I've decided that the referees in this World Cup are easier to dupe than the gentlemen in too-small striped shirts who used to try to keep order in the TV matches at the Calhoun Towers for Verne Gagne's AWA.
Get near that box they call the penalty area, take a flop that would embarrass a Duke basketball player, and wait for the doofus running the show to award a game-deciding penalty kick.
That's what happened the other day when I was watching the late stages of Mexico vs. Netherlands in the World Cup's Surly 16. The Dutchman dived, the penalty kick was awarded, and Mexico and its coach (my favorite character in this elongated competition) were kaput a couple of minutes later.
It was a different day, Sunday I'd guess, when Greece and Costa Rica put on a display of non-aggression that would have made Gandhi proud. Costa Rica had an excuse, since it was playing minus one player, but the Greeks … I didn't even need the announcers to tell me they were pathetic.
(An aside here: The Costa Rican was expelled for drawing two yellow cards, which gets you tossed. This is the main reason I'm pleased there was no soccer to be played when I was a kid. Besides all the running and sweating, what I couldn't have handled was being ordered to walk over and stand in front of some glorified hall monitor and have him wave a yellow card in my face.
I'm afraid I would have had to say the same thing as Zach LaVine on the occasion of being taken No. 13 in the NBA Draft, which probably would've changed the color of the card to scarlet.)
Eventually, and mercifully, the Greeks and the Costa Ricans wound up in a penalty-kick tie breaker. The goalie has less chance than a walleye against Ron Schara in this situation, since he's guarding a net the size of Duluth and the guy is trying to throw a rock into Lake Superior.
OK, a mixed metaphor there, but who cares?