Ho Ho Horrible

In the spring, some buzz rippled around the internet linking the Steelers to then-Saints' C LeCharles Bentley, undoubtedly the best free agent lineman available. Bentley was snapped up by the Browns early in the free-agency period; he was the first of many bold moves by Cleveland management. Shortly thereafter, the Browns traded away Jeff Faine, the incumbent center, a former first-round draft pick. Now, in an event which must make fans wonder whether Art Modell cast an evil spell as he left town, Bentley is gone for the season, having snapped a ligament in his knee in the opening hours of training camp. ESPN showed footage of Bentley being carted from the field, a towel over his face. As a Steelers' fan, I have to grin a little as I imagine the matchup possibilities for Casey Hampton. But damn. I hate to see such a terrible, unfair injury happen to anyone. (At least anyone who isn't a Raven.) You've got to feel sorry for the guy, if not for the team.

Futbol Yak

So: for the past month, I have been religious about the World Cup. The opening round was the best: I would get up in the morning, turn on the 9AM game, and get comfy. Despite all the American sneering about soccer, it is as its advocates say: a beautiful game. Commentators talk about the players' creativity and imagination. The drama builds slowly, fluidly, shifting back and forth across the pitch. Always the anticipation, always the sense that something magical is only seconds away. Not so with many American sports. Take baseball, for instance. In baseball, two or three things have to happen before anything magical can happen. In soccer, one touch can do it. Americans would like soccer better if goals were worth seven points and saved shots worth two. Americans like points.

But, in the past few weeks, I saw some gorgeous, thrilling games in which the score was 1-0 or even 0-0. And today's game, a 1-1 tie that Italy won on goal kicks (5-4), was just as good. Sure, players from both sides flopped like bass in a boat the entire game, whenever an opponent got near; one of those flops led to France's goal. And sure, the game's greatest player with the game's greatest name, Zinedine Zidane, got the boot in OT for headbutting an Italian player in his skinny chest. It seemed somehow fair, then, that France lost because one of their subs missed his try. The game was hard-fought, exuberant, and even--excuse me here--rather lyrical.

The other thing to love about World Cup soccer is the emergence of national pride. I live in a country in which shows of national pride seem in poor taste, but I loved seeing contingents of fans from around the world dressed in national colors, cheering as though national pride could never turn ugly. Even the staid Germans got to shed a little of Hitler's burden as they cheered as one for their national team, the colors of the flag painted on their ruddy faces. For that month, anyway, German national pride didn't mean doom for the rest of Europe.

And speaking of national identity: could anyone be a better fit for his team and nation than the French coach, with his dark suit, salt-and-pepper hair, and black horn-rimmed glasses? He looked like he should be sitting in a cafe, cursing God between bites of croissant.