A Hefty Portion of Fanaticism

Yesterday I had melodrama envy when I realized the England World Cup melodrama has not yet matched the astounding Brazilian World Cup melodrama.

Sure, World Cup melodrama in England has excelled -- it never fails -- and the daily hand-wringing has granted its usual daily thrill, but there’s just nothing to equal the glory of 188 million Brazilians discussing whether Ronaldo is fat.

The World Cup began with Ronaldo looking fat against Croatia -- that’s fat for an athlete, while pretty svelte for a coach or sportswriter -- and then looking sort of fat against Australia.

Then, in a turning point in World Cup history, not to mention human history, Brazil President Luiz Inacio Lula da Silva appeared on that now-famous video conference with the Brazilian team, and began with, “So what is it? Is Ronaldo fat, or isn’t he?”

He later apologized, but can I vote absentee in Brazil next time?

By contrast, yesterday, on the eve of England’s match with Sweden, Tony Blair was a guest on sports talk radio, surely a harbinger of the end of time.

He defended lately lamented David Beckham as a world-class “crosser of the ball,” and Blair compared his job to that of England national Coach Sven-Goran Eriksson (not a fair comparison; Blair’s job is much less important), and he endorsed beleaguered midfielder Owen Hargreaves, whom many fans have elected to loathe as feckless if not an outright factor in all global woes.

Peerlessly among events, the World Cup wreaks drama and melodrama.

Drama comes from the pitch, this time in Germany.

Melodrama comes from the vast pockets of finicky human beings all over the world as nations assess the performances and waistlines of their national teams.

Being in England during a World Cup gives you the melodrama of England, always vivid even if not always up to Ronaldo’s fat grams. Being in London, though, gives even more. The world’s foremost urban melting pot provides a sampling of all the world’s little melodramas.

For instance, I happen to have a little insight on the Tunisian World Cup melodrama, not to be confused with the other World Cup melodramas.

I’ve learned how the 10 million citizens of Tunisia bristled over the opening 2-2 tie with Saudi Arabia, how former France coach Roger Lemerre’s substitution patterns didn’t thrive, how Saudi Arabia’s ensuing 4-0 loss to Ukraine seemed “embarrassing,” and how players making that much money in Europe shouldn’t play like that.

I know all this because I entered the kind of establishment that, all over the world, in all the languages, is always a sanctuary of sports omniscience.

My regular barber’s Tunisian.