Columns

By Jim Buzinski
Outsports.com

Soccer bores me. I can't sit through more than 10 minutes without getting distracted. I watch the late-night telecasts on Spanish-language Univision while I read because it's impossible to miss any goooooooooooooooooooooooal that is scored.

Chalk it up to growing up in America, where I follow football, not futbol, and the thought of watching a 0-0 tie is anathema to someone who revered Unitas, Fouts and Montana.

Despite my general lack of interest for the sport of soccer, I really get into the event that is the World Cup.  Mind you, I watch very little of the games until the quarterfinals. But I do read as much as I can about them, especially for all the attendant side issues, which are more fun than the action on the field.

The World Cup has passion, politics, intrigue and enough wackiness to make Don King proud. It also has some of the hottest jocks anywhere, almost of all of them unknown to American audiences.

National identity, with all its good and bad features, is wrapped up in the World Cup. Brazilians don't just want their team to win, they want it to win with style. All of England came to a halt when their lads played Argentina, costing billions in lost production. Russians, many of them racist skinheads, rioted in Moscow after their team lost to Japan.

I watched a BBC news report after France was eliminated from the tournament by Denmark without scoring a goal, the first time a defending champion has failed to make the second round in 36 years.

Fans watching in Paris were stunned, tearful and angry, and the BBC correspondent could barely contain his glee. The entire love-hate relationship between the two countries was encapsulated in the piece, which ended with him saying: ``The French [rooster], which has been crowing for the past four years, has developed something of a croak.'' The Yankees vs. Red Sox have nothing on France vs. England.

I've read about African witch doctors who secretly travel with their team, casting spells both good and bad. And about the fancy South Korean toilets in Suwon built especially for the event, so majestic they are part of a guided tour. And about two Brits who teach ``soccer English'' to Japanese housewives, having them learn such phrases as, ``"We lost 1-nil, I'm as sick as a parrot.''

The Shirt Swap

The best part of the Cup, though, is that every four years we get to see some of the greatest athletes in the world, often shirtless. There is nothing like the shirt exchange anywhere else in sports.

At game's end, players from each team swap game jerseys with their opponents, then put them on, sweat and all. The visuals are impressive--I haven't seen a player yet without tremendous abs. A&F could do an entire catalog documenting the swap. I have a friend, who couldn't tell a corner kick from a corner bar, who tapes the last half-hour of each game solely to watch the exchange.

These guys are in amazing shape. No bloated 330-pound, steroid-laden linemen or tub-of-goo pitchers here. We're talking lean, mean kicking machines. As one Japanese female fan told Associated Press: "Some of the boys are so beautiful.''

World Cup players appeal to everyone's tastes. Into blacks? Then Senegal is your team. Like the Mediterranean look? You'll find it with Spain and Portugal. Favor blondes named Sven and Erik? Head north to Sweden and Denmark. Need a little Asian persuasion? You got it in Japan and South Korea. Want a little Latin heat? Then Mexico and Brazil should satisfy.

So get those VCRs revved up and expand your world view. You have nothing to lose but your shirt.

June 13, 2002