How Was It for You?

A novelist's take on the TV event that has saturated our lives for a month

By JULIAN BARNES

In a pre-tournament interview, the Japanese mid-fielder Hidetoshi Nakata, who had dyed his hair marmalade in honor of the World Cup, was asked to assess the significance of the event. "The World Cup," he replied splendidly, "is about me."

Wrong as it turned out; but full marks for candor of expression. This World Cup, after all, took place in France and perhaps some of the host nation's intellectual traditions rubbed off on the participants. Whereas an English manager, after a hard-earned win, might say, "The lads battled their socks off and never lay down and died," a French manager might say--indeed, Aime Jacquet, the French coach, did say, after his team's scruffy 1-0 victory over Paraguay--"We played with much lucidity, but were unable to concretize our advantage."

Lucidity: this was one of the key aspects of the 1998 World Cup. Lucidity of broader narrative, to begin with. Despite all pan-democratic hopes for a serious Asian or African challenge, it soon became clear that soccer power still resides where it traditionally has: in Europe and Latin America. As the BBC's wry sports anchor Desmond Lynam put it halfway through, "Welcome to the Tournament of Cliches". By which he meant: Spain underperforms, Scotland autodestructs, Brazil looks imperious, Germany chugs to charmless victory, England to heroic defeat. Apart from Croatia's cheeky interpolation, favorites predominated. And what could be more predictable than that one of the two South Africans sent home for misbehavior should have the Christian name of "Naughty"?

Lucidity of play, too. The games themselves were generally more open, more openly dramatic, even better structured than in previous years. Was it the unconscious influence of French classical theater that produced so many last minute coup-de-grace, let alone the perfect dramatic structures of the England-Argentina and Argentina-Netherlands matches? More banally, the freer flow was the result of FIFA telling referees to get tough on violent tackles. Some imaginative cheating and Marcel Marceau behavior resulted, but the cheering sight of agile forwards running at anxious defenders contrasted with memories of earlier World Cups ruined by the relentless hacking-down of great players like Pele, Eusebio and Maradona.

Lucidity of experience finally: which depended, of course, on watching the Cup on television. Like most true fans, I don't regard the tournament as an opportunity for merrymaking in warmer climes with a few mates. The World Cup is serious work, best done in a darkened room with like-minded monastic souls. What could be more distracting than trying to follow a game in a noisy stadium full of face paint and patriotic shower caps, with one's view constantly interrupted by frivolous Mexican waves? The true fan never stirs from the set, pits amateur punditry against the studio graybeards, compares and contrasts, watches all replays and highlights, guzzles each shirt-tug and mistimed tackle, theatrical dive and grotesque offside decision. Slow-mo and a dozen camera angles make the glory voluptuous, the shame heightened.

Yet there is a risky arrogance to such all-seeingness. In their first round match against Brazil, Norway were awarded a last-gasp penalty when their tall striker Tore Andre Flo unexpectedly sat down in the penalty area. Every single camera angle and studio expert agreed that Mr. Flo had roguishly collapsed without cause, the ref had been conned, the Norwegians were lucky bastards, and the Moroccans (dismissed from the tournament by Norway's win) victims of larceny. For two days TV fans talked of little else; but on the third, obscure Swedish video footage emerged, showing, of all things, a sly tug on the honorable Flo which was invisible from every other angle. The ref had played a blinder after all and television omniscience was flawed.

I can't claim that my month in front of the box produced major insights (as opposed to major pleasure). I developed a theory--well, more of a prejudice really--that silly hair and fancy-colored boots were counter-productive. Romania didn't win a game after going blonde. My other conclusion from a stirring World Cup was an old one: that players who know what they're up to generally do better than those who don't. This was perfectly exemplified during England's penalty shoot-out with Argentina. With his side 4-3 down and thus on the verge of extinction, David Batty, who had never taken a penalty in his life before, juggled the ball over-jauntily and flopped his kick straight into the goalkeeper's grateful mitts. He said afterwards, "When I knew I was the fifth man I envisioned in my mind stepping up to thump the last one in. I had positive thoughts all the way and it was only when I saw the Argentinians celebrating that I realized we were out." On hearing this, a despairing voice at my elbow commented, "Can't bloody count." A little harsh, perhaps. Since this was France, let's just say instead that Mr. Batty was somewhat lacking in lucidity.

Julian Barnes is a London-based writer whose latest book, England, England, will be published next month.

http://www.time.com/time/magazine/1998/int/980720/cover_story.how_was_it_f17.html

Home

Back

Firstpaper