WHEREIN THE ANTICLIMACTIC NATURE OF THE WORLD CUP BECOMES OBVIOUS

[Torres makes his way home after winning the World Cup: I know I'm not the only one who got extra close to my screen in order to figure out what was on his laptop.

Someone call the creeper police.]

World Cup finals always feel oddly anticlimactic. Maybe it's because every movement becomes so deliberate that the whole match seems to be going in slow motion. Maybe it's because the sense of occasion is so immediately apparent to everyone that surreality enters the picture. Like, is this real life? Another World Cup final? But it looks like a normal match. The grass is still green and aside from Shakira jaunting about in a bikini top and some extensive hand-shaking taking place before kick-off, everything looks the same.

Whatever the reason, the urge to play that free-flowing, 'let's-get-up-there-and-score-a-goal-already!' football has dissipated by the time the World Cup final rolls around. It's a wholly different affair -- as it should be. At this point, the urge to watch that kind of football has left you entirely as well. Foolishly chucking the ball at the goal 'just 'cause' would not longer be put into the 'harmlessly ambitious' category. It would be downright inexcusable now. The time for mistakes -- an adventurous kind of football -- is gone.

Despite the slightly subdued sights on the field though, the tension is always there. It's what renders the weary sort of football we see at World Cup finals bearable. Enjoyable, even. Every time anyone makes a run into the final third or a free kick is given: is this it?! Is this going to be the goal that will live on in highlight reels for all time?

Sigh! No, Ramos misses. And the whole game seems to go on like that.

Simultaneously, and sort of ironically, it's that sense of something always about to happen that kind of, well, ruins it too. You're no longer able to just sit back and enjoy things anymore. Nothing's ever really a genuine surprise. Everything is so hotly anticipated that when it happens a small voice in the back of your mind cries, 'Well it's about fucking time!' When Dutch Kung Fu master Nigel de Jong launches an MMA style high kick into Xabi Alonso's chest, you think, 'Well, the way this was going... that was bound to happen.'

WORLD CUP FINAL, SCHMINAL

[Octopus looks far too eager.]

It's difficult to care about a World Cup final that includes two of your most loathed teams. In this case, Spain and the Netherlands. Spain because they're... well... Spain and I've never liked them. And the Netherlands because they're not supposed to win. It's just the way it is. Neither teams have really done anything at this tournament to change my opinion of them either. This coming from a girl who took Uruguay under her wing when they knocked out Ghana in what, at the time, seemed like the biggest dick move of all time. But 1 nil victories and chucking the ball around like 12-year-olds running through a passing drill? Yeah, You can keep whatever you've got Spain. Today will hardly be a classic.

WHEREIN I AM BORED AND PARANOID IN BETWEEN MATCH DAYS

[Random Ferndando Muslera pic, just 'cause. Anyhow. Not everyone's dreading the end. This guy's pretty darn excited for it to be over already -- Dave Martin at the Ottawa Citizen: 'As far as I'm concerned, having our TV screens filled with faux football for the last four weeks has been no picnic ... this past month has been a giant annoyance.' It gets me that guys like Martin are paid to write this stuff. Truly, mindless.]

There are two very different emotions swishing around in my head right now. One, granted, is that of anticipation. Who isn't looking forward to the impending Spain/Germany semifinal clash where hopefully Spain will crash out and be generally hilarious*? On the other side of the coin, there's the knowledge that very soon World Cup 2010 will be over. Finito, history, done. And boy, is that itty bitty fact ominous. It f***ing looms. This World Cup will be in the books, the trophy hoisted, confetti strewn all about and then ...well, and then all we'll have is the vast expanse of boredom and an endless stream of unsubstantiated transfer rumours to comfort ourselves with. I'm not certain where your allegiances lie, but having to face the fact that Fabregas is probably going to skip off to Barcelona in a few weeks isn't exactly my idea of a pleasant time.

The seemingly endless days (hours! minutes! seconds!) in between the round of 16, the quarterfinals and so on are already enough for one woman to bear but the slightly paranoid feeling of 'MUST SOAK UP AS MUCH FOOTBALL AS YOU CAN NOWWWWW!!!' is pretty much unbearable. Someone make it stop.

*Please see: the Dame's irrational Spain hateration -- founded mostly on Sergio Ramos' annoying hair, winning Euro 08 with infamous jerk Aragones at the helm, and just being plain better than everyone else... stop being good, damnit.

TIET TMI du Jour: Speaking of 'making it stop' someone make Joachim Loew stop. This is the second time he's done this. And I know he's supposed to be the best dressed manager at this tournament but him and Hansi Flick are wearing matching sweaters so that theory has got to be deftly rattled to pieces at this point.