Finally, it all kicks off. Holders France, with 11 overseas-based stars, against outsiders Senegal, with 11 French-based wannabes. Typically, the opening game of this topsy-turvy 2002 World Cup throws up a wonderful contradiction.
For Senegalese youngsters, a life in France playing football is the stuff of dreams. For French garçons, the fantasy concerns a multi-million playing contract in Spain, England or Italy.
Perfect. This is the World Cup of contradictions. We’ve got Ireland’s only world-class player, Roy Keane of Manchester United, accusing his Barnsley-born manager Mick McCarthy of being ”an English cunt”. We’ve got Sweden’s only world-class star, Arsenal’s Freddie Ljungberg, trying to throttle sub-standard Villa defender Olof Mellberg after an awful training ground tackle.
The South Americans are building up a nice head of steam, as they always do for the greatest footballing show on Earth. Argentina’s Gabriel Batistuta, after months of anonymity, is starting to live up to the Batigoal nickname again, Brazil’s world-class pairing of Ronaldo and Rivaldo, struck down by expensive injuries all season, are suddenly both fit again.
Yes, the build up to this one has been fascinating. Injuries have dominated the hype. In England, David Beckham and his moping metatarsal has become the most talked about boney part since Napoleon.
The full list of World Cup casualties (from the bulging veins in Keane’s temple through Alen Boksic’s stomach to Robert Pires’s knee and Michael Ballack’s foot) mounts up to an impressive £285-million worth of injuries.
If the insurers pay out, we’ll be able to end Third World starvation or buy Pakistan and India another nuke.
Neither famine nor war seems likely to deflect the world’s attention from the battle for footballing domination over the next month.
A month off from reality. Enjoy.