a Pakatan Rakyat jersey – my beloved Italy had fallen) in my constituency during the semi-finals, I realised that one can understand what’s going on in Malaysia now through our football as well. There are some definite parallels.

Like most Malaysians, I am a football fan.

It was a natural part of being educated in two all-boys institutions:  the La Salle School of Petaling Jaya and later at a place called MCKK. Unfortunately, my interest did not translate to playing skills. I was incidentally, also a fan of the Selangor state football team, and so were the rest of my classmates at La Salle.

Back then, it did not matter if you were Malay, Chinese, Indian or Dan Lain-Lain; or whether you were from the bungalows in Bukit Gasing or the squatter-houses in Taman Medan: everyone followed the Semi-Pro League. It’s true that the sad decline of our national team had begun then. People were already moaning the lack of Mokhtar Dahari, Soh Chin Aun and Santokh Singh. Come to think of it, we complain about our lack of talented footballers the way we complain about our lack of leaders with integrity.

Nevertheless there was still a passion for local football. Stadiums were full, particularly when League giants like Selangor, Kuala Lumpur, Singapore (yes, they used to play with us, remember?), Kedah, Pahang or (not so-giants) Kelantan played. We had sticker collections and bought jerseys.

One of the first matches I remember watching was the 1991 Malaysia Cup Final.  I was nine: Johor trounced Selangor 3-1. Like all nine-year olds, I reacted by crying  and switched to Kelantan (my family home state, although I was born and bred in the Klang Valley) in the next season. Despite having rising stars like striker Hashim Mustapha, it too failed to win a major trophy until today.

I also started following the English Premier League around that time. Thanks to my dislike for hegemonies inspired by Barisan Nasional’s long rule, I naturally wanted to support the underdogs in English football and took an ABMU approach (Anything But Manchester United). I covered my bedroom from floor to ceiling with football posters of players from every team except the Red Devils. Eventually, I ended up supporting Liverpool (which by then was past its glory years).

By then, a lot of people’s confidence in local football was shaken by the big match-fixing scandal of 1994. Hundreds of players were questioned. I remember reading in the Malaysian edition of Match magazine about the definition of match-fixing and corruption. There was no MACC to lecture us about these heady topics at that time.

Soon, Astro came into the picture. It had little impact on me directly since my dad tried to resist its charms (he held out for nearly a decade before succumbing) and I was anyway way at MCKK, where even regular TV was a luxury. But I could still see the marked effect: we spoke less of local football and more on European, particularly English football.

I became reacquainted with local football after being elected as a State Assemblyman in 2008 elections. Serving in the Menteri Besar’s Office for the first two years also meant that I got to know the Football Association of Selangor better. I watched a few games, turning up in the Selangor jersey. But I was confronted with a painful dilemma when Selangor and Kelantan played each other in the 2009 FA Cup Final. I played it safe by wearing red – thank God they’re both Pakatan states!

While we’re on the mend (Kelantan’s fans, still without a trophy, are a passionate bunch and follow their team as loyally at the Toon Army) including our recent SEA Games victory, there is no doubt that local football is nothing like what it was in the past.

Case in point: Selangor still one of the better teams, but the 70,000-seat Shah Alam Stadium is rarely full. But this was the stadium that regularly sold out in the nineties.

The audience is almost exclusively working-class. The middle-classes chatter tirelessly about Manchester United or Barcelona. It was surreal, even heartbreaking to see Malaysian fans passionately wearing Manchester United jerseys when the Red Devils played our national team in a friendly (those who wore our national colours were probably Liverpool or Manchester City fans). But maybe it’s a sign of what has happened to Malaysia since then.

In the “Roaring Nineties”, there was a lot of optimism. The Prime Minister, Dr. Mahathir Mohamad was talking about Bangsa Malaysia in his Vision 2020 while Anwar Ibrahim was presiding over a rapidly-growing economy. Yes, there were racial tensions, but people were feeling good.

Reformasi and the Asian Financial Crisis changed things. The younger generation became more critical about the endemic abuse and corruption of our institutions, just like our football fans who were disgusted about match-fixing. After Malay voters abandoned BN in 1999, UMNO took a more racial approach to sustain its support. The Chinese swing voters and the Indians who traditionally stood by BN through thick and thin began leaving them in droves.

Astro brought hours and hours of live foreign football to our screens, exposing our fans to a more attractive brand of football compared to the ones they were watching at local stadiums. Similarly, Malaysians are now more exposed to what is happening abroad with globalisation. Many are opting to leave the country to make a better living.

I recently spoke to a friend, whose father is Indian Muslim. He was a graduate of a local university and worked in an MNC. He was posted abroad before but chose to return to Malaysia.

Yet since coming home he has been repeatedly stopped by the police. They invariably thought he was Indian, and he had to recite the Quran to prove his Muslim faith – but even then he would usually be accused of being a Bangladeshi – until he showed his IC.

“I am paying so much tax to the government, why should I be treated this way?” he lamented. Why, he asked, did he need to live in gated neighbourhoods and send his children to private schools and pay premium insurance rates for private healthcare when these are basic necessities one should expect from any decent government?

As I look at the young people happily watching football at 3am, being so passionate about two far away teams, I saw people who were not just pessimistic about our football, but the country in general.

by Kam Raslan

Once again Paul the octopus got it right. He said Spain would beat Germany and he was spot-on. What a lot of people don’t know is that Paul the octopus sits in a coffee-shop in Kepong with a handphone in each tentacle. You wouldn’t know it by looking at him but he’s actually very rich even though he drives an old Nissan. He knows who will win every match. Oh yes, he knows.

And he’s not the only one. One month ago I filled in my World Cup predictions and I am pleased to announce that I, Kam Raslan, predicted that Spain would meet the Netherlands in the final. I got everything else completely wrong (England were supposed to get into the semi-final, beating Germany in a glorious penalty shoot-out along the way) but I got that right. The Netherlands have not only not lost a match in the finals, they also didn’t lose a match during the qualifications campaign. And Spain have been superb. They might not have scored many goals but their possession football has been thrilling. I could have happily watched it for hours. During the second half of the semi-final match I decided to count the number of times Spain misplaced a pass. The ball only failed to reach its intended target on two occasions. Twice! How do you beat that? Both Spain and the Netherlands deserve to be in the final because they are the best. I want these two teams to be there and finally we are going to have a new country win the World Cup.

But how do you square the success and style of Spain, Netherlands and Germany with perceived national and racial stereotypes? Brazil is the land of exuberant, pulsating samba and carnival so it’s only appropriate that they play the beautiful game at its silky best. The passionate tango came from the slums of Buenos Ares so it’s only fitting that Diego Maradona came from there also. But Italy is the land of Ferrari and Fellini, it’s supposed to be a place where style and hot emotion go together, where the heirs to the Gucci millions try to have each other killed. And yet they play football of eyeball bleeding, coma-inducing stultifying tedium. Individually Italian players can be wonderful (Zola, Vialli, Del Piero, etc) but watching Serie A has much the same effect as drinking a Milo before bedtime.

Who would imagine that the stolid, bourgeoisie of Germany could play such dangerous counter-attacking football, that the Dutch would be so strange and argumentative, and that Spain, the land of afternoon siestas, could dominate a match with possession football and, get this, have an unbreakable defence? It is as if, and this might sound odd to some Malaysians, some people are not satisfied with being the sum total of their perceived national/racial stereotype. It is as if they want to be so much more. It is as if they will do whatever it takes in order to win. It’s also a sign that my stereotypes are all wrong.

It’s probably impossible to describe a national temperament and then to suggest why it should lead to success or failure. We can read anything we want into something as abstract as a nation or a race. A recent article in a local Chinese daily tried to explain why England always fails and Germany always wins. I couldn’t read the article myself but it was described to me. Although I agreed with most of it I felt that it said more about a middle-class Malaysian Chinese worldview than anything else. Basically, success is only worth anything if it involves effort. Clearly, I am, er, not middle-class Malaysian Chinese.

In his excellent book Brilliant Orange, David Winner tried to understand the enigma of Dutch football. He came to many conclusions but one of the more interesting and perhaps fanciful is that the Dutch have a unique relationship with space. Being from a densely populated country that lives with the constant danger of inundation by the sea the Dutch, Winner suggests, understand the preciousness of land itself. Therefore the football team seeks to utilize every inch of the pitch. Whereas the English want to bisect the pitch as quickly as possible in a vainglorious, crowd-roaring attack the Dutch will patiently but inventively criss-cross every inch, creating a myriad of patterns that others do not see, because others take land and space for granted. Interesting, but it doesn’t explain why Johan Cruyff (my all-time favourite footballer) is so spectacularly arrogant.

Spain is currently experiencing a very rich vein of sporting success. They are dominating in cycling and tennis as well as football, and I have no explanation for this. But I would like to posit a possible explanation for German success.

In Malaysia we are more familiar with the English game so German success might seem more extreme because it is compared to constant, abject English failure. Germany should be the most successful European nation. They have the largest population, the biggest economy and football stadiums (though generally smaller than their English equivalents) are always full. The Bundesliga has several technical advantages: refereeing is in line with international standards and they have had the Jabulani ball all year, etc. But there is perhaps a deeper reason for success.

I’ve spent a bit of time in Germany recently (love the place, love Berlin) and I regularly heard two words that I never normally hear: Pedagogical and Rationalism. Pedagogical is not just about teaching but about the study of teaching. It’s not just who you teach but how. In certain countries education is a haphazard affair where quotas must be fulfilled and degrees are often worthless. But in Germany they take education seriously and a qualification must be useful and worth something. Footballers are trained from an early age. I once saw Rudi Voeller training young German kids in the art of the step-over. He had a legion of kids in ranks practicing the move again and again. Brazilians learn this barefoot in the slums. In Germany they are trained in nice Adidas boots.

Rationalism basically means that if something is worth doing, it’s worth doing well. If you have decided to approach a task then it only makes sense to do it and to do it well. It stands to reason. Having grown up in England I learnt the skills of getting out of doing things – the graceful arts of slacking off, facetiousness and getting away with it (I once said that my cat ate my homework). In Germany I constantly met people who simply got on with the thing they were supposed to do, because it’s rational. And they did it while wearing sharp Hugo Boss suits.

It’s probably impossible to neatly encapsulate a national temperament. We’re all different and we don’t always fit into our perceived national/racial stereotypes. But we can learn from the systems employed for success. Having said that, I don’t know if I want to live in a country that wins everything. China wins lots of Olympic medals, but at what cost? And North Korean TV has probably announced that they have won the World Cup. For me it is about how you win, which is why I am delighted that Spain and the Netherlands are in the final. They play the most attractive football and they have shown us that artistry and skill can win.

oleh Noor Azam Shairi

TIDAK mengapalah kalau saya tidak duduk di Green Point Stadium di Cape Town malam itu, biarpun sempat juga melihat rangkanya semasa ia sedang rancak dibina tiga tahun lalu.

Perlawanan ini adalah yang terakhir di stadium itu sebelum bulan temasya bola sepak ini meninggalkan kita, dan kita berdoa semoga panjang umur sehingga dapat pula bertemu lagi dengan bulan Piala Dunia empat tahun akan datang.

Tidak mengapalah kalau saya tidak berada di Afrika Selatan bersama para peminat bola sepak dari serata dunia macam Kubhaer T. Jethwani yang berpakaian macam ahli gusti, menyaksikan Brazil kalah dengan Belanda di Port Elizabeth.

Malam itu, biarpun duduk di sebuah restoran Sepanyol di Bangsar, saya rasa macam berdiri di tepi padang di Green Point Stadium.

Inilah kemuncak pengalaman menonton siaran langsung Piala Dunia 2010 – dalam format 3D.

Don’t jealous!

Inilah gamaknya rasa duduk di dalam Green Point Stadium pada malam itu.

Agaknya begitulah, sebab waktu wisel permulaan ditiup dan pemain-pemain berlari ke sana ke mari di tengah padang mengejar bola, saya tiba-tiba teringat waktu berdiri di tepi padang Sekolah Rendah Kebangsaan Clifford, Kuala Kangsar melihat Shankar Ramu ligat menggelecek bola.

Masa itu dia masih Darjah 5 atau Darjah 6, saya tidak berapa ingat. Cuma saya ingat betul, dia masih pemain harapan pasukan bolasepak sekolah kami – juga pasukan hoki – sampailah takdir Tuhan kemudian menentukan setelah besar, dia memilih untuk bermain hoki dan terpilih mewakili negara sampai ke Olimpik 1992 di Barcelona dan Olimpik 1996 di Atlanta.

Saya bukannya nak bongkak atau nak riak – tak baik, Tuhan marah. Tapi malam itu, kami yang berada di restoran Sepanyol di Bangsar itu merupakan antara 50 orang pertama di Asia Tenggara yang menyaksikan siaran langsung bolasepak Piala Dunia 2010 dalam format 3D.

Singapura pun kalah!

Don’t jelaous!

Itulah malam yang cukup bersejarah. Itulah malam kemuncak kenikmatan menonton bola sepak pada malam-malam terakhir dalam bulan temasya Piala Dunia 2010 yang gilang-gemilang ini.

Betul-betul kami rasakan, kamilah sebahagian daripada insan terpilih yang diberi rezeki menyaksikan perlawanan separuh akhir Piala Dunia 2010 ini dengan satu pengalaman baru.

Pemain-pemain yang berada di tengah padang itu nampak timbul. Jarak mereka antara satu sama lain nampak sangat jelas. Dari sebuah kamera yang diletakkan di bucu stadium, nampak timbul bendera jalur putih biru yang dikibarkan oleh seorang penyokong Uruguay.

Saya sempat mengintai dua skrin televisyen nipis HD yang diletakkan di luar ruang kami menonton. Eh, gambarnya tak sama. Dalam siaran 3D, nampak pemain berebut bola dari sisi padang. Dalam siaran HD, aksinya sama juga tapi dilihat dari sudut berbeza dari pandangan atas dengan wide angle.

Ini satu production yang sama sekali berbeza dengan siaran langsung yang penonton lain saksikan di seluruh negara pada malam itu. Set kameranya juga tidak sama. Kebanyakan kamera yang digunakan untuk siaran 3D ini diletakkan pada paras padang menjadikan kita menyaksikan perlawanan itu bagaikan duduk di belakang bangku pemain simpanan Uruguay dan Belanda.

Dalam siaran 3D juga tidak banyak paparan aksi kelompok penyokong Oranje yang terkinja-kinja melompat kegembiraan selepas Belanda mendahului 2-1 dan kemudian 3-1 dalam masa tiga minit berselang. Kalau ada pun reaksi penonton, hanya Putera Mahkota Willem-Alexander dan Puteri Mahkota Maxima yang hadir memberikan sokongan moral.

Selepas lapan kali musim Piala Dunia FIFA sejak Espana ‘82, pengalaman menonton kejohanan bolasepak dunia terhebat ini bagi kita di sini memang sudah cukup berbeza. Sebelum Piala Dunia 1982, rakyat Malaysia hanya dapat menonton siaran langsung terpilih – sekarang pun sama juga, terutamanya kalau tidak melanggan Astro.

Tetapi Piala Dunia 1982 itu adalah kemenangan rakyat yang digerakkan oleh akhbar The Malay Mail biarpun pasukan negara yang menjadi antara pasukan pilihan Asia ketika itu, gagal layak ke Sepanyol.

Pasukan tahun 1981 yang diketuai oleh Soh Chin Aun aka Towkay dan dibarisi oleh Mokhtar Dahari aka Super Mokh yang dipanggil kembali menyarung jersi serta James Wong aka King James, Hassan Sani aka Lipas Kudung, Santokh Singh, Bakri Ibni dan lain-lain itu adalah legenda yang sampai sekarang dikenang – secebis kenangan masa silam yang tidak mungkin diulang kembali.

Sejak Piala Dunia 1986, rakyat Malaysia dapat menyaksikan siaran langsung penuh semua perlawanan sampailah sekarang. Sejak 2006, ia disiarkan melalui Astro yang juga membawa pelbagai kejohanan liga bolasepak dari serata Eropah.

Pengalaman kita menonton bolasepak berubah; pendedahan kita kepada permainan yang bermutu bertambah. Gaya hidup kita juga berubah sampaikan temu janji malam minggu disusun mengikut jadual permainan di Old Trafford, Santiago Bernabeu atau Amsterdam Arena.

Tetapi tahap bolasepak negara ini masih macam itu juga.

by Koh Lay Chin

“Eh. You going out to watch the match ah?”

“Yes, with Ahmad & Ah Pin. Going to TDH in Taman Tun. We might head to a mamak stall though for food, but that’s the meeting point.”

“Okay if you are going, me and Ah Meng are coming too.”

“Set. See you there.”

It was not pre-planned that I would end up watching this game with Ahmad, Muthu and Ah Meng.  I have taken the liberty of changing their names because booze and gambling are involved. Ahmad & Ah Pin & Azim have been my best guy friends since secondary school. Indeed they were  my partners in crime when I first started smoking, partying and drinking. I remember those awful RM5 tequila poppers at Party Box.  They were the ones I watched my first World Cup with in 1994, and they helped me sneak out of  house a lot. Some would say they were responsible for my declining grades in Form Four, but I’ll take the blame fully. I am still close to the first two. Azim, sadly, has drifted apart from us in the past few years.

The game starts and I have arrived earlier than everyone else. There are about 15 people  in the dimly lit pub. “Bloody stupid late boys,” I grumble. Muthu arrives, the game warms up and my two besties still have not arrived. We start talking about that Suarez handball, random topics and for some reason, short footballers. Muthu calls them “smurfs” and “hobbits”. I remind him that they are probably taller than he is. He goes “Bah, humbug.” I send threatening ‘Why are you late’ SMS-es to Ahmad and Ah Pin, and when that doesn’t work,  I call. Ah Pin does not answer, and I plot his death. Ahmad picks up the phone all groggy. “Oh shit. I fell asleep. I’m comingggg!” he says, and hangs up.

The riot that is Ah Meng arrives. He proceeds to tokkok, as he is wont to do, and tells us exactly what Holland and Uruguay  MUST SCORE tonight in order for him to win his bets. Muthu and I snigger about other friends and acquaintances we know who have won and loss massively from betting.  These are no RM5 to RM10 bets we used to set up in school. This is the big league, and bets are up to 5-digits. My jaw drops as I hear how a friend won a really juicy bet last week. ‘Wow, times have changed,’ I think. I remember when that friend and I had to carpool with my big brother.

We order Ramly burgers from a man selling them outside the pub. As we devour those little morsels of heaven, Ahmad arrives. “You missed two killer goals wei! The first was super killer!” Muthu says. “I would have been alone here if these two had not come, you know. I’m going to kill Pin,” I whisper to Ahmad as I reach for a hug and he apologises for being late.

We all start talking about the teams we support.

“Who is an actual Holland supporter ah?” someone asks. Ahmad puts up his hand.

“They are my second team,” I say, “and I’m still sulking over Argentina.”

“Holland are my second team too. My first is France,” Muthu says.

I wonder why and how we pick these first and second teams, I ask aloud later.

“How do people suddenly become loyal to these countries wei. I mean, who would naturally support Uruguay or Paraguay wei.”

Ah Meng shrugs. “Well I supported Argentina. My second team is whoever wins me something that night!” he chuckles.

Muthu says he first started supporting France after seeing how they played so beautifully in the Euro and World Cup of 1998. “Quality”, he beams proudly.

“Well they aren’t exactly quality material now are they?” I retort. He pouts.

I offer that my loyalty is familial in nature. All of us then start chatting about Holland and the Golden Age of Marco Van Basten, Ruud Gullit, Frank Rijkaard. Nostalgia wafts around us.  We sigh, coo and wax lyrical over ballerina-like football. We all start sounding like we are twice our age. Ahmad says that like many people in Malaysia, he supports England as a “second choice.”  Muthu sneers, saying that he would never support those “former colonialists.” ”It is the principle of the matter leh. Besides, their team is crap.”

I smile, remembering how my boyfriend, who is British, watched the Germany-England match with me last week. He had been shocked into silence. At our hotel lounge in Penang, watching with an entire motley crowd, he was surprised that most of the people around us were loud Germany supporters. ”Eh leh baliklah Lampard!!” a young Malay man shouted. Others laughed heartily. I did not have to translate. My Brit was bewildered. “Why do so many people hate England? The only ones supporting England with me is that couple in front and this Japanese guy at the back going “Orhfffer-side”.  I did not know how to answer.

Later on that night, he asked me if Malaysians would support Malaysia if they were in the World Cup. I nearly choked on my tea.

“Well of course! Don’t be fooled my dear, we would be going mental if Malaysia was in. We would paint the town crazy.”

“But they have no chances now right?”

“Yeah, no chance in hell now.”

I still had to reiterate later that we Malaysians were very loyal to our sports teams on the international stage. Well, kind of.

GOAAAAAAAAAAALLLLLLLLL!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! It is the fourth goal of the match, one by Robben, and all of us are jumping and thumping the tables. Elation is still in the air as I look left and realise that Ahmad is texting, Ah Meng is checking his bets on the phone and Muthu is having a Whatsapp conversation with his mother, a Holland supporter.

Watching World Cup matches have really changed. I think about the times I used to watch it over teh tarik with Ahmad, Ah Pin and Azim all those years ago. When we relied on someone to pick all of us up. We had no money, but we had a pager or two. I look at some of the Uruguayan players who have long hair and hair bands, and realise they remind me of some Argentinian footballers like Caniggia and Redondo. I realise I am, yes, still sulking over Argentina. As I look at the group I am with, I also realise I miss Azim. He was an Argentina supporter like me.