Thursday, Jul. 06, 2006

The Runners-Up Final Is Really No Consolation

There's something particularly cruel, even vicious in losing a World Cup semi-final. It's not just getting within caressing distance of the Club Yowzah VIP lounge, only to have the bouncers toss you back on the curb with the rest of the out-crowd. It isn't having to accept that, having failed to reach your goal, you must now suffer four long years of deluding yourself that it was just bad luck; of convincing yourself you're actually capable of winning the Big Salam; and starting the joyless grind to get there all over again. It's not just knowing that despite the crushing disappointment and borderline clinical depression your ouster has left you with, there really are no options open to you but picking yourself up, dusting yourself off, and getting back on that football horsey — vowing to stay atop it even if you have to Super Glue your clownish tuchas to the bronco's Velcro-ed saddle.

It isn't even having to feel bad about pulverized the hearts and hopes that will agonize every man, woman, child, and shaved-head house pet in your country will suffer for weeks as you fall back on your multi-million dollar salary and life as an international star with your pro club (after you've taken the time for vacation, of course). And it's not even that intensely cheesed off heat that rises up your spine, into your face, and blossoms from your stinging pores knowing that the, fans of the team who sent you home will forever think of you fondly as the side who had the good sense to help fulfil their dreams by losing when it counted.

No, the very worst thing about losing a semi-final is that, in addition to all the above, you've got to go out and play a pointless consolation final the following Saturday. It's like a groom who's been bilked at the alter being required to turn up at the reception anyway, and pawn cocktail weenies off on ancient aunties with rude halitosis for hours as everyone pretends it's still a jolly old lig, despite that "public humiliation and ruined life" detail. Why don't they just let these poor guys go back home to kick and pummel the floor like they want to? They've suffered enough already — why add insult to injury by staging the Chumps' Ball?

When you get right down to it, holding a Consolation Final gig is damned near inhumane. Somebody sick Kofi Annan on FIFA!

So why do the stage it, despite all the anguish? One reason — and I'm betting the sheer bolt-from-the-blue novelty of it will leave you terminally gob-smacked: money. The Consolation Final (or, as it would be called if it were a European Union administration in Brussels, "ConFin") may be a cruel example of utter futility, but it nevertheless pits two of the four best teams in the competition millions of fans have flocked to stadiums to watch (and billions of TV viewers have tuned in to) thus far. And FIFA knows people will drop kick an otherwise socially-enriching, activity-studded Saturday evening to park their hind sides and watch that showdown of The Best Losers — a reason in and of itself to force defeated semi-finalists to have at one another, if need be at gun point.

Because if people will watch this grass-staged warfare between two sides who'd much rather be somewhere flinging sharpened pencils into Styrofoam ceilings as a more productive activity, that means TV stations will broadcast it. That, in turn, gives FIFA an additional reason to cheek-sneak the price of its rights package up a chouliia. Plus, it's another game! Not like fans haven't seen enough football by this time, right?

The problem is ConFins are invariably as exciting and impassioned as a debate pitting Paris Hilton against rail road ballast on the ethics of genetic modification in mass marketed agro-biz products. (For the record, Paris is against it. Ethics just aren't, so, cool and stuff…): the absence of both heart and mind make the endeavor a competitive non-starter; an entirely inflicted chore by men whose only risk of copping yellow cards is yawning too hard. After all, imagine the Germans yearning for nothing better after their loss to Italy than having a real long lie down somewhere dark and quiet, but being reminded they have to go back out there and act like they aren't suicidal before the entire world.

And what kind of game faces will the Portuguese slap on when — nearly 24 hours after their loss to France — their mugs are still locked tight in an Evard Munch pucker? No, don't expect any battle royals here; ConFins are always more like Frank Burns having a slap-fight with himself; like 11 sweaty Eeyores in shin guards asking if they can go home yet. Are we really so low that we're willing — even able — to find entertainment in that?

Think I'm laying the disingenuous hyperbole on a bit thick (and if so, how dare you)? Think the born-competitors World Cup players are make it impossible for them to view a ConFin as a kind of sporting bris they'll have to suffer through — and with cameras rolling to boot? Then check out some of the wheezing masquerading as trash talk that's being dished out ahead of this game. "We're going to try get ourselves straightened out to be able to offer a good game," says an excessively motivated Germany coach, Juergen Klinsmann. "The crowd deserves one."

Oh yeah? Portuguese play maker Deco doesn't agree — and spat back a retort dripping with defiance and bile, "It's going to be very hard to get motivated to play the game for third place. For me, the World Cup ended tonight". Talk about fighting words. I'm shaking already, and I won't even be on the pitch.

Of course, I'm intentionally being a portentously world class hypocrite ranting (oh, the novelty of all that) against the ConFin, since there's no doubt whatever that I, too, will be forsaking what most humans and even many strains of mildew consider a real life in order to watch this waste of a game. Whaddya want: it's football, so we watch. Still, even as I lovingly gaze at what will doubtless be another World Cup edition of the Narcoleptics' Gala, I'll be feeling for the 26 players dutifully going through the 90 minutes of motion on our behalf, knowing as I do they'd all rather be heavily medicated somewhere off on their lonesome.

So when Saturday rolls around, let's tip our hats to FIFA for cracking this world class whip, and give both sides a standing-O for their considerable efforts. Besides, a nice hand might well serve as early encouragement for them to break out the super glue and bare those bottoms in anticipation of South Africa 2010 as soon as they feel back up to it. Or as soon as they're feeling back up to it, anyway.