Olé, Olé, Olé Part 3: The Blog from Ipanema

With the gritty Americans bowing out the eight teams that remain represent some of the finest pedigrees in world football. Germany, France, Holland, Argentina, Brazil. Storied histories and global superstars will collide in four epic games over two days. Appropriate then to turn the page from the working class streets of Salvador to the glamour of Rio De Janeiro. And where better to start than the ritzy Hotel Fasano, perched on that glorious golden ribbon of sand they call Ipanema. Welcome to Gisele's table.

 

Let's not get distracted by supermodels and celebrities, there's a game to be played team.

 

Coach Rock walks through the formations at the daily team meeting. Guys, I want us to stick to the 4-4-2 that's worked so well for us. We'll start off defensively with four Skols, then I want us to open up the middle with 4 caipirinhas. And up front we'll strike decisively with 2 rum shots. Let's do this!

Christ the Redeemer is going to need to do a lot of redeeming a week from now, after a certain infamous semifinal. But that's in the future, today he's keeping his usual benevolent eye on Rio.

Rio, like her bronzed citizens strutting their stuff along Copacabana, can rightly claim to be the most beautiful in all the world.

The fabled Maracana. One of the greatest venues in all of sports lies silent today, on the eve of a cataclysmic clash between two of Europe's fiercest rivals, the mighty German machine versus the mercurial flair of the French.

If you're going to stand in a giant queue you might as well do it with a view.

Sugarloaf lies far below, rising out of the morning haze. Since no one these days knows what a sugarloaf looks like we'll assume it was a big mound of sugar shaped thus, a throwback from an age when a box had something other than a WOD inside and carb wasn't a four letter word.

The afternoon is too hot for anything other than a dip at Ipanema. It will get even hotter when you see the size of the bikinis around here. Why the straps on the ubiquitous Havaianas are wider.

You don't really appreciate how much football means to Brazil until you take an afternoon stroll along Ipanema. As far as the eye can see footballs are bouncing in the air, a mesmerizing juggling act that stretches along the entire beach.

The entire team is reunited on the eve of the big game for a bit of fine dining overlooking Ipanema's magnificent curves. To clarify, we mean the beach.

Game day dawns like every day does in Rio: spectacularly.  There's just enough time for a quick warm up on Copacabana before it's time to kit up and head to the Maracana.

A good excuse for a low angle shot of those butt implants. Apparently it's the most popular plastic surgery in Brazil. Hey, you've got to do whatever it takes to catch Neymar's attention.

The 2015 Women's World Cup is in Canada. Let's see, Copacabana versus suburban Edmonton. That's what the dodgy old men in the FIFA suite call equality.

The Fan Zone is already filling up, and kickoff is still hours away.

All roads lead to the Maracana. Except of course for the one the Brazilian team is on, but more on that later.

Luckily for those not among the jet-setting celebrity crowd all subways do too.

Most of the neutrals have chosen the green and gold of the hosts. Or is that an Australian in disguise?

The French are out in force, hoping a moment or two of brilliance will overcome the precision German passing machine. Failing that, their flag conveniently comes with a built-in white section.

It's not often Gisele's afterparty is only the second hottest ticket in town.

It seems no one has any assets to protect in this team.

This chap looks suspiciously French for a German supporter. There's only one way put this to rest, someone pass me the Freedom Fries!

The crowd roars. The ground shakes. This is the Maracana. This is what it's all about.

The Maginot Line is outflanked for the second time in history, this time by a hard-running Mats Hummels who slips in behind and hammers home the decisive header. Just like last time, the French have no answers and capitulate rather easily.

Thanks to Klinsmann's fine work with the U.S. squad anyone with the Stars and Stripes is firmly in the German corner.

Game one down, but there's still another game to go. There's just enough time between them to rush back to the beach to find a spot to catch the hosts in action against Columbia. With the kick off minutes away, you'll never see a beach in Brazil this empty again.

Gooooooaaaaaaaal! Brazil advances to the semifinals on the back of one of the sweetest free kicks you'll ever see. But the victory comes at a heavy price as Neymar goes down hard. Just how heavy a price won't be truly revealed until that fateful day in Belo Horizonte.

It doubles as a football when empty.

The Girl(s) from Ipanema.

 

Olé, Olé, Olé Part 2: In Howard We Trust

Is there anything better than game day morning? Even the sun rises over the shimmering Atlantic with a sense of anticipation. Now, in the calm before the screaming horns and beating drums, before the sweat and tears, anything is possible. History will be written today, but on game day morning her parchment is still blank.

 

Germany, in typical meticulous fashion, have constructed a purpose-built training camp 300 miles down the coast from here. Team J00ster, not to be outdone, commandeers the boutique Pousada Encanto de Itapoan hotel for their own preparations. Now for the first time, here's an exclusive peek inside their high performance compound. Nothing clears the lactic acid out of the legs like a spin on a hipster one-speed.

These photos are for the idiots at FIFA who voted for Qatar 2022. Notice how it's possible to walk outside without dying of heat exhaustion. But hey, don't sweat it, those bribes in your pocket will buy you a nice cold beverage and a luxurious air conditioned suite.

Salvador is unique among the host cities in that the stadium is only a short walk from the heart of the old town. No prizes for guessing where 60,000 amped up fans are going to be pre-gaming.

The Red Devils of Belgium have plenty of swagger to go with their raucous football chants. If you had to scout your opposition by watching Major League Soccer tapes, you'd be feeling good about your chances too

But hark, what's that I hear? An upstart chant is welling up from the bars and cafes of the old town. It gathers momentum as it roars out into the square, a tidal wave of emotion that dares to defy the Olde world order. U-S-A! U-S-A!

Time for a quick crash course in football 101. No, Tom Brady's not a striker. Yes, he gets all the chicks, but that doesn't make him a striker. No, Ronaldo's not a quarterback and no, that lightning bolt in his hair has nothing to do with Harry Potter. On second thought, I think we'll leave the offside rule for another day.

 

Let's face it, we may not have the best team, but we've definitely got the best uniforms.

It's not every day you can assemble elite talent from legendary teams like Houston Dynamo and Wuhan Zall F.C. in one place. The after-game nightclub isn't going to know what hit it.

There are fans, and then there are football fans. In earth-shattering fashion the Red, White, and Blues fall into step for a march to destiny. Or maybe word got out that Budweiser is the official beer sponsor of the World Cup.

If you thought a Stanley Cup Finals game at Madison Square Garden is as big as it gets in sports, you'd be right. But only because this isn't sports, this is something bigger. 

 

If you're not fired up for the game now, you're probably from Brussels.

 

Even the locals are jumping on the bandwagon. A wise choice: always back the side whose bandwagon isn't so much a wagon as it is as Nimitz-class supercarrier. Especially when the other guy's wagon serves waffles and dinges outside the Tintin shop.

Thank goodness FIFA authorized drink breaks at the 30 minute mark.

So much for the promises of tight security. It seems they'll let anyone past the security cordon.

 

The adrenalin is pumping and the Skol is flowing as the red, white, and blue procession arrives in the shadow of Arena Fonte Nova. It's All In or Nothing time or time to Risk Everything, depending on whose footwear you've got on. Either way, you get the picture. It's time for Belgium fries.

This way to the nose bleed seats.

Let's bring it in team! We're going go out there hard for 90 minutes, this is where all those hours of training are going to pay off. I want total focus out there. We've earned this, let's go out there and take what's ours! Remember all those late night dive bars, all those beer gardens, all those wine tastings, well this is where it all pays off! This is our night! This is our time! All together now! Scull! Skol! Scull!

For all the horror stories about half-built stadiums, crippling traffic delays, and angry riots the stadium is actually a magnificent venue. A fitting coliseum for the battle about to unfold.


 

As the crowd filters in it becomes readily apparent that this is going to be close to a U.S. home game.  The stars and stripes outnumber whatever you call their black, yellow, and red getup at least 10 to 1.

We have no offence, no defense, but we do have Tim Howard. Should be a comfortable victory.


 

Hey old timer on the left there, rotate your flag 90 degrees clockwise and you might suddenly find you have a decent team.

Nothing intimidates a chic European striker like a genuine North American Playoff Beard (tm). Yeah we're talking about you Ronaldo. See a Playoff Beard requires two important ingredients. First, you have to make the playoffs. Oops. Second, you have to be man enough to grow a beard. Hard to see that happening while you're writhing around on the ground waiting for the stretcher.

Shall we drink every time a goal is scored? That's a recipe for sobriety. How about for every foul? Should be plastered by the 15 minute mark.

Game on! A titanic battle is locked at 0-0 after 90 minutes of unbelievable tension. Belgium are clearly the better team, but a better team doesn't mean anything if you've got Tim Howard blocking the net. Never in the illustrious history of the tournament have so many saves been made.

Alas even the mightiest wall will eventually crack under unrelenting assault. In a wild 30 minutes of extra time Belgium strikes twice to seemingly put the game away, only for Team U.S.A. to pull one back at the death, setting up a desperate final push for an elusive equalizer.

A rousing effort by the boys in red, white, and blue ends in a gallant defeat at the hands of the vastly more experienced Belgians. But watch out old guard, the gap is narrowing and all it's going to take is a couple of wide receivers growing up kicking a football instead of catching it. Bring on 2018!

What happens behind face paint stays behind face paint. This is Brazil folks, and no one knows how to run an afterparty like they do.

This is why you build stadiums in the city center instead of, say, the middle of New Jersey swampland.

The Australians haven't had much to celebrate since Cahill's magnificent strike all those games ago. But that's ok, it could be worse, you could have Wayne Rooney on your team.

Where's Gisele when it's selfie time?

If you really want to get the chicks, I hear beards are all the rage around here.

Looks like the party is going into extra time too.

That doesn't appear to be the correct tri-cornered flag-folding technique. 

 

Pelourinho square is transformed into a whirling fusion of national colors as the revelers spill out into the streets where vendors are flogging ice cold Skol for 5 reais. That's like 2 bucks folks. The secret to the Brazilian party spirit is finally revealed.

In case anyone doubts that the World Cup brings nations together, even bitter enemies for 120 minutes can exchange paint sticks after the game.