PARIS — “So, uh, what have people over there been saying about the Games?”

My dad, who lives on Vancouver Island and spent the first couple days of the Olympics in Vancouver proper, asked me the other day for the French take on the games-to-date. Even over a shitty ADSL connection some nine time zones away, I could tell that he wasn’t just curious. He was a little worried. He needed to be reassured.

This was after the first week of the Olympics, when a few macro things weren’t going as well as people had hoped they would, so to speak. Like the weather. And safety on the luge track. And the torch lighting.

Based on what I was hearing from friends and family, folks in Vancouver were having a ball. Actually, I sort of got the impression that Canadians were almost overdoing their we’re-here-for-the-party! bit, to compensate for what they perceived as a lukewarm early reception of the Games abroad (driven pretty largely, let’s be honest, by the bitter, snarky reports of an inexplicably and indefensibly hateful segment of the British media that nobody should ever take seriously, especially since they started trashing these Olympics two weeks before they even began).

I assured my dad that the French media was taking a largely positive view on the games. It might be because French people are generally rooting for Canada to do well at these Olympics, since many of our athletes give interviews en français to their reporters, or that they won a bunch of medals in the first week (because if the French care about anything, it’s winning medals – they’re a lot like my brother that way).

But just in case my dad, or the rest of Canada, needed any more insight on what the world really thinks about these Olympics, I called on my Sportstrotter network of international gurus, spies and n’er-do-wells, spread across five continents, in countries with varying levels of participation in winter sports, to give their own far-flung perspectives on the games.

(Happy birthday, dad.)

Andrew Braithwaite – Paris, France (Pacific Standard Time + 9 Hours)

Yes, even though the rest of the entries are going east-to-west, I get the primo first-responder priority Platinum placement, part of this column’s controversial “Own the Blog” program (for which my corporate fat-cat sponsor has invested a generous $0.0 million dollars).

If there’s one thing that I’ve taken from the largely excellent (and unabashedly homerist) live television coverage on France 2 and France 3, which runs nightly from 18h local time till 6h the next morning – completely commercial free after 20h30! – it’s that after all the glory paid to Canada’s top musical talents at the Opening Ceremonies, we need to make a bigger deal of the musical phenomenon that is Roch Voisine. I remember listening to this guy in my French elementary school. In Francophone music, he’s huge. Not quite Céline Dion or Gilles Vigneault huge. Still, here’s a guy who was made a Chevalier de l’ordre des Arts et des Lettres de France at age 28!

Why will I remembered these as “the Roch Voisine Games?” Two reasons: one, the theme song for France Televisions’ Olympics coverage is Voisine’s insufferably catchy 1989 song “Pour Une Victoire,” from his hit debut album Hélène (translation of the chorus: “for a victory, you would do anything,” a very French Olympic sentiment). Two, Roch has been the third man in the TV booth for every Team Canada hockey game. And the amazing thing is that he’s not just making a celebrity cameo. He’s a really good colour analyst. Or maybe he just seems smart because I’m usually watching hockey at 3 in the morning.

Seth Leighton – Seoul, Korea (PST+17)

I rode the subway to work on Wednesday. On the subway in Korea, nobody talks. Even among packs of school kids, it is customary for each to be focused on their own phone. Today, things were different. Strangers clustered around each others’ tiny Samsung screens, watching the competitors of Kim Yu-Na, our 19 year old figure skating superduperstar.

Yu-Na represents the extremes of Korean culture, with its contrast of traditional Confucianism and desire for modernity at any cost. From an early age she was motivated/pushed by her mother, who has completely devoted herself to her child’s success – a common trait in Korean families. The use of a foreign teacher is another trait deeply embedded within Korean culture, one that hits directly against the national pride. Yu-Na’s coach? Canadian Brian Orser.

I reached my stop 3 minutes before Yu-Na’s short program skate. Passing an open health clinic, I saw a TV tuned to the event – Che-ga Pol Su Isseo?, I asked (“Can I watch?”). I sat next to two old Korean men, patients waiting for the doctor, who stood at the door, also watching. Each of Yu-Na’s jumps was followed by claps and cheers from my fellow observers, and nary a breath was taken until she finished her performance without a fall.

They announced the score: 78.50, a new world record for short program. Cheers broke out, people hugged and laughed, and then, because they are Korean, everybody went back to work.

Anamitra Deb – Mumbai, India (PST+14)

I’ve been looking forward to these Olympics ever since my friend Kate gifted me a Vancouver 2010 vest and toque, passed along by her mother who was on the organizing committee. However, I fear our chance at winter sports greatness is passing India by.

Despite a three-man delegation tipped by the bookies at very, very long odds, and live sports coverage on ESPN, India stubbornly remains loyal to its unholy news trinity of cricket/Bollywood/sex scandals. Though the Olympics did get off to a scandalous start, when it was revealed that our three-man delegation had a five-man entourage that included an adventurous hotelier from Kashmir, Muddasir Nazir Mir, who has no credentials as a coach – he’s apparently riding a political favour into Whistler Olympic Park, aiding army man Tashi Lundup (whose actual coach was sidelined to accommodate Mr. Nazir Mir) to an 83rd-place finish in the men’s 15km freestyle cross-country.

These will most likely be remembered as Mr. Nazir Mir’s Olympics. And I, equipped with only my hopes and my vest, will be, like India’s delegation, relegated to the snowbank of history.

Amy Romkey – Dubai, UAE (PST+12)

Olympics? There are Olympics?!?! I heard a rumour there was some big event going on in Canada! The television programming over here is pretty abysmal. You can see bits and pieces of Olympic coverage on the odd European channel or CNN but there isn’t any coverage on local stations or news. Ditto for coverage in the local newspapers. My husband and I have a new neighbour who moved here from Vancouver, just in time to miss the Olympics. He is dedicated and wakes up at 4:30am to watch Canada play hockey. We have yet to accept one of his invitations to join. It’s just not the same watching on a little laptop. And since no one over here is really talking about the Olympics, you don’t really miss it.

Marten Lodewijks – Johannesburg, South Africa (PST+10)

Africa and snow are not usually two words one would put down in the same sentence (Mount Kilimanjaro aside). I think for this reason the Winter Olympics are viewed as more of an interesting thing happening half a world away than an actual competition that we might conceivably compete in. Having said all that I love watching the games. Sadly they are not broadcast live but rather in highlights packages in the evenings but I do enjoy the Giant Slalom and Super G (as much for the spectacular crashes as the skill involved) as well as the figure skating and luge. I must be honest and say that as much skill as it might require, curling is as interesting as watching a snail cross the living room. Just don’t get it…

As for Vancouver’s organizational problems, we have a pretty big tournament of our own coming up. Anyone who thinks the World Cup in SA will be as punctual as in Germany or as well organized as in Korea/Japan is smoking their socks. There will be delays, there will be blackouts, there will be parking nightmares but this is Africa and there will also be a magic and a passion that you cannot replicate in the northern hemisphere. Unlike Canada’s hockey team, South Africa has the advantage of very low expectations and I think the world will be pleasantly surprised.

David Lizoain – Barcelona, Spain (PST+9)

Barcelona has come down with Winter Olympic fever in the worst way, celebrating the games by announcing its own proposal to submit a Barcelona-Pyrenees bid for the 2022 games. This came as a surprise to everyone, especially the already existing Spanish bid next door in Aragon. Everyone agrees that the 1992 Summer Olympics here were a huge success. Tomorrow’s weather is forecast for a high of 18C. On the other hand, if you ship some snow to the mountains, build an unnecessary bobsleigh course, and a couple of ice palaces in the city, what more do you need?

Up until now, Spain’s most glorious Winter Olympic moment was in 2002 when Johann Mühlegg won a couple of couple of cross-country golds and then got busted for doping at the third race. Up until his fall from grace everyone was calling him Juanito and the King called to congratulate him. Now he’s back to being Johann. He’s like a Spanish version of Ben Johnson.

I remain convinced that the only useful thing about the Winter Olympics is that they are a great excuse to stage a World Cup of hockey. I have no time for all the variations on who can vertically drop the fastest with a few turns thrown in. Galileo already proved that, Who cares, it’s all the same.

Respect to the biathletes for their proud defense of doing two sports at once.

Paul Isaacs – London, UK (PST+8)

The British reaction to the Olympics has been understated to the point of seemingly not caring at all. Sometimes, stiff upper lips are just a politer way of saying we don’t give a fuck. The fact that we’ve only won a single gold medal (putting us behind such comedy punchline counties as Belarus and Slovenia) of course has nothing to do with it. Actually, we’re so worried about screwing up our own Olympics in 2012, your Vancouver catastrophes look like small beer. And besides, at least your Olympic logo doesn’t look like an obscene Simpsons gif.

Alex Frastacky – Quito, Ecuador (PST+3)

I watched the Canada/Russia hockey game last night at a bar with some Ecuadorian friends. There weren’t that many bars showing the game – in fact, this particular bar wasn’t showing the game either, until we came in and turned it on ourselves. Without DirectTV, you don’t get the Olympics in Ecuador.

Ecuador doesn’t have any athletes in the games. They like to watch it on TV, though, and cheer for random countries like Germany and Sweden. Canada, too – my friend Sebas thinks Whistler looks amazing. Last night I tried to explain (poorly) the rules of hockey. It wasn’t really working so I told them to just think of it as soccer on ice. That seemed to work. Between periods we flipped over to a soccer match, rather than watching any other Olympic Sports.

Matt Lynch – Chicago, USA (PST+2)

It’s hard not to be a tiny bit bitter after Chicago’s 2016 Summer Games bid flopped, so I can’t say I haven’t taken some cruel enjoyment in Vancouver’s struggles at things like “lighting the Olympic flame” and “having ice and snow.” I’m not one to plan my schedule around speed skating or biathalon or anything, but it’s been nice to see the American team perform well thus far. Still, a strong Olympic performance tends to give me mixed feelings because, while I want my country to do well just like anyone else, I feel like it only increases the already robust worldwide resentment of Team America.

Take “USA 5, Canada 3,” for instance. I realize it was a preliminary game, and that the Americans were significantly outplayed everywhere except between the pipes, but damn, that was fun. I could see Canada exacting its revenge later in the tournament in a cruel, cruel way, but who knows? One thing I do know is that the “Own The Podium” strategy has kind of gone bust.

If USA Hockey were to somehow win gold, I’d at least get some revenge for all the snide, “when we win, it’s not a miracle” ribbing we’ve taken on behalf of our beloved 1980 squad from certain Canadians, some of whom may or may not write this blog. If that happens, I’ll probably also wait a few months before I risk partaking of any imported Labatt Blue or Molson.

Margie “Auntie Travelin’ Marge” Matiets – Vancouver, Canada (PST)

Vancouver is like a two-week solar flare. The energy here is amazing – the people who are here for the Olympics are so passionate! Smiles everywhere. It feels very united, very universal. So much pride, such a feeling of privilege to be hosting these people. We’re givin’ er! Gotta get that hockey gold! The whole city is teeming with people. I’ve never seen it like this before, such long lines for everything. Not enough porta-potties.

Vancouver is surreal right now. It’s nice.

(Image courtesy Eric Lon)

PARIS—So, uh … can I please get some more fake money?

This is the portentous question that I had to ask, recently and quite sheepishly, of the King of the Walruses. See, I don’t ever like having to ask His Tuskiness for more fake money. I ask him for fake money all the time (hey, I’m a writer, we’ve got expensive fake-whiskey habits to bankroll). But typically, after a little demonstration of heaving and moaning to remind me who the boss is, he comes through.

It’s perfectly analogous to me being a television teenager from the 1950s hoping to take my “main squeeze” on a big date, only in this case the keys to the family car are actually a wad of fake money, my stern-but-lovable father is actually a 2,000-kilogram mass of tusks and blubber, and my best girl is the Super Bowl.

Also, I don’t actually want to play patty-cakes with her in the backseat of my pa’s Ford Galaxie, I want to bet money on a bunch of different little esoteric things that I think she might do. The Super Bowl, I mean.

Yes, it’s that time of year again, the Sportstrotter’s third annual “Top of the Props” column, a foray into the exciting, perilous world of Super Bowl prop betting. Prop betting is when, instead of gambling on the total outcome of a sporting event, you bet on very specific micro-games within the game. If that doesn’t make sense to you, click here for a more thorough explanation.

In 2008 I did pretty well with my bets, turning 100 fake “Trotterbucks” into 131.46, the cherry on the sundae of watching the New York Giants upset the previously undefeated New England Patriots, 17-14. In 2009, the game was another winner, with Mlle Trotter’s beloved Pittsburgh Steelers winning a wild one over the Arizona Cardinals, 27-23.

You know who wasn’t a winner last year? I mean, other than the Cardinals, and 30 other football teams and what the heck let’s throw the Leafs in there for good measure? Yup, that’s right: me. I managed to turn the previous year’s fattened bankroll into, like, 2 Trotterbucks. It wasn’t pretty. Not nearly enough holdover fake money to have any fun with this year. Plus, I think I lost the change (the coins have King Kaufman’s face on them) in my couch.

Hence, I found myself grovelling to the Blubber-Ball with the Beastly Bicuspids: King Walrus himself.

“Blaargh you? Sportstrotter? What are you doing here?” he belched at me, when I finally tracked him down on a rocky islet off the southeast corner of Baffin Island. His breath reeked of fish, but I sure as hell wasn’t going to be the one to tell him.

“Please, sir. I was wondering if I could have a little bit more fake money? You know, to wager on the Super Bowl?”

“Blaargh don’t you mean the Grey Cup?”

“No, sir,” I said, a little bashful. “Nobody wants to read about me betting on the Grey Cup. They already played the game several months ago. Plus, how can you take a football game seriously when the contest’s defining play is a ‘13 men on the field’ penalty?”

“Blaargh good point, Sportstrotter,” he said. “So how much do you need?”

At this point, I knew I had to play it cool. I had King Walrus right where I wanted him, but if I overshot, I would surely end up looking like an overcooked order of Sportstrotter Spaetzle strewn all across the King’s rocky ledge. “Uh, how much fake money did you give to the Bironist last year when he was handicapping last year’s Giller Prize favourites?”

“Blaargh two-hundred Bironbucks. And I can’t believe he bet it all on the Peter Pocklington biography ‘I’d Trade Him Again!””

Neither could I, to be honest, but I saw my opening. “I’ll take half what he got. One hundred Trotterbucks. Er, if you please, sir.”

He thought about it for a minute, and then – I swear I saw this, with my own two eyes – the Walrus King reached up with his flippers, grabbed his left tusk, and spun it around till half the tusk came loose, like an old-school fountain pen. He tipped the hollow half-tusk upside down and out fluttered a perfect, crisp one-hundred-Trotterbuck bill.

“Blaargh one last thing before you go, Sportstrotter,” I heard him say as I scooped up the money and ran for my life. “You’re not going to piss away all that money on hopeless long-shot wagers again this year, are you?”

*

So with the words of the venerable King Walrus still ringing in my ears, coupled with the grim prospect of returning next February (not the ideal time to travel to Baffin Island) to ask for more money should my bets go sour, I’ve decided to forego the laundry-list of wacky proposition bets this year, and just bet on the outcome of the game itself. Not the games within the game – just the game, people.

Plus, after all the work I put in getting the money, and all the work my buddies Odom and Matty put in trying (and failing) to get the Las Vegas Hilton to release an electronic copy of its seminal list of 400-strong prop to me (apparently, as of Friday afternoon the only way you can get a copy of the prop list is to march into the Hilton sports book and grab a paper copy yourself – update: Matty located a copy late Friday afternoon!), I just can’t motivate myself to care whether Saints backup tight end David Thomas will gain more or less than 9.5 yards on his first reception of the game (take the under, though).

So here’s my analysis of Super Bowl XLIV – Indianapolis Colts versus New Orleans Saints:

Both of these teams were 13-0 this year, and then each floundered a bit down the stretch after taking their foot off the gas pedal (I guess we can be pretty certain that they weren’t driving a Toyota HEY-OHHHH!!!).

In the playoffs, the Saints and the Colts each destroyed a one-dimensional team in the divisional round. Then the Colts came from behind to beat a team starting a rookie quarterback who had a very average season, a team that lost its starting running back during the game, a team that lost games this season to the Bills, the Jags and the Dolphins (twice), a team whose own coach thought they were mathematically eliminated from the playoffs with two weeks to go in the season. In short, the Colts squeaked one out against one of the weakest teams to appear in an AFC title game in recent memory, albeit one that played hard and gave the Colts a run for their money.

The Saints won the NFC title against a team that most sportswriters considered the best team in football when the season began. So why does everybody with an opinion on this game automatically think that the Colts are unbeatable and the Saints are flawed and that Manning is the best so therefore the Colts will definitely win?

So I’ll take the Saints to win, like I did (get ready, I’m about to blow your mind!) … back in SEPTEMBER, in my NFL Preview column.

And not just to cover the spread, which is currently at Colts by 5. To win the game outright. I mean, why wouldn’t I pick the team I pegged at the start of the season to win the Super Bowl when they’re playing a team I didn’t even think was good enough to make the playoffs in the Colts (uh … this is embarrassing … hey, look, what’s that over THERE!)

Wager: New Orleans Saints to win (money line bet), 100 TB at +180, for a potential win of 180 TB.

And if I’m wrong, well, I guess I’ll have plenty of time to work on my grovelling skills before next year’s visit to Baffin Island.

(Image courtesy Boston.com)

BUDAPEST—The first thing that one sees, upon stepping off a plane in the Hungarian capital’s Ferihegy airport and entering the baggage claim area, is a pair of full-wall posters. A tall, lithe Hungarian, naked from the waist up save a bushy Mark-Spitz moustache and a funny little bonnet with ear protection, explodes out of the water with a yellow, volleyball-sized sphere cradled in his hand.

The advertisement, for a mobile phone company, appears twice, once in English and once in Hungarian. But either way, the message is clear: you’re now entering the land of water polo. Enjoy your stay!

Water polo, despite its English moniker, was developed in the UK in the late 19th century as an aquatic variation on rugby. The English wrote the rules and dominated the sport in its early decades, but since the late 1920s, no country – not any of such second-tier water polo nations as Italy, Greece and the former Yugoslavian countries – can match the prodigious water polo expertise and achievements of the Hungarians.

Since 1928, the Hungarian water polo team (in Magyar, the sport is called Vízilabda) has medalled in all but four Summer Olympics, one of which they were forced to skip due to the Eastern Bloc boycott (Los Angeles, 1984). Nine times they’ve won gold, including the past three Olympics.

In one amazing run of invincibility, Hungary went undefeated in 40 consecutive international matches between 1952 and 1956. This remarkable stretch was no easy feat of concentration, considering the political oppression the country experienced during these years at the hands of the Soviets, who brutally put down a popular revolution in November, 1956, one month before a vengeful Hungarian team beat Russia in the most famous match ever played, the “Blood in the Water” encounter at the 1956 Melbourne Olympics.

Certainly there are some smaller countries that have enjoyed extended periods of dominance in a single sport – I’m thinking of Finnish ski jumpers, or Kenyan distance runners, or even Canadian curlers and hockey players – but Hungary’s supremacy in water polo is exceptional for the fact that this nation of ten million is entirely landlocked, and has been since it surrendered some 72 percent of its territory in the post-WWI Treaty of Trianon, including its Mediterranean coastline in what is now Croatia.

Canada’s got lots of ice, Finland’s got lots of snow, and Kenya’s got lots of hills to altitude-train in. Where does Hungarians’ prowess in the water stem from? Well, they have the Danube and Tisza rivers, and the sprawling Lake Balanton, but those get awfully cold in winter, when the temperature rarely rises above freezing.

And so to solve this sporting riddle I, your intrepid Sportstrotter, have braved the elements of Hungary in January to attempt to explain this nation’s water-borne prowess. And through grueling, exhaustive research and sleuthing, I think I may have solved this intricate mystery.

Um, they have these things called thermal baths? And, um, they’re awesome?

Yes, despite the large expanse of territory that the losing Hungarian Empire surrendered after WWI, the brain trust managed to hang on to many of the lands located above geothermal springs, not to mention Lake Héviz, the world’s largest thermal lake. Budapest is especially blessed. Along with a preponderance of regular all-weather swimming pools, the city also sports some 15 geothermal spas open to the public. Canadians became the best in the world at hockey because kids spent the country’s long, frigid winters doing the most fun thing around: skating and shooting pucks on outdoor rinks. What Hungarian kid wouldn’t take to water in a place like this?

Mlle. Trotter had some important business meetings on Monday, so I decided to do as the locals do, and headed to the famed Széchenyi thermal baths in City Park. Built in 1913, the neo-Baroque bathhouse complex is located about 250 metres from an outdoor skating rink, yet still features three year-round outdoor pools.

And why not? Even on a snowy Monday afternoon in January, the place was packed with tourists and locals alike. And the fact that it was snowing actually enhanced the experience. Just above the three outdoor pools – the hottest of which reaches 38 degrees in winter – hung a thick, steamy cloud where the hot vapour rising off the frothing waters (heated deep within the earth’s hot crust), met the cold, snowy air. When the sun started to set at around 4:30pm, and the Baroque streetlamps in the courtyard began to glow, I ignored the advice of my heavily pruned fingertips and hung around just a little bit longer, soaking in the whole scene.

Of course, if I lived here I’m come back pretty much every day, and eventually become the world’s greatest water polo player, but sadly, that life wasn’t in the cards for me. Heading out of town, I picked up the country’s Magyar-language daily sports paper, Nemzeti Sport, despite the fact that I couldn’t understand a single word written on its pages. The young Hungarian girl at the newsstand looked at me funny as I asked her, in English, whether she’d sell me the 135-Forint paper for 130 Forints (about $0.75), which was all the Hungarian coinage I had left. But she accepted my bashful offer with the typical friendliness that I’d become accustomed to after five days in Budapest.

I opened the paper on the plane and turned to the page headed “Vízilabda,” and saw those trademark helmets with the plastic ear-guards, and knew I’d come to the right place for all my Hungarian water polo news.

The main headline in the water polo section read, “Súlyos Vezetöi Kritika – Mindenki job teljesítményt vár a kiemelten kezelt pólócsapattól.”

I have no idea what any of that means, and even in translation I doubt I’d get the full gist of it. When it comes to water polo, Hungarians are just on a completely different wavelength than everybody else.

PARIS: And so it was that last Wednesday, at 22h51 local time in Montevideo (UTC-2) and with a toot-toot-TOOOOOOT from the whistle of Swiss referee Massimo Busacca, Uruguay became the thirty-second and final country to qualify for the World Cup Finals, to be held June 11 to July 11, 2010.

In all, 204 nations participated in the continental qualifying tournaments that began way back in August of 2007. Now, after 848 matches and 2337 goals, we find the thirty-one strongest and most deserving footballing nations of the world left standing. And France, of course.

So with 200 days remaining before the opening kick-off of South Africa 2010 — the first-ever edition of the tournament to be staged in Africa — a quick rundown of the Thrilling Thirty-Two:

Main de Dieu

Yes, of course it was a handball that put France through in extra time of their second-leg knockout match against poor, star-crossed Ireland. We all agree on this. Without drawing the whole thing out any further than it already has been, I have three quick things to say about Thierry Henry’s handball, the most famous unpunished handball since Diego Maradona’s “Hand of God” against England in 1986.

1. He didn’t mean to do it. Of course he didn’t. This wasn’t some calculated, devious attempt by Henry to secretly handle the ball twice in the penalty area and hope to get away with it. In slow motion it sure looks deliberate, but at game speed it was a purely instinctual flailing of the arms on a bouncing ball. And it wasn’t cheating, either — handballs occur all the time in football. It’s written into the rules that when you touch the ball with your hand, the whistle blows and the other side gets a free kick. So if anything, this is a failure of officiating. Leave Henry alone.

2. It’s not Thierry Henry’s job to confess to the referee that he handled the ball. Just like it wasn’t Shay Given’s job to walk up to the referee six minutes earlier, when he took down Nicolas Anelka in the box with a clear hand to the boot, and to say, “You know, Mr. Referee, you didn’t whistle it, but I’m certain that my hand hit Anelka’s boot and brought him down, and in all fairness, you should have whistled a penalty against me.” Again, this was a failure of refereeing. Just like this crucial penalty call, for a phantom handball in the box that came after a missed offside call: Ireland vs. Georgia, World Cup qualifying, February 11, 2009. Robbie Keane shouldn’t be celebrating like that. Should he?

3. To judge by the Anglophone media’s reaction to the game, you’d think that the French are rejoicing in this treachery. They’re not. We’re not (note: while I’m living in France, and until Canada qualifies for a World Cup, I’m for Les Bleus). Nobody wanted this match to end this way. Don’t you think that the French know that they’ll be reminded of their “tainted” qualification before every match in South Africa? Do you think it’s a smart move to qualify shadily at the expense of one Anglophone nation when you’re going to play in another Anglophone nation? France instantly becomes the top villain of 2010, thanks to a failure of refereeing. Let the party begin. Ugh.

First Winners, Last Inners

Uruguay, winners of the first World Cup in 1930, were the last team to qualify for this tournament, to be held eighty years after their glorious victory over Argentina in Montevideo. First winners, and last team qualified? A nice round eighty years? That is too coincidental to be an accident. I smell the next Dan Brown blockbuster — someone get that greasy-haired Tom Hanks detective guy on the phone! He’s a detective, right?

The Chilled Envelope Conspiracy

Speaking of those French footballing villains, how excited are we about the inevitable drawing of the United States and North Korea into the same group-stage round on December 4 in Cape Town, when the ping-pong balls are plucked from that funny air-drum by some cute, overdressed young woman?

A couple more geopolitically awkward or just-plain-weird matchups that are too juicy for FIFA to resist rigging the draw:

• Australia vs. New Zealand (yes, I’m pretty sure this is possible, since they now play in different confederations, Asia and Oceania)
• South Africa vs. the Netherlands or England (the “choose your own colonialist” matchup)
• France vs. Algeria or Côte d’Ivoire or Cameroon (you know this one’s happening)
• Mexico vs. Spain (the “whose Spanish pronunciation is more correct?” matchup)
• Slovakia vs. Slovenia (the “-AK- versus -EN- mix-up match” to end all mix-up matches — even their flags are so similar that Wikipedia makes sure you’re searching for the right one!)

M.I.A.

A quick round of taps for several traditionally participating countries who should have been invited, but accidentally dumped their Save-the-Dates in the trash, thinking it was a bill or something: Ireland (cough, cough!), Croatia, Colombia, Turkey, the Czech Republic, Saudi Arabia (first missed Finals since 1990), Ukraine.

Pre-Match Anthem I’m Most Excited To Hear

This category has been officially supressed for WC2010 after Russia also failed to qualify for the finals. It’s just not a best-anthem tournament without Russia.

First Timers

No first timers in this year’s Finals! Technically, Slovakia are making their first appearance under that banner, but they’re considered to have participated as Czechoslovakia on nine separate occasions. So let’s put our hands together for Korea DPR (that’s the North, to you), absent from the Big Dance since their first and only other appearance, in 1966, when Kim Jong-Il was just a fresh-faced, mischievous young lad of twenty-five. My how the years fly by!

Le Petit Poucet

This is a nickname used in France’s domestic football cup competitions, given to the smallest village or town still active at each stage of the tournament. Plucky Slovenia (pop. 2,049,440) nipped Uruguay (3,361,000) and New Zealand (4,315,800) for the title, although tiny Bahrein (pop. 791,000) almost swiped this prize in a playoff with the Kiwis.

Africa’s Glass Slipper?

A non-European, non-South American team has still never reached the World Cup final. But “home field” advantage has helped several host nations make Cinderella runs to the semi-finals: Sweden in 1958; Chile in 1962; and South Korea in 2002. (England and France’s sole championships were also both won as hosts.)

Is this the year for Africa? Most South Africans concede that their own side, which benefited from an automatic bid but still participated in the qualification tournament and looked terrible in doing so, has no shot of playing the role of the charmed princess.

Will South African fans thus rally behind the five other African teams? The four teams considered the crème of the continental crème all survived qualifying: Cameroon, Nigeria, Ghana and Côte d’Ivoire. And judging by the car horns still blaring up and down the Champs Elysées, six days after qualification, I hear Algeria’s in as well.

With no Canadian side to support, and with being a supporter of Les Bleus completely stigmatized (not to mention my Karim Benzema jersey being completely obsolete while an astrology-obsessed moron like Raymond Domenech somehow still manages to hold on to a job he should have been fired from long ago – blame French labour laws, I suppose), my biggest rooting interest in the tournament has passed to seeing an African team reach the quarterfinals. Any one of the Big Four a legitimate shot, albeit a long one. At this point, my money’s on Didier Drogba and his mates from Côte d’Ivoire, who look the continent’s most complete side. But I’ll take what I can get.

Zürich-based FIFA is already trying to make sure that the African teams don’t sneak up on the traditional favourites by forcing organizers to replace the traditional African turf, an indigenous grass called kikuyu, with more “television friendly” European ryegrass. (I continue to be completely outraged by this move.) But all is not lost. After all, they won’t have thunderstix to simultaneously energize them and deafen opponents, like the South Koreans had in 2002. But they will have these: the vuvuzela, which sounds like “a duck on speed or the wailing of a terribly ill child.”

Let the honking begin! Unless FIFA decides to ban them, too ...

Illustration by Keith Lyons

Billboard for Indian Pro League football, sponsored by that most delicious and thirst-quenching of football accoutrements, Kingfisher

MUMBAI: They say that you have one year after a wedding to send a gift to the happy couple. In the case of an Indian wedding, held over the course of five days in Goa and Mumbai, tradition dictates that the Sportstrotter has one month after the holiday to post photos of the sporting life in India.

Thanks and best wishes to Anamitra and Preeti for providing a fabulous excuse to spend two weeks traveling around a country where cricket is king and there’s always a Champions League Twenty20 match on somewhere, at least in the month of October. (Congratulations to the New South Wales Blues, winners of the inaugural edition of this fantastic tournament, which features the catchiest anthem in all of sports.)

A cricket match on the banks of the Kerala backwaters. Note the cow defending at mid-wicket

An improvised badminton match at dawn outside of the Taj Mahal, in Agra

Another sports/beverage combination advertisement in Goa, this time marrying cricket and energy drinks

A cricket match on the pitch-and-putt golf course of the wedding resort in Goa. Note the groom defending at wicket keeper

Students wrapping up after a field hockey practice on a school pitch in downtown Mumbai, thirty floors below the rooftop patio of the ITC Grand Central Hotel

PARIS—Being a sports fan in the 21st century is sometimes frighteningly easy.

For instance, today I bought a subscription service from the NFL that will allow me to watch every minute of every game this season, streamed live and in high definition onto my computer. Just like that, I fork over a credit card number and type some personal information and click my mouse a couple times, and presto: for the next four months, I’m in football heaven. (more…)

PARIS—You’d think a professional organization of journalists that just celebrated its 85th anniversary would have some sort of process by which they, I don’t know, vet prospective members to insure that they’re not accidentally accrediting half-baked Canadian web hacks who think that penning a list of the ugliest footballers in the world constitutes ground-breaking sports reporting. You’d think.

And yet, as of the precise moment that the La Poste factrice rang my doorbell this morning (at the ungodly hour of 9am – what do they think I am, a professional journalist?), and had me sign for the registered letter she slid into my hands, a letter that contained a credit-card-sized piece of hard plastic with my name and photograph on it, I became an official, card-carrying member of the Association Internationale de la Presse Sportive. (more…)

Račice, CZECH REPUBLIC—It’s exceedingly important, when setting out towards the host city of this year’s Under-23 World Rowing Championships, to make very certain that you’re headed for the correct “Račice.”

It turns out there are two cities called Račice in the Czech Republic. When you search on Wikipedia, the first result that comes up is the correct Račice (in this case), a barely there village (pop. 308) about one hour’s drive north of Prague notable only for being the republic’s premier venue for rowing and flatwater sports — it hosted the World Rowing Championships in 1993.

If, on the other hand, you plug Račice into Google Maps, and drive to the “other” Račice, about 2 hours west of Prague, and, just for the sake of argument, let’s say you’re the parents of one of the boys in Canada’s lightweight four, you’re probably going to end up missing your son’s race. (more…)