Text © 1996, 1997, 1998, 1999, 2000, 2001, 2002, 2003, 2004, 2005 Nin

Svonimir Boban

What is tiring for a woman who loves football is the everpresent question-mark on virtually every male head whether she loves a player for his hairstyle or is it his smile that gets her hysterical.

Sickening to me, since football is an object of my affection starting when I was approximately 10 year-old, and my first hero was not in any way heartthrobbing, unless you're a football club's talent-scout -- the Brazilian Arthur Antunes "Zico" Coimbra. I love Sir Bobby Charlton for Manchester United too, though he wasn't looking like Hugh Grant in his heyday that I didn't have the chance to witness. Among the oldies maybe Bryan Robson, United's striker, was the only one that looked a bit beautiful in a woman's eyes -- he still is, by the way, though the club he coached isn't doing good this season.

Nothing is worse than loving the Brit David Beckham, of course. I think being Becks' fan should have been made an obligatory test one must pass to get anything -- from a driver's license to a dinner invite at the White House -- as the host. It doesn't only mean sneers and jibes and hate-mails, but also some physically wrenching experiences such as severe nausea and headaches. When sober, the worst Beckham-hater would surely admit that he is one hell of a footballer of our time. Even if the Beckham-hater still wouldn't confess so without the aid of Mossad and CIA, Beckham's colleagues all over the globe, his few buddies therein and his countless opponents, would say that, with or without being in the Alcolholic Anonymous. Yet, anywhere, if you're a woman and you list Beckham as your best player, nobody would take it as something footbally and everybody automatically assume you're nuts about his Versace-clad stuff. Good grief.

In Italy it would be Alessandro Del Piero. Most Indonesian women who don't watch football would be able to recognize the name (and Beckham's). "Unfortunately" Alex Del Piero has never gotten any bad publication around his looks and lifestyle -- only some very un-fair snipes against his way of playing lately which I don't think is wrong at all; he has been superb in being a second-line striker and a great assistant for strikers, though that gets him the title "Non-striking Striker".

Only in Italian calcio though, I get off the hook, because I'm not crazy about Del Piero. The player I love there is not good-looking for most; and he is not even Italian, he is Croatian and is already a veteran for a footballer; Svonimir Boban, the A.C. Milan playmaker. My other favorite, the Argentine Fernando Redondo, recently threatened to take over Boban's position -- but Redondo is still dealing with (some say mysterious) injury, so Boban is still king there in the midfield.

And to watch Boban plays I with everybody all over Southeast Asia must wait until some very ungodly hour to turn on the TV -- the Lega Calcio matches usually are played on 02:30 A.M. our time. After the live game, there is usually another one relayed, so we get off the TV on approximately 5:30 A.M.

Some most important European games, by the way, are relayed around the same time whenever there is one. That is why watching football is a heroic feat to us here. When a buddy of mine moved to Germany, among his first lines sent to us was this: "These darn Europeans play football too early. At most it's on 07:00 P.M. How un-heroic, watching it."

I guess maybe I fell in love with Svonimir Boban partly because it took such a heroism just to watch him kicking somebody's butts.

Or maybe there are other factors, too, like, Boban is good -- he is. Croatia was still in the process of waking up after the nightmare of 'ethnic cleansing' stuff in the World Cup 1998 in France, just two years ago. But they got through to the worldwide event. And not just as a brave appendix of the tournament. They won third place among the gigantic teams this planet can boast of; and Svonimir Boban was their Captain. "My" teams England and Denmark didn't go anywhere near the top, there in France. But Croatia and its brass medals brought me to something near happiness. It's good that they won; it's good that the infant, shaky republic of theirs had made it in at least football.

And little accidents on the pitch that weekends have been giving me, like the match last night, add to what's already been.

Nothing beats the sight. Paolo Maldini gave a high-five to his opponent Alan Smith in the blasting red San Siro, Oliver Bierhoff grinned and Dominic Matteo laughed, while O'Leary silently smiled as the little bunch of jet-lagged Englishmen sang aloud with the Italian hosts -- both A.C. Milan and Leeds United got through. They would play in the next round of the 2000 Champions League tournament.

But there's a cramp I felt somewhere when this match began last night, as referee Kim Nielsen blew his whistle for the first time. Another whistle was starting another match at the same time -- Manchester United's, and I didn't feel good about that. Nor about this. I'm not even a Leeds fan, but anytime these innocent-looking young men are on the pitch, no matter which club they face I always feel like they should win simply because they look so unbearably youthful and all. What a striking contrast last night because "my" Italian club, A.C. Milan, is big, strong-looking, intimidating red-and-black while Leeds is "innocent", not-so-convincing all-white. I want A.C. Milan to win, but Leeds should not lose either.

And of course like many others I thought of what happened the day before -- when Jose Mari said F.C. Barcelona was "buying" Milan to beat Leeds -- everyone else told him to shut up and said it was an outrageous lie, but this kind of talk has always been rising up in world football and somehow it kind of makes sense. Because we know how it works, the death-or-victory principle.

Barcelona has beaten the Turkish Besiktas by a stunning margin, 5-0, last night.

It didn't count.

Barcelona will not see the Champions League anymore -- with the Dutch PSV Eindhoven they were kicked down to the UEFA Cup instead.

Just because Milan and Leeds gave us a neat 1-1 draw.

A larger-than-dream came true for the Leeds United people and fans -- English football in general -- and several other newcomers to the Champions League this year are working as a freshening substance to the championship.

But lots of tears around the Nou Camp in Spain -- one of the (or, as they claimed, simply the) most frightening stadiums for any club that comes to play against Barcelona there -- and thinking that Marc Overmars is among the "fake victors" last night is saddening me. That no matter how big they win they couldn't alter the fact that their destiny was hanging on another club's fate -- Leeds'.

Well, "my" Milan player Svonimir Boban, who only got on the pitch at the second half, almost got Barcelona's wish fulfilled several times. So luck, the most dreaded (at the same time wished for) thing in football, played the big part.

"It's so unfair," sobbed a Spanish fan, cringed on the TV camera.

How many times have we heard that exact same line?

In football it comes dramatically.

In life?

(BTW, Manchester United won its own match.)

The world's #1 goalkeepers

Clockwise:
Vitor Baia (Portugal)
Peter Schmeichel (Denmark)
Fabien Barthez (France)
Iker Casillas (Spain)
Francesco Toldo (Italy)

There is something absolutely cool about el portero -- nobody else in the team wears his colors; nobody else, usually, as tall as he is; often he is also the wearer of the captain's armband -- in the photo-taking session he's the first that grabs attention unless you already are hooked to some visually utterly delicious creature in plainer costume -- such as Alex Del Piero.

I can't even remember how many people have been remarking on this "peculiarity" (your word, Ed) -- but I'm like a moth to the lamp whenever seeing a goalkeeper. The presence of the Argentine Carlos Roa, the Paraguayan bulldog Jose Luis Chilavert, the Austrian Michael Konsel, the Rumanian Bogdan Stelea, the Spanish Santiago Canizares, the Portuguese Vitor Baia, have been prominent in my eyes, eclipsing the strikers.

I simply hate psychological dig anywhere -- but maybe this has something to do with how I see life in general -- I dislike rat-races, I don't see any point in running to get anything, I find life as more of a defensive play. A better, more organized defense is what I call good living. Partly. Maybe.

My fascination began with the Italian #1 goalkeeper in the 1982 World Cup, the extravagant event in Spain that stays in my mind for -- eternity, so it seems. Dino Zoff was already nearing 40 that year. Keepers could still play when all others have been retiring, that's something cool, too, because I'm getting old! Zoff was really godlike to me away back; even when conceding goals he never lost grace and never made it easy for the strikers. And what looks like Italian goalies' bad habit, i.e. punching the ball instead of catching it -- a very dangerous habit -- was not present in Zoff's feats.

In the 1990's my favorite goalkeepers are mostly Italians. Gianluigi Buffon from Parma, the #1 Italian keeper in their national squad, is quick and sharp but often careless enough to exasperate fans. Francesco Toldo from Fiorentina, his backup in the squadra Azzura, is brilliantly cautious, not as instinctive as Buffon, nowhere near the flamboyance, but he is an effective hard-worker and Italy owes him big time. Before the two, rather than the former #1 Angelo Peruzzi I'd preferred his deputy, Bologna's Gianluca Pagliuca -- looking like a moviestar is his shortcoming, and at times he did messy jobs, but he's cool.

Not a single keeper on my favorite list is English.

This puzzled me, too, at first -- but it so happened. England is so unfortunate in this area, only having David Seaman until doomsday, or even worse Nigel Martyn, and no one else. Most goalies in the English Premier League are "internationals". Among them, Liverpool's Dutch Sander Westerveld, the #2 in his national squad, is my pick. He's not yet as good as the Dutch #1 portiere Edwin Van Der Sar, but I hope he'll learn more as seasons go by. Manchester United that lost my one and only footballer (if I'm forced to name just one person) Danish Peter Schmeichel has gotten another character, the French Fabien Barthez. This man is something. Really. Completely fearless, self-confident to such an unimaginable degree, a risk-taker, an all-or-nothing guy -- no one is better for United now.

Now Schmeichel has handed down his stuff to a young Dane, equally big, just as tall, but not yet gigantic in world football, Sunderland's Thomas Sorensen. He's good -- for a would-be-Danish #1. Still got a lot to learn though. Including how to manage his very Schmikes-like dragonish attitude on the pitch. Meanwhile the very best goalie in the new generation is the Spanish Iker Casillas -- Real Madrid's deputy-keeper that has gotten a place in the main squad, in his national team too. This young man is entirely cool, has the superb instinct, and -- something really precious, this -- the personal atmosphere of a calm morning lake.

Both Sorensen and Casillas would see long years on Planet Football; I put all in this conviction that they'll make it, and make it big in time.

Francesco Toldo
when Italy lost at Euro 2000

Peter Schmeichel
when Denmark lost at Euro 2000

I could not stand remembering those nights. Portugal and Italy lost the games just because of some bad luck and (unrecognized) fouls during the Euro 2000 football tournament. I would still see Luis Figo, the most expensive player in the whole planet today, pulled off his shirt and left the pitch before the match was over. The frustration over the referee's decision was shared by millions of supporters, whatever their nationalities were, every second of it. Then Francesco Toldo, the terrific Italian keeper, would take the place in my mind -- disappointment has never been never so perfectly expressed -- he just stood there, tearless, paralyzed. After having to watch England packing up prematurely, those were too much for me. Not so heart-breking as when the Dutch PSV Eindhoven kicked the butts of Manchester United, but those were among my worst football memories ever.

Sport only knows the primal stuff.

Sweat, adrenaline rush, attacks, defenses, wins, loses.

Because of that, though, we might face our deepest, purest animalistic fibres. Even via representation it is rewarding enough actually. We come to admit that we are merely a bunch of primitive beasts when it comes to winning or losing anything. Just for a moment before the Homo sapiens' grey matter takes over, we would defy reason completely and given over to the coarsest mental makeup.

Professional players are good models in this. Unless there happens something highly unbelievable like the two national teams' loses, at least three-quarters of them would not lose their cool. Usually it is the supporters that cry. And the gamblers among them who get mad.

It was an actual personal pain for me to see Peter Schmeichel never won anything at the same championship -- watching the giant Dane standing there by the post, blue eyes that have seen great victories stared hard ahead without flashing anything, not a word, not a gesture, not even Toldo's mask of sadness was there -- a perfect specimen for Scandinavian anthropologists, I'm sure, but also a display of some magnificent grace unaffordable by most losers. Even without ever watching any single match of his, the route out of the Champions League for Sporting Lisbon, his current club, hurts me. But Schmeichel has been appearing as if the consistently gained loses were not able to touch him. As if, of course. But that is all that we could see anyway. Whatever happened under the platinum blond's head, no one would ever come to know -- not from this distance.

This art is one of my most dreamed-of things. How to lose without giving up, how to keep the fire burning and do not fear the next game ahead.

I'm still learning. Still a zillion lightyears away from Schmeichel's silence.

The only hope is, he was the one who played, he is a temperamental person, he could do that despite all this. Why don't we?

Pizzazz © 2000 NIN | Pics © euro2000.org

The man who resents being called "the ginger assassin" though he really is ginger and an assassin, Paul Scholes, scored twice last night at the second round of the Champions League against the Greek Panathinaikos. Teddy Sheringham got one goal too, and (though) Barthez also got one. The score was 3-1.

I love Scholes. This gingerhead is one of the best players for the position that Indonesians call "crevice-striker" -- the one that stays right behind the strikers at front. He isn't as quick as Ryan Giggs, isn't as prolific as Dwight Yorke was, isn't as accurate as David Beckham, isn't as commandeering as Roy Keane, isn't as awesome as a sight on the pitch as Jaap Stam, isn't even kooky as Fabien Barthez -- isn't anything but a hard-working man who knows exactly his job-description and tries to do it best. In all weather. He's like a little star among the bright celestial bodies across the sky -- never shines blindingly, but that light, amigo, is his and he owes nobody.

This Ginger & More © 2000 NIN

Pippi Längstrumpf

Pippi Langstrumpf © Astrid Lindgren 1945, p. AB Raben & Sjogren Bokforlag, Stockholm, Sweden. Jacket illustration by Rolf Rettich.

Storyline:
An illiterate little carrot-top girl with superhuman muscles and beyond-kinky taste in dressing-up, living by herself. No school, no parent, not even a devilish aunt, just a creaky house for herself and a horse and a monkey and a lot of money that she doesn't know the value of.

No. Under whatever circumstance, even if the circumstance consists of an M-16, I will not, I will never, ever talk of Harry Potter. Since you seem to be ducking my perfect reasons to do that, here they are again in black on white: 1). It's a best-selling tome, so what, 2). I don't like it, so what, 3). You love it, so what.

This morning after getting your call (don't forget that I know your boss who pays for the call), I saw one of my closest buddies that just got back from Jakarta and he was laden with that book. His German-speaking, career-oriented, super-hip girlfriend loves it. She wants him to read it. That alone means disaster (he does not like it), but guess what -- I got a copy too because she wants me to read one too. I took the book and told him to toss her my thanks, on my way home I stopped at my laundryperson's house and since she wasn't there I gave the book to her dog to give to her if he still remembers it later after eating it and burping like a giant dachsund that he is.

Hey, this is not an insult. I like Rawlings. I don't like what she writes. Ain't I entitled to such a right?

Of course I only came to the conclusion that I don't like it after I have read it. I'm a fair person, you know. Sort of.

"Everything on earth is free to be taken by whoever finds it," said Pippi Langstrumpf once. Then she saw an old bum napping near the gate. "Now he is something on earth," she said to the Settergren kids, "He is our discovery. Shall we take him?"

Even if the morale of this escapes you, it doesn't elude me, and that is all that matters, isn't it?

You have the inalienable right to say exactly the same line and that would make me a "you" then. This too is fair.

Email, 2000

Hunter x Hunter

Leading characters:
(nevermind their looks, they're all male)
back: Kurapika & Leorio
front: Killua & Gon

1999 © Nippon Animation
Script by Kishima Nobuaki, character designer Togashi Yoshihiro, animation by Kawanami Masaaki, music by Sato Toshihiko, director Furuhashi Kazuhiro.

Togashi Yoshihiro, the creator of this series. For some good part of his bio, he is known to have married Takeuchi Naoko, the artist from whose hands came out one of the most popular manga worldwide, nevermind its loads of lamentabilities: Sailor Moon.

This anime isn't so spiffy in visual terms. The characters aren't singularly different from others, like for instance Matsumoto Leiji's Harlock Saga; the scenes before the eyes aren't a captivating feast of terrific brush-job and melodious colors like, for example, Princess Rouge; the leading character isn't deviating from the usual manga recipe for hero-sculpting: a little male kid armed with just innocence (or sort of) when launched into the brutal world.

Yet, even my sister likes this Hunter X Hunter. This means something. She's so oblivious of everything.

The story is the same ol' one. A kid named Gon, raised by a young impulsive woman given to excessive brooding and merciless longing and useless tirade that he calls 'aunt', left there at the care of this cafe-managing woman by his dad whose dreams at the time went beyond the narrow island's atmosphere. The world Gon knows has something to offer to clueless, pennyless hillbillies and such: the Hunter license. To obtain it means a bunch of material benefits and a license to use violence when necessary against anybody -- and the 'when' depends on none but yours truly. Of course Gon was not attracted by the prospect -- what do you expect, he's the ultimate protagonist here. But his dad is a Hunter. So he got the license, too, and began his adventures that got him closer to the mythical father.

Gon got his comrades (we can't say sidekicks) in the process to pass the tests to pocket the treasured Hunter license. A tribal warrior named Kurapika, swordsperson; a blond, serious, melancholic young man who wanted the license to avenge the elimination of his whole tribe by bandits, the death of whom would still be his ticket to punishment if he isn't a Hunter. Leorio, a black-haired beyond-careless aspirant for medical school, possessing no martial art skills whatever but still made it to pass the tests; whose motive isn't really clear. Killua, a silver-haired kid a dash older than Gon; the youngest of a family of professional hitpersons. Among them, the only adult is Leorio, he's also the closest to what humans are, according to what we know. Kurapika and his obsession belongs entirely to the fantastic sphere, so does Killua with his background. Gon is somewhere in between.

Frankly I'm not certain of why I like this anime, after so many words. Perhaps the friendship thing there. Four radically different personalities, walking together to one destination -- a beautiful sight to me, nevermind the rest of the story.