Dwight Yorke has arrived in Sydney from Birmingham City to take up his position as Sydney FC's marquee player in the inaugural Australian A-League.
The 33-year-old former Aston Villa, Blackburn Rovers and Manchester United striker has promised to concentrate on scoring on the pitch rather than the dance floor.
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Monday, July 4, 2005
Dwight Yorke
Sunday, July 3, 2005
Millonarios River Plate
We changed our flights, sped round the south of Argentina at the speed of light and managed to get to Buenos Aires in time for the weekend and the footy - River Plate playing Olimpio on the Saturday night, a lad in our hostel was going with a girl from Buenos Aires and we were in. Excellent. We walked through the cobbled streets of San Telmo, past the old men in berets with handlebar moustaches sipping red wine on the Plaza and took the bus up to El Monumental, home of Los Millonerios, aka River Plate.
As we walked up 90 mins before kickoff, the air was already full of the crack and boom of fireworks, the police poised on their horses, but not too many fans about to tell the truth. This wasn't a big game and with the Boca River derby only a week away, people were saving their energies. So us men paid our 10 pesos (2quid/400 yen), the ladies their 5 and we were off into the "Populare" end of El Monumental, the peoples end where apparently under no circumstances should you show any sign of wealth or of being a tourist. Ooh er. After 5 body searches and the confiscation of my lighter (only me, everyone else got frisked once, bloody typical) we got in, greeted by the irresistible rhythm of the drums from inside the ground and the 4ft baton toting policemen on the perimeter. Up the stairs we went (lambs to the slaughter? I was beginning to wonder), greeted by a man with blood covered hands crouched over another in a pool of his own blood, not the best of omens.
And then we were in, "Vamos Vamos Vamos Millonarios, Vamos Vamos Vamos River Plate", the singing and the music never stopped for a second, people hanging very precariously off every available ledge, the pitch just visible through the ganja fog. Not that it mattered. The players came on, not many noticed, the game went on, not many watched. As a pretty dismal, scrappy display of footy unfolded on the pitch below (surprising as River are one of the top teams in one of the top leagues of South America), the band played on and the crowd sang on, oblivious to what was happening down below them. Nobody cared. They were there to sing, dance and taunt Boca ahead of next weeks derby, and the footy going on right now wasn't going to spoil that for them.
Highlight of the game was a penalty given near half time - River protested, the ball was put on the spot, but then oh no, the refs changed his mind, No penalty, a corner. Eh? Whats going on? The Olimpio players come crowding round the ref, they want their penalty and then poof! Its back on again, a penalty. I've never seen a more ridiculous display of refereeing and people aren't happy. Momentarily. Then its back to singing and dancing again.
River Plate lost 2-0, but I've never seen anyone so happy in defeat -half an hour after its all ended, they're still there singing their hearts out with no sign of budging. We on the other hand squeeze past the tear gas gun toting cops in riot gear and head out for a night of steak and tango. Vamos Millonarios!
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Friday, July 1, 2005
Midnight Mardi Gras
Midnight Mardi Gras
Unless you hail from Argentina then Wednesday night in Frankfurt will stay with those present a long while. From the storm that split the stadium's hi-tech textile roof to the spectacle of a canteen full of journalists erupting with the cry of "HUTH!", there was no shortage of memorable moments.
The most indelible memory, however, came hours after the final whistle as waiting reporters checked their watches mindful of deadlines, column inches and airtime that needed to be filled.
Suddenly the bowels of the stadium were transformed as a samba/conga train consisting of the entire Brazil squad was led by Roque Junior, Dida on drums and Ronaldinho on tambourine in single file from dressing room to bus and on to a hotel party.
This snatch of carnival was the brainwave of their shrewd yet gregarious coach Carlos Alberto Parreira, who brought up the rear in almost comical concession to the quote quota demanded by reporters still too stunned to realise the ruse had denied them any words from the all-but-musically mute players.
Such non-synthetic ebullience and glamour was what the German organising committee could only have prayed for as they look for their promotional bandwagon to peak by the same time in 2006.
"Over-organisation gone mad... the logical result of combining FIFA with this country" was the view of one anonymous Kicker magazine scribe of his own compatriots and their approach to the tournament's overall organisation.
Still, somehow the rhythm of Brazil had prevailed and put the uber-bureaucracy, the roadblocks - email das purist via soccerphile.com if you want to know the German for road rage - the confiscation of prize-winners' rival-sponsored clothes for the day by McDonalds staff, all the translation snafus and even the likely doping let-off for Mexico in perspective.
Stelios Giannakopoulis had advised das purist beforehand to monitor the movement of Kaka up close over that of the trio that routinely overshadow him: top-scorer Adriano, Robinho and Ronaldinho - who was lucky not to exit the final prematurely and escape with a yellow card for an elbow on Coloccini.
And how das purist was seduced... merely the Milan player's contribution to the scoreline was ample evidence of his almost unreal talent, with the lack of backlift and perfect command of the ball's trajectory leaving this observer in awe.
A Mexican colleague, who could not bring herself to miss this "super-classico" even to be in Leipzig that night as her boys took on Germany, summed up Kaka's talent in an arresting way. "When he plays it is like a computer game, only better!"
Too true, and the sheer skill, elegance and athleticism of the man is enough to make anyone older simply want to give up and go home. Those younger, however - the sponsor-friendly legions of kids on hand who'd been given photo-op tips in return for shedding their hostile-brand garments, for example - they could only be inspired, surely?
So sombreros off, amigos, the best team won.
GO AND SEE A GAME!
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Unless you hail from Argentina then Wednesday night in Frankfurt will stay with those present a long while. From the storm that split the stadium's hi-tech textile roof to the spectacle of a canteen full of journalists erupting with the cry of "HUTH!", there was no shortage of memorable moments.
The most indelible memory, however, came hours after the final whistle as waiting reporters checked their watches mindful of deadlines, column inches and airtime that needed to be filled.
Suddenly the bowels of the stadium were transformed as a samba/conga train consisting of the entire Brazil squad was led by Roque Junior, Dida on drums and Ronaldinho on tambourine in single file from dressing room to bus and on to a hotel party.
This snatch of carnival was the brainwave of their shrewd yet gregarious coach Carlos Alberto Parreira, who brought up the rear in almost comical concession to the quote quota demanded by reporters still too stunned to realise the ruse had denied them any words from the all-but-musically mute players.
Such non-synthetic ebullience and glamour was what the German organising committee could only have prayed for as they look for their promotional bandwagon to peak by the same time in 2006.
"Over-organisation gone mad... the logical result of combining FIFA with this country" was the view of one anonymous Kicker magazine scribe of his own compatriots and their approach to the tournament's overall organisation.
Still, somehow the rhythm of Brazil had prevailed and put the uber-bureaucracy, the roadblocks - email das purist via soccerphile.com if you want to know the German for road rage - the confiscation of prize-winners' rival-sponsored clothes for the day by McDonalds staff, all the translation snafus and even the likely doping let-off for Mexico in perspective.
Stelios Giannakopoulis had advised das purist beforehand to monitor the movement of Kaka up close over that of the trio that routinely overshadow him: top-scorer Adriano, Robinho and Ronaldinho - who was lucky not to exit the final prematurely and escape with a yellow card for an elbow on Coloccini.
And how das purist was seduced... merely the Milan player's contribution to the scoreline was ample evidence of his almost unreal talent, with the lack of backlift and perfect command of the ball's trajectory leaving this observer in awe.
A Mexican colleague, who could not bring herself to miss this "super-classico" even to be in Leipzig that night as her boys took on Germany, summed up Kaka's talent in an arresting way. "When he plays it is like a computer game, only better!"
Too true, and the sheer skill, elegance and athleticism of the man is enough to make anyone older simply want to give up and go home. Those younger, however - the sponsor-friendly legions of kids on hand who'd been given photo-op tips in return for shedding their hostile-brand garments, for example - they could only be inspired, surely?
So sombreros off, amigos, the best team won.
GO AND SEE A GAME!
Bet with Bet 365
World Soccer News
Soccer betting tips
Soccer Books & DVDs
Tags
Soccer News soccer football J-League K-League Betting
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