Dear Editor,
In my book the Brazilians are going to run away, make that waltz away, with the World Cup in Qatar. My money is on them, regardless of the odds. I don’t think that any other team stands a chance against the artistry and virtuosity of the men in green. What Bruce Lee used to do with his hands and feet (and moves), the Brazilians do with their boots and heads. I mean the technical brilliance of even the most pedestrian unknown on the team is football fields ahead of the nearest imitator from Europe, including Kylian Mbappe of France, and the aging, pouting showboating, hotdogging wunderkind from Portugal (and Manchester United), Cristiano Ronaldo. The Brazilians are the real McCoy. This is even when one of their superstars is roughed up in the early group stage, and forced to sit for a while. It is the least that I would expect from a team that is always a feared, respected contender, even when hobbling, even when not much of real threat. I am looking at some of the names in the squad doing battle in the Middle East, and I am blown away by the connections alone. There is a guy who sounds like the reincarnation of some Roman general cum emperor of antiquity, Vinicius; it is more of echoes with a Latin flair and the Tiber, than of Portugal and the Amazon. Then there is that other fellow, Raphinha, and I get ideas that one of the great immortals of palette and canvas is soaking up the desert sun near the Sahara. Like me, who could conjure any belief that a footballer in studs and some cellphone advertisement on sleeve or trunks is involved, when a moniker like Gabriel Martinelli flashes out of the commentary box, and lights up the highlight reels. Gabriel Martinelli he is, and the name is not of a fine Italian suit, or a vintage French cognac, but a thoroughbred of a soccer player from the other side of the Atlantic Ocean. Last, with a pair headlined by the unlikely label of Antony and Rodrygo, I found myself thinking not of sweating men on green swards of battle over a ball, but of a Shakespearean sonnet, some operatic melodrama in full-throated crescendo.
My word, where do the Brazilians get names for their football players like those, as if they were being groomed from conception to stand on the world’s stage after conquering it. Who could ever imagine from the mists of football lore, a name such as Socrates? Socrates, for a soccer player, legend and all, somebody has to be kidding around, right? In all seriousness, I think the better question is where these guys in green shorts get their mesmerizing skills from, their flair for the cavalierly kind of play, and still come out ahead in the winner’s circle? Meanwhile, ponder deeply on the other illustrious ones that I had little choice but to leave unmentioned. No insult intended; I assure the people from Brasilia doing diplomatic duty here. It is still early days yet, but my dough is on the fellows in yellow. Come on down Croatia; regrettably, they too will be going down, taking a hard fall, and following in the wake of others. By the way, this is no opinion given, but football gospel written, and it is money that can be taken to the bank. Also, a little solidarity with a giant neighbour that is friendly always helps, has its powerful utilities.
Sincerely,
GHK Lall
