World Cup Preview

With a logo only slightly resembling the old Atlanta Hawks NBA insignia, the World Cup of Korea/Japan kicks off on May 31. Defending champions France take on Senegal. The next day, the rent is due for a month of soccer that will create legions of sleep-deprived zombies in neighborhoods like Sunnyside and East Flatbush. The U.S., Ireland, Poland and China all qualified. Holland did not. Go figure.

Those who saw the televised U.S.-Uruguay "friendly" in DC a few weeks back saw soccer reminiscent of a guards-vs.-prisoners match from some B movie where Frank Stallone is the goalie. To most, though, Frank Stallone will always be the bellicose bartender, so ask a few tap pullers who they like in this 32-team alley fight. The signals are crossed, confused, garbled, so much so that a nerdy girl and an enigma machine might help. Irish bartenders are of course claiming Ireland, and one Italian bartendress said she is ignoring the whole thing because she's too devoted to her favorite club team, which placed second this season. Also at the bar, former MetroStars employees claiming Spain, a Honduran-American tv producer who likes France and a very hopeful South African restaurateur who knows his country has qualified, but still said Motörhead would win.

Uruguay plays relentlessly dirty, they've got two World Cup trophies in their garage (1930 and 1950) and the White Boots of Sebastian Abreu up front. The "Celeste?" as they are known, are a nice longshot bet to hoist the funny-looking trophy on June 30 as World Champions. Maybe even after vanquishing the Argentines in the big game, just as Uruguay did back in '30 when they hosted the first-ever World Cup.

Predictions like this are what happens to wee-hour dim-light readers of tavern-dwelling publications like Home & Away or First Touch. Both have been solid grapevines of soccer info week in and week out, even when the World Cup bandwagon isn't triple parked outside some Kips Bay "pub" with half-a-satellite dish. It's only appropriate to be half in the bag when reading about the crown jewel event of the most popular sport ever to go bust in America: soccer.

The problems of the game go beyond sports marketing demographics, minivans driven by "moms," new stadiums in Elizabeth, Title IX or Fusarium blight. There continues to be a language barrier, even for those who know where the Onion Bag soccer shop is or how many Ipswich Town midfielders who are Scorpios have also worn the number 15 shirt.

If you are a white-guy American from the Midwest who enjoys sport and gambling and you say "football" instead of soccer, the soccer fans and fellow Americans scoff at your snobbery and then unleash the John Madden hounds. And if you say "soccer" amongst a gaggle of effete and well-traveled Eurotrash, like, say, every third mortal on the streets of Williamsburg these days, they laugh at your American ignorance. In all, it's a lose-lose situation if you speak the language, and a damned-if-you-do, damned-if-you-don't if you don't.

Meanwhile, Clint Mathis, the gentle Georgian who scores mean goals when he's on the soccer pitch (field?), is everywhere. A jinxing cover of Sports Illustrated, a TV Guide interview, a few stray MLS television promos. The only place he isn't is in a MetroStars kit (uniform?), and the red-and-black squad is folding up like a flea market table. Yes, Major League Soccer continues playing during the World Cup while the rest of soccer society closes up shop and tries to sleep off a winter's worth of ball-busting league and cup competitions. The MLS starts in April and plays on through the summer because that's what fledgling, doomed leagues do. It's been going on since third-string U.S. goalkeeper Tony Meola brought his ponytail and Corvette routine to the streets and "routes" of Union, NJ, where the MetroStars "practice." Meola's lost the ponytail, and a step or two, but he's on the plane to Korea with 22 other lads who will wear the U.S. crest and definitely stay more than a fortnight in the Far East. Especially if coach Bruce Arena lets "Mati-goal" Mathis and Josh Wolff go crazy up front.

Just try to figure out if a U.S. vs. Uruguay final is algebraically possible amid the group pairings, and you'll be up until 5 a.m. Then you can watch a game live on the ESPNs, competing with all that "paid programming" on the other channels.

White Castle advertising gurus are missing a good promotional window here, as the slyders will be the food of choice for many who stay past last call to watch World Cup action behind the rolled-down security gates of outer-borough bars (shebeens?). Think of the anti-matter potential of White Castle slyders served with kimchi.

Instead, U.S. sponsors are playing a brand-obscurity game of Twister that includes the splosh film staple Hershey's Syrup, the toys known as Legos and of course the other toy known as Budweiser. Sounds like the setup list for a smoker at the Kenosha Elks.

Obviously, the propaganda surrounding the U.S.-hosted '94 World Cup was hogwash. I remember sitting with a few fans of Greece who watched in horror as their national squad was embarrassed in the first round. The venue was O'Donnell's Camp in Hell's Kitchen. Women with names like Eleftheria sat and ate grilled cheese sandwiches as their national team was shut out yet again. There were no tears, just a lot of staring at slices of those bad New York tomatoes discarded from the sandwiches, languishing on chipped plates. On the side of the coffee cups it read: "It is our pleasure to exit the tournament in the first round." We broke Camp from O'Donnell's and the Greeks skipped the rest of the workday, instead returning to a sullen Astoria. O'Donnell's now sits closed, shuttered and dark, and Greece failed to qualify for this World Cup. Meanwhile, there're even a few sober people who think Ireland is going to advance into the later rounds, which might mean it's time to reopen O'Donnell's. Why not? The Irish lit it up when they came to the States for the party eight years ago. After the '94 hype, was there a mad rush of soccer support across this great land? Were there Who-concert-style stampedes to get MLS season tickets? To quote the Norse God of Thunder: "I say thee NAY, rampager!"

It'll be an historic June if Ireland faces England (it could only happen in the semifinals) and the English fans revive that old chant (to the usual tune of "She'll Be Coming Round the Mountain") that goes, "Do you want a chicken curry, Bobby Sands?"

Thirty-two teams. The 38th Parallel. Monsoon season. The sun rising during the second half. Uruguay, do or die.