I woke up this morning with a creepy feeling about the World Cup. What did Materazzi say to Zidane to get head-butted? The last time Zidane freaked out in championship play was because of some Saudi cocksucker mocking his Kabyle origins. What on earth did that tattooed trog say? Was it fairly standard shit-talk Zidane just couldn't handle after that phenomenal peice of ass Buffon made an impossible save of his header a few minutes before? Was it the most effective, exceptional peice of shit-talk to have ever occurred in the history of sport? Was whatever it was exacerbated by the French team being disowned by a mainstream national politician?
I wanted Italy to win to make my daddy happy, and I was happy when they won on my own account, but today I've stopped. I'm not a hero-worshipping type when it comes to sports but I had a bit of a man-crush, a bit of he-would-raise-fine-babies-and-protect-me lurve for Zidane; what happened wasn't nice. Materazzi is from Lecce; if he said something all ethnically gross . . . I don't understand how people as shat-upon and marginalized as southern Italians get so ethnically nasty. If he was nasty it wasn't a pretty win. Except, of course, in terms of aesthetics. There are at least 46 places I'd like to sit on the Italian team.
Upwards and onwards. Tomorrow I'll go back to writing about food, the only realm where ethnic tension actually makes sense. I had some wasabi hummus last Friday. Revolting. Two beautiful things that do not go together.