Suspiciously well.
Drove the four-and-a-half hours into Poznan this morning, in the plush comfort of a luxury German sedan rather than the wheezing railway worker push-car we took to Ukraine.
After a couple of hours, we sighted something hitherto unknown in the Polish interior — a highway. It started out in Lodz (which I try to say out loud as much as possible since figuring out that it’s pronounced ‘Wuj.’ Wuj is someone’s secret Star Wars name). Its tarmac carpeted us all the way into town.
We passed a sign that read “Berlin — 310 km,” and there was a real urge to slip up there for a bit. It’s criminal to get this close to the greatest city in Europe and pass it by. Presumably, if the rental car sends out a GPS-activated warning alarm when you get near the Ukrainian border, it deploys a confetti cannon when you arrive in Berlin.
The four-lane path in was a toll road — even better news. Cops don’t prowl the toll roads here in my experience, lest they scare off the paying locals. So 180-ing it all the way.
“We’re making really good time,” Morris actually said out loud while the Interdenominational Council of Transport Gods were too busy doing paperwork to notice.
We were allowed to park within rock throwing distance of the Accreditation Centre. The parking pass was waiting for us (and Morris was only told once that he had got it wrong and that there was no parking pass. A thrilling new record for incorrect refusals here).
We were waved through the security perimeter while an army of thwarted locals threatened the lives of the cops manning the gate (Memories. Horrible, horrible memories).
Now I’m wandering around waiting for a camera tower to collapse on me or something. Things can’t be this easy.
As I write — about five hours before kickoff at Italy-Croatia — the poor kids who’ll be performing the opening number are standing in the driving rain in an adjacent field practising their steps. Half of them will have pneumonia by tonight.
“What do you remember about Euro 2012, dad?”
“I remember Germany-Portugal, and then I remember coming to in July, hooked up to a ventilator.”
One of the strange things about this tournament is its four seasons aspect — it’s been stinking hot in Urkaine, cool and pleasant in eastern Poland, and dreary and wet out here where we are now in the west.
Which is bad news for Italy.
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The talking point here this morning is Cristiano Ronaldo’s ill-tempered response to a post-match question about Lionel Messi.
Danish fans mocked the Portuguese by chanting “Messi, Messi” whenever Ronaldo was on the ball. He didn’t help himself by missing two clear chances, the second of which had him firing well wide of the net on a one-on-one with the Danish keeper.
“You know where (Messi) was at this time (last year)? Do you know?” Ronaldo said. “He was being eliminated in the Copa America, in his own country? I think that’s worse, no?”
Well, I suppose it might be, if it was true. Messi’s Argentina in fact reached the quarterfinals of that tournament.
Two things here.
Most would agree that Messi and Ronaldo have been the two best players in the world over the last three or four years. They play professionally for bitter rivals. They are the respective lead pitchmen for two even bigger rivals, Nike and Adidas. Yet they have remarkably avoided saying anything that might suggest a personal animus (remarkable from Ronaldo’s vantage at least; Messi is so good natured most Brazilians grudgingly admire him).
Ronaldo’s comments have now opened a can of worms that cannot be screwed shut again. Foolishly, he’s cast himself in the Iago role.
Right now, both men are also headed toward consignment in that group of players whose gifts never translated onto the international stage. Ronaldo is the worse off — he’s already 27 years old. In two World Cups and three Euros (including this one), he’s scored only five total goals. Germany’s Thomas Muller scored that many in South Africa alone.
Messi is still just 24 (he’ll turn 25 in a couple of weeks), which is odd since he seems to have been playing since the late ’90s. He has at least two World Cups left in him.
Ronaldo’s legacy is already skidding into the ditch. Messi’s is only headed in that direction.
If Argentina don’t win with him, Messi will not be remembered alongside the Peles and Maradonas and Beckenbauers. Instead, he’ll be cast as Ferenc Puskas or a much-better-behaved George Best — a monumentally skilled player denied entry into the upper-most tier of legends for the lack of a key trophy.
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