Prolific Immigrant

.1. Because when I think of Unions, it seems a propos that NYC come to mind.

.2. Stare at one spot on the tracks; as soon as there’s movement in the periphery, your eye picks it up and there’s your rat. (That’s the trick.)

.3. More breakfast! (Fresh yogurt & fruits, a croissant and a fruit plate. It was a little much, but who am I not to take one for the team?)

As you can see, I had my agenda / diary so as to jot down my random observations and Shoosh’s laptop (because I left Baby Mac at home); I was trying to write out my notes re a review of War, Inc. and instead drowned in the latte.

.4. BALL GAME!! (This is the stadium which is to be torn down so that it may be replaced with a shinier version.)

Yankees played the Red Wings.

.5. We dropped by The Coffee House for a thick and gooey breakfast, where I quite possibly took the best photo of Sharshoor, ever.

Three things to note re The Coffee House. Shoosh nearly took out the hostess because she was so busy texting on her BlackBerry that she ignored us for a little too long. Without warning, Shoosh turned to me and said: “Shoo hay 7aywaneh?” which literally translates to “What is she, an animal?”, but actually means “What? Is she an idiot?”

Shoosh is full of fire and energy and so her tone was easy enough to read; Hostess put down her BlackBerry (because your a$$ is so important that you need to text immediately? (To which the natural response is, of course, because our a$$es are more important and we need to be sat down asap. I see my own indulgence here…)) and sat us down without any more texting.

It was the day the Netherlands lost to Russia and the two loudest, drunkest and most obnoxious men in the joint took a liking to us. They were a little on the wanker side and wearing what can only be described as attire meant to birth Rock ‘n Roll imagery.

I don’t mind a man who drinks once in a while, but he’d better know how to hold his liquor. These guys didn’t have a clue and at one point, one of them came over to our table and grabbed my sunglasses before I quietly and quickity split took them out of his hand and didn’t respond to any of his questions so as to not give him any ideas or allusion that I was interested.

Much more endearing than the drunken slobs were a couple seated across from us. They couldn’t take their hands off one another and it was absolutely adorable. It worked, I think, because they both had the same colouring and they were young and cute and so into one another they didn’t take notice of anyone else in the joint.

There was a playfulness in the way they interacted and a comfort that engaged anyone who looked at them. (I’m all for public displays of affection when you’re not obscene and recognise it doesn’t suit everyone. It’s like The Dress That Borders Sl*t (TDTBS); some women can wear TDTBS and own it like no one’s business because they have an inherent class in the manner they carry themselves. Others wear TDTBS and look like prostitutes. Same goes for PDA.)

.6. I call this Shoosh’s Glamour Shot and Adeebo’s Crazy Eyes Shot. Love it; it’s now hanging in my office.

.7. Night out at some club on Park Avenue because most of the boys in the circle are bankers. (LOOK! I have on eye make-up!!)

Best part of the evening was when one of the guys decided to tell me that what he did for a living was: “Build companies.”

I lost my sh*t and laughed so hard he couldn’t help but laugh with me.

“Build companies?”
My response was: “That’s like telling me you occupy countries. That says nothing to me except about the size of your ego, guy.”
Lucky for me I can deliver a joke and he can take it.
And I never deal where I refuse to play, so the rest of the interaction was light and fun.

.7. Met brother blogger HijabMan for a wonderful breakfast at the unGodly hour of 8.30 am on Sunday (my fault, this!) and was seated on the steps of St. Xavier church when I paparazzo’d (or is it: paparazzi’d, Espy?) him walking toward my NYC home…

He was handing out Sunshine to any one who would take it. Apparently, he had a hard time getting people to accept the Sunshine…but then I came along. And we all know I’m a HoneyPot. And that means I have enough charm to force you to receive the Sunshine. Three more lucky folks accepted the gorgeous flowers.

Before heading to breakfast, we went into St. Xavier to chill with Jesus.

…and this may very well be one of my favourite pics from the whole trip

(Note worthy: No implosion this time, either.)

(More note worthy: HijabMan’s take on our morning basking in Sunshine.)

.8. Breakfast with more Sunshine.

.9. While en route to the Karim Rachid store, I saw this beautiful statue of the map of Palestine and stepped two feet in to ask “how much?” Only then I noticed that there were Hasidic Jewish folk praying in the back room of this Gallery. I’ve never been so frazzled and caught off guard; not even at an Israeli check point where you expect to be treated like shit because you’re a Palestinian…probably because at the check point you’re braced and expecting it.

I turned around and immediately left as I’m certain I wouldn’t have been very welcome (had I enquired about purchasing even a map of what I consider Home).

…and finally… .10. Who doesn’t love finding a Heart on the Street?

This trip to NYC has been among the best.
I feel in love with Shoosh all over again, and I love that I love Adeebo. It’s always so hard if you don’t click with your girls’ men, but Adeeb is an amazing guy and their relationship is a treasure, Alhamdulilah.

(Aside: I forgot my favourite jeans at their place. I am still shocked every time I realize this; these jeans are like a second skin. They’re perfect and I’ve had them for nearly three years. They’re worn and torn and they’ve seen half the world with me…and currently, they are en route to Shoosh’s mom’s and I am awaiting the moment that I will greet and embrace them once again.)

Find the complete series of photos here.

We can delete the “(alleged)” from anything around Materrazi’s name. He didn’t say anything racially or religiously motivated; but rather, Zizou stated that:

“(Materazzi) pronounced very tough words about my mother and my sister. I tried not to listen to him but he kept repeating them.”

A sigh of relief is heard the world over because Materazzi was merely being a Zidanist rather than a racist or a…religion-ist. Someone fire those stupid lip-readers, already.

And from me to Materazzi, because I know he’s been braced and waiting for this: I apologise for thinking you lied re the racial/religious slur.

*phew*

Now we can rest easy that a fut-wah will not be called against the Italian national soccer team (because they really are the most beautiful to look at I am convinced that Cristiano is secretly Italian), and so we may commence making fun of our beloved and tempermental Zizou. Making fun of, in much beloved fashion, activity no 1: Watch this, sent to me from JaneH (thanks JaneyH & welcome!).

Making fun of, in much beloved fashion, activity no 2: Zizou?! Akeed you’ve heard such nonsense on the field before! WHY NOW? WHYYYYYYYYYYYYYY? Was it too much pressure? Were your shoes too tight? WHY?! France must be banging it’s head against…everything. I believe it was Pele who said that “in futbol, as with all sports, you must be willing to take both the “yo mama” and the “yo sistah”; the only item being off limits is the “yo daughta”. Ole! Ole! Ole, Ole, Ole!”

And, seriously: dubilu tee a’tch, Zizou?

.1. For the Quarter & Semi Finals of the World Cup, I found my soul mates in two men (who’d already found soul mates in one another and some other colleagues). In our building there are television sets all over the main floor. For the duration of the World Cup, the channels were turned to the matches, with people milling about on break, on lunch, and before and after work.

As did others, I too worked my schedule around the matches (spending extra time at the office to ensure no work was missed, but no game either). For Argentina’s final game (the one against extraordinarily beautiful beautifulCristiano Portugal), I was planted firmly in the middle and in front of one of the screens.

Out came N & R to watch the game with me. I do believe beautiful new futbol based friendships have been born.

.2. The three best things I’ve heard about Zizou’s head-butting of Materrazi come from:

Coquette, who examines (a) the inevitable WZF, Zizou? and references the head-butting incident as “the thing of which we can not speak.
&
Chester, who says he is happy re the Zizou move because:
“- He fucking head-butted a guy while one fifth of the world’s population watched on TV!
- As Ninos noted, Zidane totally used my “El Toro” move. Instead of wondering what Materazzi said to Zidane, perhaps the world should be wondering if it was a wise move for Zidane to do tequila shots during halftime.
- Finally, to the very end of his career, Zidane’s being was infused with football to the very core. So much so that he even fights like a football player: no hands!”

Brilliant! Hilarious! Check out both their sites; am adding Chester to my Interesting Places.

.3. Also from Chester, he says: “according to one newspaper’s hired lip-reader, Materazzi said some pretty nasty stuff and ended things with calling Zidane a “son of a terrorist whore”. Further information suggests that Zizou’s mother is currently very ill and in the hospital, and Materazzi (allegedly) wishing Zizou’s family an “ugly death”.

Which is so far beyond what any of our minds had allowed us to imagine as we watched Zizou head-butt the (allegedly) racist and ignorant Materazzi. When Zizou rammed Materazzi, people’s reactions varied from a “huh” to a “wuh” to an “eh?” (heard all the way from France) and then the mumblings began, all of which acknowledged that whatever Materazzi said must have (allegedly) been either racially/religiously motivated, or about Zizou’s family. What we didn’t expect was that Materazzi (allegedly) used, as Chester put it, both the ‘racism and “yo mama”’ cards.

What’s amazing is that Materazzi’s (allegedly) denying this, when there’s camera footage of the incident, and erm, that really interesting group of people, otherwise known as: lip-readers. His (allegedly) lame defence is that he’s ignorant and has never “heard” of the word ‘terrorism’. Wow. Way to (allegedly) lie, Materazzi.

There’s a saying in Arabic that is: “Ijjat itka7ilha, (not allegedly) 3amatha”, which when translated means “she tried to use eyeliner and totally (read: not allegedly) blinded herself instead”. It’s really much more masculine than that, but the essence of the statement is that the lie is so so so big, that it’s blinding and impossible to miss the (alleged) truth.

Aside: Isn’t that the weirdest saying? It’s like saying “she tried to use lip-liner but overdrew her lips” to say ‘she missed the point entirely’.

Note to Materazzi: EYELINER DOESN’T BECOME A (allegedly) RACIST IGNORANT SUCH AS (allegedly) YOURSELF.

But still…Zizou’s actions were not excusable, and I think he should have controlled his temper and rolled Materazzi in the parking lot later, mano-a-mano. Futboler to futboler, No Hands.

.3. Zizou is still my hero.

Congratulations to Italy, the team that didn’t deserve to win.

For the duration of the first 45 minutes, I fully expected Italy to win because they dominated the field, holding on to the ball at an approximate 60% rate. But France controlled the second 45 minutes, and the first and second 15 minutes of the Extra Time. So, in essence, France dominated and controlled the pitch a much stronger and longer 75 minutes.

In terms of strategy, coordination, execution and timing, France was the stronger of the two teams. But, Buffon is immaculate, and Barthez is old; there is no comparison between the skill of these two men, Buffon being the stronger and faster of the two.

You already know how I feel about the damned penalty kicks and so now I’ll offer you my proposed alternative to the damned penalty kicks: Instead of whittling this team sport down to one-on-one luck, allow them to play the Extra Time as they do now. Then, shorten the periods down to 5 minutes, and allow for sudden death…only, before the first 5 minute period and in between every period, remove one player per team.

Unlike the damned penalty kicks, this allows for the strategy and team-work to dominate and play out, the two elements that are the heart and the essence of futbol.

Now. Naturally, the pressing question is: Merde a la puissance treize! Mais pourquoi est-ce que vous avez fait ça, Zizou? This is a man whose futbol career has been notoriously calm, without violence or altercation, a man whose reputation has been built on both his skill and demeanor. Because his is one of the few careers I’ve followed and because it’s always been clean and within the spotlight of grace, I have to give him the benefit of the doubt. Anyone who knows anything about futbol and Zizou will argue that Zizou’s bull-like attack on the Italian player had to have been preceded by something exceptionally foul on the Italian player’s part.

Although I want to know what the catalyst for Zizou’s reaction was, he deserved that red card and I clapped when the referee issued it. (There has never been, and there should never be room for this sort of violence in futbol.) No matter what was said to him, his behavior was unacceptable. Whatever happens now should serve as an explanation for his action, but never a justification for it.

I expect an official statement will be issued; Either Zizou will explain why he did what he did and France will start WWIII will require an official apology from the Italian player, or Ziznou will simply state that there was no excuse for his action and so merely issue an apology to both the Italian player and to France.

Unfortunately, the image of Zizou attacking the Italian player will become among the most notorious moments in the history of World Cup futbol. Notorious because it came from the most unexpected of individuals, near the end of the second Extra Time of a final match, and at the retirement of one of the greatest futbolers my generation has seen.

Chirac has just issued this statement and I think he’s made it clear what and who Zizou really is: “I would like to express all the respect that I have for a man who represents at the same time all the most beautiful values of sport, the greatest human qualities one can imagine, and who has honoured French sport and, simply, France.”

Salaam Zizou: may retirement treat you well and I’ll be looking for your face in the sea of South Africa’s audience. (& even though you headbutted another guy, you’re still my hero.)

.1. Zizou scored via penalty kick against Portugal today. Cristiano goes home, and I’ll be surprised if Figo sees the 2010 World Cup. It was a clean game, as futbol should be; there was no animosity on the field and not too many dives (those that occurred were primarily from the Portuguese).

King of the Fey, David Beckham, has resigned as England’s National Team Captain. He can now concentrate on selling his soul for a little more money. Personally, I think he should first help Rooneeeeeeeeeey with his lacking PR skills…a little bit of advice such as “don’t use another futboler’s testicles as a foot-rest…” is where I think Beckham should start.

I’m terribly excited about Sunday.

.2. But before that beautiful day comes, I have a massive poshy embassy event to attend at the Fairmont Chateau Laurier tonight, (providing a gentle reminder that I’m single) and my first wedding of the summer on Friday evening (providing a Titanic reminder that am single). These two interesting events should provide for much blogging and humor, I hope.

Yalla, allez Les Bleus! (don’t have accents on here, sorry…)

.3. Doris! Forgive that over the years, my loyalties have shifted and I no longer support Italy (but I would be behind them 100% were they to face either Brazil or England). It ended when Walter (when there are so many sexy Italian names, why did his parents opt for WALTER?) Zenga and “Toto” Schillaci left…Forgive me. I still love Russian authors, though, and so that should count for something?

…there’s wireless and I’m “taking notes”. I can barely see the screen because since I’m ON CAMPUS, there are other students who are seated behind me listening attentively to our macroeconomics prof and so my zoom on this is quite tiny. I know they’re curious and want to see what it is I am madly typing since no one can understand a word my Prof says.

Why?

Because he has the world’s strongest Far East accent. (If there were a World Cup of accents, he’d win and maintain a Virgin Goal Zenga style, circa World Cup 1990.) The cutest thing about him is that he’s bouncy. Literally. He’s always bouncing everywhere; I really need to check out what sort of crack he’s wearing.

I’ve popped in to let you know that Germany, the futbol monster, lost to Italy in a spectacular game earlier today. The game flew into extra time and in the last near three minutes of the second extra time, Italy scored two goals. GOD DAMN IT. Shhhh! We’re ON CAMPUS. I don’t even know if I’m allowed to be on this network…am half expecting the Uni police to storm in here and wrestle me down. (That too would be very MI: Maha.)

I didn’t really want Germany to win, but it was like choosing between two hookers, or so I’ve been told. I just want France to win that beautiful golden trophy that looks like it was made by a lazy person who got drunk and didn’t finish it but then lied to everyone and said “VOILA, my masterpiece of gold!” and no one had the courage to pipe up and ask “the hell is THAT?”

Back to today’s game: I’ve never seen anyone spend as much time rolling around on the ground like Totti the metrosexual. Actually, all Italian futbolers are metrosexuals who drop and roll like their asses are on fire. At least Germany played a clean game and they deserved to win, but didn’t. Odonkor was crying like a baby after the match was over and I got all teary eyed and I don’t even like him…futbol does that to me, though. And for the record, let me add that this is one those rare times your fascist blog mistress finds it acceptable for a grown man to cry: When his national futbol team looses in the World Cup.

And another the record: The German coach is a Fox. He’s in incredible shape and should have cycled one of his players out for himself.

Tomorrow, inshallah, Zidane will kick Cristiano’s beautiful ass all over the field. And if he doesn’t, I’m not really certain I’m interested in watching the final match. Actually, I’m lying. Of course I’ll watch the final match > I’ll then be forced to root for Portugal only because I have a soft spot one Carlos Mateus.

I have always found the penalty kick to be the most disturbing aspect of a futbol match. When placed within the context of the World Cup it’s morally reprehensible. There’s always been an internal debate re the validity of the penalty kick end between two worthwhile and strong opponents. I’ve long argued that there’s no place for the penalty kick fiasco in World Cup futbol as it’s based purely on luck.

Whereas the entire match (90 minutes, then the extra 30 minutes) is based primarily on strategy, team work and endurance, the penalty kick comes in and screws the essence of the game. The teams need to keep playing until someone scores a goal (even if this takes 27 hours).

Today saw the cheapening of the World Cup once more; a pathetic end in penalty kicks provided Germany with a win over Argentina.

I guess this just means that Germany won’t get lynched by their fellow citizens for losing in the Quarter-Finals. And the line that I’m sure everyone will use in the newspapers, because we’re devoid of imagination: We can now cry for Argentina. (Sorry ya Seedo & Uzi!)

Approximately nine of us congregated randomly in one of the boardrooms and watched the match on a big screen television set. I’d never met any of them before 11 a.m. but we’re about to watch the Italy v. Ukraine game in a moment…Hurrah for big screen television and empty boardrooms!!

I have to redirect my hopes at this point: I’m placing my full weight behind Zidane. I hope France kicks everyone’s ass.

I want the others to lose because:
- Italy doesn’t deserve to advance after the dive taken against Australia. That was cheating. They cheated and cheaters shouldn’t win. Just like Argentina in 1986; Maradona cheated and they shouldn’t have won. “Hand of God”, my ass.

- As before, I’ve expressed my distaste for Brazil’s arrogance. They need to re-centre before I’ll support them again.

- I take back my original sentiment that I wish Portugal to advance. Both the Portuguese and the Netherland team should be disqualified after their match on the 25th, which I taped and just watched. What a disgrace to the sport: sixteen yellow cards, four red cards, two near brawls, slapping and FIGO HEAD BUTTING a Netherlands team member. I’m surprised these thugs were allowed to continue playing at all. If this match had been referred by Pierluigi Collina, he would have given red cards to every member of both teams AND THEIR COACHES.

- England. Blekh.

Aside: Anyone watch today’s match? Did y’all see Beckenbauer? He’s always so well put together and controlled and – even when in a rage – magnetic. Today was the first time I saw him slightly dishevelled > his tie was askew to the left. Odd that no one pointed this out to him. (I’m not at all being sarcastic here; Beckenbauer’s notorious for his sense of elite style.)

My very first memory of futbol was as a baby of less than four years. My father played on a local team and my mom and I would watch and cheer while seated on the grass. Because my mother mistook me for some sort of a doll, she would dress me up like this before sitting me on the grass (notice the white socks, white shoes and white panties). For the most part, my memories were of men running off the pitch to smoke a cigarette and catch their breath. (Also, of my prissy dress attire as I sat on the GRASS with my beautiful mother.)

My more vivid memories were of watching futbol with my maternal grandfather in Gaza, but only the best kind of futbol: World Cup futbol. The elite of the elite is what used to – and still continues to – enthral me. While Gaza was (& remains) occupied and before even the first Intifadah (translation of which is akin to: Awakening from slumber), the Strip shuts down for the entirety of two months: Ramadan (on a yearly basis) and World Cup futbol (once every four years).

My grandfather’s favourite team was Argentina. It didn’t matter at what time the matches were being played, my grandfather would sit me down and make asha for both of us while we watched the matches together. Asha is a late dinner; in the Middle East, one ‘sups’ at around 2 or 3 pm and then eats a final meal, asha, at around 9 or 10 pm. Between these two meals, you usually drink a lot of sweet shai (tea) and ahwa (coffee).

Anyway…it was very special to me because with the highest level of patience, my grandfather would walk me through every single detail of each match we watched. Most fun was when he would become so engaged and animated that I would feed off his energy and we’d usually end up waking the rest of the house. Naturally, no one dared say anything about the ruckus coming from the family room.

My grandfather was a very gentle man, not religious and highly educated. He was a Principal with an exceptional reputation because he was instrumental in establishing several schools all over historical Palestine. Although constantly approached, he refused to dabble in politics because of what he perceived as its corrupt nature. For him, education was the instrumental foundation on which the Palestinian people could one day hope to attain freedom and justice.

In 1990, during the first Palestinian Intifadah, it was the only time my grandfather ceased being animated. We would watch the matches quietly and tensely because the real-life ‘backbeat’ to the matches was that of Israel dropping bombs, using machine guns, flying Apache helicopters, and rolling tanks.

Randomly, we were subjected to the shouts and blaring music of the Israeli soldiers outside our walls and at all times of the night (aaah, the terror that comes from psychological warfare!). The heartbeat of that Intifadah was the Gaza Strip, and the Gaza Strip you can cross by car in approx 35 minutes. A pin could drop at the other end of the Strip and you’d hear it. Imagine this, then.

That was also the first summer I had a machine gun pointed at my head (remember I would have been a teenage girl of 16 years) as I walked to the corner store to buy futbol cards. I still have the cards as a memory of that summer. I refused to return to Gaza for six years.

..and 1990, watching Germany win, was the last match of the World Cup I was audience to in Gaza. In the following three World Cups, I never made an effort to call my grandfather to talk about the matches. Now that my grandfather’s gone (he got to watch one last World Cup in 2002, a few months before he died) I regret this immeasurably. I miss him and I hope that he’s watching his team move forward with the rest of his friends in heaven.

In case you’re interested in understanding a little more what’s happening in Gaza at the moment, please read this.

In the summer of 1994, friends and I rented a cabin and left the city during the semi finals of the World Cup (I WAS FORCED!). With us at the cabin was “Brazilian Jackie”, a girlfriend with whom I’ve since lost touch. No one but Jackie and I cared for futbol. Her boyfriend was with us and she’d already contextualised the cabin for him: “Futbol” (something which didn’t deter him from taking a gigantic suck – that lasted the duration of the 72 hours – when she shusshed him as we were attempting to generate a signal…).

I brought with me a transistor radio, and for nearly 85% of our first day, Jackie and I ran through the forest trying to catch a signal. At one point, I put on my bathing suit and swam out to the middle of the lake, carrying the transistor radio in a plastic bag over my head, searching for a signal and finding none.

Missing the first game, we spent the last 15% of that day quite pissed off and so vowed that the following day (a day on which Brazil would be playing), we would trek all over the ‘village’ in an effort to find one functioning television set.

We did & we found one lone bar in the basement of the local hotel and watched the match in French.

We were the only two girls present. We ate peas covered in maple syrup and french fries deep-fried at least 3 times, and soaked in vinegar and ketchup. While stuffing our faces and cheering the tiny television, we attempted a bizarre mix of French, Spanish, Arabic and English with the barkeep, who’d obviously not had contact with females in a perhaps troublingly extended period of time. After the match was over, Jackie and I were asked: “Would eww teww like to come to mon cabin ce soir?” Jackie froze (not a good wing man) and so I laughed and pretended I’d not understood, choosing to instead respond with “Yeah, we’re going back to our cabin right now. Have a great night! THANKS!”, as I ran up the stairs.

We laughed all the way back to the cabin. (The entire time we were lost in the forest trying to find our cabin, too.)

***

I’m hanging my head in shame because I’ve yet to catch an entire futbol game. I’ve been forced to watch snippets of games, and I’m not sure I can continue to call myself a futbol fan at this rate. In my own defence, it must be noted that I have been reading about all of the matches quite systematically and religiously. I’ve been much too busy to sit for any extended period of time, and when I have had a moment to spare, I’ve spent it writing because writing is my way to decompress.

Please consider this before you judge me: In order to remedy the situation, I’ve put a huge piece of paper next to my television set with the times & dates of Matches 57-64.

A little review from my original post…

Of my hoped for 16 teams, 10 advanced to the second round: Germany, England, Sweden, Argentina, Portugal, Italy, Brazil, Switzerland, France & Spain.

Of them, the usual suspects have advanced further (no underdogs in this World Cup, and so my interest currently sits on the backburner): Germany, Argentina, Italy, Sweden, England, Portugal and Italy.

I expect that Sweden and Brazil will also advance and am undecided as to who will move forward between Spain & France. I have a crush on Zidane and so lean towards France.

From there, I expect the following will make it to the next round:
Argentina v. Italy, with Argentina advancing
England v. Brazil, with Brazil advancing

…although I would hope the following is what really happens:
Argentina v. Italy, with Argentina advancing
Portugal v. France, with France advancing

That’s as far as I’ll go today. We’ll see what transpires between now and July 8th.

The Turks didn’t make it. Poor Ilhan (none of this pretty).

As promised, here are my predictions for the teams that will advance to Stage 2:

Group A: Germany & Poland

Group B: England & Sweden

Group C: This group BLOWS! I can’t believe that Argentina and the Netherlands were picked together. Fifa should be shot.
…and Uzi will kill me for this, but although I think that Argentina *may* advance, I don’t think the Netherlands will.
In fact, I’m going with Cote d’Ivoire because of Drogba (Chelsea’s brilliant striker).

Group D: Portugal & Iran (they’re fierce; don’t be surprised if they advance)

Group E: Italy (although they have a tendency to be weak)& Czech Republic

Group F: Brazil (unless their egos get in the way) & Japan

Group G: France & Switzerland

Group H: Spain & Tunisia

We’ll see how I did in a couple of months.