Soccerriffic! or, Death By A Tragic Overdose On Doubled Consonants

So. This is it. The big one. The final battle of this strangely fascinating war--the final match between giants. Spain versus the Netherlands at one in the morning. I'm half contemplating not staying up to watch it, although my family will probably forgive me shortly after never.

Why? Because I don't really care, I guess. I mean I picked teams as favourites and I got all het up when they lost and I screamed during matches (see this post) and I stayed up late to watch the ludicrously timed ones and I went all weird and philosophical about this entire nest of worries (see this post) and I felt the need after the second week to strangle the person who ever thought up vuvuzelas--but, you see, I normally wouldn't. If you had talked to me two months earlier I'd have called you crazy for suggesting I'd do these kinds of things. After all, it's soccer. Just soccer. I thumbed my nose at sports fans and felt smug that I would never fall prey to such primitive idolatry.

And then June rolled by and South Africa put on its show, and it was like I had never not been a soccer fan. I did all those stupid things and then I wrote about them (equally stupid if you ask me) and now I'm going to feel bad about it for the next couple of months. Because I liked it. I liked the whole shebang, the dysfunctional tournament which was by turns glitzy and washed-up, smart and clueless, knuckle-bitingly intense and channel-flipping boring. I liked being part of something that the rest of the world was feeling too, the way it gives you a nice warm feeling when you stand up and start clapping and all the other folks in the theatre or the auditorium or the stadium do too. I'd go so far as to say that I liked the feeling of belonging with other people, except that makes me sound emo, and Chronos will start laughing uncontrollably again like she does whenever I embarrass myself.

Make that Ms Schadenfreude.

Oh gods, I've started on another rant. This was meant to be a short post! Okay, look, you know, this is not going to end well if I just keep bursting into a tirade every time I bring up the World Cup, so I will amputate this entry RIGHT HERE on the dotted line and sew it back together. (To use a not so inappropriate surgical metaph--dammit, forgot the anaesthesia again. Bit too late for that, then. Nurse! Hold down the patient while I get out the crucible tongs and the chainsaw!)

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Well. That turned out better than I hoped. Patient survived, didn't he? Although I'm sorry about his vegetable state. Can't have everything, I suppose.

As an impartial observer I would like to wish the best of luck to both teams. May the one with the most goals scored fairly win. And if not, may the side with the more creative instances of fouling (I'm thinking nude streakers and something involving live chickens) take the Cup home and display it with pride.

~Mnemosyne

PS. Just kidding about the impartial bit, because Netherlands will win.
Spain can go suck it.

EDIT: Damn, they lost.