Yesterday at the Euros #14

Or to put it another way, the striker who kicked the hornet's nest.

It went pretty much as expected with Greece sitting deep and in numbers and asking Germany to break them down. For 39 minutes, it worked. Germany did get the ball in the net, but Andre Schurrle - one of three changes up top as Joachim Loew boldly swapped his forwards - was a smidgen offside. Greece were beginning to believe they might do this again. Then Phillip Lahm decided to drain one from downtown (as I believe the basketball vernacular would have it).

It was a vicious, swerving, dipping strike from 20-something yards - quite spectacular and for all their firepower up front, suddenly you had to start wondering about the quiet lad at full-back, the respected captain, the man that seems to have been around forever, who wouldn't say boo to a goose and has hardly been prolific throughout his international career.

1-0 it remained to the break, a 45 minutes in which Germany enjoyed 78% of the ball. But within ten minutes of the restart, Greece were level. Theofanis Gekas played a lovely through-ball for Dimitris Salpangidis who squared the ball beyond the advancing Manuel Neuer for Giorgios Samaras, sliding in, to tuck away, though Jerome Boateng really should have done better.

Oh Giorgios. What did you do? He made Germany angry, and you wouldn't like them when they're angry. Within five minutes, the lead was restored thanks to a frankly amazing volley from Sami Khedira who met Boateng's cross with a perfectly executed kung-fu kick to smash the ball past Michalis Sifakis. Seven minutes later, the compulsory tournament goal from Miroslav Klose and the outstanding Marco Reus volleyed a fourth a further six minutes later. Greece did get one back via a last-minute penalty converted expertly by Salpangidis after Boateng had handled needlessly. Boateng's performance was the one negative for Germany and it would not be a shock to see Lars Bender recalled for the semi-final.

So what did we learn? Not a lot about Greece who did all they could in the face of overwhelming opposition. We learned a lot about Germany. That they could drop Mario Gomez, Lukas Podolski and Thomas Muller and replace them with Schurrle, Reus and Klose is frankly frightening. And still Mario Gotze only got ten minutes, Ilkay Gundogan, Toni Kroos, Marcel Schmelzer and Benny Howedes couldn't get a kick. Be afraid, Europe.

So long Greece, but we still love you:




Spain v France today. It should be a cracker.

The Languid XI

You know the sort. The player who looks like football is just a bothersome task that gets in the way of looking effortlessly cool. Like exerting oneself is the worst thing a person can do. Like they could take to the pitch with a cigarillo and a brandy, do something amazing without spilling a drop or knocking the ash off the end.
Here's our Languid XI, lining up in the formation of languidity, 3-4-3:

Goalkeeper:
Vitor Baia
Goalkeepers are normally highly strung individuals, bawling and shouting a lot, flinging themselves about and blaming everyone but themselves for their failings, which made our search for a suitable custodian difficult. But the former Portuguese number one gave off such an air of calmness that he was the obvious choice. No histrionics, no pretending he was really a midfield general but was just helping out by going in nets, economy of movement and stylish hair.

Defence:
Paolo Maldini
Mats Hummels
Gerard Pique
All three of our defence exude casual brilliance. It's one thing to be brilliant, quite another to be brilliant while looking like you just don't care, like the fact you're better than the rest is actually quite banal. Hummels being flagged for offsides is not uncommon, and we all love a centre-back being offside, though his obvious delight in the Netherlands falling apart in front of him betrayed his lack of inner languidity. Pique is very similar - a midfield stroller trapped in a centre-back's body.
What else is there to say about Maldini? Just look at him...

Midfield:
Andrea Pirlo
Sócrates
Juan Sebastian Véron
Rui Costa
Sócrates is the coolest person ever to pull on a pair of boots and the captain of the coolest team the game has ever seen. His grace of movement was completely at odds with his gangling frame, but it was off the field that he became cooler still with the drinking, smoking, philosophising and democracy activism. What a guy.
The renaissance in Pirlo's career since leaving Milan has been quite staggering. The movement has become even more economical with age, but if anything that's made him more dangerous as a player. Feared, respected, admired, bearded. It doesn't get much better than that.
The latter pair exemplify the archetypal midfield stroller. Socks half-way down shins, pads flapping, cruising around the middle of the park like they owned it and spraying passes around for fun. Those are the guys young lads aspire to be, the players that make you fall for this often stupid game in the first place.

Forwards:
Giorgios Samaras
Dimitar Berbatov
Bryan Ruiz
Sleeves down below hands? Check. Lank-haired (or formerly lank-haired) masters of the stroll? Check. Routinely shouted at by fans for not doing enough and then go and do something totally bloody amazing? Check. If you want any more than that from your front three, you have a heart of stone. Of course, Ruiz and Berbatov are now team-mates, regularly competing for the award for doing the most brilliant thing while also looking a bit bored by it all. And they have that dreamy away kit - the black with the white and gold sash. All properly languid teams should wear the sash, the kit of cool.
Samaras is a lot better than people give him credit for. Like many of our team, his apparent lack of effort weighs against him in terms of image, but he's alright, y'know, and stylish with it which is, of course, far more important.

Would this team win many games? Who cares.