Son Al-Saadi Qaddafi, meanwhile, has signed for several Italian Serie A teams, played no more than one game for each, and been banned for drug use. Trying to understand the way that the family’s mind works, on politics or soccer, is difficult, is mind-boggling.

Father and son (photos: Getty Images/BBC and AP/BBC)

After coming to power in a military coup in 1969, Muamar Qaddafi rose to worldwide prominence as a supporter of terrorism. He is believed to have funded the Black September group responsible for the Munich Massacre at the 1972 Olympics and the bombers of Pan Am flight 103, which exploded over Lockerbie, Scotland in 1988. In 1984, a British policewoman named Yvonne Fletcher was killed by shots fired from within the Libyan embassy during an anti-Libyan rally (during the subsequent investigation Libya invoked diplomatic immunity and the shooter was never identified).

It has been a surprise to many, then, to see Qaddafi morph in the past few years into a semi-respectable leader. He allowed suspects in the Lockerbie bombings to be extradited in 1999 and in 2003 agreed to pay up to $10 million each to families of the victims. That same year, he announced that Libya had had a covert nuclear weapons program, but that it would be scrapped.

Shortly after September 11, Qaddafi had said, “Irrespective of the conflict with America it is a human duty to show sympathy with the American people, and be with them at these horrifying and awesome events which are bound to awaken human conscience.” Most recently, Qaddafi sponsored a peace conference aimed at stopping the killing going on in the Darfur region of Sudan. Though it amounted to little, it was striking to many to see Qaddafi, the former sponsor of terrorism, working to alleviate conflict.

Muamar Qaddafi presiding over the recent Darfur peace conference in Libya (photo: Reuters/Fred Noy/U.N./Handout)

But lest one think that Qaddafi is a completely reformed man, it should be noted that he retains a dictatorial hold on Libya, despite his rhetoric about “direct, popular democracy.” He urges his supporters to “kill enemies” of his regime. And his country was in the news recently for accusing 17 Bulgarian nurses and a Palestinian doctor of intentionally infecting Libyan children with AIDS and sentencing them to death on flimsy evidence (they were freed at the last minute under intense international pressure).

Qaddafi himself remains an eccentric person. Paul Vallely described the Libyan leader’s quirks in the Independent in September of 2006:

Gaddafi has always been odd. He dresses in flamboyant robes and receives visiting heads of state in a Bedouin tent. His personal bodyguard [sic] are an Amazonian corps of women, all martial arts experts. He does things like ordering the population of Tripoli to paint their rooftops green so that the desert city appears lush to visitors flying in.

Qaddafi looking absolutely fabulous (photo: The Royals Forum)

If Muamar Qaddafi’s personality and rule of Libya seem a bit odd, just wait until you hear about the soccer career of his son, Al-Saadi.

He began his career playing for Al Ahly Tripoli. In 2000, it was reported that he had signed with Maltese team Birkirkara F.C. But Al-Saadi never made the trip to Malta to join the team. He later signed with (and even joined!) Italian team Perugia in 2003, though he only played one match before failing a drug test and being suspended (this one match was apparently enough to convince many of his talents: the Observer wrote last month that he is “widely described as Serie A’s worst ever player).

This history wasn’t enough to dissuade Udinese from signing the younger Qaddafi in 2005. A bench-warmer the entire year, Al-Saadi did play 10 minutes of an unimportant late season match before being released.

Qaddafi the younger was most recently given the opportunity to train with Sampdoria, though this seemed to have as much to do with team president Riccardo Garrone, head of oil company Erg, trying to get a slice of Libya’s vast oil reserves. A friendly was arranged between Sampdoria and the Libyan national team that Al-Saadi Qaddafi said would “also add to the political and economic relations between Italy and Libya.” This was surely music to Garrone’s ears.

Libya and Sampdoria before their friendly (photo: Libyan Football Federation)

The Sampdoria president is not the only Italian boss reaching out to the Qaddafis. The family owns a 7.5% stake in Juventus, a team owned by the Agnelli family, who control Fiat, and have long ties to Muamar Qaddafi and his family. The connection between family and club seems to have as much to do with business and personal ties as it does with soccer.

The Qaddafi family normally divides up areas in which they demonstrate their strangeness: Muamar specializing in politics, Al-Saadi in soccer. But Muamar (the “Brother Leader” as he prefers to be called) recently ventured into the world of sport. Writing on his official website, he denounced FIFA and the World Cup.

It is monopolized, badly exploited and willfully adapted to serve the interests of those who monopolize and exploit it. Ostensibly, the World Cup was established to achieve a social and psychological benefit for people. Nevertheless, what The World Cup has achieved is the exact opposite.

He continued, claiming that soccer is bad for people’s health.

Those who have football (soccer) mania, and those addicted to the game are most at risk of psychological and nervous disorders. Those disorders in turn are the leading causes of heart attacks, strokes, diabetes, hyper-tension and premature ageing.

Oh, and soccer creates racism, claimed Qaddafi. And human trafficking. And war.

Mostly, though, Qaddafi seemed interested in having World Cup matches staged in countries around the world (without this change, he says, “the World Cup is not international nor does it belong to all people”). Brother Leader finished with a flourish.

This is the solution. Otherwise, the World Cup should be abolished in view of the mortal danger it poses to the world physically and morally. It leads to problems, difficulties, disorders, hatred and enmity. It causes the spread of degenerate behavior and collective recklessness and irresponsibility. Socio-psychological studies have proven that the manic, fanatical addicts of the World Cup are below normal in intellectual capacity and psychological development.

In no way is Muamar Qaddafi mentally unstable (photo: Algathafi.org)

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Many, of course, have done so simply as an investment. Not surprisingly, this group consists of Americans. The Glazer family at Manchester United, George Gillet and Tom Hicks at Liverpool, and Randy Lerner at Aston Villa seem to have bought their clubs because they see potential profit in them. These uber-wealthy gringos have put little effort into feigning interest in soccer, but needn’t do so, as they are clearly most interested in the economic potential, rather than sporting success, of owning a team. The lucrative television deal that goes into effect this year and the huge worldwide appeal of the Premier League are two of the reasons that their investment will likely yield them the profits they desire.

Bryan Glazer (L), Avram Glazer (C) and Joel Glazer (R) (photo: Daily Mail)

Then there are the foreign owners who seem to have bought British clubs for love of the game. Roman Abramovich is the prime example. The billionaire Russian has spent oodles of his rubles on Chelsea. Though peeps occasionally come out of West London about making the club profitable, Abramovich’s time has seen incredible economic losses. Not that Abramovich cares: his team is winning like never before. Despite their on-field success, the Russian owner is not entirely happy and has often urged manager Jose Mourinho to play a more attractive style of play. Abramovich clearly cares not at all about losing money, but does have a love of the game.

Didier Drogba and Roman Abramovich with the FA Cup (photo: Daily Mail)

Another Russian, by the name of Alexandre Gaydamak, far less famous than Abramovich, bought Portsmouth in 2006. Since then he has taken a similar approach to the bearded Chelsea supremo, investing money to bring his team success. Gaydamak’s money enabled the club to bring in quality players such as Sol Campbell and Kanu and though the results haven’t been as dramatic as those seen in West London, Portsmouth had a strong season last year, finishing ninth and qualifying for Europe, a year after they were nearly relegated.

The most notable foreign takeover by a foreigner during this summer was Thaksin Shinawatra’s buy-out of Manchester City. Thaksin’s checkered past includes allegations of human rights abuses while in power in Thailand (the Guardian’s tea-time email The Fiver is now referring to Man City as Human Rights FC). Since his takeover, Thaksin has taken an interesting tack in his control of Man City. Last week, it was announced that the new owner had arranged trials for three Thai players at the club. Other clubs have been accused of bringing in Asian players to sell replica shirts in their homelands, but this is one of the only cases I am aware of in which a chairman has brought in players simply because they share his nationality. Thaksin seems to see his position as Man City owner in part as enabling him to give his country’s players a shot a the big time (the Soccernet article linked to above suggests that he is also doing it to boost his own imagine back home, where there is a warrant out for his arrest).

Human Rights FC owner “Rockin” Thaksin Shinawatra (photo: CBS News)

Though new Manchester City manager Sven Goran Erikson didn’t appear bothered by his Thai trialists, other managers have raised a ruckus when their chairmen have made similar moves. Hong Kong businessman Carson Yeung bought a 30% stake in Birmingham City earlier this year. Since gaining this control, he has told the press that he wants to see Chinese players at the Midlands club. His “hope to have one or two Chinese players at the club” did not go over well with manager Steve Bruce. The man with the ugliest nose ever responded angrily, saying, “I won’t be railroaded into anything.” Time will tell how this debate will be resolved.

At Hearts, there was a similar debate last year over who ultimately got to pick the team. The Scottish club was thrown into turmoil when internal conflicts spilled out onto the front pages. In 2004, the club had fallen on hard times and was rescued by Lithuanian mogul Vladimir Romanov. While many fans initially celebrated his arrival, some began to worry when he began to bring in Lithuanian players, coaches, and backroom staff. Some players complained of the chairman’s interference. Three of the club’s top players – Steven Pressley, Paul Hartley, and Craig Gordon – organized a dramatic October 2006 press conference in which they decried the involvement of Romanov in the every day affairs of the team (Pressley and Hartley have since left, though Gordon remains at the club). Romanov is the most extreme example of a foreign owner buying a British club and then filling its roster with players from his homeland.

Vladimir Romanov, owner of Hearts (photo: BBC)

The economic draw is an important draw for all foreign owners investing in British teams. But while it is the main attraction for the Americans, the Russians seem to be focusing on building a team to express their love of the game. Then you have Thaksin, Yeung, and Romanov, owners attempting to provide a sort of ethnic patronage for players from their homelands.

If you’re a young player hoping to make it as a professional in Britain, you can work hard and be discovered by a scout from a Premier League team. Or just sit back and hope that a wealthy businessman from your country buys himself a team.

An African witch doctor (photo: Moonbattery.com)

In the summer of 2006, for example, a story came out which suggested that the Angolan national team was going to bring a witch doctor to the upcoming World Cup (manager Luis Oliveira Goncalves denied his team was going to receive any supernatural assistance).

The 2000 African Cup of Nations was tarred by suspicious events in the quarter-final between Senegal and Nigeria in which

… a former official of the Nigerian FA raced on to the pitch and seized a ‘charm’ that had been lying in the back of the Senegal net. Senegal protested, but to no avail, and Nigeria went on to score twice and win. The official was subsequently banned, but his action was seen as hugely significant in Nigeria’s progress.

African Soccer magazine once ran a “10-page investigation into witchcraft in football, detailing animal sacrifices, self-mutilation, casting of spells, lucky charms, odious concoctions and a one-hour delay at an international match while teams argued about who would be first to step on to the pitch.”

This phenomenon is not limited to Africa. Before each game at the 2006 World Cup, “Mexico’s grand wizard carrie[d] out two rituals a day for the country’s … team, invoking ‘Holy Death’ in front of a plastic skeleton to protect them and bring them luck.”

Ecuador’s national team brought along Tzamarenda Naychapi, described by the Guaridan as a witch doctor-cum-shaman-cum-priest-type-fella, although his juju wasn’t that powerful, as his team were knocked out by England in the round of 16.

Tzamarenda Naychapi is also a hit with the ladies (photo: AP/ Franka Bruns)

It’s easy to see these practices as strange, but are they? Soccer players and fans may do so in different ways, but don’t people around the world do strange things to help their team?

Take the act of players crossing themselves, which many do so as they enter the field, after missing a shot, or after scoring a goal. This act is intended to bring the player good fortune or to give thanks to God for having received the strength to score a goal, etc.

There are also a multitude of pre-game rituals that Westerners carry out to help their team’s cause. In his book The Soccer Tribe, Desmond Morris discusses several of what he calls these “soccer superstitions.” He writes about players always stays at the same hotel when playing away, a team that always plays a round of golf before a match, and even a player who required his wife to wash the windows on match day as “she was doing just that when he last had a great game” (151).

Pre-game rituals alone are worthy of a book (Morris writes “of one hundred soccer superstitions, collected at random, no fewer than 40 per cent were concentrated in the pre-match dressing room”). They include always lacing up boots in a prescribed order, always entering the field first or last, and wearing a lucky charm during a match (FIFA’s recent crack down on jewelry has made this more difficult).

Holland’s Ruud Krol with his lucky necklace at the 1978 World Cup (photo: BBC)

Shoes, not surprisingly, play a central role in many soccer superstitions. Cameron Kippen at the Curtin University of Technology in Perth, Australia writes that “In 1908 when goal-scoring ace, George Hedley played for Woverhampton Wanderers he scored a goal against Newcastle causing one of his favourite boots to split. Despite being offered a new pair Hedley steadfastly refused and saw the game to completion with one tattered boot. The player had his favourite boots patched up at least 17 times before eventually and somewhat reluctantly parting with them.”

The most recent, and most hilarious, incarnation of the soccer superstition was Stuart Pearce and his lucky mascot, Beanie the Horse. Given to him by his daughter when he was manager of Manchester City, Pearce placed his equine buddy in the technical area, claiming it brought his team luck (Psycho lost his job later that season, so perhaps it wasn’t that lucky).

Stuart “Psycho” Pearce (right) and Beanie the Horse (left) (photo: BBC)

Western soccer superstitions make sense to us Westerners (well, maybe not Beanie the Horse). Crossing oneself, for example, makes complete sense in a society rooted in Christianity, but to someone unfamiliar with Western ways it would be as strange as witch doctors often appear to us. As Horace Miner points out in his classic essay Body Ritual Among the Nacirema, nearly all cultural practices appear odd if one does not understand the context in which they exist. It is easy to see a practice like those employed by African players and fans as something as “foreign” and “strange”; it is far more difficult to recognize how similar it is to our own actions.The practices of African witch doctors and Stuart Pearce may seem very different, but they both have the same goal: to help one’s own team win. The means may be very different, but the ends are identical.

Desmond Morris’s words could describe players in any part of the world.

[Players] seek additional aid of a kind their trainers and managers cannot give them – the supernatural aid of superstitious practices. They have no idea how such actions can help, but they perform them all the same, ‘just in case’. They frequently call them ridiculous and stupid, but they dare not omit them (150).

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It is odd that Chavez, who often gives hour-long speeches railing against what he sees as American imperialism, is, like many Venezuelans, a huge baseball fan. Chavez sees American hegemony in multinational institutions like the World Bank (see his attempts to set up a regional bank doing similar work) and its media (and has created his own TV station to counteract its influence), but doesn’t mind playing the hegemon’s sport. Chavez would never be seen with a Big Mac in his hand, but he loves to pick up a bat.

How is it that baseball is not seen by Chavez and other Venezuelans as a negative influence of the American imperialists? Perhaps because, since the time it was brought to the country, the game has undergone a transformation so that it now has a uniquely Venezuelan flavor.

Baseball games in Venezuela are very different from what people think of as America’s pastime. Far from a laid-back afternoon of cracking peanut shells and singing “Take me out to the Ballgame,” games in Venezuela consist of “stadium disc jockeys blast[ing] popular merengue or reggaeton songs as fans and sparsely dressed cheerleaders turn commercial breaks into dance parties.” The play on the field is different, too. Tim Padgett of Time magazine wrote in 1999 that the Major Leagues have benefited from the “fast, joyful and audacious style of play that Latinos bring from the Caribbean [which] has helped give the game more zip than a corked bat.”

Cheerleaders at a Venezuelan baseball game

All of this brings to mind a similar shift that occurred in Argentina, though in a very different era and with a very different sport. The sport was originally played in that country by the wealthy expatriate Anglo elite. It retained this status for decades until it was taken up by Argentines themselves. Though it was played initially among upper-class Argentines, the sport eventually trickled down to the masses. And as it made this journey through the social classes, Argentine (or criollo) soccer took on a different flavor. As David Goldblatt writes in his book The Ball is Round,

… criollo football and masculinity came to be defined in opposition to the English and Englishness. The English were focused and disciplined, combining collective organization and physical force – the prerequisites of an industrial labour force turning out an industrial product. On the Rio de la Plata where industrialization had yet to completely stamp its imprint on the economy, landscape or rhythms of life, masculinity was more restless, impetuous and individualistic, spurning crude force in favor of virtuoso agility (204).

This criollo style of play came to define Argentine soccer and helped to boost the sport’s popularity in the South American country. This unique style spread throughout the classes and throughout the country and soccer quickly became the national game.

International tournaments like the World Cup would later give Argentina an opportunity to take on England. Recent years have seen some classic match-ups between the two teams. Each time they win, Argentines celebrate their victory with with incredible vigor, not just for the result itself, but also for the historical significance of getting one over on the country that once had visions of occupying them (and some would say still do, in the Falklands).

Argentine players jump for joy after beating England on penalty kicks at the 1998 World Cup

It was colonial powers who brought baseball to Venezuela and soccer to Argentina. It might have remained the sport of the expatriates (see the NFL’s attempts to break into China), but for a few initial locals who took up the games. After this initial breakthrough, the growth of the sports required them to be “rebranded” as something uniquely Venezuelan or Argentine (most definitely not American or British). This unofficial marketing campaign succeeded in “winning the hearts of minds” of these two people.

The Americans never have achieved the level of influence in Latin America the Monroe Doctrine envisioned and the Brits were long ago kicked out of Argentina. Lingering resentment remains in both Latin American countries towards their English-speaking counterparts. But the sports these two powers brought to Venezuela and Argentina live on stronger than ever because the locals gave them a uniquely Latin flavor and made them their own. Imposing political order on another country may have been nearly impossible for the Americans and the British, but convincing Venezuelans and Argentines to play their sports proved a far easier sell.

One of the main dividing lines in the interpretation of cheating can be drawn between the English on the one hand and those on the European Continent and South America on the other. A major fault line emerged at last summer’s World Cup that showed the difference in the way each group views cheating.

That was when Wayne Rooney stomped on Portugal’s defender Ricardo Carvalho during the World Cup quarterfinal. As referee Horacio Elizondo was deciding how to punish the young English striker, his club teammate Cristiano Ronaldo rushed forward, lobby for a red card to be shown. When that punishment was meted out, many in England were quick to blame Ronaldo for “having got Rooney sent off.”

The real injustice, in many English eyes, was how Ronaldo had attempted to persuade Elizondo to punish Rooney. Many in the English press piled on Ronaldo, claiming his actions alone had led to Rooney’s dismissal (Elizondo later denied having been influenced at all; Rooney also denied having stomped deliberately on Carvalho; you at home can make up your own mind).

The Rooney / Ronaldo incident is just one example of how many in England view attempting to influence referees as cheating. The English also often take particular offense at so-called “card-waving,” when players visually demonstrate the action they believe a referee should take. Former Arsenal left back Nigel Winterburn spoke for many when he said on The Game Podcast in February (click here to listen to an edited clip from that episode). He said, “I hate to see players sticking their hand in their air with this imaginary card.”

Italian journalist Gabrielle Marcotti responded, “I know people love to raise this issue … [but] if you feel you’ve been fouled you have a right to tell the referee.” Winterburn agreed that players have the right to tell the ref when they are getting fouled, but claimed they should tell him, not visually remonstrate with him.

In the end, the two are not that far off, with both agreeing that aggrieved players have a right to express their displeasure. But while the former English player wants such complaints to be done verbally, Marcotti has no problem with gestures thrown in.

While running the risk of stereotyping, it is not too far a stretch to look at the way the English communicate compared with their Italian counterparts (and many other Europeans as well). The English are known for their stiff upper lip; the Italians for their exquisite repertoire of gestures. So, is this card-waving really cheating or simply a misreading of a different communication style?

Christian Vieri gestures toward referee Byron Moreno at the 2002 World Cup

Another type of cheating that foreigners have allegedly brought into England is diving. Sir Alex Ferguson has said that “the diving problem has started since foreign players came into our country” (unlike many, he was also willing to admit that “English players do it too”). Sir Bobby Charlton echoed Fergie’s sentiments, saying “We seem to have drifted into some bad habits that others brought with them. We didn’t used to have any of this [diving] in our country until players from abroad came in.”

Cristiano Ronaldo, Arjen Robben, Didier Drogba, and Didier Zokora are among the latest players to have been accused of being divers upon their arrivals in England. But after a few flops, many of these players have actually toned down their theatrics. I don’t doubt that the strength of English anti-diving sentiment is responsible for such a change. The negative reaction these players received from the press and the public was such that it was able to influence the way they play.

Drogba in full flight at last summer’s World Cup

But why were they diving in the first place? If anti-diving sentiment is strong in England, it is weak, if not non-existent in many other countries. In some cases, it is even encouraged. The Argentines, for example, use words such as picadia criolla and viveza to describe the craftiness, trickery, or cheekiness to describe players who break the rules, but get away with doing so (if a player dives in the forest and nobody’s there to see it …). So, it’s not that Argentines necessarily promote cheating, but they do have a concept that condones, if not encourages, it.

There are certain types of play that the English see as fair play, but Argentines and others view as cheating. Most of them involve what the aggrieved parties see as excessive force. As I wrote earlier, this week any type of straight-legged, cleats-up tackle is called la plancha in Spanish and is sure to provoke anger when employed.

Another difference in the interpretations of cheating can be seen in the degree to which players are permitted to challenge the goalkeeper. When Chelsea goalkeeper Petr Cech had his skull fractured by a Stephen Hunt challenge, Jose Mourinho went predictably ballistic, saying his goalkeeper was “lucky to be alive.” Even with the giant grain of salt any of his utterings require, Mourinho’s anger pointed to a difference in the way goalkeepers are treated in England and in much of the world.

The more physically robust style that is the hallmark of English soccer has long included the right to challenge the goalkeeper. Long ago, English strikers would bundle the keeper into the net, ball in hand, and be awarded a goal. This has changed somewhat, but in England there remains an expectation that goalkeepers will be firmly challenged when going for a ball.

This is in marked contrast to the more hands-off approach taken in much of Europe and South America. There, opposition players are permitted to have much less contact with the goalkeeper and those who ignore this are quickly called for fouls. Mourinho, accustomed to this treatment of goalies, was incensed at the English interpretation of the law, a sentiment shared by several other coaches.

While challenging goalkeepers is the most potentially dangerous manifestation of the English style, center forwards in that country are known for going up extremely forcefully against defenders as well. Alan Shearer, the man who railed against Cristiano Ronaldo’s cheating, was notorious for elbowing opponents who dared get in between him and the ball (a model of fair play, Shearer also suggested that post-World Cup “there’s every chance that Wayne Rooney could go back to the Man United training ground and stick one on Ronaldo”).

Alan Shearer’s elbows took no prisoners

Another soccer podcast, the Guardian’s Football Weekly (click here for edited clip) also featured a discussion recently on notions of cheating in various countries. Kevin McCarra offered a sophisticated take.“Cheating comes in different national types,” he said. “In Britian, for example, pushing a center half so he’s off balance as you head the ball in the net is the basis of a career and no one thinks it’s scandalous at all. It’s funny how we react more to certain types of cheating than others.”

Sid Lowe, the Guardian’s man in Spain, agreed. “We can get uppity and say, ‘look at him diving or look at him deliberately handballing’ and so, but Spaniards will quite often say to me, ‘but hang on a minute, in England assassinating a center forward is seen as fair game for a center back.

Lowe then summed it up well: “There’s a different sense of which parts of breaking the rules are fair in which countries.”

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Soccer connoisseurs worldwide are familiar with the passion at Boca Juniors matches, where the players’ entrance is greeted with enough toilet paper to wipe the asses of a small country.

The scene at Boca Juniors’ La Bombonera Stadium

Instead of focusing on Boca Juniors or another well-known Argentine team, filmmakers Elias Diaz and Ronen Strier chose to make a documentary about a fourth division team. Sacachispas, the team which gives the movie its name, might seem to share little in common with Boca Juniors, but Diaz and Strier show that the passion for which Argentines are known is not confined to the top teams of Argentine soccer.

Filmmakers Diaz and Strier

The passion that surrounds Sacachispas is evident early in the movie, when the filmmakers interview Antonio Tussia, the team’s first ever goalscorer. As Tussia tries to explain what Sacachispas means to him, he begins to cry. He apologizes and explains his tears: “Sacachispas is in my blood. It’s immortal to me.” Tussia was around at the beginning of Sacachispas. The team was founded in 1948 by some residents of the Villa Soldati neighborhood to play in the soon-to-be inaugurated Perón Cup. In the sixty years since its founding, the team has not lost its connection to the neighborhood. In fact, the connection may have grown stronger. One local resident and fan says that “the neighborhood and Sacachispas are the same.”

Villa Soldati is one of the many shanty towns surrounding Buenos Aires. Like other villas, Soldati has high levels of poverty. Many of the iron sheet and cardboard shacks that originally made up the neighborhood still exist amidst the high-rise apartment buildings that now make up its landscape. Mud takes over the unpaved streets when it rains. The poor conditions in Soldati are a testament to recent progress in Argentina’s economy has yet to filter throughout the entire population.

Rather than be ashamed at their poverty, fans of Sacachispas draw their identity from it. They sing a song whose lyrics say,

I was born in a shany town
Made of iron sheet and carboard
I’m from the neighborhood of Soldati
I support the lilac [the color of Sacachispas] and Perón

Sacachispas may draw small crowds, but those who show up are incredibly passionate. The flags fans construct, the hours of drumming, and the endless chants show their dedication to the team.

Sacachispas fans don’t let the run-down stadium deter them from supporting their team

Some Sacachispas fans take their passion too far. As Villa Soldati residents, they feel strong resentment towards more prosperous Argentines, both in football in life. One fan, taking a page from the Millwall school of diplomacy, says “nobody likes us and we don’t like them.”

Sacachispas fans often act on this animosity in reprehensible ways. They boast of fights with opposing supporters and keep a fence festooned with flags stolen after such battles. One Sacachispas fan says that if anyone tries to steal his flag, they’ll have to kill him first.

Another supporter says that murder is not a hypothetical matter, and claims to have helped kill three opposing fans. The fans, he says, were chased in between the high rises, where old women dropped flower pots on their heads. The Sacachispas supporters, he says, pounced on them and finished the job.

If Sacachispas players have an excess of passion, it can be seen in the sacrifices they make in order to play for the team. Despite the second jobs almost all have, they live in the same Villa Soldati shacks as supporters of the team. Several mention their hopes of eventually playing at a higher level. Midfielder Gastón Montero says, “I’m a Boca fan. I always wanted to go there. You never stop dreaming, do you?”

A Sacachispas player after a game

The idea of professional soccer is very romantic, but Elias Diaz and Ronen Strier show that, especially for small teams, the reality is not so. While Boca Juniors fans become well known around the world for their support and Boca players earn huge transfer deals to Europe, Sacachispas supporters and players toil away, largely unnoticed. But if fans and players of the two teams share anything in common, it is the one thing that Argentines feel about their fútbol: passion.

The Saudi Arabian national team

That the entire 2006 Italian squad played their club ball in Italy is not a surprise given the strength of Serie A. But the story of the Saudi squad is as much about Saudi Arabia the country as it is about soccer.

The Kingdom of Saudi Arabia, to use its official name, has long had a conflicted relationship with the outside world. 75% of government revenues come from oil exports, but these funds are used largely to maintain an insular and extremely conservative society. Women, for example, are not permitted to drive and cannot travel outside the country without a male family member escort.

Women are not the only Saudis who face restrictions on travel abroad. Saudi footballers face even more of a challenge when attempting to play outside of the kingdom. To date, only two Saudi players, Sami al-Jaber and Fahad Al Ghasian, have ever made the move abroad.

Why is it that Saudi Arabian players do not go abroad?

It is not a question of skill because, while not world beaters, Saudi players are good enough to play in leagues stronger than their own.

The reasons why Saudi players remain at home are economic and cultural.

The Saudi Arabian league is, as Sukhdev Sandhu writes in The Thinking Fan’s Guide to the World Cup, structured very differently from most. It is a “cosseted league system, bankrolled by princes and the state rather than by local entrepreneurs” (246). Those same princes are also in charge or closely connected to those at the Saudi Arabian Football Association and few in the hierarchy want to lose their most recognizable local stars. (Yet, just as Saudi Arabia’s rulers keep their people happy with oil dollars from abroad, soccer authorities often import aging European and Latin American stars to generate excitement.)

The economic imperative to keep home-grown stars at home is apparent, but it is not the only reason so few Saudi players have gone abroad.

Just as there are laws that hinder women from traveling abroad, Saudi soccer stars have faced restrictions on playing in other countries.

Throughout history, the Saudi authorities have officially banned its players from going abroad. After the 1994 World Cup, star Saeed Owairan (scorer of this goal) “was banned from moving abroad by his football federation … along with the rest of that squad.”

Saeed Owairan

Saudi bans on women’s freedom are, by nature, paternalistic. Paternalism is also in evidence in the soccer authorities’ ban on players going abroad. Sukhdev Sandhu writes, “The Saudi Arabian Football Association apparently fearing that its players might not be ready for the rigors and discipline of foreign leagues, has sought to stop would-be-exiles from leaving” (264).

In the past decade, there has been some loosening of this ban. Sami Al-Jaber played for half a season with Wolves in 2000, although he returned home after playing only a few matches as a substitute.

Sami Al-Jaber

Recently, the ban on Saudi players going abroad has been lifted. There are rumors that Galtasaray is interested in Yasser Al-Qahtani and the striker may move to Turkey over the summer.

But Al-Qahtani is unique in appearing to have an interest in playing abroad. As written on the Channel 4 website prior to the 2006 World Cup, “The barriers imposed by the Saudi FA on players moving abroad are no longer in place, but still few Saudi players have the desire to take their talents abroad.”

Saudi soccer fan Ghassan Bataweel told the website menafan.com in January that many players from his country have internalized the paternalistic attitudes of the Saudi FA. He says players are fearful that they might not be able to cut it in Europe. “[P]layers would not get the opportunity to play for prominent European clubs. It takes hard work and training to develop the level of skills that are required in order to make it on such teams.” (Economic factors are at work here too. Salaries in Saudi Arabia are far higher than Saudi players going abroad could hope to earn.)

In Saudi Arabian soccer, as in the country as a whole, a degree of hegemony has been established. Just as many in Saudi society have come to accept the strict social controls imposed by the country’s rulers as natural, so too have the country’s footballers internalized the interests of those who run soccer in that country. The Saudi FA may have eliminated the ban because, with so few players interested in playing abroad, it is no longer necessary.

The greatest threat to this status quo is globalization, a phenomenon occurring at a torrid pace. Even insular societies such as Saudi Arabia are facing increasing outside influence (satellite TV has brought European soccer to the kingdom and several leagues are draw higher ratings than the local competition). In the future, Saudi players will become more familiar with other leagues, and will recognize the poor quality of their own league by comparison. This may lead to more players wanting to test themselves abroad. But until that time, the country’s best players will continue to ply their trade in Saudi Arabia.

There are many reasons to dislike Diego Maradona. He is a cheater, as anyone who has seen his “Hand of God” goal knows. He was suspended twice for drug use, once in 1991 for cocaine and for ephedrine in 1994. He has never been faithful to his many partners. He is rumored to have connections to the Italian mafia. He is incredibly egotistical and indulges to excess (he had stomach-stapling surgery in 2005 after literally ballooning due to eating a diet comprised exclusively of pizza, steak, pasta and cakes. He is notoriously prickly, having once received a nearly three-year suspended sentence for shooting reporters who sought comment outside his home.

Maradona, large and in charge

Most people with this type of rap sheet would be in jail or in an institution. Not Diego Maradona. He roams free (except for occasional hospital trips he brings upon himself) amidst an Argentine public that adores him.Why, exactly, do Argentines love Diego Maradona?

Much of the explanation for the seemingly illogical adoration of this flawed genius comes from the history of soccer in Argentina. Brought to the country by British sailors, it was initially the purview of the expat aristocracy. But soccer was soon adopted by the masses in Argentina and given its own South American flavor. As the BBC’s Tim Vickery writes:

First, it was introduced by the British, who were very influential in the region, supplying the activity with first world prestige. Second, it was re-interpreted by the South Americans. The straight line running style of the English was replaced by a much more intricate game of feints, twists and turns – ideal for the player with a low centre of gravity, the physical build of many South Americans.

Vickery’s description of the playing style and physical build of South American players fits perfectly with Diego Maradona. Before getting to other factors, it must be said that Maradona is loved for his ability on the field. Maradona’s passing, dribbling, touch and other skills are, in many ways, the Argentine ideal. Watching the incredibly technical Maradona tear apart teams (such as the English) with a more physical approach, Argentines saw their vision of the beautiful game vindicated.

But Argentina’s love affair with Diego Maradona is not just about soccer. It is also about what he represents. Jimmy Burns, author of the biography Hand of God, describes “Maradona as a unique social, political, and religious phenomenon” (viii).

Maradona has become a social phenomenon largely because he enabled Argentines to achieve their dream of taking on and beating the powerful at their own game. Gabrielle Marcotti has written that Maradona represents “one of the oldest archetypes, that of the slave who outfoxes and defeats his master.”

Maradona, representing the poor and deprived masses, brings down the Western Establishment, not with his God-given physical gifts, but with his brainpower, the very attribute that the First World maintains that the underdeveloped savages elsewhere lack.

When he led Argentina to victory over England, Maradona’s countrymen admired him for finally getting one over on their former colonial masters. The way Maradona almost single-handedly defeated England in the 1986 World Cup is memorable. On that day in the Estadio Azteca, he scored two of the most famous goals of all time: the Hand of God as well as a sixty-yard slaloming run that has been voted the best goal of all time. (Current president Nestor Kirchner has said that Maradona “made all Argentines weep with joy.”)

Maradona after winning the 1986 World Cup

Nobody questions Maradona’s genius on the latter goal, but the Hand of God has been viewed very differently in England and Argentina. Writing in the Guardian, Marcela Mora y Araujo describes the difference in views:

To most English people it was a vile piece of cheating. But, although the rules of football disallow such actions, the informal rules of the lawless vacant lots state that anything goes as long as the referee doesn’t say otherwise, especially in Argentina, where such flexibility extends well beyond football.

Mora y Araujo even ascribes a name to Maradona’s creative application of the laws, picadia criolla, which she translates as “creole cheekiness.”

In his biography of Maradona, Jimmy Burns presents an Argentine concept synonymous to picadia criolla, that of viveza. Burns writes:

In Argentina the English concept of fair play is not as popularly recognized or indeed applauded as that of viveza. The word literally means liveliness, but is used to mean craftiness or trickery, and is never used in a derogatory sense (6).

To a culture that has two words to describe rule-bending, it is logical that Diego Maradona would be a hero.

But what of Diego’s many documented problems? Do Argentines not hold his suspensions, marital infidelity, and shooting of unarmed citizens against him? In short, no.

So what accounts for Argentines’ apparent willingness to forgive Maradona for his many sins? I would suggest that it is due, at least in part, to Argentines’ willingness to admit to their own failures. Argentina has the most psychoanalysts per capita of any country. Many residents of Buenos Aires speak of going to their shrink as if it were a trip to the barber. The shame which continues to surround psychotherapy in many countries is less in evidence in Argentina. And a country full of people so aware of their own weaknesses can hardly fault Diego Maradona for his failings.

There are many explanations for why Maradona has become such a revered figure in his homeland. Yet even so, the level of passion his fans show for Diego is incredible. Marcela Mora y Araujo quotes a sports psychologist (appropriately enough) who says that “In Argentina we are addicted to discussing Maradona, He is our drug. It is not him who is ill, it is us.”

The symptoms of this illness are numerous. There are several sites in homage to him. One contains a poem written by a 15 year-old to her idol (“I say thank you for letting me love you / and may I carry your name in my heart until the last second of my life”).

Art can be found in Argentina that shows Maradona in all his glory.

There was a petition before the 2006 World Cup to put Maradona on the Argentine roster (supporters urged the coach to give him “10 minutes of love” in the tournament) and a street in the city of Santa Rosa was named after him.

Maradona’s voice is respected in Argentina, which is a bit of a surprise given how miserably he’s failed at everything except playing soccer. Despite other unsuccessful attempts at management (he was sacked as manager of Racing Club after missing training because he was on an alcohol and drugs ingesting spree), there was a clamor after the 2002 World Cup for Maradona to take over from Marcelo Bielsa. And when Maradona began a TV show called La Noche del Diez (literally, “the night of ten” in reference to his uniform number), it drew nearly one third of the Argentine audience to watch him sing a song called “The Hand of God.”

Claims that a person is viewed as a god are usually an exaggeration, but not in the case of Diego Maradona. A church set up to worship Maradona may attract only a few followers, but the fact that it exists says something about the level of devotion Argentines have to their most famous player.

But it’s not just a few who relate Diego Maradona and the supernatural. As Gabrielle Marcotti writes that some “argue that sections of his fanbase – whether consciously or unconsciously – secretly entertain the notion that he harbours some form of divinity.”

References to Maradona as a god are evident in recent headlines about him.

Un Dios Aparte (A God Apart) detailed Maradona’s recent trip to Argentine second division team Tristan Suarez practice, after which striker Daniel Bazón Vera said, “We take [Maradona] as our guide.” When the team went on to win their next three games, a second article (titled Dios te Ayuda or God Help You) quoted the same striker. “Now we have God on our side,” said Bazón Vera. The article finished with a simple declaration: “and it’s true.”

Another headline which mixed Diego Maradona and God was seen during his most recent trip to the hospital. Headlined Dios es Argentino (God is Argentine), the article detailed Maradona’s recovery from alcohol-induced hepatitis and offered hope that he might attend the Boca vs. River superclásico (he wasn’t able to).

Estudiantes de la Plata players show support recently for Maradona

Of course, Diego Maradona will one day die. Given his lifestyle, the odds that his death will come prematurely are high. Maradona may recover from his latest illness, but it’s only a matter of before he does himself in. Yet even Maradona’s death will not put an end to the devotion many Argentines feel toward him. As Jimmy Burns writes,

The only certainty about Maradona is that when he dies, no matter how he dies, his funeral in Buenos Aires will be as big as Evita’s and even then people won’t believe that he is dead (2).

To most of the world which views him as a supremely talented player, but incredibly flawed person this belief makes little sense. But to the many Argentines who worship Diego Maradona as a god, the idea that he would live forever makes perfect sense.