World Cup 2018 | Modrić and the Golden Ball

Expectedly, Modrić was announced to be a winner of the Golden Ball. He had to step toward the award podium to receive it. He had to pass by some heads of state for some greetings. He had to be hugged by Mr. President of France and listen to his consolations. He had to be embraced by Mrs. President of Croatia, who seemed to be in tears among rains and shared the sadness with him just like a mom with her son. He had to stand there, holding the golden ball for pictures to be taken and for viewers to watch. All the manners were done by him, as if out of courtesy. To his mind, perhaps he felt that he won a wrong trophy.

Modrić is a kind of the very basic player, that is, the one playing a base for his teams to get forward, or a kind of the pre-assist or even the pre-pre-assist to be exact. He can play deep; he can play attacking; he can play passing; he can play shooting, of course; all decently and marvelously. In one moment, he can move back behind the midfield and perform some exquisite flick of the ball, just like another Pirlo; next moment, he can swerve his hips to escape one or two markers, just like another Iniesta; next to the next moment, he can send the ball through opponents to his teammates, just like another Xavi; last but not least, he can be as robust as any defensive midfielder of high calibre. So technically and physically versatile a player is the one bearing the name of Modrić, who had come from the hottest abode of Croatian football, Dinamo Zagreb, to enter the European stage, and silently shone behind and under shadows of his mates, as elusive as his moves, for a decade ere this World Cup. That had been the case till the Golden Ball forced him to stand there, in the spot of global attention.

In an interview afterwards, he said that the Golden Ball rendered him bittersweet. You don’t say, as your visage registered it all; as if you would like to say, “Well, what’s the point of the ball?” Well, it does have a point, Luka. That you are the best who causes spectators strange fits of passion by the superb simplicty.

World Cup 2018 | Belgium vs Japan

Photograph: Hassan Ammar/AP

There was the best of the time and there was the worst of the time, which transpired in a single match, for Japan. Initially they had everything before them: their spirit was so high, their technique was so fine, and they presented so daring a style as to take the game to their opponent.

Not long after the second half got under way, a through ball found a Japanese forward in a position facing the Belgian goalkeeper slightly sideways. Then a perfect finishing, and an expected goal was gained.

Not long after the one-goal lead, another Japanese, the very best one, thumped a wonderful shot into the net, seemingly leaving any spectator dumbstruck. Till now the Japanese had carried the hour of feeling and amazement. The ball at their feet had been rolled with sheer smoothness down the field and sheer accuracy toward the opponent’s goal. Some superlatives for the Blue Samurai probably occurred to some people, some romantic thoughts probably had been formed, some excitement obviously had been reached.

Whereupon the Belgian fell into certain confusion and found themselves floundering in their moves and in their passing. The two-goal lead notwithstanding, the Japanese still pushed themselves forward and toward the other side. For them, attacking seemed to be another way of defending, just as some Dutch man once put it several decades ago. Many of a fan began to think of another earthquake caused by another minnow's feat, besides the one for the German. Still, the remaining time was much enough for the Belgian to pull themselves together and conduct some strikes. They did strike, vehemently.

The old school seems never old. Sending square balls to seek for headers was the best way to get over the disciplined Japanese defensive line, taking advantage of Japan’s weakness in physicality. Eventually the Belgian made it in their great comeback, partly thanks to Japan’s insistently pressing and attacking mentality which later in the game lowered their stamina considerably.

Why were the Japanese determined to play that style instead of just sitting back in front of their goal, holding the ball as long as possible, waiting for the time to be consumed up? Maybe they wanted to have a triumphant win against a powerful force, just to prove themselves to be a competent side in the tournament. Maybe they just followed their so passionate lifeblood as to let themselves flow forward along the ball and play away any pragmatic constraint on their part. Whether the reason is this or that, their composure and hard team-work and inspiringly exciting style, the most so far in this tourney, really truly made the day of mine and, I suppose, of many others. What the game, what the prowess Japan showed out there, in the echoing green with their whole heart.

World Cup 2018 | Peru, trận đầu tiên

Lần đầu tiên tôi xem Peru đá ở giải World Cup. Hẳn nhiều người Peru cũng vậy. Bởi lẽ suốt một thời gian dài Peru vắng bóng. Những ba mươi sáu năm, non một nửa đời người, hơn một thế hệ người đời, và bao cuộc biến chuyển trong làng bóng. Thế mà, tôi tưởng như Peru chẳng hề hấn gì trước sự chuyển biến ấy.

Trận mở màn gặp Đan-mạch thiệt là ca khó cho Peru. Ca khó chuyển thành ca trầm trọng, sau khi Đan-mạch ghi bàn dẫn điểm, lúc hiệp hai đã đi được chừng một phần ba. Thế thì còn gì phải mất nữa ngoài chuyện tấn công. Peru quả triển khai ngay thế công, hòng vùng dậy.

Một pha phản công nhanh nọ, cầu thủ Peru chạy dốc bóng thật nhanh, để rồi như bỗng giật mình thảng thốt không biết làm sao khi sắp xáp vào vòng cấm địa đối phương. Lẽ dĩ nhiên, đối phương đâu rộng lượng để cho anh nghĩ suy kiếm đường binh. Và anh mất bóng, rất lãng.

Một đường chuyền vào cho cầu thủ số 9 của Peru ngay trong vòng cấm. Anh này nhận bóng, ở vị trí khá sát khung thành, nhưng lại ở thế xoay lưng lại. Không chút chần chờ, anh tung một cú đánh gót thật nhanh. Bóng không chịu vào, đi me mé cái cột dọc mà ra ngoài. Dân tình hẳn sẽ la, trời, sao không chuyền cho thằng nào ở vị trí thuận lợi hơn, đang cần bàn thắng mà ông cứ diễn. Đâu có, ổng đâu có diễn, ổng theo bản năng mà làm thôi. Cái bản năng kiểu, làm gì đó với trái banh để đưa nó vào khung thành đi.

Trong cuộc lên công miệt mài, Peru cũng mấy pha đáng chú ý, có bổng có trầm, có sút trúng có sút hụt, có cú dốc bóng thật nhanh mà cũng có pha ngoặt bóng thật gắt. Dẫu thế mặc lòng, pha cuối cùng của họ bao giờ cũng như kiểu xuề xoà cho qua, nửa chừng nương nhẹ, tựa hồ tim đập chân run bóng đi không đặng. Ông trời phen này bị dân tình kêu réo luôn miệng không ngơi suốt mấy mươi phút.

Sau khi làm dậy bao nỗi tiếc than, làm dấy bao cơn ta thán cho người ủng hộ, Peru thua, như một lẽ dĩ nhiên ở đời. Thua trận đầu, Peru còn hai trận, nhưng khi kết thúc trận, nhiều cầu thủ gục đổ xuống sân, ai cũng khoác lên mình nỗi âu sầu thấy rõ. Có người còn khóc, có người lại đưa mắt u buồn nhìn xa xăm nơi khán đài, như xin một niềm thông cảm. Chắc chắn Peru có được niềm cảm thông và cả cảm mến, ít nhứt ở tôi, vì cái sự biệt khác mang nét thơ ngây của họ, một nỗi niềm thơ ngây có lẽ là cuối cùng của thì đại bóng đá lúc này.

Football | UEFA Champions League 2017-2018: The Final

Credit: Tom/The Guardian

Before the match got under way, I had thought that Liverpool would never outdo Real in terms of persons and styles. Neither did it occur to me that Liverpool would pose any real challenge to Real, not a bit with the presence of the Modric-Casemiro-Kroos triad. To put it simply, Real had put their invisible hands on the title on the theoretical page and in some practical minds. Yet, my mind was inhabited by sheer curiosity as to how Mo Salah, one of two players in the current world who could end the hegemony of the Messi-Ronaldo duo, could lead his company in an effort to fight against the White. The Egyptian at that time was the flame of spirit, the inspiration, and the reason of the Reds, and the fresh breeze for neutral fans under the monotonous climate of the oligarchy-like football world. Football fans, it seemed that, looked forward to the match, not to expect the unexpectedness but how the Reds could stand up themselves. A struggle, the decent and fair one, was expected, to be exact.

But, the flame was snuffed out. The spirit was drained off of Salah’s steps out of the field. Thenceforth the Reds’ journey, to borrow Wordsworth’s words, would “be shortly run and couldn’t see another sun”. Reds were diluted and got pale, as they seemed to be soon afterwards in the face of Bale’s flight from the tuft to send the ball into the net, not long after a glimmer of hope had been lighted.

The match is egregiously asinine and kind of absurd but displays the extreme case of football’s essence: the whatever-can-happen stuff on the way to predictable or unpredictable results, despite in the negative fashion at this time. The supreme side deserves the title. The superb trickster deserves the gall of many a football fan. The history is made, by the white noise.

Margaret Atwood - This Is a Photograph of Me

Đây là một tấm ảnh chụp về tôi Nó đã được chụp cách đây ít lâu. Thoạt đầu nó tựa hồ như bức in vấy bẩn: nét nhoè rồi đốm xám hoà cùng với mặt giấy; rồi, khi bạn dòm kĩ, bạn thấy ở bên tay trái chỗ góc một thứ giống như một nhánh cây: một phần cái cây (nhựa thơm hoặc vân sam) hiện ra và, sang phía phải, lên nửa chừng cái hẳn là một con dốc thoải, một nhà gỗ bé Ở cảnh nền sau có một cái hồ, và xa bên kia, dăm đồi thấp. (Bức ảnh này đã được chụp cái ngày sau khi tôi chìm chết. Tôi đương ở cái hồ, đương ở chính giữa của bức ảnh này, ngay bên dưới bề mặt nước. Thật là chuyện khó để nói ở đâu cho đích xác, hay để nói tôi lớn tôi nhỏ dường nào: cái hiệu ứng nước gây nên lên ánh sáng là sự bóp méo nhưng nếu bạn nhìn lâu một hồi sau cùng rốt tận bạn sẽ có thể nhìn thấy được tôi.)

This Is a Photograph of Me It was taken some time ago. At first it seems to be a smeared print: blurred lines and grey flecks blended with the paper; then, as you scan it, you see in the left-hand corner a thing that is like a branch: part of a tree (balsam or spruce) emerging and, to the right, halfway up what ought to be a gentle slope, a small frame house. In the background there is a lake, and beyond that, some low hills. (The photograph was taken the day after I drowned. I am in the lake, in the center of the picture, just under the surface. It is difficult to say where precisely, or to say how large or small I am: the effect of water on light is a distortion but if you look long enough, eventually you will be able to see me.)