Match Madness

On Friday, Germany and Costa Rica will meet in a futuristic, translucent-skinned stadium in Munich to kick off the monthlong mosh pit known as the World Cup. For soccer fans the excitement level will be roughly equivalent to that of a few billion five-year-olds on Christmas morning--if there were a few billion five-year-olds who celebrated Christmas ... while consuming vast quantities of alcohol.

Think of the World Cup as a global version of March Madness--one that lasts a week longer, takes almost no off days and lets you watch all 64 games live (and this year, for the first time, on HD, which is to soccer what talkies were to Hollywood). Think of Brazil as UCLA, the freewheeling naturals with the championship trophies; of Germany as Kentucky, serious and stiff; and of the U.S. as Gonzaga, the midmajor seeking its Final Four breakthrough. In the World Cup, as in the NCAAs, the opening rounds are the best part, a chance to park in front of the tube on a weekday morning and, eight hours and three games later, still not worry about that PowerPoint presentation you were supposed to finish. Knowing that you're blowing off work with guys on bar stools in London and Kyoto and Rio de Janeiro only makes it better.

The World Cup isn't exactly like the NCAA tournament, of course, which is a good thing. Consider Brazil, the favorite to win its sixth Cup on July 9 in Berlin. Why does the world's most gifted soccer nation bag title after title while its most talented basketball country falls on its butt from Indianapolis to Athens? Adriano, Brazil's Sherman tank of a striker--and an NBA fan--has a theory. "There are great players in both the U.S. and Brazil," he says, "but the Brazilians are more used to playing as a team."

No kidding.

Unlike, say, Shaq, Adriano would never contemplate turning down a call from his national side. It wouldn't just be unpatriotic but also a violation of global brotherhood, an idea that's lost on World Baseball Classic grump George Steinbrenner. Is it any wonder that the Boss's New York Yankees are known as the Evil Empire, while the Brazilians--the Yankees of soccer, success-wise--are so charismatic that they're every non-Brazilian's second-favorite team?

As the World Cup shows, a healthy nationalism does have a place in an increasingly globalized world. The Cup isn't just saves and tackles and goals. It's the scene at Gecko's tavern in Seoul, where hundreds of South Koreans danced on tables to Bon Jovi and spilled into the streets after their country's '02 victory over Italy. It's two French grandmothers gleefully kicking crushed Coke cans on the Champs-Elys�es in Paris, where three million revelers honked horns and sang La Marseillaise after the host's World Cup '98 triumph. It's a thousand Nigerians creating an impromptu dance floor at a train station in Nantes, France, so they could boogie with their Super Eagles after they'd upset Spain in '98.

Nigeria and its drum-beating partisans won't be in Germany this summer, nor will the Irish, the world's most gregarious fans, who always make the Cup a more fun (and less sober) experience. Looking for a cuddly underdog to support instead? Try first-timer Togo. The Sparrowhawks have the seemingly random nickname of an NCAA tourney giant-killer, and the nation's chief voodoo priest is predicting "miracle" upsets of France and South Korea. But then, this is a tournament that features a Portuguese star named for Ronald Reagan (forward Cristiano Ronaldo), a German who credits Americans for his growth as a coach ( California-based J�rgen Klinsmann) and a lone Caucasian on Trinidad and Tobago's roster (England-born Chris Birchall), whose 27-yard blast against Bahrain sent his adopted nation into the ecstasy of its first Cup.

Indeed, the World Cup is immigration turned upside down, with players moving from rich countries--at least in a soccer sense--to poor. Over the next month native Brazilians will play for Mexico (midfielder Zinha), Portugal (midfielder Deco), Spain (midfielder Marcos Senna) and even Japan (defender Alessandro Santos). These days it isn't the U.S. that's naturalizing foreign-born ringers; it's archrival Mexico, which has sparked a national firestorm by rushing Zinha and Argentina-born forward Guillermo Franco into service. That's right: Millions of Mexicans are fretting about domestic jobs going to "foreigners," a development that might make even Lou Dobbs smile.

The World Cup reflects the planet we live on, for better and for worse. French striker Thierry Henry is spearheading a campaign, Stand Up Speak Up, to fight the racism prevalent in European stadiums, where fans have thrown bananas and made monkey noises at black players. FIFA, soccer's governing body, promises stiff penalties for players and fans caught making racist taunts. Skinheaded hooliganism is in decline, but organizers have prepared for violent English fans as well as the prospect of aggro between Polish and German hardcores before the two countries meet on June 14. The police are promising to arrest anyone who mimics Third Reich--style goose-stepping and to stymie scalpers by matching names on tickets with government-issued IDs at the stadiums. (How do you say gridlock in German?)

And it wouldn't be soccer if there weren't a conspiracy to investigate or a potential calamity to prepare for. Italy, the U.S.'s second-game foe, has been rocked by a corruption and betting scandal in its professional league, distracting the Azzurri and resulting in the resignation of the entire board of Italian champion Juventus. Two Ecuador team officials were arrested recently for being part of a smuggling ring that tried to pass off illegal immigrants as visa-seeking soccer players. And, as always, there is a fear of terrorism, in particular regarding the American team, the only delegation of the 32 in Germany not to have its flag on the side of its bus.

For all of the issues off the field, the games take precedence once the tournament kicks off, the tension building from group play to the knockout rounds. On most fans' wish lists for in Germany: