Soccer World Cup – much ado about nothing

RUGBY is for men and soccer for sissy boys.

As a former mainstream sport writer and lifelong sport fanatic, one would think soccer should feature prominently in my bouquet of interests.

But it doesn’t.

I have really tried over several decades to build up enthusiasm for the cheating game, also popularly known as the beautiful game.

But there simply is nothing beautiful or enthralling about a game featuring 90 minutes of endless to-and-fro kicking and seemingly aimless passing of the ball by prancing namby pamby types – you know, those guys who get sand kicked in their faces on the beach by real sportsmen.

And more often than not it all ends with no score on the board.

Given a choice, attending the Babanango Tiddlywinks Championships would probably be far more enticing in the excitement stakes than watching Bafana trying to impress us with their non-existent winning game plan against Madagascar.

I must confess I once considered going for therapy to analyse this state of affairs – after all, soccer is the sport with the biggest following in the world.

Surely there was a place for the boring game in my closet of sport addictions.

I yearned for soccer to take its rightful place as an activity of substance, at least matching the SA Bowls Championship on the exhilaration scale.

But working on a tight budget, I opted for self-analyses, seriously trying to free my mind to let soccer in through daily early morning ‘om’ chanting, aligning my chakras and calling in a feng shui fundi to determine whether all the energy forces in my immediate environment were in harmony.

Alas, no manner of chanting in front of the telly with a soccer match on initiated any positive response. My feng shui guru suggested I make peace and accept I’m a soccer racist – something I can’t publicly admit to of course, lest I be hauled off to the Human Rights Sport Commission and chucked in the slammer for sport discrimination.

So, let me be quick to point out that the tedious game has at least one redeeming factor – it instantly cures insomnia.

Battling to sleep? Just park yourself in front of the telly with the dreary game on, and within ten minutes you topple over on the coach snoring like a wounded buffalo.

And while soccer fanatics will no doubt resent the ‘sissy boy’ tag, consider this.

Liverpool and Egypt football ‘god’ Mohamed Salah recently took a little tumble and landed on his shoulder. He rolled about the turf as if his arm had been ripped off and everyone went ballistic about whether the frail little prima donna’s bruising might prevent him from playing in the World Cup.

He will, of course. Like all soccer players who thrash about in excruciating pain after taking a little fall, football players have some miraculous powers healing their crushed knees within a few seconds when the ref signals ‘play on’.

It is called milking penalties. It is the only game where legalised cheating is tolerated to gain victory.

In any other sport cheating gets you a life ban and personal disgrace.

If I recall, Real Madrid players actually had training sessions in which players were taught how to execute realistic fake falls.

How I would love to see these little brittle-boned ballerinas thrown into a Bulls or Sharks scrum.

Now, that is a game I will watch with great interest.

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