Before the World Cup started, I had a quiet suspicion (and a loud hope) that Argentina were going to crash and burn. The idea of Diego Maradona in such a prominent job offended me. I'm barely old enough to remember his playing days, but there is no doubt he is one of the very greatest players of the game. In the space of five minutes in the same match, he produced possibly the two most famous moments in World Cup history - and the fact that one was a piece of blatant cheating (The Hand of God, of course) and the other was possibly the greatest individual goal ever (my dance around three players to score during Monday night five-a-side notwithstanding) sums up the two sides of El Diego beautifully.
But he is not a coach. His brief attempts at club management had been dismal failures. He suffered from cocaine and alcohol addiction and had to have a stomach stapling operation to curb his obesity. His appointment as Argentina coach in October 2008 just seemed bizarre, and it showed; the side lost four of its last eight qualifiers and scraped into the World Cup. Then he announced his tactical plan of four centre-backs in a 4-4-1-1 system which, it appeared, could only stifle the creativity of Lionel Messi, and which included the ancient Juan Sebastian Veron. Finally, he left Internazionale's outstanding midfielder Esteban Cambiasso at home, and only seemed to pick his teammate, Champions League final hero Diego Milito, as an afterthought.
And yet, and yet, Argentina have been a fantastic spectacle at this World Cup. Whether Diego had an epiphany (or more likely, his former mentor Carlos Bilardo had a word in his ear) or not, Argentina ended up in a 4-3-3 where Tevez and Messi appear to work well together, with a winger (Di Maria) in midfield and another (Gutierrez) at right back, and where their reckless attacking style, coupled with a car crash defence, increasingly makes them a neutral's favourite. And all the while Maradona, sporting a bizarre black moustache and white beard combo, stands on the touchline kicking every ball, making every tackle. One moment he's hugging and high-fiving (and kissing) the players, the next he is brandishing invisible cards after Messi has been fouled. It's actually endearing.
Of course, it helps when you have up front Gonzalo Higuain, a striker who has quietly moved into the group of elite forwards in world football. At Real Madrid, every galactico signing is supposed to push Higuain out of the team, but he just keeps quietly scoring goals. While Messi got all the attention, Higuain notched a hat trick against South Korea. My erstwhile co-author has a bet on him to win the Golden Boot. It looks like a decent call.
Go back two World Cups, and I used to feel this positive about the French. If their win in 1998 might have been put down partly to home advantage, Euro 2000 was different; as I have stated in this blog before, that French team was the greatest international side, I would say, in the last thirty years; a solid defence with Barthez, Blanc and Desailly; a midfield with Vieira and Petit; a forward line boasting Henry and Trezeguet. And, of course, a bald Algerian playmaker called Zidane who was really quite good. That France team attacked and scored goals. France '98 saw them score nine goals in the group stage, then a superb semi against Croatia, and finally a gubbing of Brazil in the final. Every one of their knockout games at Euro 2000 was just epic, more so than the 2-1 scoreline in each would suggest.
But Zidane's injury ruined 2002 for them, and with every tournament since then they have regressed, not helped by the sheer weirdness of Raymond Domenech, their hapless coach (another example of how a man with eyebrows a different colour from his hair simply cannot be trusted). It was not so much a run as a crawl to the 2006 final, with only one memorable performance (the defeat of Spain in the last 16) and a team dragged by the sheer force of will displayed by Zidane (too much force in the end, mind you!) and Henry.
Their humiliating first round exit at Euro 2008 hasn't changed anything. France's opening two games at this World Cup have been catastrophic, a tactical shambles. There is no fight, no spirit. In the last ten minutes of the Mexico game all the French subs warmed up fifty yards away from the dugout, conveniently out of hearing range in case Domenech wanted to make a sub. And who did he turn to on his bench? Pierre-Alain Gignac. a striker who couldn't score in a brothel - and that is a pretty damning assessment for a Frenchman - and unknown Marseille midfielder Mathieu Valbuena. Goodness knows what Thierry Henry, sitting in the dugout with a woolly hat and blanket in true Last Of The Summer Wine style, thought of it. A penny for the thoughts of Samir Nasri and Karim Benzema, excluded from the squad altogether.
So Argentina are on the brink of progress to the latter stages of the tournament. And they have been absolutely beautiful on the eye, so we salute them. The French are probably booking their plane tickets home. And it's not only the Irish who won't miss them one bit.
Regards,
L.
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