Dance of The Magic Feet

By Paul A. Witteman

In the year 1414 Zheng He, Grand Eunuch of the Three Treasures, loaded some exotic creatures onto his junk and headed back to China from the coast of East Africa. One, the long-necked K'i-lin, astounded Emperor Yu and his court. It was unlike anything they had ever seen, with its "luminous spots like a red cloud or purple mist." The K'i-lin was poked, prodded, observed from every angle, much commented upon but little understood.

The World Cup is not unlike the K'i-lin. It's been the greatest thing to hit America since the invasion of the Beatles. It's the worst thing to come to America since the onslaught of the killer bees. It is subtle, riveting drama. It is a repetitive, soporific bore. One scribe based in Washington has even described it as a metaphor for the Clinton health-care plan: all process, no results. Makes you wonder what he'd write the first time he saw a giraffe.

When the final match is played this Sunday, the Rose Bowl will be full of enthusiasts even if, as expected, fewer than 3% of the nation's TV sets are tuned in. When the victors and losers jet home next week to their respective adulation and opprobrium, America will be left with baseball, football training camps, a little tennis, a smattering of golf -- and a void. For those who gave it a chance, the World Cup turned out to be a refreshing breather from the standard summer fare. Nothing against harness racing or the fellows who drive steroid-injected cars in circles, mind you. But out on the football pitch, as the newly initiated call the soccer field, there has been high drama: Italy's improbable comeback against underdog Nigeria left supporters of both teams drained. Off the field there has been tragedy: the execution of Colombian Andres Escobar shamed the nation whose colors he had proudly worn. There have been oddities: referees were sent home ignominiously for merely blowing a call. Huh? Officials make mistakes every day. It's the nature of their calling.

And the nature of the game was difficult for Americans to capture. We're used to players carrying a ball toward pay dirt or jamming one down through the basket. All results, minimal process.

The essence of soccer is more elusive, although the objective of scoring one more goal than the other guys is easy to understand. Occasionally the best strategy to score may require players to move the ball away from the opponents' goal, as the Germans often would do. Other times the strategy is not to score at all. A tie can be like kissing Julia Roberts, as the Americans discovered in their 1-1 match with Switzerland in the opening round, which helped them advance to the second. Sometimes strategy defies rational analysis. "God was a Bulgarian today," said Hristo Stoichkov of his country's unlikely victory over Mexico. "It doesn't matter how we won."

Come next Super Bowl, most Americans will not remember the name of the Brazilian player who elbowed American star Tab Ramos in the head, sending him to the hospital with a concussion. (For future bar bets, it's Leonardo.) But they will remember that Bebeto's and Romario's skills with a soccer ball rival the gifts Michael Jordan brought to basketball. The ball did everything they told it to do.

The Brazilians prompted other comparisons with the American Olympic basketball team in Barcelona. There were numerous teams at that tournament that the Dream Team could have handled with only four players against five. The Brazilians were equally blessed. They played the second half with one fewer man and still had the Americans badly outnumbered. What would have happened if the Brazilians had played with only nine? Or eight? The score might have been worse. The magic continued last Saturday, as Brazil dazzled the Netherlands in the second half, winning 3-2.

The television ratings were a triumph, if you listened to the promoters. Brazil vs. America drew 32 million viewers on the Fourth of July, with parades and picnics as the game's principal competition. Not bad. That's as many people as tune in for the average American Football Conference match on a November Sunday. Look at it a different way, and the ratings were a disaster: the biggest game in U.S. soccer history drew only as many viewers as a yawner between the Cincinnati Bengals and New England Patriots on a day when raking leaves is usually the alternative.

But U.S. TV ratings are not what the World Cup is about. In America soccer is still a sport to be played, not watched. There is still a generational lag. The people who one day will shell out the bucks to take their kids to see the future Boston Bullfrogs or Tampa Toads play soccer don't have kids yet. They're teenagers whose fathers played Little League baseball or Pop Warner football. Some of those parents are as clueless about soccer as they are about the Beastie Boys.

Soccer as a profitable spectator sport in America may have to wait another decade -- or two. But those who became addicted to the World Cup have only two more years before the elimination rounds begin again.